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Title: The Catholic World, Vol. 22, October, 1875, to March, 1876 - A Monthly Magazine of General Literature and Science
Author: Various
Language: English
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                                   THE
                             CATHOLIC WORLD.

                                    A
                            MONTHLY MAGAZINE
                                   OF
                     GENERAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.

                               VOL. XXII.
                     OCTOBER, 1875, TO MARCH, 1876.

                                NEW YORK:
                     THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE,
                            9 Warren Street.
                                  1876.



CONTENTS.


    Allegri’s Miserere, 562.
    Anglicans, Old Catholics, and the Conference at Bonn, 502.
    Anti-Catholic Movements in the United States, 810.
    Apostolic Mission to Chili, The, 548.
    Are You My Wife? 13, 194, 309, 590, 735.

    Basques, The, 646.
    Birth-Place of S. Vincent de Paul, 64.

    Castlehaven’s Memoirs, 78.
    Chapter, A, in the Life of Pius IX., 548.
    Charities of Rome, The, 266.
    Christmas Vigil, A, 541.
    Colporteurs of Bonn, The, 90.

    Doctrinal Authority of the Syllabus, 31.
    Duration, 111, 244.

    Early Persecutions of the Christians, 104.
    Eternal Years, The, 656, 841.

    Finding a Lost Church, 282.
    Freemasonry, 145.
    Friends of Education, The, 758.
    From Cairo to Jerusalem, 529.

    Garcia Moreno, 691.
    Gladstone Controversy, Sequel of the, 577, 721.
    Grande Chartreuse, A Night at the, 712.

    Historical Romance, A, 43, 162, 339, 614, 772.

    Incident of the Reign of Terror, An, 260.
    Indian Legend, 277.
    Is She Catholic? 188.

    King of Metals, The, 417.

    Law of God, The, and the Regulations of Society, 223.
    Lord Castlehaven’s Memoirs, 78.
    Lost Church, Finding a, 282.
    Louise Lateau before the Belgian Royal Academy of Medicine, 823.

    Madame’s Experiment, 637.
    Message, A, 445.
    Midnight Mass in a Convent, 523.
    Missions in Maine from 1613 to 1854, 666.
    Mr. Gladstone and Maryland Toleration, 289.

    Nellie’s Dream on Christmas Eve, 560.
    New Hampshire, Village Life in, 358.
    Night at the Grande Chartreuse, A, 712.

    Palatine Prelates of Rome, 373.
    Pious Pictures, 409.
    Power, Action, and Movement, 379.
    Precursor of Marco Polo, A. 210.
    President’s Speech at Des Moines, The, 433.
    President’s Message, The, 707.
    Primitive Civilization, 626.
    Progress _versus_ Grooves, 276.
    Protestant Episcopal Church Congress, The, 473.
    Prussia and the Church, 678, 787.

    Queen Mary, 1.
    Questions Concerning the Syllabus, 31.

    Recollections of Wordsworth, 329.
    Reign of Terror, An Incident of the, 260.
    Revival in Frogtown, A, 699.
    Rome, The Charities of, 266.
    Rome, The Palatine Prelates of, 373.

    S. Agnes’ Eve Story, A, 637.
    St. Jean de Luz, 833.
    Search for Old Lace in Venice, A, 852.
    Sequel of the Gladstone Controversy, 577, 721.
    Sir Thomas More, 43, 162, 339, 614, 772.
    Songs of the People, 395.
    Story of Evangeline in Prose, The, 604.
    Story with Two Versions, A, 800.
    Summary Considerations on Law, 223.

    Traces of an Indian Legend, 277.
    Tennyson’s Queen Mary, 1.

    Village Life in New Hampshire, 358.
    Vincent de Paul, S., Birth-Place of, 64.

    William Tell and Altorf, 127.
    Wordsworth, Recollections of, 329.

    Year, The, of Our Lord 1875, 565.
    Yule Raps, 484.


POETRY.

    Adelaide Anne Procter, 89.
    Æschylus, 209.

    Christmas Chimes, 501.

    Free Will, 559.

    Not Yet, 394.

    “O Valde Decora!” 12.

    Paraphrase from the Greek, A, 222.
    Patient Church, The, 613.

    S. Philip’s Home, 139.
    S. Louis’ Bell, 527.
    Seven Fridays in Lent, The, 734.
    Sine Labe Concepta, 357.
    Song, 275.
    Sonnets in Memory of the late Sir Aubrey de Vere, 444.
    Stars, The, 126.
    Suggested by a Cascade at Lake George, 771.
    Summer Storms, 416.
    Sweet Singer, A, 89.

    To-day and Yesterday, 564.

    Unremembered Mother, The, 110.


NEW PUBLICATIONS.

    Acta et Decreta Concilii Vaticani, 718.
    Alcott’s Eight Cousins, 431.
    Allibert’s Life of S. Benedict, 575.
    American State and American Statesmen, 719.
    Allies’ Formation of Christendom, 858.
    American Catholic Quarterly Review, The, 859.

    Baunard’s Life of the Apostle S. John, 573.
    Bégin’s Le Culte Catholique, 286.
    Bégin’s The Bible and the Rule of Faith, 288.
    Birlinger’s Volksthümliches aus Schwaben, 718.
    Boudon’s Holy Ways of the Cross, 717.
    Buckley’s Supposed Miracles, 856.

    Calderon’s Groesste Dramen religiösen Inhalts, 718.
    Clarke’s Mr. Gladstone and Maryland Toleration, 575.
    Coleridge’s Public Life of Our Lord, 717.
    Constable and Gillies, Personal Reminiscences of, 720.
    Cudmore’s Civil Government of the States, etc., 429.
    Correction, A, 860.

    Dix’s The American State and American Statesmen, 719.

    Earle’s Light leading unto Light, 143.
    Eight Cousins, 431.
    Evidences of Catholicity, 574.
    Exposition of the Church, An, etc., 419.
    Exposition of the Epistles of S. Paul, etc., 144.

    First Annual Report of the Chaplain of the Albany Penitentiary, 144.
    Flowers from the Garden of the Visitation, 287.
    Formation of Christendom, The, 858.
    Full Course of Instruction in Explanation of the Catechism, 432.

    Garside’s The Sacrifice of the Eucharist, 718.

    Historical Scenes from the Old Jesuit Missions, 575.
    History of the Protestant Reformation, 574.
    Holland’s Sevenoaks, 430.
    Holy Ways of the Cross, etc., 717.

    Illustrated Catholic Family Almanac, 430.
    Indoors and Out; or, Views from the Chimney Corner, 720.

    Jannet’s Les Etats-Unis Contemporains, etc., 716.

    Kavanagh’s John Dorrien, 287.
    Kip’s Historical Scenes, 575.
    Knight and Raikes’ Personal Reminiscences, 288.

    Lamb, Hazlitt, and Others, Personal Recollection of, 428.
    Lehrbuch des Katholischen und Protestantischen Kirchenrechts, 718.
    Lonormant’s Madame Récamier and her Friends, 431.
    Life and Letters of Paul Seigneret, 576.
    Life of S. Benedict, 575.
    Life of the Apostle S. John, 573.
    Light leading unto Light, 143.
    Lynch’s (Bishop) Pastoral Letter, 576.

    MacEvilly’s Exposition of S. Paul’s Epistles, etc., 144.
    Manual of the Sisters of Charity, 432.
    Manual of Catholic Indian Missionary Associations, 859.
    Medulla Theologiæ Moralis, 574.
    Miller’s Ship in the Desert, 573.
    Miscellanea, 432.
    Mr. Gladstone and Maryland Toleration, 575.
    Moriarty’s Wayside Pencillings, 431.
    Morris’ The Troubles of our Catholic Forefathers, 141.

    Noethen’s Report of the Albany Penitentiary, 144.
    Noethen’s Thirteen Sermons, etc., 144.

    Pastoral Letter of Bishop Lynch, 576.
    Perry’s Full Course of Instruction, etc., 432.
    Persecutions of Annam, The, 719.
    Personal Reminiscences by Knight and Raikes, 288.
    Personal Recollections of Lamb, Hazlitt, and Others, 428.
    Personal Reminiscences by Constable and Gillies, 720.
    Public Life of Our Lord, 717.

    Rohling’s Medulla Theologiæ Moralis, 574.

    Sacrifice of the Eucharist, etc., 718.
    Sadlier’s Excelsior Geography, 430.
    Sevenoaks, 430.
    Ship in the Desert, The, 573.
    Shortland’s The Persecutions of Annam, 719.
    Spalding’s Miscellanea, 432.
    Spalding’s Evidences of Catholicity, 574.
    Spalding’s History of the Reformation, 574.
    Story of S. Peter, 718.
    Supposed Miracles, 856.

    Thirteen Sermons preached in the Albany Penitentiary, 144.
    Three Pearls, The, 573.
    Troubles of our Catholic Forefathers, The, 141.

    Vering’s Lehrbuch des Katholischen und Protestantischen
        Kirchenrechts, 718.
    Volksthümliches aus Schwaben, 718.

    Wayside Pencillings, etc., 431.

    Young Catholic’s Illustrated Table Book, etc., 430.



THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XXII., No. 127.--OCTOBER, 1875.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by Rev. I. T.
HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.


MR. TENNYSON’S QUEEN MARY.[1]

Mr. Tennyson has achieved a great reputation as a lyric poet. He urges
now a higher claim. In the sunset of a not inglorious life, when we
should have expected his lute to warble with waning melodies and less
impassioned strains, he lays it aside as too feeble for his maturer
inspirations, and, as though renewed with the fire of a second youth, he
draws to his bosom a nobler instrument, and awakes the echoes of sublimer
chords. He has grown weary of the lyric

    “hœrentem multa cum laude coronam,”

and with some confidence claims the dramatic bays. Nay, he even invites a
comparison with Shakspere. True to the temper of the times, his prestige
follows him in so hazardous a competition, the accustomed wreaths are
showered upon him with unreflecting haste, and the facile representatives
of the most incapable of critics--public opinion--have already offered
him that homage as a dramatist which had already been too lavishly
offered to his idyllic muse.

It is an ungrateful task to go against the popular current, and it is
an ungracious one to object to crowns which the multitude have decreed.
But there is no help for it, unless we would stoop to that criticism of
prestige which is so characteristic of the age, and would follow in the
wake of the literary rabble, criticising the works by the author, instead
of the author by his works.

We may as well say, at once, that we have never felt it in our power
to acknowledge the poetical supremacy of the English poet-laureate.[2]
It has always appeared to us that there is, in his poetry, a lack of
inspiration. To borrow a too familiar but expressive metaphor, the coin
is highly burnished, glitters brightly, and has the current stamp, but
one misses the ring of the genuine metal. He sits patiently on the
tripod, dealing forth phrases as musical as Anacreon’s numbers, and
as polished as those of a Greek sophist, spiced with a refined humor,
which has a special charm of its own. But his soul does not kindle at
the sacred fire. We miss the divine frenzy. A passionateness of love
of the beautiful does not appear to be the quickening inspiration of
his creations. All alike show signs of extreme care and preparation. We
do not forget the counsel of Horace. But that only refers to a distant
revision of creations which an unchecked genius may have produced under
the divine influence. Whereas, Mr. Tennyson’s poetry bears evidence of
infinite toil in production. All his thoughts, ideas, and images, down to
words and phrases, are too evidently, instead of the happy inspirations
of genius, the labored workmanship of a polished, refined, and fastidious
mind. They something resemble the _tout ensemble_ of a _petit maître_
who has succeeded in conveying to his dress an appearance of such
consummate simplicity and unexceptionable taste that every one notices
the result of hours before the mirror. His diction is pure and polished,
his phrases simple and nervous, and the English language owes him much
for what he has done towards neutralizing the injury inflicted on it
by the gaudy phraseology of the “correct” poets, and the antithetical
sesquipedalianism of such prose writers as Johnson and Gibbon, and
for preserving it in its pure and nervous simplicity. But his soul is
dull to the poetic meanings of nature. His natural scenery is rather
descriptive than a creation, much as artists, of whom there are not a
few, who reproduce with consummate skill of imitation objects in detail,
and bestow infinite care upon color, shade, perspective, grouping, and
all the other technical details of a picture, whilst comparatively
indifferent to the subject, which ought to be the poetic meaning of
creations of genius. And what are they but only fruitful manifestations
of the love of the beautiful, and echoes of its creative word, not the
mere manipulations of an artificer? Mr. Tennyson’s descriptions of nature
owe their vividness to the brilliance of word-painting and a certain
refined delicacy of touch; sometimes, even, and indeed very often, to a
certain quaint humor which is inconsistent with the highest art--it is
not a passionate love which regards the object beloved from a ridiculous
point of view--as when he describes the willows living adown the banks of
a streamlet as “shock-headed pollards _poussetting_ down the stream.”

The sensations provoked by his poetry resemble those of one who has
sauntered through a museum of precious stones of rare workmanship and
purest water. Our æsthetic taste has been pleased by the glitter and the
color and the brilliance, but our mind and heart have not been deeply
moved. His poems are ablaze with detached thoughts of lofty meaning,
and of a multitude of others whose meaning is not obvious, all alike
expressed in vivid imagery, in the purest phraseology, and in rare melody
of rhythm. But they are confused and cabalistic. He seems to be always
laboring to be incomprehensible. He calls it “the riddling of the bards.”
And he succeeds. The problem of the Sphinx, the emblematic warning sent
by the Scythians to their Persian invader, the mute counsel sent by the
Samian to the Corinthian tyrant, a Delphic oracle, all were clear and
easy by comparison with Mr. Tennyson’s lyrics, alike in detached passages
and in entire poems. None of woman born can fathom the meaning of the
_Idylls of the King_.

This defect alone is fatal to poetry. So keenly did Spenser feel it that
although the meaning of his allegory, _The Faerie Queene_, is obvious
enough to any ordinary intelligence, he is careful to explain it in full
in a letter dedicated to Sir Walter Raleigh.

Mr. Tennyson, on the contrary, involves himself in the thickest mystery
he can contrive, and expects his worshippers to take it for inspiration.
Take the following, for example, from “The Coming of Arthur”:

    “Rain, rain, and sun, a rainbow in the sky!
      A young man will be wiser by-and-by,
    An old man’s wit may wander e’er he die.

    “Rain, rain, and sun, a rainbow on the lea!
      And truth is this to me, and that to thee
    And truth, or clothed or naked, let it be.

    “Rain, sun, and rain! and the free blossom blows,
      Sun, rain, and sun! and where is he who knows?
    From the great deep to the great deep he goes.”

These are, no doubt, “riddling triplets,” as he himself calls them. The
riddling of Shakspere’s fools, even the wanderings from the night of
distraught Ophelia’s brain, are light itself by the side of them. We may
well echo his invocation of “Sun, rain, and sun! and where is he who
knows?” Whatever inspiration may be evident here, it is not that of the
beautiful. And yet even this has snatches of meaning which many passages
we might adduce have not; as the following, from “Gareth and Lynette”:

    “Know ye not, then, the riddling of the bards?
    Confusion, and illusion, and relation.
    Elusion, and occasion, and evasion?”

It is almost a pity that the bard did not complete his “riddling” while
he was about it. Another couplet:

    Diffusion, and ablution, and abrasion.
    Ablution, expectation, botheration,

would have rendered still more impenetrable the bardic mystery.

There is no resemblance in this studied concealment of meaning, if
meaning there be, to that

            “Sacred madness of the bards
    When God makes music through them,”

of which he sings. It is more like the melodious confusion of the Æolian
harp. Even if the poet have a definite meaning in his own mind, if he
so express it that I cannot even guess it, to me it is nonsense; and
nonsense, however melodious, although it may enchant my sense, cannot
move my heart. Here and there, however, our poet sings snatches of real
poetry, as Sir Bedivere’s answer to his king in “The Coming of Arthur”:

    “I heard the water lapping on the craig
    And the long ripple washing in the reeds.”

Upon the whole, Mr. Tennyson excels in a certain underlying vein of
exquisitely refined humor. And when his subject admits of it, he is
unrivalled. His is the poetry of humor. We would name as examples “The
Northern Farmer” and the satirical poem, “Locksley Hall,” perhaps the
most vigorous of all his productions; and, of his longer poems, _The
Princess_. It is for this reason we think he is more likely to excel, as
a dramatist, in comedy than in tragedy.

If our readers would estimate the full force of our remarks, we would
invite them to read the works of any of the principal of our earlier
lyrical poets, as, for example, Collins. We name him because he too
excels in that melody of versification for which Mr. Tennyson is so
distinguished. At times, as in his “Sonnet on Evening,” he surpasses the
Laureate in that respect, although for sustained and unfailing rhythmical
melody the latter bears away the palm from him, and perhaps from every
other rival. But in profound sympathy with nature, in the fidelity of his
creations, in the echoes of the beautiful which he provokes within the
soul of the reader, the Poet-Laureate must yield to the Demy of Magdalen.
Like Shakspere, he peopled inanimate nature with a fairy world, and
amongst elves and genii and other dainty spirits he abandoned himself to
that power of impersonation which is almost an attribute of a true poet.

Our space does not admit of illustrative quotations, but we would refer
the reader inclined to institute the comparison suggested to the elegy
over Fidele, in the play of _Cymbeline_, and to his _Eclogues_.

Mr. Tennyson’s poetry has beauties of its own peculiar kind of so
remarkable and striking a description that we might have hesitated to
take any exceptions whatsoever to his poetical genius. But his new poem,
his first effort in dramatic poetry, seems to us to set all doubt at
rest. It convinces us that, for whatever reasons, of the highest flights
of poetic inspiration Mr. Tennyson is incapable. We are convinced that he
lacks that which constitutes a great poet. However beautiful his poetry,
we feel that it wants something which, however keenly we may be sensible
of it, it is not easy either to analyze or explain.

For what is the inspiration of poetry but the echoes of the beautiful
within the soul of man? The universe of things is the visible word
of God. It is his essential beauty projected by an energy of creative
love--the quickening spirit opening his wings over chaos--into an
objective existence, on which its generator looked with complacency
as “very good,” and which he generated in order that his creature,
whom he had made in his own image, might, with himself, rejoice in
its contemplation. He did not, at first, endow him with the power of
beholding himself “face to face,” but only his reflex. We have the right
to believe that, whilst in union with his Maker, he read at a glance the
meaning of the word, he felt instantaneously the beauty of the image. His
nature, into which no discord had as yet been introduced, uncondemned
to the judgment of painful toil, did not acquire charity and knowledge
by long and laborious processes, disciplinary and ratiocinative, but by
intuition. Incapable as yet of the Beatific Vision, he comprehended the
whole of the divine beauty as revealed in creation, and the comprehension
itself was a transport of love. He saw, and knew, and loved, and the
three were one simultaneous energy of the sonship of his nature. But, as
now, “the greatest of these was charity.” It was the result and sum and
end of the sight and knowledge. It was the feeling they inevitably and
unremittingly occasioned. To speak as we can only speak in our actual
condition, it was as those thuds of loving admiration with which our
hearts throb when we look upon some surpassing embodiment of innocent
and modest female loveliness. When the mind, jealous of pre-eminence,
led captive, so to speak, the heart in revolt against the revealed law,
the human being was no longer in union with himself, a war of impulses
and of energies was set up within him, the image of God was defaced, his
perception of created beauty became more and more obscure as he went
further away from his original abode of innocence, until, finally, it was
all but lost. The emotion, if we may describe it as such, which it was of
its nature to suggest, could not perish, for it is imperishable. But it
had lost its true object, and surveyed knowledge in a form more or less
degraded.

Now out of this very faint and rapid sketch of a psychological theory
which would require a volume for its development, we hope to be able to
convey some idea, however vague, of the nature of the poetic spirit.

It is certain that the remains of the divine image have not since been
alike and equal in all the individuals of the race. It may be asserted,
on the contrary, that there are no two human microcosms in which the
elements of the confusion introduced into them by the original infidelity
exist in the same proportion. Those in whom the intelligence is the
quickest to see, and the mind, heart, and soul to love in unison, the
image of divine beauty revealed in creation--those, that is, in whom the
divine image remains the most pronouncedly--are the truest poets.

When this echo of the soul to the beautiful does not go beyond the
physical creation, the inspirations of love express themselves in lyric
or idyllic poetry. The poet imitates the divine Creator in reproducing,
even creating, images of his lower creation so faithful and suggestive
that they who look upon them experience similar sensations and emotions
to those provoked within them by the divine creation itself, nay, not
unseldom, even profounder ones. He reveals the beautiful in similar
images to those in which The Beautiful revealed himself to his creature;
he is thus himself a ποιητὴς, or creator, and his work is a ποίησις, or
creation. When his forms derive their inspiration only from the inferior
creation, they are exclusively some form of idyls or lyrics. But when,
soaring above the grosser medium of the merely material universe, and
poising himself on wings tremulous with reverent joy at the confines
of the invisible, his soul echoes the music of the beautiful issuing
from that invisible creation; and that imitative energy which is of its
essence, inspired by these reawakening inspirations, calls into being
psychical individualities with their precise bodily expression and
proper destinies--that is to say, with all the causes and results, ebb
and flow, action and reaction, in human affairs, of every volition and
energy, he reproduces the highest energy of the divine creative power, he
evokes into sensible existence whole multitudes of fresh creatures made
in the image of God, and, what is even yet more sublime, he evokes into
equally sensible being the particular providence which overrules each
and all--the one difference between the two creations being that one is
original, the other imitative; one imaginary--that is, _merely_ sensible;
the other, not only sensible, but _real_ also, and _essential_. Yet are
the accidents of the former produced occasionally with such extraordinary
fidelity that they have sometimes, as in the creations of Shakspere, for
example, the same effect upon those who become acquainted with them as if
they were in truth the latter.

Who that has ever studied the creations of that immortal dramatist has
not them all, from high to low, treasured within his inner being as
vividly as any other of his absent acquaintances, whom he has met in
society, to whom he has been formally introduced, with whom he has eaten,
drank, laughed, wept, walked, and conversed? Has not that remarkable
genius transgressed even the imitative faculty--imitative, that is,
of all the original creative energy that is known--produced original
creations, and peopled the preter- rather than supernatural with beings
which have no known existence, but whom nevertheless he surrounds with a
distinct verisimilitude which ensures them easy admission into our minds
and hearts, which presents them to our senses as concrete beings with as
much positiveness, and even as clearly defined individuality, as if they
were solid creatures of flesh and bone, and which makes us feel that if
such beings did really exist, they would be none other than precisely
those he has represented?

Of such sort, we take it, is the highest, or dramatic, poetry. And of
it there is a manifest deficiency in this work, which its author terms,
indeed, a drama, but which is in fact a tragedy.

Mr. Tennyson has not enough of the divine afflatus to write tragedy. If
he has not sufficient love of the beautiful in inanimate nature for his
soul to echo to it, and his heart to throb with the sense of it, with
the rapidity of an intuition, so as to make unattainable to him the
highest excellence in lyric poetry, how much more out of his reach must
be a first rank in the tragic drama; where, if anywhere, an intuition of
the beautiful amounting to an inspiration is demanded in that supreme
creation of God which, as the consummation of his “work” and word, he has
embodied in his own substance! In that profound and intuitive perception
of the workings of man’s inner being, of the passions, emotions,
feelings, appetites, their action and reaction, ebb and flow; of the
struggle of the two natures, its infinite variety and play of life, under
all conceivable conditions and vicissitudes, with much more than can be
detailed here included in these, Mr. Tennyson is strikingly deficient.

In the tragedies of Shakspere, as in all his dramas, the distinct
personality of every one of the characters, high and low, is impressed
upon us with vivid distinctness. But the principal personages in the
tragedies dilate before us in heroic proportions as the portentous
struggle progresses. Whether it be King Lear, or King John, or King
Richard, or Othello, or Lady Macbeth, or Lady Constance, or the widowed
Princess of Wales, or Ophelia, or whoever else, we look on with bated
breath, as did the spectators of the boat-race with which Æneas
celebrated the suicide of his regal paramour, and we come away at its
close a prey to the storm of emotions which the magic art of the island
sorcerer has conjured up within us.

But the drama, or tragedy, as we prefer to call it, we read with but
languid interest. The psychical struggle is neither very obvious nor very
critical, there is no very striking revelation of the sublime beauty or
tragic overthrow of human nature, and although the canvas is crowded
with figures, not one of them impresses any very distinct image of his
or her individuality on our mind and heart. Instead of, as Shakspere’s
creations, retaining every one of them as a distinct and intimate
acquaintance, whom we may summon into our company at will, we rise from
the perusal of _Queen Mary_ without having received any very definite
impression of any, even the principal, personages, and we forget all
about them almost as soon as we have read the play.

This vital defect in a drama the author has rendered doubly fatal through
his having carried his imitation of Shakspere to the extent of adopting
his simplicity of plot. Shakspere could afford to do this. The inspired
verisimilitude of the struggle of the two natures in every one of his
human creations, the profoundness of his development of the innermost
working of the human microcosm, often by a few master-touches, surround
every one of his _dramatis personæ_ with all the rapt suspense and
sustained interest of a plot. Every one of his characters is, as it were,
a plot in itself. But it is quite certain that Mr. Tennyson--and it is no
depreciation of him--has not this power. He has, therefore, every right
to call to his aid the interest of an elaborate plot, which itself would
also, we think, cause him to develop more vividly his characters. It is
in this the late Lord Lytton, whose poetical pretensions are very much
below Mr. Tennyson’s, achieved whatever success he had as a dramatist.
Mr. Tennyson has not to depend on this solely, as was very nearly the
case with Lord Lytton, but it would contribute very much to a higher
success. The great dramatist he is unwise enough so avowedly to imitate
peoples the simplest plot with a whole world of stirring destinies. He
moves his quickening wand, and lo! as by the master-will of a creator,
appear a Hamlet or a Malvolio, a Lady Macbeth or a Goneril or Miranda,
an Ariel or a Caliban, contribute their precise share to the history,
which would not have been complete without them, and then disappear from
the scene, but never from our memory. A magic word or two has smitten
them into _it_, and they live for aye in our mind and heart. His heroes
and his heroines he clothes with such a majesty of poetry that we watch
anxiously with bated breath their every gesture, word, or look; we
cannot bear their absence, until, entranced into their destiny, and half
unconscious, we watch them disappear in the catastrophe, our ears are
blank, all voices mute, the brilliant theatre is the chamber of death,
and they who, to us, were but now living flesh and blood, in whose
destinies our innermost soul was rapt, have passed away, amidst a tempest
of emotions, and are no more.

But Thucydides’ _History of the Peloponnesian War_, either of the
two great classic epics, or any striking historic passage in even so
ungraphic a writer as Lingard, is more dramatic than this drama. The
feeble plot gives birth to feebler impersonations. They come and go
without making any deep impression upon us, or seizing our attention by
any striking originality. Their features are indistinct, their actions
insignificant. They are bloodless and colorless. They are ghosts, things
of air, whom a feeble incantation has summoned from their slumber, who
mutter a few laborious Spartanisms in a renewed life in which they
seem to have no concern, and vanish without provoking a regret, nor
even an emotion. We observe in them such an absence of verisimilitude,
so marked a want of truth to nature, as very much to weaken, when it
does not entirely destroy, the dramatic illusion. Nowhere is this more
observable than where he intends most manifestly a rivalry of Shakspere.
Shakspere not unseldom introduces the multitude into his poetic history.
But when he does so, it seizes our interest as forcibly as his more
important personages. With a few rapid touches he dashes in a few typical
individuals, who reveal to us vividly what the whole kind of thing is
of which they are prominent units. They are the mob of the very time
and place to which they belong. Whether at Rome in the time of Julius
Cæsar, or at Mantua or Verona in the Middle Ages, or in England during
the time of the Tudors, we feel that they act and speak just as then
and there they might have said and done. Every one, too, has his or
her distinct individuality. And such a verisimilitude have they that
even an occasional anachronism, such as, in _Troilus and Cressida_,
making a Trojan servant talk of _being in the state of grace_, does not
dispel the charm. But Mr. Tennyson’s mob-types have no more striking
features to seize our interest than his more exalted creations, whilst
his anachronisms are of a kind which send all verisimilitude to the
winds. Joan and Tib, and the four or five citizens, have nothing in them
for which they should be singled out of the very ordinary condition of
life to which they belong. And we are tempted to sneer when we hear an
Elizabethan mob talking like Hampshire or Yorkshire peasants of the
present day.

For all that, Mr. Tennyson’s cockneys and rustics are not his most
ineffective portraiture. We experience a slight sensation of their
having been lugged in, perhaps because of the inevitable comparison with
Shakspere they provoke, and we feel them to be too modern; but the poet’s
sense of humor here serves him in good stead, and although, in this
respect, immeasurably below Shakspere, he gives a kind of raciness to his
plebeians which saves them from being an absolute failure.

It is, however, in the principal personages of the drama that we most
miss the Promethean fire, and pre-eminently in the hero, if Cranmer is
intended for such a dignity, and the heroine. Amongst these, the most
lifelike are Courtenay and Sir Thomas Wyatt; because, in their creation,
the peculiar vein of quaint irony and exceedingly refined humor, which is
Mr. Tennyson’s most eminent distinction, comes to his aid. For the rest,
up to the heroine herself and the canting and recanting Cranmer, they are
colorless and bloodless. We scarcely know one from the other. And we do
not care to. Noailles and Renard are but poor specimens of diplomatists.
Their sovereigns, were the time the present, might pick up a dozen such
any day in Wall Street. If the poet could embody no greater conception
of two such men as Bonner and Gardiner than a couple of vulgar,
self-seeking, blood-thirsty knaves, he should have dispensed altogether
with their presence. He should have given to them some elevation,
whatever history may say about it. A drama is a poem, not a history; and
the poet may take the names of historic personages and, within certain
limits, fit to them creations of his own. In Cardinal Pole he had an
opportunity for a noble ideal. But all we have is an amiable dummy, an
old gentleman, as ordinary and ineffective as the rest.

Facts have been so distorted by the influence which for so long had sole
possession of literature, that there is plenty of room for taking great
liberties with history. Mr. Tennyson has slightly availed himself of
this, but in the wrong direction. Shakspere himself could not have made
a saint of Cranmer. For poetry, there was nothing for it but to make him
a more splendid sinner. To retain all his littlenesses and to array them
in seductive virtues, is to present us with some such figure as the dusky
chieftains decked in gaudy tinsel that solicit our admiration in front of
the tobacconists’ shops. To attempt to give heroic proportions to a man
whose profession of faith followed subserviently his self-interest until
no hope remained, and then place in the hands of the burning criminal
the palm of martyrdom, is to invite the love within us of the beautiful
and the true to echo to a psychical impossibility, and that without an
element of greatness.

Yet had the front figure of the history been a noble conception grandly
executed all this might have been condoned. One might well have looked
at them as a few rough accessories to heighten by their contrast the
beauty of the central form. There was place for a splendid creation. No
more favorable material for a tragic heroine exists than Mary Tudor--with
the single exception of that other Mary who fell beneath the Puritans
like a lily before the scythe of the destroyer. Around her history and
person circle all the elements of the tenderest pathos, which is of the
very essence of tragedy. That Shakspere did not use them is a proof
he thought so. For “the fair vestal throned in the west” would have
resented such a creation as his quickening genius would have called
to life. A queen of noble nature gradually swept away by a resistless
current of untoward circumstances, is a history capable of the sublimity
of a Greek catastrophe, with the added pathos of Christian suffering.
But who have we here? A silly woman, devoutly pious, and endowed with
a conspicuous share of the family courage. But she is so weak that
her piety has the appearance of superstition, and her fits of courage
lose their royalty and fail to rescue her from contempt. Unattractive
in person, she falls desperately in love with a man much younger than
herself, and her woman’s love, ordinarily so quick to detect coldness in
a lover, is blind to the grossest neglect; and yet not so blind but that
a few words scrawled on a rag of paper, dropped in her way, could open
her eyes on the spot. The tenderness of her love and the importunity of
cruel-minded men, transform her almost suddenly from a gentle-natured
woman to an unrelenting human tigress. And she, who would not allow the
law to take its course on her most dangerous enemies, can exclaim of her
sister Elizabeth,

                “To the Tower with _her_!
    My foes are at my feet, and I am queen.”

Afterwards of Guilford Dudley, the Duke of Suffolk, and Lady Jane Grey--

    “They shall die.”

And again of her sister--

                            “She shall die.
    My foes are at my feet, and Philip king.”

This is not the grandness of crime, as in Richard III., or even in Lady
Macbeth. It is the petty despotism of a weak and silly woman. There is
no greatness of any kind about it. It is the mere triumphant chuckle
of an amorous queen, wooing a more than indifferent husband. It is
little--little enough for a comedy. There is something approaching the
tragic in the desolation of her last moments. Calais is lost, her husband
hates her, her people hate her. But the poet has already robbed her of
the dignity of her position. She has forfeited our esteem. We experience
an ordinary sympathy with her. But her fate is only what was to be
expected. And the highest pathos is out of the question. When, following
the example of her injured mother in the play of _Henry VIII._, she
betakes herself to lute and song, the author insists on a comparison with
Shakspere, and beside the full notes of the Bard of Avon the petty treble
of the Laureate pipe shrinks to mediocrity.

But the most unpardonable of Mr. Tennyson’s imitations of Shakspere are
those in which he rings the changes on the celebrated passage about “no
Italian priest shall tithe nor toll in our dominions,” which inevitably
provokes the applause of those amongst a theatrical audience who do not
know what it means--unpardonable, because it makes even Shakspere himself
as ridiculous as a poor travesty cannot fail to do. He was content with
one such passage throughout his many plays. If Terence had filtered
the noble sentiment of his celebrated passage, “Ego homo sum, et nihil
humanum a me alienum,” through a variety of forms, it would have excited
the laughter instead of the plaudits of the Roman “gods.” But the author
of _Queen Mary_ is not afraid to pose _his_ sentiment, itself borrowed
in no less than three different attitudes in one play; committing the
additional absurdity of thrusting it, like a quid of tobacco, into the
cheek of two different personages. Gardiner uses it twice, Elizabeth once:

            “Yet I know well [says the former]
    Your people …
    Will brook nor Pope nor Spaniard here to play
    The tyrant, or in commonwealth or church”;

and again, with questionable taste:

    “And see you, we shall have to _dodge_ again,
    And let the Pope trample our rights, and plunge
    His _foreign fist_ into our island church,
    To plump the leaner pouch of Italy”;

whilst Elizabeth is made to vulgarize it beyond hope of redemption into a
mere petty ebullition of splenetic womanly vanity:

    “Then, Queen indeed! No foreign prince or priest
    Should fill my throne, myself upon the steps.”

It must be owned, indeed, that this play lacks the highest poetry in
its expression as much as in its conception. We occasionally come
across passages of vivid and vigorous limning, as Count Feria’s reply
to Elizabeth towards the end of the play, and Howard’s description to
the Lord Mayor of the state of mind of the citizens. But even the force
of this latter passage is not dramatic. There is none of the rush and
movement of an excited populace. There are a few striking groups. But
they are inactive. Theirs is a kind of dead life, if we may be pardoned
such an expression. Rather, they are mere _tableaux vivants_. They
inspire us with no fear for Mary’s throne. More near to dramatic power
and beauty is Elizabeth’s soliloquy at Woodstock, suddenly lowered in the
midst of its poetry, even to nursery familiarity, by the introduction of
such a phrase as “catch me who can.”

But for one single effort of the highest poetic flight we look in vain.

Even the few snatches of his lyre which he introduces fail to woo us.
They are not natural. If they are poetry, it is poetry in a court-dress.
It is rich with brocade, and the jewels glitter bravely; it treads
delicately, but its movements are artificial and constrained. Compare,
for example, the song of the Woodstock milkmaid, wherein labor is visible
in every line, with those gushes of nature with which the poet’s soul
would seem to be bubbling over the brim of the visible in the various
lyrical snatches of Ariel or with the song of Spring at the end of
_Love’s Labor Lost_.

But what has more surprised us than the lack of the poetic inspiration in
this drama is the occasional want of correct taste in a writer of such
exceeding polish as Mr. Tennyson. Such a speech as

    “And God hath blest or cursed me with a nose--
    Your boots are from the horses,”

should not have been put in the mouth of a lady, still less a lady of the
rank of Elizabeth, and that the less when she appeals to our sympathies
from a kind of honorable imprisonment.

Lady Magdalen Dacres may have beat King Philip with a staff for insulting
her, and have remained a lady, but we do not want to be told, in the
midst of dramatic pathos,

    “But by God’s providence a good stout staff
    Lay near me; and you know me strong of arm;
    I do believe I lamed his Majesty’s.”

Is our poet, again, so barren of invention that he could find no other
way of portraying Philip’s indifference to his Queen than the following:

                “By S. James, I do protest,
    Upon the faith and honor of a Spaniard,
    I am vastly grieved to leave your Majesty.
    Simon, is supper ready?”
      “RENARD--Ay, my liege,
    I saw the covers laying.”
      “PHILIP--Let’s have it.”

Whatever may be the character he may have wished to depict in Philip, we
expect a Spanish king to be a gentleman. And such an ending of a scene
susceptible of the tenderest pathos, where the heroine and another of the
principal personages of the drama are in presence, argues a wonderful
dulness of perception of the beautiful.

Worse than all, however, is his treatment of Cardinal Pole.

Shakspere puts a few words of Latin into the mouth of Cardinal Wolsey
in a scene in _Henry VIII._, in which he and Cardinal Campeggio are
endeavoring to bend the queen to the king’s will. But it is a wonderful
touch of nature. It is one of those profound intuitions for which the
great dramatist is so distinguished. So seemingly simple an incident
reveals, at a touch, as it were, the preoccupation of Wolsey’s mind, and
the hollowness at once and difficulty of the duty he had suffered to
be imposed upon him. They had paid her ostensibly a private visit, as
friends. But Wolsey, oppressed with the difficulty of his undertaking,
and meditating how he should set about it, forgets himself, the old habit
crops up, and he begins as if he were beginning a formal ecclesiastical
document:

    “Tanta est erga te mentis integritas, regina serenissima.”

It is a slip. The queen stops him. He recollects himself, and we hear no
more Latin.

But in this drama the poet literally makes a cardinal, and such a
cardinal as Pole, address Queen Mary with the angelic salutation to the
Blessed Virgin, and in Latin:

    “Ave Maria, gratia plena, benedicta tu in mulieribus!”

Upon the whole, the defects of this drama are so many and so serious, so
radical and fundamental, that no competent criticism can pronounce it
other than a failure; and a failure more complete than would have been
thought possible to a poet of so great a reputation as Mr. Tennyson.[3]


“O VALDE DECORA!”

    Could I but see thee, dear my love!
      That face--but once! Not dazzling bright--
    Not as the blest above
      Behold it in God’s light--

    But as it look’d at La Salette;
      Or when, in Pyrenean wild,
    It beam’d on Bernadette,
      The favor’d peasant child.

    Once seen--a moment--it would blind
      These eyes to beauty less than thine:
    And where could poet find
      Such theme for song as mine?

    But if I ask what may not be,
      So spell me with thy pictur’d face
    That haunting looks from thee
      May hold me like a grace.


ARE YOU MY WIFE?

BY THE AUTHOR OF “PARIS BEFORE THE WAR,” “NUMBER THIRTEEN,” “PIUS VI.,”
ETC.

CHAPTER IX.

And now a new life began for Franceline.

“You must fly from idleness as from sin,” Father Henwick said; “you must
never let a regret settle on your mind for an instant. It will often be
hard work to resist them; but we are here to fight. You must shut the
door in the face of idle thoughts by activity and usefulness. I will
help you in this. You must set to work amongst the poor; not so as to
fatigue yourself, or interfere with your duties and occupations at home,
but enough to keep you busy and interested. At first it will be irksome
enough, I dare say; but never mind that. By and by the effort will bring
its own reward, and be a pleasure as well as a duty.”

He sat down and wrote out a time-table for her which filled up every hour
of the day, and left not one moment for brooding. There were visits to
the cottages and a class for children in the morning; the afternoon hours
were to be devoted to helping her father, writing and copying for him,
sometimes copying MSS. for Father Henwick, with no other purpose than to
keep her mind and her fingers occupied.

But when the excitement caused by this change in her daily routine
subsided, something of the first heart-sinking returned. Do what she
would, thought would not be dumb. The external activity could not
silence the busy tongues of her brain or deafen her to their ceaseless
whisperings. It was weary work staggering on under her load, while memory
tugged at her heart-strings and dragged its longings the other way. It
was hard not to yield to the temptation now and then of sitting down by
the wayside to rest and look back towards the Egypt that was for ever
out of sight. But Franceline very seldom yielded to the treacherous
allurement. When she caught herself lapsing into dreams, she would rise
up with a resolute effort, and shake off the torpor, and set to work at
something. When the torpor changed to a sting of anguish, she would steep
her soul in prayer--that unfailing opiate of the suffering spirit, its
chloroform in pain.

One day, about three weeks after Father Henwick’s return, she was coming
home through the wood after her morning’s round amongst the cottages.
She was very tired in mind and body. It was dull work dinning the
multiplication-table into Bessy Bing’s thick skull, and teaching her
unnimble fingers to turn the heel of a stocking; to listen to the widow’s
endless lamentations over “the dear departed” and the good old times when
they killed a pig every year, and always had a bit of bacon on the rack.
Franceline came to the old spot where she used to sit and listen to the
concert of the grove. The songsters were nearly all silent now, for the
green was turning gold; but the felled tree was lying in the same place,
and tempted her to rest a moment and watch the sun shooting his golden
shafts through the wilderness of stems all round. Another moment, and she
was in dreamland; but the spell had scarcely fallen on her when it was
broken by the sound of footfalls crushing the yellow leaves that made
a carpet on every path. She started to her feet, and walked on. A few
steps brought her face to face with Father Henwick. He greeted her with a
joyous exclamation.

“Here comes my little missionary! What has she been doing to-day?”

“She has achieved a great conquest; she has arrived at making Bessy Bing
apprehend the problem that seven times nine and nine times seven produce
one and the same total,” replied Franceline with mock gravity.

Father Henwick laughed; but the tired expression of her face did not
escape him.

“I am afraid you will be growing too conceited if this sort of thing goes
on,” he said. “But you must not overdo it, my dear child; it won’t do to
wear yourself out in gaining arithmetical triumphs.”

“Better wear out than rust out.” And Franceline shrugged her shoulders;
she had learned the expressive French trick from her father.

The priest bent his clear eyes on her for a second without speaking. She
read, disappointment, and perhaps mild reproach, in them.

“I am sorry I said that, father; I did not mean to complain.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Because it was cowardly and ungrateful.”

“To whom?”

“To you, who are so kind and so patient with me!”

“And who bids me be kind? Who teaches me to be patient with you?--poor
little bruised lamb!”

“I know it, father; I feel it in the bottom of my heart; but one can’t
always be remembering.” There was the slightest touch of impatience in
her tone.

“How if God were some day to grow tired of remembering us, and bearing
with us, and forgiving us?”

“I know. But I am not rebelling; only sickening and suffering. You
have told me there was no sin in that?” The words came tremulous, as
if through rising tears; but Franceline raised her head with a defiant
movement, and forced the briny drops down. “I cannot help it!” she
continued impetuously; “I have tried my best, and I cannot help it!”

Father Henwick heaved an almost inaudible sigh before he said: “What
cannot you help, Franceline? Suffering?”

“No! I don’t care about that! Remembering I cannot forget.”

“My poor child! would to God I could help you! I would suffer willingly
in your place!” The words came like a gush from his inmost heart. They
broke down the sufferer’s proud resistance and let the tears have vent.
He turned to walk back with her. For some time neither spoke; only the
soft sobs that came unchecked from Franceline broke the temple-like
stillness of the wood. Suddenly she cried out in a tone of passionate
desperation: “O father! it is dreadful. It will kill me if it lasts
much longer! The humiliation is more than I can bear! To feel that I am
harboring a feeling that my whole soul rebels against, that is revolting
in the eyes of God and of my conscience! And I cannot master it!”

“You will never master it by pride, Franceline; that very pride is your
greatest hindrance in setting your heart free. Try and think more of God
and less of yourself. There is no sin, as you say, in the suffering, any
more than, if you strayed to the edge of a precipice in the dark, and
fell over and were killed, you would be guilty of suicide. The sinfulness
now is in your rebellion against the suffering simply because it wounds
your pride.”

“It is not all pride, father,” she said meekly. Presently she turned and
looked up at him through wet lashes. “Father, I must tell you something,”
she said, speaking with a sort of timidity that was unusual with her
towards him--“a thought that came to me this morning that never came to
me before.…”

“What was it?”

“If his wife should die … he would be free?”

A dark shadow fell now on Father Henwick’s large, smooth brow. Franceline
read his answer in the frown and the averted gaze; but he spoke soon,
though he did not look at her.

“That was a sinful thought! You should have cast it behind you with
contempt. Has it come to that with you, that you could look forward to
the death of any one as a thing to be longed for?”

“I did not long for it. The thought came to me.”

“You should have hunted it out of your mind like an evil spirit, as it
was. You must never let it near you again. _He_ should be to you as if
he were already dead. Whether his wife dies or not should not, and does
not, concern you. Besides, how do you know whether she is not as young as
yourself, and stronger? My child, such a thought as that would lead you
to the brink of an abyss, if you listened to it.”

“I never will again, father,” she answered promptly. “I hardly know now
whether I listened to it or not; only I could not help telling you.”

“You were right to tell me; and now banish it, and never let it approach
you again.”

After a pause he resumed:

“You are sure that silence is best with M. de la Bourbonais?”

“Oh! yes. How can you ask me, father?” And Franceline looked up in
surprise.

“Yet it cannot remain a secret from him for ever; he is almost certain to
hear of it sooner or later, and it might save him a severe shock if he
heard it from you. It would set his mind at rest about you?”

“It is quite at rest at present on that score. He has no idea that the
discovery would be likely to affect me.”

“You are better able to judge of that, of course, than I am. But it
grieves me to see you have a secret from your father; I wish it could be
avoided.”

“But it cannot; indeed it cannot!” she repeated emphatically. “You may
trust me to speak, if I thought it could be done without injury to both
of us. It is much better to wait; perhaps by the time it comes to his
ears I may be able to hear him speak of it without betraying myself and
paining him.”

Father Henwick acquiesced, but reluctantly. He hoped she was right in
supposing M. de la Bourbonais quite blind to what had been so palpable
to a casual observer. But, making even the fullest allowance for the
absent-minded habits of the studious man, this seemed scarcely probable.
Franceline had affirmed it herself more confidently, perhaps, than
was warranted. She had, however, succeeded in lulling her father into
forgetfulness of his former conjectures and impressions; she was
certain of this. It had been done at a terrible price of endurance and
self-control; but she had succeeded, and it would be doubly cruel now to
revive his suspicions and let him know the truth.

“I will trust you,” said Father Henwick; “it is indeed a mercy that he is
not called upon to bear such a trial while he is yet so unprepared.”

There was an earnestness about him as he said this that would have caused
Franceline a deeper emotion than curiosity if her mind were not fixed
wide of the mark. She replied after a moment’s reflection: “If anything
should occur to make it necessary to tell him, will you break it to him,
father?”

“I will,” said the priest simply.

Franceline had not the least fear of Father Henwick. The severity of his
passionless brow did not frighten her; it never checked the outflow of
the thoughts and emotions that came surging up from her own perturbed
heart. He seemed too far removed from strife himself to be affected by
it, except as a pitying angel might, looking down from his calm heaven
on poor mortals struggling and striving in the smoke and din of their
earthly battle-field.

“Father,” said Franceline suddenly, “I wish I cared more for the poor!
I wish I could love them and pity them as you do; but I don’t. I’m so
shy of going amongst them. I’m sure I don’t do them any good, and they
don’t do me any good, they’re so prosy and egotistical--most of them, at
least.”

He turned an amused, indulgent smile on her.

“There was a time when I thought so too; but persevere, and the love
will come after a little while. All that is worth having is bought with
sacrifice. Oh! if we could only understand the blessedness of sacrifice!
Then we should find the peace passing all understanding that comes of
passion overcome, of sorrow generously accepted!”

He held out his hand to say good-by. Franceline laid hers in it; but
did not remove it at once. “Father,” she said, with her eyes lifted in
childlike fearlessness to his, “one would think, to hear you speak of
passion overcome and sorrow accepted, that you knew something about them!
I sometimes wish you did. It would make it easier to me to believe in the
possibility of overcoming and accepting.”

A change came over Father Henwick’s face for one moment; it was not a
cloud nor a tremor, but the shadow of some deep emotion that must pass
away before he could answer. Then the words came with grave simplicity,
and low, as if they were a prayer:

“Believe, then, my child, and take courage; I have gone through it all!”

He turned and walked back into the wood. Franceline stood looking after
him through gathering tear-drops. Never had he seemed so far above her,
so removed from human weakness, as at this moment, when he so humbly
acknowledged kindred with it.

       *       *       *       *       *

A pleasant surprise met Franceline on her return home. Sir Simon was at
The Lilies, and loudly expressing his indignation at not finding her
there to greet him. She arrived, however, before he had quite divested
himself of a cargo of small boxes which he had carried down himself in
order to have the delight of witnessing her curiosity and pleasure in
their contents. There was hardly any event which could have given her so
much pleasure in her present frame of mind as the sight of her kind old
friend; and she satisfied him to the full by her affectionate welcome
and her delight in all his presents. He had not forgotten her favorite
_friandise_--chocolate bonbons--and she set to nibbling them at once,
in spite of Angélique’s protest against such a proceeding close on
dinner-time.

“Va, petite gourmande!” exclaimed the _bonne_, tramping off to her
kitchen, in high glee to see Franceline’s gayety and innocent greediness
over the dainty.

Sir Simon was, if possible, in brighter spirits than ever; like Job’s
friends, he was “full of discourse,” so that there was nothing to do
but listen and laugh as the current rippled on. He had a deal to tell
about his rambles in the Pyrenees, and a whole budget of adventures to
retail, and anecdotes about odd people he had come across in all sorts
of out-of-the-way places. Nothing checked the pleasant flow until M. de
la Bourbonais had the unlucky inspiration to inquire for Lady Rebecca’s
health; whereupon the baronet raised his right hand and let it fall
again with an emphatic gesture, shook his head, and compressed his
lips in ominous silence. Raymond, who held the key of the pantomime,
gathered therefrom that Lady Rebecca had for the six-and-thirtieth
time rallied from the jaws of death, and plunged her long-suffering
heir once more into dejection and disappointment. He knew what was
in store for his private ear, and heaved a sigh. “But the present
hour shall be a respite,” Sir Simon seemed to say; and he quitted the
subject abruptly, and proceeded to catechise Franceline on her behavior
since his departure. He was surprised and annoyed to find that she had
been to no parties; that nothing more exciting than that short visit
to Rydal had come of his deep-laid scheme with the dowager; and that
there had been no rivalry of gallant suitors attacking the citadel of
The Lilies. He had been rather nervous before meeting her; for, though
it had been made quite clear to him by Raymond’s letters that _he_ had
received no crushing blow of any description, Sir Simon had a lurking
fear that recent events might have left a deeper shadow on his daughter’s
existence than he was conscious of. Her aspect, however, set him at
ease on this score. He could hardly have lighted on a more favorable
moment for the confirmation of his sanguine hopes regarding Franceline’s
heart-wholeness. True, she had been crying, only half an hour ago,
bitter, burning tears enough; but her face retained no trace of them, and
it still held the glow of inward triumph that Father Henwick’s last words
had called up into her eyes, and her cheeks had got a faint color from
the rapid walking. Sir Simon breathed freely as he took note of these
outward signs; he could indulge in a little chaffing without remorse or
_arrière-pensée_. He wanted to know, merely as a matter of curiosity, how
many hearts she had broken in his absence--how many unfortunates had been
mortally struck as they passed within reach of her arrows on the wayside.
Franceline protested that she carried no quiver, and had not inflicted a
scratch on any one. Humph! Sir Simon invited her to convey that answer to
the marines.

“And how about Ponsonby Anwyll? Has he been here lately?”

“No; he called twice, but papa and I were out.”

“Poor devil! so much the better for him! But he won’t have the sense to
keep out of harm’s way; he’ll be at it again before long.”

Franceline gave one of her merry laughs--she was in a mood to enjoy the
absurdity of the joke--and went to take off her things; for Angélique put
in her head to say that dinner was ready.

Things fell quickly into their old course at the Court. There was a
procession of morning callers every day, and pleasant friendly dinners,
and a few men down in relays to shoot. Sir Simon insisted on M. de la
Bourbonais coming to join them frequently, and bringing Franceline;
he had established a precedent, and he was not going to let it drop.
Franceline, on the whole, was glad of the excitement; she was determined
to use everything that could help her good resolutions; and the necessity
for seeming to enjoy soon led to her doing so in reality. After the
stillness of her little home-life, filled as it was with restless voices
audible to no ear but hers, the gay stir of the Court was welcome. It
was a pleasurable sensation, too, to feel herself the object of admiring
attentions from a number of agreeable gentlemen, to be deferred to and
made much of, as if she were a little queen amongst them all. Sir Simon
was more indulgent than ever, and spoiled her to his heart’s content.
Father Henwick, who was kept _au courant_ of what was going on, could
not find it in his heart to oppose what seemed to be an innocent
diversion of her thoughts.

It was, therefore, anything but a welcome break when Lady Anwyll came
down one morning, accompanied by Sir Simon, to announce her intention
of carrying off her friend the next day to Rydal. Franceline fought off
while she could, but Sir Simon pooh-poohed her excuses about not liking
to leave her father, and so forth; _he_ was there now to look after him,
and she must go. So she went. Rydal had a dreadful association in her
mind, and she shrank from going there as from revisiting the scene of
some horrible tragedy. She shrank, too, from leaving her father. Of late
they had been more bound up in their daily life than ever; she had coaxed
him into accepting her services as an amanuensis, and he had quickly
grown so used to them that he was sure to miss her greatly at his work.

There was nothing, moreover, in the inmates of Rydal to compensate her
for the sacrifice; they were not the least interesting. It was always
the same good-natured petting from Lady Anwyll, as if she were a kitten
or a baby. She knew exactly what the conversation would be--gossip
about local trifles, about the family, especially Ponce, his boots, his
eccentricities, his pet dishes, his pranks in the regiment; the old tune
played over and over again on the same string. As to Ponce himself,
Franceline knew the big hussar already by heart; he would do his best to
be entertaining, and would only be awkward and commonplace. Nothing at
Rydal, in fact, rose above the dead-level of Dullerton.

The dowager had some few young people in for a carpet-dance, in which
Franceline had to take her part, and did without any repugnance. Dancing
brought back certain memories that pierced her like steel blades; but
her heart was proof against the thrusts, and she defied them to wound
her. Lord Roxham was invited, and showed himself cordial and friendly,
but nothing more. He said he had been called away to London soon after
they last met, or else he would have profited by M. de la Bourbonais’
permission to call at The Lilies; he hoped that the authorization might
still hold good.

“Oh! yes; do come. I shall be so glad to see you,” was the frank and
unaffected reply.

Lady Anwyll had meantime felt rather aggrieved at Lord Roxham’s behavior.
Her little scheme had gone off so swimmingly at first she could not
understand why it had suddenly collapsed in its prosperous course,
and come to a dead halt. At any rate, she would give him one more
chance. The young legislator seemed in no violent hurry to improve it.
He danced a couple of times with Franceline, and once with two other
young girls, and then subsided to dummy whist with the rector of Rydal
and his wife, leaving Franceline to the combined fascinations of Mr.
Charlton and Ponce, who usurped her between them. The latter bestowed
such an unequal share of a host’s courtesy on the young French girl,
indeed, that his mother felt it incumbent on her to explain to the other
young ladies that Mlle. de la Bourbonais was a foreigner; therefore
Ponce, being so good-natured, paid her particular attention. And he
certainly did--not only on that occasion, but while she remained. He
was continually hovering about her like a huge overshadowing bird
whose wings were always in the way of its movements. He tripped over
footstools in attempting to place them under her feet; but then he
was always so thankful that it was himself, not her, he nearly upset!
He spilt several cups of tea in handing them to her, and was nearly
overcome with gratitude when he saw the carpet had got the contents,
and that her pretty muslin frock was safe! He _would_ hold an umbrella
open over her because it looked so uncommonly like rain; and it was
such a mercy to have only spoiled her bonnet and made a hole in her
veil, when he might so easily have run the point into her eye. Ponce,
like many wiser men, had endless satisfaction in the contemplation of
the blunders he might have committed and did not. Yet, with all his
boyish awkwardness, Franceline was growing very fond of him. He was so
thoroughly kind-hearted, and so free from the taint of conceit; and then
there was an undeniable enjoyment in the sense of being cared for, and
thought of, and watched over; and it was all done in a naïve, boyish
way, and with a brotherly absence of compliment or constraint that left
her free to accept it without any sense of undue obligation, or the fear
of being called upon to repay it except by being pleased and grateful.
When he followed her into the conservatory with a shawl and wrapped it
round her unceremoniously, she looked up at his fresh, honest face, and
said, almost as if he had been a woman: “I wish I had you for a brother,
Captain Anwyll!” He got very red, and was fumbling somewhere in his mind
for an answer, when his mother called to him for the watering-pot; Ponce
seized it, and, dashing out a sudden shower-bath upon the dowager’s
dress, narrowly escaped drenching Franceline’s. But it did escape. What a
lucky dog he was!

How pleasant it was riding home in the fresh afternoon! Lady Anwyll came
in the carriage, while Franceline and Capt. Anwyll cantered on before.
Nothing was likely to have happened at The Lilies during her absence;
but as they drew near she grew impatient and rode at a pace, as if she
expected wonderful tidings at the ride’s end. The air was so clear that
Dullerton, yet a mile off, sent its hum of life towards the riders with
sharp distinctness. The panting of the train, as it moved out of the
station, sounded close by; every street cry and tinkling cart-bell rang
out like a chime. Soon the soft cooing of the doves came wafted above the
distant voice of the town; and when the travellers came within sight of
The Lilies, the flock flew to greet Franceline, wheeling round high up in
the air several times before alighting on her shoulders and outstretched
wrist. Then came her father’s delighted exclamation, as he hurried down
the little garden-walk, and Angélique’s affectionate embrace. And once
more the small, still home-life, that was so sweet and so rich in a
restored joy, recommenced. Franceline devoted hours every day now to
working with her father, and soon she became almost as much absorbed in
the work as he was. Sometimes, indeed, she hindered rather than helped,
stopping him in the midst of his dictation to demand an explanation; but
Raymond never chided her or grudged the delay. Her fresh young eyesight
and diligent, nimble hand were invaluable to him, and he wondered how he
had got on so long without them.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lord Roxham redeemed his promise of calling at The Lilies. He talked
a good deal to Raymond about politics and current events, saying very
little to Franceline, who sat by, stitching away at some bit of plain
sewing. This was just what she liked. Her father was entertained and
interested. A breeze from the outer world always refreshed him, though
he was hardly conscious of it, still less of needing any such reviving
incident in his quiet, monotonous existence; but Franceline always hailed
it with thankfulness for him, and was well content to remain in the shade
now while the visitor devoted himself to amusing her father. Was it
fancy, or did she, on glancing up suddenly from her needle-work, detect
an expression, half compassionate, half searching, in Lord Roxham’s face,
as he looked fixedly at her? Whether it was fancy or not, her eyes fell
at once, and the blood mantled her cheek; she did not venture to let her
gaze light on him again, and it was with a sense of shyness that she
shook hands with him at parting.

Ponsonby Anwyll was now a frequent visitor at The Lilies, sometimes
coming alone, sometimes with Sir Simon; and it was a curious coincidence,
if quite accidental, that he generally made his appearance as Franceline
was on the point of starting for her ride; and as he was always on
horseback, there was no conceivable reason why he should not join the
party. The burly hussar was a safer companion in the saddle than in the
drawing-room; he rode with the masterly ease of a cavalryman, and, the
road being free from the disturbing influence of tea-trays and chairs,
he spilt nothing and upset nobody, and Franceline was always glad of
his company. She was too inexperienced and too much absorbed in other
thoughts to forecast any possible results from this state of things.
Ponsonby continued the same familiar, kind, brother-like manner to her;
was mightily concerned in keeping her out of the bad bits of road, and
out of the way of the cattle that might be tramping to market and prove
offensive to her mettlesome pony. He never aimed at making himself
agreeable, only useful. But the eyes of Dullerton looked on at all this
brotherly attention, and drew its own conclusion. The Langrove young
ladies, of whom somehow she had of late seen less than ever, grew excited
to the highest pitch about it, and were already discussing how many of
them would be bridemaids at the wedding, if bridemaids there were. Most
likely Sir Simon would settle that and probably give the dresses. Even
discreet Miss Merrywig could not forbear shaking her finger and her
barrel curls at Franceline one day when the latter hurried off to get
ready for her ride, with the excuse that Sir Simon and Capt. Anwyll were
due at three o’clock. But Franceline knew by this time what Dullerton
was, and what it could achieve in the way of gossip; spinning a yarn a
mile long out of a thread the length of your finger. She only laughed,
and mentally remarked how little people knew. They would be marrying her
to Sir Simon next, when Ponsonby rejoined his regiment and was seen no
more at her saddle-bow.

The three had set out for a ride one afternoon, when, as they were
dashing along at full tilt, Sir Simon pulled up with a strong formula of
exclamation.

“What’s the matter?” cried Sir Ponsonby, plunging back heavily, while
Franceline reined in Rosebud, and turned in some alarm to see what had
occurred.

“If I have not actually forgotten all about Simpson, who comes down from
London by appointment this afternoon! I dare say he’s waiting for me by
this, and he must return by the 5:20. I must leave you, and post home as
quick as Nero will carry me.” And with a “by-by” to Franceline and a nod
to Capt. Anwyll, coupled with an injunction not to let her ride too fast
and to keep her out of mischief, the baronet turned his horse’s head and
galloped away, desiring the groom to follow on with the others.

They went on at a good pace until they reached the foot of a gentle
ascent, when both of one accord fell into a walk. For the first time in
their intercourse Franceline was conscious of a certain vague awkwardness
with Capt. Anwyll; of casting about for something to say, and not finding
anything. The place was perfectly solitary, the woods on one side,
the fields sloping down to the river on the other. The groom lagged
respectfully a long way behind, quite out of ear-shot, often out of
sight; for the road curved and wheeled abruptly every now and then, and
hid the foremost riders from his view. Ponsonby broke the silence:

“Miss Franceline”--he would call her Miss Franceline, because it was
easier and shorter--“I have something on my mind that I want badly to say
to you. I’ve been wanting to say it for some time. I hope it won’t make
you angry?”

“I can’t say till I hear it; but if you are in doubt about it, perhaps
it would be safer not to say it,” remarked Franceline, beginning to
tremble ominously.

“I wouldn’t vex you for anything in the world! ’Pon my honor I wouldn’t!”
protested Ponce warmly. “But, you see, I don’t know whether what I’m
going to say will vex you or not.”

“Then don’t say it; you are sure not to vex me then,” was the encouraging
advice, and she devoutly hoped he would take it. But he was not so minded.

“That’s true,” he assented; “but then, you see, it might please you. I’m
half afraid it won’t, though, only I can’t be sure till I try.” After
musing a moment, in obvious perplexity, he resumed, speaking rapidly, as
if he had made up his mind to bolt it all out and take the consequences.
“I’m not a puppy--my worst enemy won’t accuse me of that; but I’m not a
bad fellow either, as my mother and all the fellows in the Tenth will
tell you; and the fact is, I’ve grown very fond of you, Miss Franceline,
and if you’ll take me as I am I’ll do my best to be a good husband to you
and to make you happy.”

He said it quickly, as if he were reciting a lesson got by heart, and
then came to a dead halt and “paused for a reply.” He might have paused
long enough, if he had not at last turned round and read his fate in
Franceline’s scared, white face and undisguised agitation.

“Oh! now, don’t say no before you think it over!” entreated the young
man. “I know you’re ten times too good for me; but, for that matter,
you’re too good for the best fellow that ever lived. I said so myself
to Sir Simon only this morning. But I do love you with all my heart,
Franceline; and if only you could care for me ever so little to begin
with, I’d be satisfied, and you’d make me the happiest man alive!”

Franceline had now recovered her self-possession, and was able to speak,
though she still trembled.

“I am so sorry!” she exclaimed. “I never dreamed of this; indeed I did
not! I dare say I have been very selfish, very thoughtless; but it was
not wilful. I am very unhappy to have given you pain!”

“Oh! don’t say that. You’ll make me miserable if you say that!” pleaded
Ponsonby. “Of course you never thought of it. It’s great impudence of me
to think of it, I have so little to offer you! But if you don’t quite
hate the sight of me, I’m sure I could make you a devoted husband, and
love you better than many a cleverer fellow. I’ve been fond of you from
the first, and so has my mother.”

“You are both very good to me; I am very, very grateful!” The tears
rose to her eyes, and with a frank, impulsive movement she held out her
hand to him. Ponsonby bent from the saddle and raised it to his lips,
although it was gloved. If he had not been over-sanguine at heart and a
trifle stupid, poor fellow, he would have felt that it was all over with
him. The little hand lay with cold, sisterly kindness in his grasp, and
Franceline looked at him with eyes that were too kind and pitying to
promise anything more than sisterly pity and gratitude.

“I cannot, I cannot. You must never think of it any more. Do you not see
that it is impossible? I am a Catholic!”

“Pshaw! as if that mattered a whit! I mean as if it need make any
difference between us! I don’t mind it a pin--’pon my honor I don’t!
I said so to the count. We’ve settled all that, in fact, and if he’s
satisfied to trust me why will not you?”

“Then you have spoken to my father?”

“Oh! yes; that was the right thing, Sir Simon told me, as he was a
Frenchman.”

“And what did he say to you?”

“He said that if you said yes, he was quite willing to give you to me. I
wanted to come to settlements at once--I only wish I was ten times better
off!--but he would not hear a word about that until I had consulted you.
Only, he said he would be glad to receive me as his son; he did indeed,
Franceline!” She was looking straight before her, her eyes dilated, her
whole face aglow with some strong emotion that his words seemed to have
stirred in her.

“You remember,” continued Ponsonby, “that you said to me once you
would like to have me for a brother? Well, it will be nearly the same
thing. You would get used to me as a husband after a while; you would,
Franceline!”

“Never, never, never!” she repeated, not passionately, but with a calm
emphasis that made Ponsonby’s heart die within him. He could not find a
word to oppose to the strong, quiet protest.

“No, it is all a mistake,” said Franceline. “I don’t know who is to
blame--I suppose I am. I should not have let you come so often; but you
were so kind, and I have so few people to care for me; and when one is
sad at heart, kindness is so welcome! But I should have thought of you; I
have been selfish!”

“No, no, you have not been selfish at all; it’s all my doing and my
fault,” affirmed the young man. “I wish I had held my tongue a little
longer. My mother will come and see you to-morrow; she will explain it
all, and how it sha’n’t make any trouble to you, my being a Protestant.”

“She must not come,” said Franceline with decision; “there is nothing
to explain. I am sincerely grateful to her and to you; but I have only
gratitude to give you. I hope with all my heart that you may soon forget
me and any pain I am causing you, and that you may meet with a wife who
will make you happier than I could have done.”

Ponsonby was silent for a few moments, and then he said, speaking with a
certain hesitation and diffidence:

“I could be satisfied to wait and to go on hoping, if I were sure of one
thing:… that you did not care for anybody else. Do you?”

She flashed a glance of indignant pride at him.

“What right have you to put such a question to me? I tell you I do not
care for you, and that I will never marry you! You have no right to ask
me any more.”

Ponsonby recoiled as if a flash of lightning had forked out of the cold,
gray sky. “Good heavens! I did not mean to offend you. I declare solemnly
I did not!”

But he had touched a vibrating chord unawares, and set every fibre in her
heart thrilling and every pulse throbbing; and the disturbance was not to
be laid by any words that he could utter. Franceline turned homewards,
and they did not exchange a word until they reached The Lilies and
Ponsonby was assisting her to alight.

“Say you forgive me!” he said, speaking very low and penitently.

She had already forgiven him but not herself.

“I do, and I am sorry for being so impetuous. Good-by!”

“And my mother may come and see you to-morrow?”

“No, no! It is no use; it is no use! I say again I wish you were my
brother, Sir Ponsonby, but, as you care to remain my friend, never speak
to me again of this.”

He pressed the hand she held out to him; the groom backed up to take the
reins of her horse, and Ponsonby rode away with a thorn in his honest
heart.

Miss Merrywig was within, chatting and laughing away with the count.
Franceline was not in a mood to meet the garrulous old lady or anybody;
so she went straight to her room, and only came down when the visitor was
gone.

“Father,” she said, going up behind him and laying a hand on each
shoulder, “what is this Sir Ponsonby tells me? That you are tired of your
_clair-de-lune_, and want to get rid of her?”

M. de la Bourbonais drew down the two trembling hands, and clasped them
on his breast, and lifted his head as if he would look at her.

“It would not be losing her, but gaining a son, who would take care of
her when I am gone! She has not thought of that!”

“No; and she does not wish to think of it! I will live with you while I
live. I don’t care to look beyond that; nor must you, petit père. But I
am very sorry for Sir Ponsonby. You must write and tell him so, and that
he must not come any more--until he has forgotten me; that you cannot
give me up.”

“My cherished one! Let us talk about this matter; it is very serious. We
must not do anything rashly.” He tried to unclasp her hands and draw her
to his side; but she locked them tighter, and laid her cheek on his head.

“Petit père, there is nothing to talk about; I will never marry him or
anybody!”

“My child, thou speakest without reflection. Captain Anwyll is a good,
honorable man, and he loves thee, and it would be a great comfort to me
to see thee married to him, and not to leave thee friendless and almost
penniless whenever God calls me away. I understand it has taken thee by
surprise, and that thou canst not accept the idea without some delay and
getting used to it; but we must not decide so important a matter hastily.
Come, sit down, and let us discuss it.”

“No, father,” she answered in a tone of determination that was quite
foreign to her now, and reminded him of the wilful child of long ago;
“there is no use in discussing what is already decided. I will never
marry Ponsonby--or anybody. Why, petit père, do you forget that he is a
Protestant?”

“Nay, I have forgotten nothing; that has been all arranged. He is most
liberal about it; consents to leave you to … to have everything your own
way in that respect, and assures me that it shall make no difference
whatever to you, his not being of your religion.”

“No difference, father! No difference to a wife that her husband should
be a heretic! You cannot be in earnest. What blessing could there be on
such a marriage?”

“But you would soon convert him, my little one; you would make a good
Catholic of him before the year was out,” said M. de la Bourbonais.
“Think of that!”

“And suppose it were the other way, and that he made a good Protestant
of me? It is no more than I should deserve for my presumption. You know
what happens to those who seek the danger.…”

“Oh! that is a different thing; that warning applies to those who seek
it rashly, from vain or selfish motives,” protested Raymond, moving his
spectacles, as he always did instinctively when his argument was weak;
and he knew right well that now it was slipping into sophistry.

“I cannot see anything but a selfish motive in marrying against the
express prohibition of the church and without any affection for the
person, but simply because he could give you a position and the good
things of this life,” said Franceline.

“The prohibition is conditional,” persisted Raymond, “and those
conditions would be scrupulously fulfilled; and as to there not being the
necessary affection, there is enough on his side for both, and his love
would soon beget thine.”

“Father, it is no use. I am grieved to contradict you; but I cannot,
cannot do this to please you. You must write and say so to Capt. Anwyll;
you must indeed.”

Raymond heaved a sigh. He felt as powerless as an infant before this new
wilfulness of his _clair-de-lune_; it was foolish as well as imprudent to
yield, but he did not know how to deal with it. There was honest truth
on her side; no subterfuges could baffle the instinctive logic of her
childlike faith.

“We will let things remain as they are for a few days, and then, if thou
dost still insist, I will write and refuse the offer,” he said, seeking a
last chance in temporizing.

“No, petit père; if you love me, write at once. It is only fair to Sir
Ponsonby, and it will set my mind at rest. Here, let me find you a pen!”
She chose one out of a number of inky goose-quills on the little Japan
tray, and thrust it playfully between his fingers.

The letter was written, and Angélique was forthwith despatched with it to
the pillar at the park gate.

During the remainder of the afternoon Franceline worked away diligently
at the Causes of the French Revolution, and spent the evening reading
aloud. But M. de la Bourbonais could not so lightly dismiss the day’s
incident from his thoughts. He had experienced a moment of pure joy and
unutterable thankfulness when Ponsonby had come in and stammered out
his honest confession of love, and pleaded so humbly with the father to
“take his part with Miss Franceline.” The pleasure was all the greater
for being a complete surprise. Sir Simon had cautiously resolved to
have no hand in negotiating between the parties; he had let things take
their course from the first, determined not to interfere, but clearly
foreseeing the issue. Raymond was bewildered by Franceline’s rejection
of the proposed marriage. He did not try much to explain it to himself;
it was a puzzle that did not come within the rule and compass of his
philosophy--a young girl refusing to be married when an eligible husband
presented himself for her father’s acceptance. He heaved many a deep sigh
over it, as his anxious gaze rested on the golden-haired young head bent
over the desk. But he did not ask any questions.

Sir Simon came down next morning in high displeasure. He was angry,
disappointed, aggrieved. Here he had been at considerable pains of
ingenuity and forethought to provide a model husband for Franceline,
a young fellow whom any girl ought to jump at--high-principled,
unencumbered rent-roll, good-looking, good-tempered--and the little
minx turns up her nose at him, and sends him to the right-about! Such
perverseness and folly were not to be tolerated. What did she mean by it?
What did she see amiss in Anwyll? Sir Simon was for having her up for a
round lecture. But Raymond would not allow this. He might groan in his
inmost heart over Franceline’s refusal, but he was not going to let her
be bullied by anybody; not even by Sir Simon. He stood up for his child,
and defended her as if he had fully approved of her conduct.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Bourbonais, you’re just as great a fool as
she is; only she is a child, and knows nothing of life, and can’t see
the madness of what she is doing. But you ought to know better. I have
no patience with you. When one thinks of what this marriage would do for
both of you--lifting you out of penury, restoring your daughter to her
proper position in the world, and securing her future, so that, if you
were called away to-morrow, you need have no care or anxiety about her!
And to think of your backing her up in rejecting it all!”

“I did not back her up in it. I deplore her having done so,” replied
Raymond. “But I will not coerce her; her happiness is dearer to me than
her interest or my own.”

“What tomfoolery! As if her interest and her happiness were not identical
in this case! A man who is fond of her, and rich enough to give her
everything in life a girl could wish for! What does she want besides?”
demanded Sir Simon angrily.

“I believe she wants nothing, except to be left with her old father. She
does not care for Capt. Anwyll,” said Raymond; but his French mind felt
this was very weak argument.

“The devil she doesn’t! Who does she care for?” retorted the baronet.
But he had no sooner uttered the words than he regretted them; they
seemed to recoil on him like a stone flung too near. He seized his hat,
and, muttering impatiently something about the nonsense of giving into
childish fancies, etc., strode out of the cottage, and did not show
himself there for several days.

He was pursued by that question of his own, “Who did Franceline care
for?” and made uncomfortable by the persistency with which it kept
dinning in his ears. He had made up his mind long ago that the failure
of his first matrimonial plot had had no serious effect on her heart or
spirits. She was looking very delicate when he came back, but that was
the dulness of the life she had been leading during his absence. She
had picked up considerably since then. It was plain to everybody she
had; her spirits were better. There was certainly nothing wrong in that
direction. How could there be when he, Sir Simon, so thoroughly desired
the contrary, and did so much to cheer up the child--and himself into
the bargain--and make her forget any impression that unlucky Clide might
have made? Still, no matter how emphatically he answered it, the tiresome
question kept sounding in his ears day after day. He could stand it no
longer. He must go and see them at The Lilies--see Franceline, and read
on her innocent young face that all was peace within, and cheer up his
own depressed spirits by a talk with Raymond. Nobody listened to him and
sympathized with him as Raymond did. He had no worries of his own to
distract him, for one thing; and if he had, he was such a philosophical
being he would carry them to the moon and leave them there. Sir Simon was
blessed with no such happy faculty. He could forget his troubles for a
while under the stimulating balm of cheerful society and generous wine;
but as soon as he was alone they were down on him like an army of ants,
stinging and goading him. Things were very gloomy just now, and he could
less than ever dispense with the opiate of sympathetic companionship.
Lady Rebecca had taken a fresh start, and was less likely to depart than
she had been for the last ten years. The duns, who watched her ladyship’s
fluctuations between life and death with almost as sincere and breathless
an interest as her heir, had got wind of this, and were up and at him
again, hunting him like a hare--the low, grasping, insolent hounds! His
revived money annoyances made him the more irascible with Franceline for
throwing away her chance of being for ever saved and protected from the
like. But he would harp no more on that string.

He had been into Dullerton on horseback, and, overtaking the postman on
his way home, he stopped to take his letters, and then asked if there
were any for The Lilies. He was going there, and would save the postman
the walk that far.

“Thank you, sir! There is one for the count.” And the man held up a large
blue envelope, like a lawyer’s letter, which Sir Simon thrust into his
pocket. He left his horse at the Court, and walked on through the park,
reading his letters as he went. Their contents were not of the most
agreeable, to judge by the peevish and angry ejaculations that the reader
emitted in the course of their perusal. He had not done when he reached
the cottage.

“Here’s a letter for you, Bourbonais; I’ll finish mine while you’re
reading it.” He handed the blue envelope to his friend, and, flinging
himself into a chair, became again absorbed and ejaculatory.

M. de la Bourbonais, meanwhile, proceeded to open his official-looking
communication. He surveyed it with uplifted eyebrows, examined well the
large red seal, and scrutinized the handwriting of the address, before
he tore it open. His eye ran quickly over the page. A nervous twitch
contracted his features; his hand shook as if a string at his elbow had
been rudely pulled; but he controlled all further sign of emotion, and,
after reading the contents twice over, silently folded the letter and
replaced it in the envelope. Sir Simon had seen nothing; he was deep in
suppressed denunciations of some rascally dun.

“Hang me if I know what’s to be the end of it, or the end of me--an ounce
of lead in my skull, most likely!” he burst out, ramming the bundle of
offending documents into his coat-pocket. “The brutes are in league to
drive me mad!”

“Has anything new happened?” inquired the count anxiously. “I hoped
things had arranged themselves of late?”

“Not they! How can they when these vampires are sucking the blood of one?
It’s pretty much like sucking a corpse!” he laughed sardonically. “The
fools! If they would but have sense to see that it is their own interest
not to drive me to desperation! But they will goad me to do something
that will make an end of their chance of ever being paid!”

M. de la Bourbonais ought to have been hardened to this sort of thing;
but he was not. The vague threats and dark innuendoes always alarmed
him. He never knew but that each crisis which called them out might be
the supreme one that would bring about their fulfilment. At such moments
he had not the heart to rebuke Sir Simon and add the bitterness of
self-reproach to his excited feelings. His look of keen distress struck
Sir Simon with compunction.

“Oh! it will blow off, as it has done so often before, I suppose,” he
said, tossing his head. “Here’s a letter from L---- to say he is coming
down next week with a whole houseful of men to shoot. I’ve not seen
L---- for an age. He’s a delightful fellow; he’ll cheer one up.” And the
baronet heaved a sigh from the very depths of his afflicted spirit.

“Mon cher, is it wise to be asking down crowds of people in this way?”
asked Raymond dubiously.

“I did not ask them! Don’t I tell you they have written to invite
themselves?”

It was true; but Sir Simon forgot how often he had besought his friends
to do just what they were now doing--to write and say when they could
come, and to bring as many as they liked with them. That had always been
the way at the Court; and he was not the man to belie its old traditions.
But Raymond, who had also his class of noble traditions, could not see
it.

“Why not write frankly, and, without explaining the precise motive, say
that you cannot at present receive any one?”

Sir Simon gave an impatient pshaw!

“Nonsense, my dear Bourbonais, nonsense! As if a few fellows more or less
signified that”--snapping his fingers--“at the end of the year! Besides,
what the deuce is the good of having a place at all, if one can’t have
one’s friends about one in it? Better shut up at once. It’s the only
compensation a man has; the only thing that pulls him through. And then
the pheasants are there, and must be shot. I can’t shoot them all. But
it’s no use trying to make you take an Englishman’s view of the case. You
simply can’t do it.”

M. de la Bourbonais agreed, and inwardly hoped he never might come to see
the case as his friend did. But, notwithstanding this, Sir Simon went on
discussing his own misfortunes, denouncing the rascality and rapacity of
the modern tradesman, and bemoaning the good old times when the world was
a fit place for a gentleman to live in. When he had sufficiently relieved
his mind on the subject, and drew breath, M. de la Bourbonais poured what
oil of comfort he could on his friend’s wounds. He spoke confidently
of the ultimate demise of Lady Rebecca, and expressed equal trust in
the powers of Mr. Simpson to perform once again the meteorological feat
known to Sir Simon as “raising the wind.” Under the influence of these
soothing abstractions the baronet cheered up, and before long Richard
was himself again. He overhauled Raymond’s latest work; read aloud some
notes on Mirabeau which Franceline had taken down at his dictation the
previous evening, and worked himself into a frenzy of indignation at the
historian’s partiality for that thundering demagogue. Raymond waxed warm
in defence of his hero; maintained that at heart Mirabeau had wished to
save the king; and almost lost his philosophical self-control when Sir
Simon called him the master-knave of the Revolution, a traitor and a
bully, and other hard names to the same effect.

“I wash my hands of you, if you are going to play panegyrist to that
pock-marked ruffian!” was the baronet’s concluding remark; and he
flung out his hands, as if he were shaking the contamination from his
fingers. Suddenly his eye fell upon the great blue letter, and, abruptly
dismissing Mirabeau, he said: “By the way, what a formidable document
that is that I brought you just now! Has it anything to do with the
Revolution?”

Raymond shook his head and smothered a rising sigh.

“It has been as good as a revolution to me, at any rate.”

“My dear Bourbonais, what is it? Nothing seriously amiss, I hope?”
exclaimed Sir Simon, full of alarmed interest.

The count took up the letter and handed it to him.

“Good heavens! Bankrupt! Can pay nothing! How much had you in it?”

“Nearly two hundred--the savings of the last fourteen years,” replied M.
de la Bourbonais calmly.

“My dear fellow, I’m heartily sorry!” exclaimed his friend in an accent
of sincere distress; “with all my heart I’m sorry! And to think of
you having read this and said nothing, and I raving away about my own
troubles like a selfish dog as I am! Why did you not tell me at once?”

“What good would it have done?” Raymond shrugged his shoulders, and with
another involuntary sigh threw the letter on the table. “It’s hard,
though. I was so little prepared for it; the house bore such a good
name.…”

“I should have said it was the safest bank in the country. So it was,
very likely; only one did not reckon with the dishonesty of this scheming
villain of a partner--if it be true that he is the cause of it.”

“No doubt it is; why should they tell lies about it? The whole affair
will be in the papers one of these days, I suppose.”

“And you can stand there and not curse the villain!”

“What good would cursing him do? It would not bring back my poor
scrapings.” Raymond laughed gently. “I dare say his own conscience will
curse him before long--the unhappy man! But who knows what terrible
temptation may have driven him to the deed? Perhaps he got into some
difficulty that nothing else could extricate him from, and he may have
had a wife and children pulling at his conscience by his heart-strings!
Libera nos a malo, Domine!” And looking upwards, Raymond sighed again.

“What a strange being you are, Raymond!” exclaimed Sir Simon, eyeing him
curiously. “Verily, I believe your philosophy is worth something after
all.”

M. de la Bourbonais laughed outright. “Well, it’s worth nearly the money
to have brought you to that!”

“To see you stand there coolly and philosophize about the motives that
may possibly have led an unprincipled scoundrel to rob you of every penny
you possessed! Many a man has got a fit from less.”

“Many a fool, perhaps; but it would be a poor sort of man that such
a blow would send into a fit!” returned the count with mild contempt.
“But I must not be forgetful of the difference of conditions,” he added
quickly. “It all depends on what the money is worth to one, and what its
loss involves. I don’t want it at present. It was a little hoard for the
rainy day; and--qui sait?--the rainy day may never come!”

“No; Franceline may marry a rich man,” suggested the baronet, not with
any intent to wound.

“Just so! I may never want the money, and so never be the poorer for
losing it.”

“And supposing there was at this moment some pressing necessity for
it--that your child was in absolute need of it for some reason or
other--what then?” queried Sir Simon.

Raymond winced and started imperceptibly, as if a pain went through him.

“Thank heaven there is no necessity to answer that,” he said. “We were
taught to pray to be delivered from temptation; let us be thankful when
we are, and not set imaginary traps for ourselves.”

“Some men are, I believe, born proof against temptation; I should say you
are one of them, Bourbonais,” said his friend, looking steadily at him.

“You are mistaken,” replied Raymond quietly. “I don’t know whether any
human being may be born with that sort of fire-proof covering; but I
know for certain that I was not.”

“Can you, then, conceive yourself under a pressure of temptation so
strong as that your principles, your conscience, would give way? Can
you imagine yourself telling a deliberate lie, for instance, or doing a
deliberate wrong to some one, in order to save yourself--or, better, your
child--from some grievous harm?”

Raymond thought for a moment, as if he were poising a balance in his
mind before he answered; then he said, speaking with slow emphasis, as
if every word was being weighed in the scales: “Yes, I can fancy myself
giving way, if, at such a crisis as you describe, I were left to myself,
with only my own strength to lean on; but I hope I should not be left to
it. I hope I should ask to be delivered from it.”

The humility of the avowal went further to deepen Sir Simon’s faith in
his friend’s integrity and in the strength of his principles than the
boldest self-assertion could have done. It informed him, too, of the
existence of a certain ingredient in Raymond’s philosophy which the
careless and light-hearted man of the world had not till then suspected.

“One thing I know,” he said, taking up his hat, and extending a hand to
M. de la Bourbonais: “if your conscience were ever to play you false, it
would make an end of my faith in all mankind--and in something more.”

TO BE CONTINUED.


QUESTIONS CONCERNING THE SYLLABUS.

DOCTRINAL AUTHORITY OF THE SYLLABUS.

FROM LES ETUDES RELIGIEUSES, ETC.

We enter on a work whose practical usefulness no one, we suspect, will
dispute, since it concerns perhaps the most memorable act of the reign
of Pius IX.--the Syllabus. There has been a great deal of discussion
about the Syllabus--much has been written on it in the way both of attack
and defence--but it is remarkable that it has scarcely been studied at
all. The remark was made by one of the editors of this review, Father
Marquigny, in the General Congress of Catholic Committees at Paris;
and, so true was it felt to be, that it provoked the approving laughter
of the whole assembly. But to pass by those who busy themselves about
this document without having read it, how many are there, even among
Catholics, who, after having read it, have only the most vague and
confused notions about it--how many who, if they were asked, “What does
the Syllabus teach you; what does it make obligatory on you?” would not
know what to answer! Thus is man constituted. He skims willingly over the
surface of things; but he has no fancy for stopping awhile and digging
underneath. If he is pleased with looking at a great many things, he does
not equally concern himself to gain knowledge; because there is no true
science without labor, and labor is troublesome. Yet nothing could be
more desirable for him than to come by this luminous entrance from the
knowledge to the possession of truth. Christian faith, when it is living
and active, necessarily experiences the desire of it; for, according to
the beautiful saying of S. Anselm, it is, by its very nature, a seeker of
science--of knowing: _Fides quærens intellectum_.

But, not to delay ourselves by these considerations, is it possible to
exaggerate the importance of the study of the Syllabus in the critical
circumstances in which we are placed? The uncertainty of the future; the
impossibility of discovering a satisfactory course in the midst of the
shadows which surround us; the need of knowing what to seize a firm hold
of in the formidable problems whose obscurity agitates, in these days,
the strongest minds; above all, the furious assaults of the enemies of
the church, and the authority belonging to a solemn admonition coming
to us from the chair of truth--all these things teach us plainly enough
how culpable it must be for us to remain indifferent and to neglect the
illumination offered to us. The teachings of the Vicar of Jesus Christ
deserve to be meditated on at leisure. It is this which inspires us with
a hope that our work will be favorably received. Truth, moreover, claims
the services of all, even of the feeblest, and we must not desert her
cause for fear our ability may not suffice for her defence.

Certainly, no one will expect us, here, to give an analytical exposition
of the eighty propositions condemned by Pius IX. Several numbers of the
_Etudes_ would scarcely suffice for that. General questions dominate
all others; it is to the careful solution of these that we shall devote
ourselves. They have always appeared to us to need clear and decisive
explanation. Often they are incorrectly proposed, oftener still they
are ill-defined. The object of our efforts will be to point out with
precision the limits within which they must be restrained, the sense
in which they must be accepted, and their necessary import; then, to
give them, as clearly as we are able, a solution the most sure and the
most conformable to first principles. If it should be objected that in
this we are entering on a wide theological field, we shall not deny it.
Proudhon, who desired anarchy in things, in principles--everywhere, in
fact, except in reasoning--averred that rigorous syllogism lands us
inevitably at theology. How, then, would it be possible not to find it
in the Syllabus? They, on the other hand, who are unceasing in their
violent attacks on this pontifical act, are they not the first to provoke
theological discussions? We are compelled to take their ground. As Mgr.
Dupanloup judiciously observed, in his pamphlet on the Encyclical of the
8th December: “It is needful to recur to first principles in a time when
thousands of men, and of women even, in France talk theology from morning
to night without knowing much about it.”

The first and fundamental question to be determined is: What is the
precise weight to be ascribed to the Syllabus, or, rather, what is its
doctrinal authority? On the manner in which we reply to this depends the
solution of numerous practical difficulties which interest consciences,
and which have more than once been the subject of the polemic of the
journals themselves. For example, are the decisions of the Syllabus
unchangeable; is it not possible that they should be modified some day;
is it certain they will never be withdrawn; are Catholics obliged to
accept them as an absolute rule of their beliefs, or may they content
themselves with doing nothing exteriorly in opposition to them? It is
understood, in fact, that if we are in presence of an act wherein the
successor of S. Peter exercises his sovereign and infallible authority,
the doctrine is irrevocably, eternally, fixed without possible recall;
and, by an inevitable corollary, the most complete submission, not of
the heart only, but also of the intelligence, becomes an obligation
binding on the conscience of the Catholic which admits of no reserve or
subterfuge. If, on the contrary, the step taken by the Pope is merely
an act of good administration or discipline, the door remains open for
hopes of future changes, the constraint imposed on the minds of men in
the interior forum is much less rigorous; a caviller would remain in
Catholic unity provided that, with the respectful silence so dear to the
Jansenists, he should also practise proper obedience. Now, the question,
in the terms in which we have stated it, although treated of at various
times by writers of merit, has not always been handled in a complete
manner. Writers have been too often contented with generalities, with
approaching only the question, and nothing has been precisely determined.

Some have asserted, with much energy, the necessity of this submission,
but they have not sufficiently defined its extent and nature. Others
have dwelt upon the deference and profound respect with which every
word of the Holy Father should be received, but, not having given any
further explanation, they have left us without the necessary means
for ascertaining what precisely they intended. Others have ventured
to insinuate that the Syllabus was perhaps merely an admonition, a
paternal advice benevolently given to some rash children, to which such
as are docile are happy to conform, without feeling themselves under
the absolute necessity of adopting it. Others, more adventurous still,
have been unwilling to see more in it than a mere piece of information,
an indication. According to these, Pius IX., wishing to notify to all
the bishops of Christendom his principal authoritative acts since the
commencement of his pontificate, had caused a list of them to be drawn
out, and to be forwarded to them. The Syllabus was this illustrious
catalogue, neither more nor less.

Is there any excuse to be found for this indecision on one hand,
presumption on the other? We do not think so; but they do, we must
confess, admit of a plausible explanation. And here, let it be observed,
we come to the very marrow of the difficulty. The Syllabus was drawn
out in an unusual form. It resembles no pontifical documents hitherto
published. When, in other times, the sovereign pontiffs wished to
stigmatize erroneous propositions, they did not content themselves
with reproducing the terms of them, in order to mark them out for the
reprobation of the people. They were always careful to explain the
motives of the judgment they delivered, and above all to formulate
with clearness and precision the judgment itself. Invariably, the
texts they singled out for condemnation were preceded by grave and
weighty words, wherein were explained the reasons for and the nature of
the condemnation. In the Syllabus, there is nothing of the kind. The
propositions, stated without commentary, are classified and distributed
under general titles; at the end of each of them we read the indication
of the Encyclical Letter, or pontifical Allocution, in which it had been
previously rebuked. For the rest, there is no preamble, no conclusion,
no discourse revealing the mind or intention of the pontiff, unless it
be the following words, inscribed at the head of the document, and which
we here give both in the Latin and in English: _Syllabus complectens
præcipuos nostræ ætatis errores, qui notantur in Allocutionibus
consistorialibus, in Encyclicis, aliisque Apostolicis Litteris
sanctissimi Domini Papæ Pii IX._--Table, or synopsis, containing the
principal errors of our epoch, noted in the consistorial Allocutions, the
Encyclicals, and other Apostolic Letters of our most Holy Father, Pope
Pius IX.

We may add, that nowhere does the Pope formally express an intention
of connecting the Syllabus with the bull _Quanta cura_, although he
issued them both on the same day, at the same hour, under the same
circumstances, and upon the same subjects. He left it to the public
common sense and to the faith of Christians to decide whether these two
acts are to be taken together, or whether they are to be considered as
isolated acts having no common tie between them.

Such are the facts. Minds, either troubled or prejudiced, or, may be,
too astute, have drawn from them consequences which, if we lay aside
accessory details of not much importance here, we may reduce to two
principal ones.

It has been stated--and they who hold this language form, as it were,
the extreme group of opposers--that the Apostolic Letters mentioned in
the Syllabus are the only documents which have authoritative force; that
the latter, on the contrary, has no proper weight of its own--absolutely
none, whether as a dogmatic definition, or as a disciplinary measure,
or even as a moral and intellectual direction. To these assertions, not
a little hazardous, have been added others whose rashness would fain be
hidden under the veil of rhetorical artifices. We will lift the veil, and
expose the naked assertions. The meaning of the Syllabus, it is stated,
must not be looked for in the Syllabus, but in the pontifical letters
whence it is drawn. The study of the letters may be useful; not only is
that of the Syllabus not so, but it is dangerous, because it often leads
to lamentable exaggerations. To know the true doctrines of Rome, we must
search the letters for them, not the Syllabus. In fact, to sum up all in
a few words, as a condemnation of error and a manifestation of truth, the
letters are all, the Syllabus nothing.

The other group, which we may describe as the moderates, knows how to
guard itself against excess. It does not diminish the authority of the
Syllabus to the extent of annihilation. Very far from it--it recognizes
it and proclaims it aloud; but, struck with the peculiar form given
to the act, it asserts that it is impossible to discover in it the
marks of a dogmatic definition, and, to borrow a stock expression, of
a definition _ex cathedra_. The Syllabus, it is said, is undoubtedly
something by itself--to deny it would be ridiculous and absurd. It has a
weight of its own; who would venture to dispute it? It may be termed, if
you please, an universal law of the church, so only that its pretensions
be not carried further, and that it does not claim to be considered an
infallible decision of the Vicar of Jesus Christ.

What, then, have we to do but to demonstrate that the Syllabus is
by itself, and independently of the pontifical acts which supply
the matter of it, a veritable teaching; that this teaching obliges
consciences because it issues from the infallible authority of the head
of the church? We shall not have omitted, it seems to us, any of the
considerations calculated to throw light on this important subject if,
after having thus followed it through all its windings and discussed all
its difficulties, we succeed in illustrating the triple character of the
pontifical act--its doctrinal character, its obligatory character, and
its character of infallibility.

To assert that Pius IX., when he denounced with so much firmness to the
Christian world the errors of our time, did not propose to teach us
anything, that he had no intention of instructing us, was, even at the
time of the appearance of the Syllabus, to advance a sufficiently hardy
paradox; but to state it, to maintain it, at this time of day, when we
are the fortunate witnesses of the effects produced by that immortal
act, is to speak against evidence. Undoubtedly--we stated it at the
commencement--the Syllabus is not sufficiently known nor sufficiently
studied. Little known as it may be, however, it cannot be denied that
it has already set right many ideas, and corrected and enlightened
many minds. Thanks to it, not learned men only and those who are close
observers of events, but Catholics generally, perceive more clearly the
dangers with which certain doctrines threaten their faith. They have been
warned, they keep themselves on their guard, they see more distinctly
the course they must follow and the shoals they must avoid. Pius IX. has
lighted a torch and placed it in their hands.

That being the case, what is the use of playing with words, as if
vain subtleties could destroy the striking evidence of this fact?
Let them say, as often as they please, “The Syllabus is only a
list, a catalogue, a table of contents, a memorial of previously
condemned propositions”--what good will they have done? What matter
these denominations, more or less disrespectful, if it be otherwise
demonstrated that this list, catalogue, or table of contents explains
to us exactly what we must believe or reject, and is imposed upon us
as a rule to which we owe subjection. The imprudent persons who speak
thus would seem never to have studied the monuments of our beliefs. Had
they considered their nature more attentively, would they have allowed
themselves to indulge in such intemperance of language? If they would
more closely examine them, their illusions would soon be dissipated. Are
not all the series of propositions condemned by the Popes, veritable
lists? Did not Martin V. and the Council of Constance, Leo X. and S.
Pius V., when they smote with their anathemas the errors of Wycliffe,
John Huss, Luther, Baïus, draw out catalogues? Are not the canons of
our councils tables in which are inscribed an abridgment, summary,
or epitome of the impious doctrines of heretics? Is not every solemn
definition, every symbol of the faith, a memorial designed to remind the
Christian what he is obliged to believe? It is, then, useless to shelter
one’s self behind words of doubtful meaning, and which can only perplex
the mind without enlightening it. It is to assume gratuitously the air of
men who wish to deceive others and to deceive themselves. What is the use
of it?

They are much mistaken who imagine themselves to be proposing a serious
difficulty when they demand how the Syllabus, which, before its
publication, existed already in the letters of the Holy Father, can
possibly teach us anything new? Let us, for the sake of argument, since
they ask it, reduce it to the humble _rôle_ of echo or reverberator, if
we may be pardoned such expressions. Let us suppose that its whole action
consists in repeating what has been already said. We ask if an echo does
not often convey to the ear a sound which, without it, would not have
been heard--if it does not sometimes send back the sound stronger, more
resounding, and even more distinct than the original voice? It is not a
new voice it brings to us. Be it so. But it does bring it to us in fact,
and is able to give it to us again fuller and more sonorous.

Comparison, it is true, is not reason. We will therefore abandon the
redundancy of figurative language, and reply directly to the question
put to us. What is wanted is to know what the Syllabus is in itself,
independently of the pontifical letters which are its original sources.
It is as follows:

It is, at least, a new promulgation, more universal, more authentic,
and therefore more efficacious, of previous condemnations. Now, it is
well known, it is a maxim of law, that a second promulgation powerfully
confirms and, in case of need, supersedes the first. The history of
human legislation is full of instances of this. When, by reason of the
negligence of men, of the difficulty of the times, of the inconstancy
or waywardness of peoples, a law has fallen into partial neglect and
oblivion, they in whom the sovereign power resides re-establish its
failing authority by promulgating it anew. It revives thus, and if it has
been defunct it receives a second life. What can the greater number of
Christians know of so many scattered condemnations, buried, one may say,
in the voluminous collection of pontifical encyclicals, if the Syllabus
had not revealed them? How could they respect them, how obey them? It was
necessary that they should hear them resound, in a manner, a second time,
in the utterance of the great Pontiff, in order to be able to submit anew
to their authority, and to resume a yoke of which many of them did not
know the very existence. The salvation of the church required this.

The Syllabus is, however, not only a new promulgation, it is often a
luminous interpretation of the original documents to which it relates;
an interpretation at times so necessary that, should it disappear,
from that moment the meaning of those documents would become, on many
points, obscure or at least doubtful. It is worthy of remark that in
order to deny the doctrinal value of the Syllabus the following fact
is relied on--that it is unaccompanied with any explanation, with any
reflections. “It is a dry nomenclature,” it has been said, “of which we
cannot determine either the character or the end.” Now, it happens to
be exactly here that brevity has brought forth light. The eighty-four
propositions, in fact, isolated from their context, appear to us more
exact, in stronger relief, more decidedly drawn. One may perceive that in
the bulls their forms were, as yet, slightly indistinct; here they detach
themselves vividly, and with remarkable vigor. And we wish that all our
readers were able to judge of this for themselves. They would better
understand, possibly, wherefore certain men insist with so much energy
on our abandoning the Syllabus and applying ourselves exclusively to the
sources--an excellent mode of preventing certain questions from becoming
too clear.

We will cite a few examples in illustration of our argument.

The second paragraph of the Syllabus has for its object the condemnation
of _moderate rationalism_. Some of the seven propositions contained in
it reproduce the doctrine of a man little known in France, but much
thought of in Germany--a kind of independent Catholic, who, before he
opposed himself to the church, from which he is now, we believe, quite
separated, having transferred his allegiance to the pastoral staff of the
aged Reinkens, wrote some works destined to sow among the students of
the university of Munich the damaged grain of infidel science. We allude
to M. Froschammer, a canon who has lost his hood, professor of misty
philosophy, as befits a doctor on the other side of the Rhine. Pius IX.
rebuked his errors in a letter addressed to the Archbishop of Munich the
12th December, 1862. We will lay aside the Syllabus, and take merely the
letter. We shall find in it only the condemnation of M. Froschammer and
his works; nothing whatever else. But who, in this our country, France,
has ever opened the works of M. Froschammer? The Catholic Frenchman
who might read the letter of Pius IX. knowing nothing of the condemned
works, would say to himself: “This Munich professor has doubtless written
according to his own fancy; he must have been rash, as every good German
is bound to be who loses himself in the shadowy mazes of metaphysics.
After all, there is nothing to show that he has written exactly my
opinions. Why should I trouble myself about the letter of Pius IX.? It
does not concern me.”

Another example. In Paragraph X. we find the same principle of modern
liberalism enunciated in the following manner: “In this our age, it is no
longer expedient that the Catholic religion should be considered as the
only religion of the state, to the exclusion of all others.” “Ætate hac
nostra, non amplius expedit religionem Catholicam haberi, tanquam unicam
status religionem, cæteris quibuscumque cultibus exclusis.” The document
to which we refer is a consistorial Allocution pronounced the 26th July,
1855, and it commences with these words, _Nemo vestrum_. What is this
Allocution? A solemn protest against the criminality of the Spanish
government, which, in contempt of its word and oath, of the rights of the
church and the eternal laws of justice, had dared to perjure itself by
abrogating, of its own single authority, the first and second articles
of the concordat. Pius IX., full of grief, speaks in these terms: “You
know, venerable brethren, how, in this convention, amongst all the
decisions relative to the interests of the Catholic religion, we have,
above all, established that this holy religion should continue to be the
only religion of the Spanish nation, to the exclusion of every other
worship.” The proposition of the Syllabus is not expressed in any other
way in the Allocution. A man of great ability, or a scientific man,
taking into account the facts, and weighing carefully the expressions of
the Pontiff, might perhaps detect it therein. But how many others would
it wholly escape! How many would not perceive it, or, if they should
chance to catch sight of it, would remain in suspense, uncertain which
was rebuked, the application of the doctrine or the doctrine itself! How
many, in short, would be unwilling to recognize, in these words, aught
but the sorrowful complaint of the Vicar of Jesus Christ outraged in his
dearest rights! Return, however, to the Syllabus, and that which was
obscure comes to light and manifests itself clearly. The two propositions
we have cited do not appear, in it, confused or uncertain. Detached, on
the contrary, from the particular circumstances which were calculated
to weaken their meaning, and clad in a form more lofty, more universal,
more abstract, they receive an unspeakable signification. No hesitation
is possible. It is no longer the doctrine of M. Froschammer, nor the
sacrilegious usurpations of the Spanish government, which are rebuked;
it is but the doctrine considered in itself and in its substance. And
since the Roman Pontiff, after having isolated it, fixes on it a mark of
reprobation by declaring it erroneous, he denounces it to all ages and
all people as deserving the everlasting censure of the church.

It is for this reason, as far as ourselves, at least, are concerned, we
shall never accept without restriction a phrase which we find, under one
form or other, in all directions, even from the pen of writers for whom
we entertain, in other respects, the highest esteem: “The Syllabus has
only a relative value, a value subordinate to that of the pontifical
documents of which it is the epitome.” No! We are unable to admit an
appreciation of it, in our opinion, so full of danger. We must not allow
ourselves to weaken truth if we would maintain its salutary dominion
over souls. They talk of the value of the Syllabus. What is meant by
this? Its authority? It derives that most undoubtedly from itself, and
from the sovereign power of him who published it. It is as much an act
of that supreme authority as the letters or encyclicals to which it
alludes. The meaning of the propositions it contains? Doubtless many of
these, if we thus refer to their origin, will receive from it a certain
illustration. Others, and they are not the fewest, will either lose there
their precision, or will rather shed more light upon it than they receive
from it. Between the two assertions--The pontifical letters explain the
Syllabus, and, The Syllabus explains the pontifical letters--the second
is, with a few exceptions, the most rigorously true. A very simple
argument demonstrates it. Suppose that, by accident or an unforeseen
catastrophe, one or other of these documents were to perish and not leave
any trace of its existence, which is the one whose preservation we should
most have desired, in order that the mind of Pius IX. and the judgment of
the church concerning the errors of our age might be transmitted more
surely to future generations?

Most fertile in subtleties is the mind of man when he wishes to escape
from a duty that molests him. We must not, consequently, be astonished
if many opponents of the Syllabus have lighted on ingenious distinctions
which allow of their almost admitting, in theory, the doctrines we have
just explained, whilst contriving to elude their practical consequences.
For that, what have they done? They have acknowledged the real authority
of this grand act in so far as it is a doctrinal declaration, or, if it
is preferred, a manifestation of doctrine; adding, nevertheless, that
the Pope has not imposed it on us in the way of obligation, but _only
in the way of guidance_. The expression, only in the way of guidance,
would have been a happy enough invention, had it been possible, in
matter so important, and in an act so solemn, to imagine a guidance
truly efficacious--such, for instance, as the Pope could not but wish
it to be--which would not be an obligation. But we ourselves must avoid
reasoning with too much subtlety, and content ourselves with opposing a
difficulty more specious than solid with a few positive proofs.

We interpose, in the first place, the very title of the Syllabus: “Table,
or abridgment, of the principal errors of our time, pointed out in
consistorial Allocutions,” etc. To which we add the titles of various
paragraphs: “Errors in relation to the church”; “Errors in relation to
civil society”; “Errors concerning natural and Christian morals,” etc.
For the Pope, the guardian and protector of truth, obliged by the duty
of his office to hinder the church from suffering any decline or any
alteration, to denounce to the Christian world a doctrine by inflicting
on it the brand of error, is evidently to forbid the employment of
it, and to command all the faithful to eschew it. What communion is
there between light and darkness, between life and death? There can
be no question about guidance or counsel when the supreme interest
is at stake. The duty speaks for itself. It is imposed by the nature
of things. When Pius IX. placed at the head of his Syllabus the word
“error,” and intensified it by adding words even more significant, when
he expressed himself thus, “Principal errors of this our age,” he as good
as said, “Here is death! Avoid it.” And if, in order still to escape
from the consequences, a distinction is attempted to be drawn between
an obligation created by the force of circumstances and an obligation
imposed by the legislator, we would wish it to be remembered that the
same Pius IX. uttered, in reference to the Syllabus, the following
memorable sentence: “When the Pope speaks in a solemn act, it is to be
taken literally; what he has said, he intended to say.” For our part, we
would say, “What the Pope has done, he intended to do.”

But what need is there of so much discussion? The proof of what we
have urged is written in express terms in the letter accompanying the
Syllabus--a letter signed by his eminence Cardinal Antonelli, secretary
of state, and intended to make known to the bishops the will of His
Holiness. It is sufficient to quote this decisive document, which we do
in full, on account of its importance:

    “MOST REVEREND EXCELLENCY:

    “Our Holy Father, Pope Pius IX., profoundly solicitous for
    the safety of souls and of holy doctrine, has never ceased,
    since the commencement of his pontificate, to proscribe and to
    condemn by his encyclicals, his consistorial Allocutions, and
    other apostolic letters already published, the most important
    errors and false doctrines, above all, those of our unhappy
    times. But since it may come to pass that all the political
    acts reach not every one of the ordinaries, it has seemed
    good to the same sovereign Pontiff that a Syllabus should be
    drawn out of these same errors, to be sent to all the bishops
    of the Catholic world, _in order that these same bishops may
    have before their eyes all the errors and pernicious doctrines
    which have been reproved and condemned by him_. He has
    therefore commanded me to see that this printed Syllabus be
    sent to your most reverend excellency, on this occasion, and
    at this time. When the same sovereign Pontiff, in consequence
    of his great solicitude for the safety and well-being of the
    Catholic Church, and of the whole flock which has been divinely
    committed to him by the Lord, has thought it expedient to write
    another encyclical letter to all the Catholic bishops, thus
    executing, as is my duty, with all befitting zeal and respect,
    the orders of the same Pontiff, I hasten to send to your
    excellency this Syllabus with this letter.”

This Syllabus, placed by the order of the Holy Father “before the eyes
of all the bishops,” what else is it, we ask, than the text of the
law brought under the observation of the judges charged with the duty
of causing it to be executed? What is it except a rule to which they
owe allegiance, and from which they must not swerve? They must not
lose sight of it. Wherefore? Because it is their duty to be careful
to promulgate its doctrine in their own teaching, because it is their
duty to repress every rash opinion which should dare to raise itself
against and contradict it. It is thus that all have understood the
commandment given to them. The fidelity and unconquerable courage of
their obedience prove it. What has taken place in France? In the midst
of the universal emotion produced by the appearance of the Syllabus, the
government, abusing its power, had the sad audacity to constitute itself
judge of it. Through the instrumentality of the keeper of the seals,
minister of justice and of public worship, it forbade the publication
of the pontifical document in any pastoral instruction, alleging that
“it contained propositions contrary to the principles on which the
constitution of the empire rests.” What was the unanimous voice of the
episcopate? Eighty-four letters of bishops are in existence to bear
witness to it. All, united in the same mind, opposed to the ministerial
letter the invincible word of the apostles, _Non possumus_. All declared
that they must obey God rather then man; and two amongst them, ascending
courageously their cathedral thrones, braved the menaces of a susceptible
government by reading before the assembled people that which they had
been forbidden to print. Could they have acted all alike with this power
truly episcopal, if they had not been inspired by the conviction that
they were fulfilling a duty, and putting into practice the adage of the
Christian knights, “I do my duty, happen what may”?

We will insist no further on this point. We approach, lastly, the
question which might well supersede all the others. Let us enquire
whether the Syllabus is an infallible decision of the Vicar of Jesus
Christ.

It appears to us that, in reality, we have already settled this question.
Can a definition _ex cathedra_ be anything else than an instruction
concerning faith and morals addressed to, and imposed on, the whole
church by her visible head upon earth? How can we recognize it except
by this mark, and is not that the idea given to us of it by the Council
of the Vatican? Read over the words, so weighty and selected with so
much care by the fathers of that august assembly, and you will find that
nothing could express more accurately the exact and precise notion of it.
After that, all doubts ought to disappear. The Syllabus emanates from
him who is the master and sovereign doctor of Catholic truth. It belongs
exclusively to faith and morals by the nature of the subjects of which
it treats. It has received from the circumstances which have accompanied
its publication the manifest character of an universal law of the church.
What is wanting to it to be an irreformable decision, an act without
appeal, of the infallible authority of Peter?

We know the objection with which we shall be met. Peter may speak, it
will be urged, and not wish to exert the plenitude of his doctrinal
power. Yes; but when he restrains thus within voluntary limits the
exercise of his authority, he gives us to understand it clearly. He
is careful, in order not to overtax our weakness, to apprise us that,
notwithstanding the obligation with which he binds consciences, it is not
in his mind, as yet, to deliver a definitive sentence upon the doctrine.
Frankly, does the Syllabus offer to us an indication, however faint, of
any such reserve? What more definitive than a judgment formulated in
these terms: “This is error, that is truth”? Is any revision possible
of such a judgment? Is it possible to be revoked or abrogated? Does it
not settle us necessarily in an absolute conclusion which excludes all
possibility of diminution or of change? In a word, can the assertion
be ever permissible--“Error in these days, truth in others”? It may be
added that, by the admission of all, friends and enemies--an admission
confirmed by the declaration of the cardinal secretary of state, the
Syllabus is an appendix to, and as it were a continuation of, the bull
_Quanta cura_, to which no one can reasonably refuse the character of
a definitive and irreformable decree; and it will be understood how
unreasonable it would be to despise the evidence of facts, in order to
cling to an objection without consistency, and which falls of itself for
want of a solid foundation.

For the rest, the mind of the Holy Father is not concealed, as has been
at times suggested, under impenetrable veils. It appears the moment
we look for it; and we find it, for example, in the preparation of
the Syllabus. It should be known that the Syllabus was not the work
of a day. Pius IX. has often asserted this. He had early resolved to
strike a signal blow, and to destroy from top to bottom the monstrous
edifice of revolutionary doctrines. To this end, immediately after the
proclamation of the dogma of the Immaculate Conception, he transformed
the congregation of cardinals and theologians who had aided him in the
accomplishment of that work into a congregation charged with the duty of
singling out for the Apostolic See the new errors which, for a century,
had been ravaging the church of God. Ten years passed away; encyclicals
were published, allocutions pronounced; the theologians multiplied
their labors. At length, on the 8th of December, 1864, the moment of
action appearing to have arrived, Pius IX. addressed to the world that
utterance whose prolonged echoes we all have heard. The bull _Quanta
cura_ and the Syllabus were promulgated. It is obvious that an act so
long prepared, and with so much anxiety, cannot be likened to an ordinary
act. The object of the Pontiff was not simply to check the evil--it was
to uproot it. The object of such efforts could not have been to determine
nothing. Who is there, then, who will venture to assert that the whole
thought of an entire reign, and of such a reign as that of Pius IX.,
should miserably collapse in a measure without authority and without
effectiveness? To believe it would be an outrage; to affirm it would be
an insult to the wisdom and prudence of the most glorious of pontiffs.

But what need is there for searching for proofs? A single reflection
banishes every difficulty. We have in the church two means for
ascertaining whether a pontifical act is, or is not, a sovereign
definition, an infallible decision. We have to enquire of the pontiff
who is the author of it, or the people who subordinate themselves to
his teaching. Neither one nor the other can deceive us in the answer
they give. The divine promise continues equally assured in both: in the
former, when he teaches; in the latter, when they listen and obey. It is
what the theologians call active and passive infallibility. Admit that
Pius IX. had left us in ignorance; that he published the Syllabus, but
did not tell us what amount of assent he required of us. Well, none of
us are in any doubt as to that. How many times has not this people said,
how many times has it not repeated with an enthusiasm inspired by love,
that this Syllabus, despised, insulted by the enemies of the church,
they accept as the rule of their beliefs, as the very word of Peter, as
the word of life come down from heaven to save us. Is it not thus that
have spoken, one after the other, bishops, theologians, the learned and
the ignorant, the mighty and the humble? Who amongst us has not heard
this language? A celebrated doctor, Tanner, has said that in order to
distinguish amongst the teachings of the church those which belong to its
infallible authority, we must listen to the judgment of wise men, and
above all consult the universal sentiment of Christians. If we adhere to
this decision, it reveals to us our duties in regard to the sovereign act
by which Pius IX. has withdrawn the world from the shadow in which it was
losing its way, and has prepared for it a future of better destinies.

We have the more reason for acting thus as hell, by its furious hatred,
gives us, for its part, a similar warning, and proclaims, after its
fashion, the imperishable grandeur of the Syllabus. Neither has it, nor
have those who serve it, ever been under any illusion in this respect.
They have often revealed their mind both by act and word. What implacable
indignation! what torrents of insults! what clamor without truce or
mercy! And when importunate conciliators interfered to tell them they
were mistaken, that the Syllabus was nothing or next to nothing, and need
not provoke so much anger, how well they knew how to reply to them and to
bury them under the weight of their contempt! At the end of 1864, at the
moment when the struggle occasioned by the promulgation of the Encyclical
and Syllabus was the most furious, an agency of Parisian publicity, the
agency Bullier, could insert the following notice: “The Encyclical is
not a dogmatic bull, but only a doctrinal letter. It is observable that
the Syllabus does not bear the signature of the Pope. This Syllabus
has besides been published in a manner to allow us to believe that the
Holy Father did not intend to assign to it a great importance. One may
conclude, therefore, that the propositions which do not attack either the
dogma or morals of Catholics, and do not at all impeach faith, are not
condemned, but merely blamed.” To these words, poor in sense, but crafty
and treacherous in expression, the journal _Le Siècle_ replied as follows:

“There are now people who tell us that the Encyclical is not a dogmatic
bull, but a doctrinal letter; that the eighty propositions are not
condemned, because they do not figure in the Encyclical, but only in the
Syllabus; that this Syllabus does not bear the signature of the Pope;
that it has been composed only by a commission of theologians, etc. These
people would do better to be silent. Encyclical or Syllabus, the fact is
that the theocracy has just hurled as haughty a defiance against modern
ideas as it was possible for it to do. We shall soon see what will be the
result.”

We will leave them to settle their quarrels between themselves. For
ourselves, listening to these voices of heaven and of hell, of the church
and of the world, which coincide in exalting the work eternally blessed
by Pius IX., we repeat with profounder conviction than ever: “Yes, the
Syllabus is the infallible word of Peter; and if our modern society is
within the reach of cure, it is by the Syllabus that it is to be saved!”


SIR THOMAS MORE.

_A HISTORICAL ROMANCE._

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

I.

In a sumptuous apartment, whose magnificent furniture and costly
adornings announced it as the abode of kings, in a large Gothic
arm-chair--whose massive sides were decorated with carvings in ebony and
ivory of exquisite delicacy, and which was in itself, altogether, a model
of the most skilful workmanship--there reclined the form of a stately and
elegant woman.

Her small feet, but half-concealed beneath the heavy folds of a rich
blue velvet robe, rested on a footstool covered with crimson brocade,
embroidered with golden stars. Bands of pearls adorned her beautiful
neck, contrasted with its dazzling whiteness, and were profusely twined
amid the raven tresses of her luxuriant hair. An expression of profound
melancholy was imprinted upon her noble features; her eyes were cast
down, and the long, drooping lashes were heavy with tears which she
seemed vainly endeavoring to repress, as she sat absorbed in thought, and
nervously entwining her snowy fingers with the silk and jewelled cord
which, according to the fashion of that day, she wore fastened at her
girdle and hanging to her feet. This royal personage was Catherine of
Aragon, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, wife of Henry VIII.,
and queen of England.

The king himself was hurriedly pacing to and fro in the apartment, with
contracted brow, a deeply troubled expression gleaming from his dark eyes
and obscuring, with a shade of gloomy fierceness, the naturally fine
features of his face. The ordinary grace of his carriage had disappeared;
his step was hurried and irregular; and every movement denoted a man
laboring under some violent excitement. From time to time he approached
the window, and gazed abstractedly into the distance; then, returning
to Catherine, he would address her abruptly, with a sharp expression or
hurried interrogation, neither waiting for nor seeming to desire a reply.

While this strange scene was being enacted within the palace at
Greenwich, one of an entirely different nature was occurring in the
courtyard. From the road leading from Greenwich a cavalcade approached,
headed by a personage invested with the Roman purple, and apparently
entitled to and surrounded by all the “pomp and circumstance” of royalty.
He was mounted on a richly caparisoned mule with silver-plated harness,
adorned with silver bells and tufted with knots of crimson silk. This
distinguished personage was no other than the Archbishop of York, the
potent minister, who united in his person all the dignities both of
church and state--the Cardinal Legate, the king’s acknowledged favorite,
Wolsey. To increase his already princely possessions, to extend his
influence and authority, had been this man’s constant endeavor, and the
sole aim of his life. And so complete had been his success that he was
now regarded by all as an object of admiration and envy. But how greatly
mistaken was the world in its opinion!

In his heart, Wolsey suffered the constant agony of a profound
humiliation. Compelled to yield in all things, and bow with servile
submission to the haughty will of his exacting and imperious master--who
by a word, and in a moment, could deprive him of his dignities and
temporalities--he lived in a state of constant dread, fearing to lose the
patronage and favor to secure which he had sacrificed both his honor and
his conscience.

He was accompanied on this journey by a numerous retinue, composed
of gentlemen attached to his household and young pages carrying his
standard, all of whom were eagerly pressing upon him the most obsequious
attentions. They assisted him to dismount, and as he approached the
palace the guards saluted and received him with the utmost military
deference and respect; and with an air of grave dignity Wolsey passed on,
and disappeared beneath the arch of the grand stairway.

Let us again return to the royal apartments. The king, seeing Wolsey
arrive, immediately turned from the window and, confronting Catherine,
abruptly exclaimed:

“Come, madam, I wish you to retire; the affairs of my kingdom demand
instantly all my time and attention.” And hastily turning to the window,
he looked eagerly into the courtyard.

Catherine arose without uttering a word, and approaching the centre of
the apartment she took from the table a small silver bell, and rang it
twice.

On this table was a magnificent cloth cover that she had embroidered
with her own hands. The design represented a tournament, in which Henry,
who was devoted to chivalrous amusements, had borne off the prize over
all his competitors. In those days her husband received such presents
with grateful affection and sincere appreciation, and, as the souvenir
recalled to her mind the joy and happiness of the past, tears of
bitterness flowed afresh from the eyes of the unhappy princess.

In answer to her signal, the door soon opened, the queen’s ladies in
waiting appeared, and, arranging themselves on either side, stood in
readiness to follow their royal mistress. She passed out, and was slowly
walking in silence through the vast gallery leading to the king’s
apartments, when Wolsey appeared, advancing from the opposite end of the
gallery, followed by his brilliant retinue.

Catherine, then, instantly understood why the king had so abruptly
commanded her to retire. Suddenly pausing, she stood transfixed and
immovable, her soul overwhelmed with anguish; but, with a countenance
calm and impassible, she awaited the approach of the cardinal, who
advanced to salute her. In spite of all her efforts, however, she could
no longer control her feelings.

“My lord cardinal,” she exclaimed in a low voice, trembling with emotion,
“go, the king waits for you!” And as she uttered these words, the
unhappy woman fell senseless to the floor.

The hardened soul of the ambitious Wolsey was moved to its very depths
with compassion as he silently gazed on the noble woman before him, who
possessed the unbounded love and grateful esteem of all her household,
not only as their sovereign, but also as their beneficent mother.

The cloud of ambition that forever surrounded him, darkening his soul and
obscuring his perceptions, was for the moment illuminated, and for the
first time he realized the enormity of Henry’s proceedings against the
queen.

As this sudden light flashed on him, he felt remorse for having
encouraged the divorce, and resolved that henceforward all his influence
should be used to dissuade his sovereign from it.

At the approach of the royal favorite the ushers hastily made their
salutations (although the queen had been permitted to pass them with
scarcely the slightest mark of respect), and seemed to consider the
most humble and servile attitude they could assume before him as only
sufficiently respectful. They hastened to throw open the doors before
him as he advanced, and Wolsey soon found himself in the presence of the
king, who awaited his arrival in a state of almost angry impatience.

“Well! what do you come to tell me?” he cried. “Do you bring me good
news?”

Wolsey, whose opinions had so recently undergone a very great change,
for a moment hesitated. “Sire,” he at length replied, “Campeggio, the
cardinal legate, has arrived.”

“Has he indeed?” said Henry, with an ironical smile. “After so many
unsuccessful applications, we have then, at last, obtained this favor.
Well, I hope now this affair will proceed more rapidly; and, Wolsey,
remember that it is your business so entirely to compromise and surround
this man, that he shall not be able even to _think_ without my consent
and sanction. And, above all, beware of the intrigues of the queen.
Catherine is a Spaniard, with an artful, unyielding nature and fierce,
indomitable will. She will, without doubt, make the most determined and
desperate effort to enlist the legate in favor of her cause.”

“Is the decision of your majesty irrevocable on the subject of this
divorce?” replied Wolsey, in a hesitating and embarrassed manner. “The
farther we advance, the more formidable the accumulating difficulties
become. I must acknowledge, sire, I begin myself to doubt of success.
Campeggio has already declared that, if the queen appeals to Rome, he
will not refuse to present her petition, and defend her cause; that
he himself will decide nothing, and will yield to nothing he cannot
conscientiously approve.”

On hearing Wolsey express these sentiments, Henry’s face flushed with
rage, and a menacing scowl contracted his brow.

“Can it be possible,” he cried, “that you dare address me in this manner?
I will castigate the Pope himself if he refuses his sanction. He shall
measure his power with mine! He trembles because Charles V. is already on
his frontier. I will make him tremble now, in my turn! I will marry Anne
Boleyn--yes, I will marry her before the eyes of the whole world!”

“What do you say, sire? Anne Boleyn!” cried Wolsey.

“Yes, Anne Boleyn!” replied the king, regarding Wolsey with his usual
haughty and contemptuous expression. “You know her well. She is attached
to the service of Catherine.”

“Lady Anne Boleyn!” again cried Wolsey after a moment’s silence, for
astonishment had almost for the time rendered him speechless and
breathless. “Lady Anne Boleyn! The King of England, the great Henry,
wishes, then, to marry Anne Boleyn! Why, if contemplating such a marriage
as that, did you send me to seek the alliance of France, and to offer the
hand of your daughter in marriage to the Duke of Orleans? And why did
you instruct me to declare to Francis I. that your desire was to place
on the throne of England a princess of his blood? It was only by these
representations and promises that I succeeded in inducing him to sign the
treaty which deprived Catherine of all assistance. You have assured me of
your entire approval of these negotiations. This alliance with France was
the only means by which to secure for yourself any real defence against
the Pope and the Emperor. Do you suppose that Charles V. will quietly
permit you to deprive his aunt of her position and title as queen of
England?” Here Wolsey paused, wholly transported with indignation.

“Charles!” replied the king, “Charles? I can easily manage and pacify him
by fine promises and long negotiations. As to our Holy Father, I will
stir up strife enough to fill his hands so full that he will not be able
to attend to anything else. The quarrels of Austria and France always
end by recoiling on his head, and I imagine he will not soon forget the
sacking Rome and his former imprisonment.”

“Yes, but you forget,” said Wolsey, “that the King of France will
accuse you of flagrant bad faith: and will you bring on yourself their
abhorrence in order to espouse Anne Boleyn?”

The minister pronounced these last words with an expression and in a
tone of such contemptuous scorn as to arouse in a fearful degree the
indignation of the king, accustomed only to the flattery and servile
adulation of his courtiers. At the same time, he was compelled to feel
the force of the cardinal’s reasoning, although the truth only served
still more to irritate and enrage him.

“Cease, Wolsey!” cried Henry, fixing his flashing eyes fiercely upon him;
“I am not here to listen to your complaints. I shall marry whom I please;
and your head shall answer for the fidelity with which you assist me in
executing my will.”

“My head, sire,” replied Wolsey courageously, “has long belonged to you;
my entire life has been devoted to your service; and yet I shall most
probably, in the end, have bitter cause to repent having always made
myself subservient to your wishes. But your majesty will surely reflect
more seriously on the dishonor you will necessarily incur by such a
choice as this. The queen’s party will grow stronger and stronger, and I
tell you frankly, I fear lest the legate be inflexible.”

“Wolsey,” cried Henry, elevating his voice in a threatening manner, “I
have already declared my intentions--is that not sufficient? As to the
legate, I repeat, he must be gained over to my cause. Gold and flattery
will soon secure to us that tender conscience whose scruples you now so
sorely apprehend. Bring him to me to-morrow.”

“He is suffering too much, sire. The cardinal is aged and very infirm; I
have no idea he will be in a condition to see your majesty for several
days yet.”

“Too long, entirely too long to wait!” replied the king. “I must see him
this very day; he shall be compelled to make his appearance. I wish you
to be present also, as we shall discuss affairs of importance, and then I
shall depart.”

With these words Henry withdrew and went to look for a casket, of which
he alone carried the key, and in which he usually kept his most valuable
and important papers.

During his absence, Wolsey remained leaning on the table, before which
he was seated, absorbed in deep and painful reflections. He feared Henry
too much to oppose him long in any of his designs; besides, he saw no
possible means to induce him to change his resolution. He had felt, as
we have seen, a momentary compassion for the misfortunes of the queen,
but that impression had been speedily effaced by considerations of far
greater moment to himself.

As a shrewd diplomatist, he regretted the alliance with France; besides,
he was really too much interested in the welfare of the king not to
deplore his determination to contract such a marriage.

But the cause of his deepest anxiety was the knowledge he possessed of
Anne’s great dislike for him, and the consciousness that her family
and counsellors were his rivals and enemies; in consequence of which
he clearly foresaw they would induce her to use all the influence she
possessed with the king in order to deprive him of Henry’s favor
and patronage. He was suffering this mental conflict when the king
reappeared, bearing a bronze casket carved with rare perfection. Placing
it on the table, he unlocked it. Among a great many papers which it
contained was a very handsome book, the printing beautifully executed,
and every page ornamented with arabesques exquisitely tinted and shaded.
The cover, formed of two metal plates, represented in bass-relief the
figures of Faith, Hope, and Charity as young virgins, bearing in their
hands and on their foreheads the allegorical emblems of those sublime
Christian virtues. Emeralds of immense value, surrounded by heavy gold
settings, adorned the massive gold clasps, and also served to hold them
firmly in their places.

On the back of this book, deeply engraven in the metal, were the
following words: _The Seven Sacraments_. Henry had written this work
in defence of the ancient dogmas of the Catholic Church, when first
attacked by the violent doctrines of a monk named Luther. Whether the
king had really composed it himself, or whether he had caused it to be
secretly done by another, and wished to enjoy the reputation of being
the author, he certainly attached great importance to the work. Not only
had he distributed it throughout his own kingdom, but had sent it to the
Pope and to all the German princes, through the Dean of Windsor, whom he
instructed to say that he was ready to defend the faith, not only with
his pen but, if need be, with his sword also. It was at that time that he
asked and obtained from the court of Rome the title of “Defender of the
Faith.”

Now he was constantly busy with a manuscript, which he took from the
mysterious casket, containing a Treatise on Divorce, and to which he
every day devoted several hours. Greatly pleased with a number of
arguments he had just found, he came to communicate them to Wolsey. The
latter, after urging several objections, at length reminded him of the
fraudulent and persistent means that had been employed to extract from
the University of Oxford an opinion favorable to divorce. “And yet,”
added the cardinal, “it has been found impossible to prevent them from
increasing the number of most important restrictions, and thus rendering
your case exceedingly difficult, if not entirely hopeless.”

“What!” said the king, “after the good example of the University of
Cambridge, are we still to encounter scruples? Consider it well,
cardinal, in order not to forget the recompense, and, above all, the
punishment, for that is the true secret of success! You will also take
care to write to the Elector Frederick, and say that I wait to receive
the humble apologies of that man Luther, whom he has taken so entirely
under his protection.”

“Sire,” replied the cardinal, “I have received frequent intelligence with
regard to that matter which I have scarcely dared communicate to you.”

“And why not?” demanded the king. “Do you presume, my lord cardinal, that
the abuse of an obscure and turbulent monk can affect me? And besides, to
tell you the truth, I do not know but this man may, after all, be useful
to me. He has attracted the attention of the court of Rome, and may yet
have to crave my protection.”

“Well, sire, since you compel me to speak, I will tell you that, far
from making humble apologies, his violence against you has redoubled. I
have just received a tract he has recently published. In it I find many
passages where, in speaking of you, he employs the most abusive epithets
and expressions. For instance, he repeatedly declares that your majesty
‘is a fool, an ass, and a madman,’ that you are ‘coarser than a hog,
and more stupid than a jackass.’ He speaks with equal scurrility of our
Holy Father the Pope, addressing him, in terms of the most unparalleled
effrontery, this pretended warning, which is of course intended simply
as an insult: ‘My petit Paul, my petit Pope, my young ass, walk
carefully--it is very slippery--you may fall and break your legs. You
will surely hurt yourself, and then people will say, “What the devil does
this mean? The petit Pope has hurt himself.”’ Further on, I find this
ridiculous comparison, which could only emanate from a vile and shameless
pen: ‘The ass knows that he is an ass, the stone knows that it is a
stone, but these asses of popes are unable to recognize themselves as
asses.’ He concludes at length with these words, which fill the measure
of his impiety and degradation: ‘If I were ruler of an empire, I would
make a bundle of the Pope and his cardinals, and throw them altogether
into that little pond, the Tuscan Sea. I pledge my word that such a bath
would restore their health, and I pledge Jesus Christ as my security!’”

“What fearful blasphemy!” cried Henry. “Could a Christian possibly be
supposed to utter such absurd, blasphemous vulgarities? I trow not! This
pretended ‘reformer’ of the ‘discipline and abuses of the church’ seems
to possess any other than an evangelical character. No one can doubt his
divine mission and his Christian charity! A man who employs arguments
like these is too vile and too contemptible to be again mentioned in my
presence. Let me hear no more of this intolerable apostate! Proceed now
with business.”

“Sire,” then continued the cardinal, presenting a list to the king,
“here are the names of several candidates I wish you to consider for
the purpose of appointing a treasurer of the exchequer. Thomas More has
already filled, most honorably, a number of offices of public trust, and
is also a man of equal ability and integrity. I recommend him to your
majesty for this office.”

“I approve your selection most unhesitatingly,” replied the king. “I am
extremely fond of More, and perfectly satisfied with the manner in which
he has performed his official duties heretofore. You will so inform him
from me. What next?”

“I would also petition your majesty that Cromwell be confirmed as
intendant-general of the monasteries latterly transformed into colleges.”

“Who is this Cromwell?” inquired Henry. “I have no recollection of him.”

“Sire,” replied Wolsey, “he is of obscure birth, the son of a fuller of
this city. He served in the Italian wars in his youth; afterwards he
applied himself to the study of law. His energies and abilities are such
as to entitle him to the favorable consideration of your majesty.”

“Let him be confirmed as you desire,” replied the king very graciously,
as he proceeded to sign the different commissions intended for the newly
appointed officials.

“I wish,” he added, regarding Wolsey with a keen, searching glance, “that
you would find some position for a young ecclesiastic called Cranmer, who
has been strongly recommended to me for office.”

The brow of the cardinal contracted into a heavy frown as he heard the
name of a man but too well known to him. He immediately divined that it
was from Anne Boleyn alone the king had received this recommendation.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the meantime, the queen had been carried to her apartments. The
devoted efforts of the ladies of her household, who surrounded her with
the tenderest ministrations, soon recalled her to the consciousness and
full realization of her misery.

Now the night has come, and found Catherine still seated before the
grate, absorbed in deep thought. Born under the soft skies of Spain,
she had never become acclimated, nor accustomed to the humid, foggy
atmosphere of England. Like a delicate plant torn from its native soil,
she sighed unceasingly for the balmy air and the golden sunlight of
her own genial southern clime. Such regrets, added to the sorrows she
had experienced, had thrown her into a state of habitual melancholy,
from which nothing could arouse her, and which the slightest occurrence
sufficed to augment. For a long time her firmness of character had
sustained her; but her health beginning to fail, and no longer able
to arouse the energy and courage which had before raised her above
misfortune, she sank beneath the burden and abandoned herself to hopeless
sorrow.

As she sat all alone in her chamber, she held in her hand a letter but
recently received from her native country. Reading it slowly, she mused,
dreaming of the days of her happy childhood, when suddenly the door was
opened, and a young girl, apparently ten or twelve years of age, ran
in and threw her arms around the neck of the queen. The figure of the
child was slight and graceful; around her waist was tied a broad sash
of rose-colored ribbon, with long ends floating over her white muslin
dress; her beautiful blonde hair was drawn back from her forehead and
fastened with bows of ribbon, leaving exposed a lovely little face
glowing with animation and spirit, and a frank, ingenuous expression,
at once prepossessing and charming. This was the Princess Mary, the
daughter of Henry, the future consort of a Spanish prince, to whom the
shrewd diplomatist Wolsey had promised her hand, in order to deprive the
unfortunate mother of this her only remaining consolation.

“Why is it, my dearest mamma,” she exclaimed, “that you are again in
tears?” And, laughingly, she took the handkerchief from the queen and put
it to her own eyes, pretending to weep.

“See now, this is the way I shall do when I am grown up, for it seems to
me grown-up people are always weeping. Oh! I wish I could always remain
a child, and then I should never be miserable! Listen, my dear mamma,”
she continued, again twining her arms around her mother’s neck, “why is
it that you are always weeping and so sad? It must surely do you harm.
Everybody is not like you, constantly sighing and in tears, I do assure
you. Only this morning, I was at St. James’ Park with Alice, and there
I met Lady Anne Boleyn; she was laughing gaily as she promenaded with a
number of her friends. I ran immediately to her to say good morning, for
I was really very glad to see her. How is it, mamma--I thought you told
me she had gone to Kent to visit her father?”

“My child,” replied the queen, her tears flowing afresh, “what I told you
was true; but she has since returned without my being informed.”

“But, mamma, since this is your own house, why has she not yet presented
herself? I am very sorry she has acted so, for I love her better than any
of the other ladies. She told me all she saw in France when she travelled
with my aunt, the Duchess of Suffolk. Oh! how I would love to see France.
Lady Anne says it is a most beautiful country. She has described to me
all the magnificent entertainments that King Louis XII. gave in honor of
my aunt. Mamma, when I marry, I want the King of France to be my husband.”

“And you--you also love Anne Boleyn?” replied the queen.

“Oh! yes, mamma, _very_ much, very much indeed!” innocently answered the
child. “I am very sorry she is no longer to be here, she is so amiable,
and when she plays with me she always amuses me so much!”

“Well, my dear child,” replied the queen, “I will tell you now why people
weep when they are grown up, as you say: it is because they very often
love persons who no longer return their affection.”

“And do you believe she no longer loves me?” replied the impulsive little
Mary with a thoughtful expression. “And yet, mamma, I kissed her this
morning and embraced her with all my heart. However, I now remember that
she scarcely spoke a word to me; but I had not thought of it before. She
seemed to be very much embarrassed. But why should she no longer love me
when I still love her so dearly?”

As Mary uttered these words, a woman entered the room and, whispering a
moment in the ear of the queen, placed a note in her hand.

Catherine arose and approached the light; after reading the note, she
called the young princess and requested her to retire to her chamber, as
she had something to write immediately that was very important.

Mary ran gaily to her mother, and, after kissing and embracing her fondly
and tenderly again and again, she at last bade her good-night, and with a
smiling face bounded from the room in the same light and buoyant manner
that she had entered it.

“Leonora,” said the queen, “my dear child, you have left for my sake our
beautiful Spain, and have ever served me with faithful devotion. Listen,
now, to the request I shall make--go bring me immediately the dress and
outer apparel belonging to one of the servant women.”

“Why so, my lady?”

“Ask no questions--I have use for them; you will accompany me; I must go
to London this night.”

“Good heaven! my dear mistress, what are you saying?” cried Leonora in
great alarm. “Go to London to-night? It is five miles; you will never be
able to walk it, and you well know it would be impossible to attempt the
journey in any other way--they would detect us.”

“Leonora,” answered the queen, “I am resolved to go. Faithful friends
inform me that the legate has arrived. Henry will now redouble his
vigilance. I have but one day--if I lose this opportunity, I shall
never succeed. My last remaining hope rests upon this. If you refuse to
accompany me, I shall go alone.”

“Alone!--oh! my beloved mistress,” cried Leonora, her hands clasped and
her eyes streaming tears, “you can never do this! Think of what you are
going to undertake! If you were recognized, the king would be at once
informed, and we would both be lost.”

“Even so, Leonora; but what have I to lose? Is it possible for me to be
made more wretched? Shall I abandon this, my last hope? No, no, Leonora;
I am accountable to my children for the honor of their birth. Go now, my
good girl! fly--there is not a moment to lose. Fear nothing; God will
protect us!”

Leonora, shrewd and adroit like the women of her country, was very soon
in possession of the desired habiliments. Her actions might have excited
suspicion, perhaps; but entirely devoted to the queen as she was she felt
no fear, and would, without hesitation, have exposed herself to even
greater danger, had it been necessary, in the execution of her mistress’
wishes.

Catherine feigned to retire; and, after her attendants had been
dismissed, she left the palace, closely enveloped in a long brown cloak,
such as was habitually worn by the working-women of that period. The
faithful Leonora tremblingly followed the footsteps of her mistress. They
breathed more freely when they found themselves at last beyond the limits
of the castle. Leonora, however, when they entered the road leading to
London, anxiously reflected on the danger of meeting some one who would
probably recognize them. Her excited imagination even began to conjure up
vague apprehensions of the dead, to blend with her fears of the living.
She also dreaded lest the strength of the queen should prove unequal
to the journey--in fine, she feared everything. The sighing winds, the
rustling leaves, the sound of her own footsteps as she walked over the
stones, startled and filled her with apprehension. Very soon there was
another cause for alarm. The wind suddenly arose with violence; dark
clouds overspread the heavens; the moon disappeared; large drops of
rain began to fall, and soon poured in torrents, deluging the earth and
drenching their garments.

In vain they increased their speed; the storm raged with such fury they
were compelled to take refuge under a tree by the roadside.

“My poor Leonora,” said the queen, supporting herself against the trunk
of the tree, whose wide-spread branches were being lashed and bent by the
fury of the storm, “I regret now having brought you with me. I am already
sufficiently miserable without the additional pain of seeing my burdens
laid upon others.”

“My beloved lady and mistress,” cried Leonora, “I am not half so unhappy
at this moment as I was when I feared my brothers would prevent me from
following you to England. It seems to me I can see the vessel now,
with its white sails unfurled, bearing you away, whilst I, standing on
the shore, with frantic cries, entreated them to let me rejoin you.
That night, I remember, being unable to sleep, I went down into the
orange-grove, the perfume of whose fruits and flowers embalmed the air
of the palace gardens. Wiping away the sad tears, I fixed my eyes upon
your windows, which the light of our beautiful skies rendered distinctly
visible even at night. In Spain, at that hour, we can walk by the light
of the stars; but in this land of mud and water, this horrid England,
one has to be wrapped to the ears in furs all the year round, or shiver
with cold from morning till night. This is doubtless the reason why
the English are so dull and so tiresome to others. In what a condition
is this light mantle that covers our heads!” said Leonora, shaking the
coarse woollen cloak dripping with water, that enveloped Catherine.
“These Englishwomen,” she resumed, “know no more about the sound of a
guitar than they do about the rays of the sun; they are all just as
melancholy as moles. There is not one of them, except the Princess Mary,
who seems to have the slightest idea of our beautiful Spain.”

“Ah!” sighed the queen, “she is just as I was at her age. God forbid that
her future should resemble that of her mother!”

In the meantime the storm had gradually abated; time pressed, and
Catherine again resumed her journey with renewed courage and accelerated
speed. In spite of the mud, in which she sank at every step, she
redoubled her efforts. For what cannot the strong human will accomplish,
when opposed to feeble, physical strength alone, or even when the
obstacles interposed proceed from the elements themselves? She at length
arrived at the gate of the palace of Lambeth, situated on the banks of
the Thames, where the cardinal Campeggio, according to the intelligence
conveyed to her, would hold his court.

The courtyards, the doors, the ante-chambers, were thronged with servants
and attendants, eager and active in the performance of their duties, for
Henry had ordered that the cardinal should be entertained in a style
of princely munificence, and entirely free from personal expense. All
these valets, being strangers to their new masters, and unaccustomed to
their new employments, permitted the queen to pass without question or
detention, not, however, without a stare of stupid curiosity at her muddy
boots and draggled garments.

Catherine, being perfectly familiar with the interior of the palace, had
no difficulty in finding the legate’s cabinet.

The venerable prelate was slightly lame, and in a feeble and precarious
state of health. She found him seated before the fire in a large velvet
arm-chair, engaged in reading his Breviary. His face was pale and
emaciated; a few thin locks of snow-white hair hung about his temples.
Hearing the door open, he rested the book on his knee, casting upon the
queen, as she entered, a keen, penetrating glance.

Without hesitation, Catherine advanced towards him. “My lord cardinal,”
she exclaimed, removing the hood from her face, “you see before you the
queen of England, the legitimate spouse of Henry VIII.”

Hearing these words, Campeggio was unable to suppress an exclamation of
surprise. He arose at once to his feet, and, perceiving the extraordinary
costume in which Catherine was arrayed, he cast upon her a look of
incredulous astonishment. He was about to speak when she, with great
vehemence, interrupted him.

“Yes,” she cried, raising her hands towards heaven, “I call upon God to
witness the truth of what I say--I am Queen Catherine! You are astonished
to see me here at this hour, and in this disguise. Know, then, that I am
a prisoner in my own palace; my cruel husband would have prevented me
from coming to you. They tell me you are sent to sit in judgment on my
case. Surely, then, you should be made acquainted with my bitter woes and
grievances. Lend not your aid to the cause of injustice and wrong, but be
the strength of the weak, the defence of the innocent. A stranger in this
country, I have no friends; fear of the king drives them all from me.
I cannot doubt it--no, you will not refuse to hear my appeal. You will
defend the cause of an injured mother and her helpless children. What!
would you be willing to condemn me without first hearing my cause--I,
the daughter of kings? Have I been induced to marry Henry of Lancaster
to enjoy the honors of royalty, when all such honors belong to me by my
birthright? Catherine of Aragon has never been unfaithful to her husband;
but to-day, misled by a criminal passion, he wishes to place upon the
throne of England a shameless woman, to deny his own blood, and brand his
own children with the stigma of illegitimacy! Yes, I solemnly declare to
you that nothing can shake my resolution or divert me from my purpose!
Strong in my innocence and in the justice of my cause, I will appeal to
the whole world--aye, even to God himself!”

The cardinal stood motionless, regarding Catherine with reverence, as an
expression of haughty indignation lighted up her noble features. He was
struck with admiration at her courage and filled with compassion for her
woes.

“No, madam,” he replied, “I am not to be your judge. I know that it is
but too true that you are surrounded by enemies. But let me assure you
that in me, at least, you will not find another. I shall esteem myself
most happy if, by my counsel or influence, I may be of service to your
cause, and it is from the depths of my heart that I beg you to rely upon
this assurance.”

Catherine would have thanked him, but a noise was that moment heard of
the ushers throwing the doors violently open and announcing, in a loud
voice, “His Eminence Cardinal Wolsey!”

“Merciful heaven!” cried Catherine, “must this odious man pursue me for
ever?” She hurriedly lowered her veil, and took her place at the left of
the door, and the moment he entered passed out behind him. Wolsey glanced
at her sharply, the appearance of a woman arousing instantly a suspicion
in his mind, but, being compelled to respond with politeness to the
legate’s salutations, he had no time to scrutinize, and Catherine escaped
without being recognized.

Wolsey was passionately fond of pomp and pageant. The principal positions
in his house were filled by barons and chevaliers. Among these attendants
were numbered the sons of some of the most distinguished families, who,
under his protection and by the aid of his all-powerful patronage and
influence, aspired to civil or military preferment.

On this occasion, he considered it necessary to make an unusual display
of luxurious magnificence. It was with great difficulty and trepidation
that the queen threaded her way through the crowd of prelates, noblemen,
and young gentlemen who awaited in the ante-chambers the honor of being
presented by the king’s favorite to the cardinal-legate.

The courtyard was filled with their brilliant equipages, conspicuous
among which were observed a great number of mules, richly caparisoned,
and carrying on their backs immense chests, covered with crimson cloth,
trimmed with fringe and embroidered with gold.

A crowd of idle valets were engaged in conversation at the foot of the
stairs. The queen, in passing them, attracted their attention, exciting
their ridicule and coarse gibes, and she heard them also indulge in the
most insolent conjectures regarding her.

“Who is that woman?” said one. “See how dirty she is.” “She looks like
a beggar, indeed,” cried another, addressing himself to one of the
new-comers engaged to attend the legate. “Your master receives strange
visitors; we, on the contrary, have nothing to do with people like that,
except quickly to show them the door.”

“Ha! ha! you will have your hands full,” exclaimed the most insolent
of the crowd, “if your master gives audience to such rabble as that.”
Emboldened by these remarks, one of the porters approached the queen,
and, rudely pushing her, exclaimed with an oath: “Well, beldame, what
brought you here? Take yourself off quickly. My lord is rich, but his
crowns were not made for such as you.” These words excited the loudest
applause from the whole crowd, who clapped their hands and cheered
vociferously. Catherine trembled with mortification.

“It is thus,” she mentally exclaimed, “that the poor are received in
the palaces of the rich. And I myself have probably more than once,
without knowing it, permitted them to sigh in vain at the gates of my own
palace--mothers weeping for their children, or men, old and helpless,
making a last appeal for assistance.”

The queen, entirely absorbed in these reflections, together with the
impression made upon her by the appearance of the venerable legate, the
sudden apparition of Wolsey, the snares that had been laid for her, and
the temptations with which they had surrounded her, mechanically followed
Leonora, to whom the fear that her mistress might be pursued and arrested
seemed to have given wings.

“Leonora,” at length cried the queen, “I feel that I can go no farther.
Stop, and let us rest for a moment; you walk too quickly.” Exhausted with
fatigue, she seated herself on a rock by the roadside.

She had scarcely rested a moment when a magnificent carriage passed.
The silken curtains were drawn back, and the flaming torches, carried
by couriers, who surrounded the carriage, completely illuminated the
interior. Seated in this princely equipage was a young girl, brilliant
in her youthful beauty and the splendor of her elegant dress and
jewelled adornings. At a glance, Catherine recognized Anne Boleyn, who
was returning from a grand entertainment given her by the Lord Mayor of
London.

She passed like the light; the carriage rapidly whirling through the mud
and water, that flew from the wheels and covered anew the already soiled
garments of the hapless queen.

Catherine, completely overcome by painful emotions, felt as though she
were dying.

“Leonora, listen!” she said in a faint voice, scarcely audible--“Leonora,
come near me--give me your hand; I feel that I am dying! You will carry
to my daughter my last benediction!”

She sought in the darkness the hand of Leonora; the film of death
seemed gathering over her eyes; she did not speak, her head sank on her
shoulder, and poor Leonora thought the queen had ceased to breathe. She
at first held her in her arms; but at length, overcome by fatigue, she
sank upon the earth as she vainly endeavored to revive her by breathing
into her mouth her own life-breath. But seeing all her efforts to restore
animation useless, she came to the terrible conclusion that Catherine was
indeed dead.

“My dear mistress,” she cried wildly, wringing her hands, “my good
mistress is dead! What will become of me? It is my fault: I should
have prevented her from going. Ah! how miserable I am!” And her tears
and cries redoubled. At length she heard in the distance the sound of
approaching footsteps, and was soon able to distinguish a litter, borne
by a number of men. “Help!” she cried, her hopes reviving at the sight,
and very soon they were near her--“help! come to my assistance; my
mistress is dying!” Seeing two women, one lying on the ground supported
in the arms of another, who appeared half-deranged, the person who
occupied the litter commanded the men to stop immediately, and he quickly
alighted. It was the king! He also was going to London to see the
legate; to prevent his anxious haste from being known, and commented on,
he had adopted this secret conveyance. When she saw him, Leonora was
paralyzed with apprehension and alarm. The king instantly recognized
the queen and the unhappy Leonora. In a furious voice, he demanded what
she was doing there and where she had been. But in vain she endeavored
to reply--her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth--she was unable to
articulate a word. Transported with rage at her silence, and by what
he suspected, he immediately had the queen placed in the litter, and
ordering the men to walk slowly, he followed them on foot to the palace.

Catherine was carried to her own apartment, and soon restored to
consciousness; but on opening her eyes she looked around, vainly hoping
to behold her faithful Leonora. She never saw her again! She had been
taken away, and the punishment that was meted out to her, or the fate
that befel the unfortunate girl, was for ever involved in mystery.

While discord filled the royal palace with perplexity and sorrow a
statesman, simple and peaceful, awaited, with happiness mingled with
impatience, the arrival of a friend. In his house, all around him seemed
possessed of redoubled activity. The family table was more elegantly
spread, fresh flowers decorated all the apartments, the children ran to
and fro in the very excess of their joy and delight, until at length,
in every direction, the glad announcement was heard, “He has come! he
has come!” The entire family eagerly descended to the court-yard to meet
and welcome the visitor, and Sir Thomas, with feelings of inexpressible
joy, folded in his embrace the Bishop of Rochester, the wise and virtuous
Fisher, whom he loved with the purest and tenderest sentiments of
friendship.

“At last you are here,” he exclaimed; “how happy I am to see you once
more!”

While the good bishop was ascending the stairs, surrounded by a troop
of Sir Thomas’ youngest children, Margaret, the eldest daughter, came
forward and saluted him, accompanied by Lady More, her step-mother,
and young William Roper, her affianced husband. They all entered the
drawing-room together, and, after engaging a short time in general
conversation, Sir Thomas bade the children retire, that he might converse
with more freedom.

“My dear friend,” he exclaimed, taking the bishop’s hand again in his
own, “I cannot express the joy I feel at your return. I have been so long
deprived of your presence, and I have so many things to say to you. But
my heart is too full at this moment to permit me to express all I feel or
would say! But why have you not answered my letters?”

“Your letters!” replied the bishop. “Why, it has been more than a month
since I received one from you.”

“How can that be possible unless they have been intercepted?” replied
More. “The king every day becomes more and more suspicious. If this
continues, it will soon be considered high treason for a man to think.”

“I cannot tell what has become of your letters. I only know I have
not received them, and it has caused me a great deal of anxiety and
apprehension. But my friend, since I find you full of life and health,
I am quite satisfied and happy. Now, let me hear all that has happened
at court; but let me begin by first telling you that the king has sent
me, through Cardinal Wolsey, a document he has written on the subject
of divorce, asking my opinion and advice. I have answered him with all
frankness and candor, expressing myself strongly against his views.
Certainly, there is nothing more absurd than the idea of the king’s
wishing to repudiate, after so many years of marriage, a princess so
virtuous and irreproachable, to whom he can find no other objection
than that she was betrothed to his brother, Prince Arthur. Besides, a
dispensation was obtained on that account at the time of his marriage,
therefore it would seem his conscience ought to be perfectly satisfied.”

“Yes, yes, his conscience should be entirely at rest,” replied Sir
Thomas. “And if he sincerely believes the marriage has been void
until this time, why does he not make the effort to have it rendered
legitimate, instead of endeavoring to annul it entirely? It is because he
wishes to marry one of the queen’s ladies--the young Anne Boleyn!”

“Oh! horrible,” cried Fisher. “Are you sure, my friend, of what you say?
Gracious heaven! If I had only suspected it! But I assure you I have
had entire confidence in him. I have, therefore, examined the subject
conscientiously and with the greatest possible diligence before giving
him my reply. Had I suspected any such scheme as this, I should never
have had the patience to consider the arguments he has presented with so
much duplicity.”

“Well, my dear Fisher,” replied Sir Thomas, “such is the sad truth, and
such are the ‘scruples’ that disturb the tender conscience of the king.
To repudiate the queen and the Princess Mary, his daughter, is his sole
aim, his only desire. I also have received an order to read and give my
opinion on the divorce question; but I have asked to be excused, on the
ground of my very limited knowledge of theological matters. Moreover, all
these debates and hypocritical petitions for advice are entirely absurd
and unnecessary. Cardinal Campeggio, the Pope’s legate, has already
arrived from Rome, and the queen will appear before a court composed of
the legate and Wolsey, together with several other cardinals.”

“The queen brought to trial!” cried the Bishop of Rochester. “The queen
arraigned to hear her honor and her rank disputed? What a shame upon
England! Who will speak for her? I would give my life to be called to
defend her! But how is it that Wolsey--the all-powerful Wolsey--has not
diverted the king from his unworthy purpose?”

“He is said to have tried; but he stands in awe of the king. You know an
ambitious man never opposes him to whom he owes his power. Nevertheless,”
added More, “I cannot believe he will dare to pronounce the Princess Mary
illegitimate. For, all laws aside, supposing even that the marriage were
annulled, the good faith in which it was contracted invests her birth
with an inalienable right.”

“I hope it may be so,” said Fisher; “but what immense calamities this
question will bring on our unhappy country!”

“I fear so, my friend,” replied More. “At present, the people are pledged
to the queen’s cause; it could not be otherwise, she is so much beloved
and esteemed; and they declare, if the king does succeed in repudiating
Catherine, that he will find it impossible to deprive his daughter of her
right to reign over them.”

“And Wolsey,” replied the bishop thoughtfully, “will be called to
sit in judgment on his sovereign! He will be against her! And this
Campeggio--what says he in the matter?”

“We believe,” replied More, “that he will sustain the queen; he seems to
possess great firmness and integrity of character. His first interview
with the king gave us great hopes. Henry has overwhelmed him with
protestations of his entire submission, but all his artifices have been
frustrated by the discernment and prudence of the Italian cardinal. His
impenetrable silence on the subject of his own personal opinions has
plunged the king into despair. Since that day he has honored him with
incessant visits, has offered him the rich bishopric of Durham, and
worked unceasingly to corrupt his integrity by promises and flattery.”

“How keenly the queen must suffer,” said Fisher--“she that I saw, at
the time of her arrival in the kingdom, so young, so beautiful, and so
idolized by Henry!”

“Alas! I think so,” said More. “For some time I have found it impossible
to approach her. However, she appears in public as usual, always gracious
and affable; there is no change in her appearance. The queen is truly
a most admirable woman. During your absence, an epidemic made its
appearance called the ‘sweating sickness,’ which made terrible ravages.
Wolsey fled from his palace, several noblemen belonging to his household
having died very suddenly of the disease. The king was greatly alarmed;
he never left the queen for a moment, and united with her in constant
prayers to God, firmly believing that her petitions would avail to stay
the pestilence. He immediately despatched Anne Boleyn to her father,
where she was attacked by the disease, and truly we would have felt
no regret at her loss if the Lord in taking her had only deigned to
show mercy to her soul. At one time we believed the king had entirely
reformed, but, alas! the danger had scarcely passed when he recalled Anne
Boleyn, and is again estranged from the queen.”

“Death gives us terrible lessons,” replied the Bishop of Rochester. “In
his presence we judge of all things wisely. The illusions of time are
dissipated, to give place to the realities of eternity!” As the bishop
said these words, several persons who had called to see Sir Thomas
entered the room. Conspicuous among them was Cromwell, the protégé of
Wolsey. This man was both false and sinister, who made use of any means
that led to the acquisition of fortune. He possessed the arts of intrigue
and flattery. To a profound dissimulation he added an air of politeness
and a knowledge of the world that, in general, caused him to be well
received in society. A close scrutiny of his character, however, made
it evident that there was something in the depths of this man’s soul
rendering him unworthy of any confidence. To him, vice and virtue were
words devoid of any meaning. When he found a man was no longer necessary
to his designs, or that he could not in some manner use him, he made no
further effort to conciliate or retain his friendship. He saluted Sir
Thomas and the Bishop of Rochester with a quiet ease, and seated himself
beside young Cranmer--“with whom I am very well acquainted,” he remarked.
For Cromwell, like all other intriguers, assumed intimacy with all the
world.

Scarcely had he uttered the words when a Mr. Williamson was ushered in,
who had returned to London a few days before, after a long absence on the
Continent.

“And so you are back, Mr. Williamson,” cried More, taking his hand. “You
are just from Germany, I believe? Well, do tell us how matters stand in
that country. It seems, from what we hear, everything is in commotion
there.”

“Your supposition is quite correct, sir,” replied Williamson in a
half-serious, half-jesting manner. “The emperor is furious against our
king, and has sent ambassadors to Rome to oppose the divorce. But the
empire is greatly disturbed by religious dissensions, therefore I doubt
if he will be able to give the subject as much attention as he desires.
New reformers are every day springing up. The foremost now is Bacer,
a Dominican monk; then comes Zwingle, the curate of Zürich--where he
endeavored to abolish the Mass, to the great scandal of the people--and
there is still another, named Œcolampadius, who has joined Zwingle. But
strangest of all is that these reformers, among themselves, agree in
nothing. The one admits a dogma, the other rejects it; to-day they think
this, to-morrow that. Every day some new doctrine is promulgated. Luther
has a horror of Zwingle, and they mutually damn each other. The devil is
no longer able to recognize himself. They occasionally try to patch up a
reconciliation, and agree altogether to believe a certain doctrine, but
the compact is scarcely drawn up before the whole affair is upset again.”

Cranmer, while listening to this discourse, moved uneasily in his chair,
until at length, unable to restrain himself longer, he interrupted
Williamson in a sharp, cutting manner that he endeavored to soften.

“In truth, sir, you speak very slightingly of these learned and
distinguished men. And only, it seems, because they demand a reform in
the morals of the clergy, and preach against and denounce the abuses of
the church in the matter of indulgences.”

“Beautiful reformers!” cried Williamson. “They protest to-day against an
abuse which they alone have felt as such, and that but for a very short
time. And permit me to insist on your observing a fact, which it is by no
means necessary or expedient to forget, that this quarrel originated in
the displeasure felt by Luther because it was not to his own order, but
to that of the Dominicans, to whom the distribution of indulgences was
entrusted.”

“That may be possible, sir,” interrupted Cranmer, “but at least you will
not deny that the immorality of the German clergy imperatively demanded a
thorough reformation.”

“It is quite possible, my dear sir, that I may not be ready at once to
agree with you in your opinions. But if the German church has become
relaxed in morals, it is the fault of those only who before their
elevation to the holy office had not, as they were bound to have, the
true spirit of their vocation. But I pray you, on this point of morals,
it will not do to boast of the severity of these new apostles. The
disciples of Christ left their wives, when called to ‘go into all the
world and preach the Gospel,’ but these men begin by taking wives. Luther
has married a young and beautiful nun, an act that has almost driven his
followers to despair, and scandalized and excited the ridicule of the
whole city. As to Bucer, he is already married to his second wife!”

“What!” cried the bishop, “these men marry! Marry--in the face of the
holy church! Do they forget the solemn vows of chastity they have
made?--for they are all either priests or monks.”

“Their vows! Oh! they _retract_ their vows, they say. These ‘vows’ are
what they call _abuses_; and the priests of this so severely reformed
church will hereafter enjoy the inestimable privilege of marrying.”

Whilst this conversation had been going on, Sir Thomas kept his eyes
closely fixed on Cranmer, trying to discover, from the expression of his
pale, meagre face, the impression made on him by the conversation. He
was well convinced that latterly Cranmer, although he had already taken
orders, maintained the new doctrines with all the influence he possessed.
And the reason why he had so thoroughly espoused them was because of a
violent passion conceived for the daughter of Osiander, one of the chief
reformers.

Born of a poor and obscure family, he had embraced the ecclesiastical
state entirely from motives of interest and ambition, and without the
slightest vocation, his sole aim being to advance his own interests
and fortunes by every possible means, and he had already succeeded in
ingratiating himself with the Earl of Wiltshire, who, together with all
the family of Anne Boleyn, were his devoted patrons and friends. It was
by these means that he was afterwards elevated to the archiepiscopal see
of Canterbury, where we will find him servilely devoting himself to the
interests of Henry VIII., and at last dying the death of a traitor.

Influenced by such motives, Cranmer warmly defended the new doctrines,
bringing forward every available argument, and ended by declaring he
thought it infinitely better that the priests should be allowed to marry
than be exposed to commit sin.

“Nothing obliges them to commit sin,” cried the Bishop of Rochester, who
was no longer able to maintain silence. “On the contrary, sir, every
law and regulation of the discipline and canons of the church tends to
inspire and promote the most immaculate purity of morals. These rules
may seem hard to those who have embraced the ecclesiastical state from
motives of pride and an ambitious self-interest, and without having
received from God the graces necessary for the performance of the duties
of so exalted and holy a ministry. This is why we so often have to grieve
over the misconduct of so many of the clergy. But if they complain of
their condition now, what will it be when they have wives and families
to increase their cares and add to their responsibilities? The priest!”
continued the bishop, seeming to penetrate the very depths of Cranmer’s
narrow, contracted soul, “have you ever reflected upon the sublimity of
his vocation? The priest is the father of the orphan, the brother of the
poor, the consoler of the dying, the spiritual support of the criminal
on the scaffold, the merciful judge of the assassin in his dungeon. Say,
do you not think the entire human race a family sufficiently large, its
duties sufficiently extended, its responsibilities, wants, and cares
sufficiently arduous and pressing? How could a priest do more, when his
duty now requires him to devote, and give himself entirely to, each and
every one of the human family? No; a priest is a man who has made a
solemn vow to become an angel. If he does not intend to fulfil that vow,
then let him never pronounce it!”

“O Rochester!” cried Sir Thomas More, greatly moved, “how I delight to
hear you express yourself in this manner!”

And Sir Thomas spoke with all sincerity, for the bishop, without being
conscious of it, had faithfully described his own life and character,
and those who knew and loved him found no difficulty in recognizing the
portrait.

As Sir Thomas spoke, the door again opened, and all arose respectfully
on seeing the Duke of Norfolk appear--that valiant captain, to whom
England was indebted for her victory gained on the field of Flodden.
He was accompanied by the youngest and best-beloved of his sons, the
young Henry, Earl of Surrey. Even at his very tender age, the artless
simplicity and graceful manners of this beautiful child commanded the
admiration of all, while his brilliant intellect and lively imagination
announced him as the future favorite and cherished poet of the age.

Alas! how rapidly fled those golden years of peace and happiness. Later,
and Norfolk, this proud father, so happy in being the parent of such a
son, lived to behold the head of that noble boy fall upon the scaffold!
The crime of which Henry VIII. will accuse him will be that of having
united his arms with those of Edward the Confessor, whose royal blood
mingled with that which flowed in his own veins.

Sir Thomas approached the duke and saluted him with great deference. The
Bishop of Rochester insisted on resigning him his chair, but the duke
declined, and seated himself in the midst of the company.

“I was not aware,” said he, turning graciously towards the bishop, “that
Sir Thomas was enjoying such good company. I congratulate myself on the
return of my Lord of Rochester. He will listen, I am sure, with lively
interest to the recital I have come to make; for I must inform you,
gentlemen, I am just from Blackfriars, where the king summoned me this
morning in great haste, to assist, with some of the highest dignitaries
of the kingdom, at the examination of the queen before the assembly of
cardinals.”

He had scarcely uttered these words when an expression of profound
amazement overspread the features of all present. More was by no means
the least affected.

“The queen!” he cried. “Has she then appeared in person? And so
unexpectedly and rudely summoned! They have done this in order that she
might not be prepared with her defence!”

“I know not,” replied the duke; “but I shall never be able to forget
the sad and imposing scene. When we entered, the cardinals and the two
legates were seated on a platform covered with purple cloth; the king
seated at their right. We were arranged behind his chair in perfect
silence. Very soon the queen entered, dressed in the deepest mourning.
She took her seat on the left of the platform, facing the king. When the
king’s name was called he arose, and remained standing and in silence.
But when the queen was in her turn summoned, she arose, and replied,
with great dignity, that she boldly protested against her judges for
three important reasons: first, because she was a stranger; secondly,
because they were all in possession of royal benefices, which had been
bestowed on them by her adversary; and, thirdly, that she had grave and
all-important reasons for believing that she would not obtain justice
from a tribunal so constituted. She added that she had already appealed
to the Pope, and would not submit to the judgment of this court. Having
said these words, she stood in silence, but when she heard them declare
her appeal should not be submitted to the Pope, she passed before the
cardinals, and, walking proudly across the entire hall, she threw herself
at the feet of the king.

“It would be impossible,” continued Norfolk, “to describe the emotion
excited by this movement.

“‘Sire,’ she cried, with a respectful but firm and decided tone, ‘I beg
you to regard me with compassion. Pity me as a woman, as a stranger
without friends on whom I can rely, without a single disinterested
adviser to whom I can turn for counsel! I call upon God to witness,’
she continued, raising her expressive eyes towards heaven, ‘that I have
always been to you a loyal, faithful wife, and have made it my constant
duty to conform in all things to your will; that I have loved those whom
you have loved, whether I knew them to be my enemies or my friends. For
many years I have been your wife; I am the mother of your children. God
knows, when I married you, I was an unsullied virgin, and since that time
I have never brought reproach on the sanctity of my marriage vows. Your
own conscience bears witness to the truth of what I say. If you can find
a single fault with which to reproach me, then will I pledge you my word
to bow my head in shame, and at once leave your presence; but, if not, I
pray you in God’s holy name to render me justice.’

“While she was speaking, a low murmur of approbation was heard throughout
the assembly, followed by a long, unbroken silence. The king grew deadly
pale, but made no reply to the queen, who arose, and was leaving the
hall, when Henry made a signal to the Duke of Suffolk to detain her. He
followed her, and made every effort to induce her to return, but in vain.
Turning haughtily round, she said, in a tone sufficiently distinct to be
heard by the entire assembly:

“‘Go, tell the king, your master, that until this hour I have never
disobeyed him, and that I regret being compelled to do so now.’

“Saying these words, she immediately turned and left the hall, followed
by her ladies in waiting.

“Her refusal to remain longer in the presence of her judges, and the
touching, unstudied eloquence of the appeal she had made, cast the
tribunal into a state of great embarrassment, and the honorable judges
seemed to wish most heartily they had some one else to decide for them;
when suddenly the king arose, and, turning haughtily towards them, spoke:

“‘Sirs,’ he said, ‘most cheerfully and with perfect confidence do
I present my testimony, bearing witness to the spotless virtue and
unsullied integrity of the queen. Her character, her conduct, in every
particular, has been above reproach. But it is impossible for me to
live in the state of constant anxiety this union causes me to suffer.
My conscience keeps me in continual dread because of having married
this woman, who was the betrothed wife of my own brother. I will use no
dissimulation, my lords; I know very well that many of you believe I
have been persuaded by the Cardinal of York to make this appeal for a
divorce. But I declare in your presence this day, this is an entirely
false impression, and that, on the contrary, the cardinal has earnestly
contended against the scruples which have disturbed my soul. But, I
declare, against my own will, and in spite of all my regrets, his
opinions have not been able to restore to me the tranquillity of a heart
without reproach. I have, in consequence, found it necessary to confer
again with the Bishop of Tarbes, who has, unhappily, only confirmed the
fears I already entertain. I have consulted my confessor and many other
prelates, who have all advised me to submit this question to the tribunal
of our Holy Father, the Sovereign Pontiff. To this end, my lords, you
have been invested by him with his own supreme authority and spiritual
power. I will listen to you as I would listen to him--that is to say,
with the most entire submission. I wish, however, to remind you again
that my duty towards my subjects requires me to prevent whatever might
have the effect in the future of disturbing their tranquillity; and,
unfortunately, I have but too strong reasons for fearing that, at some
future day, the legitimacy of the right of the Princess Mary to the
throne may be disputed. It is with entire confidence that I await your
solution of a question so important to the happiness of my subjects and
the peace of my kingdom. I have no doubt that you will be able to remove
all the obstacles placed in my way.’

“Saying these words, the king retired, and started instantly for his
palace at Greenwich. The noblemen generally followed him, but I remained
to witness the end of what proved to be a tumultuous and stormy debate.
Nevertheless, after a long discussion, they decided to go on with the
investigation, to hear the advocates of the queen, and continue the
proceedings in spite of her protest.”

“Who is the queen’s advocate?” demanded the Bishop of Rochester.

“He has not yet been appointed,” replied Norfolk. “It seems to me it
would only be just to let the queen select her own counsel.”

“But she will refuse, without a doubt,” replied Cromwell, “after the
manner she has adopted to defend herself.”

They continued to converse for a long time on this subject, which filled
with anxious apprehension the heart of Sir Thomas, as well as that of his
faithful friend, the good Bishop of Rochester.

TO BE CONTINUED.


THE BIRTH-PLACE OF S. VINCENT DE PAUL

                            “I love all waste
    And solitary places where we taste
    The pleasure of believing what we see
    Is boundless as we wish our souls to be:
    And such was this wide ocean and the shore
    More barren than its billows.”

                                  --_Shelley._

The Landes--that long, desolate tract on the western coast of France
between the Gironde and the Adour, with its vast forests of melancholy
pines, its lone moors and solitary deserts, its broad marshes, and its
dunes of sand that creep relentlessly on as if they had life--appeal
wonderfully to the imagination, that _folle du logis_, as Montaigne calls
it, but which, in spite of him, we love to feed. One may travel for hours
through these vast steppes covered with heather without discovering the
smoke of a single chimney, or anything to relieve the monotonous horizon,
unless a long line of low sand-hills that look like billows swayed to
and fro in the wind; or some low tree standing out against the cloudless
heavens, perhaps half buried in the treacherous sands; or a gaunt
peasant, the very silhouette of a man, on his stilts, “five feet above
contradiction,” like Voltaire’s preacher, perhaps with his knitting-work
in his hands, or a distaff under his arm, as if fresh from the feet of
Omphale, driving his flock before him--all birds of one feather, or
sheep of one wool; for he is clad in a shaggy sheepskin coat, and looks
as if he needed shearing as much as any of them. Or perhaps this Knight
of the Sable Fleece--for the sheep of the Landes are mostly black--is
on one of the small, light horses peculiar to the region, said to have
an infusion of Arabian blood--thanks to the Saracen invaders--which are
well adapted to picking their way over quaking bogs and moving sands, but
unfortunately are fast degenerating from lack of care in maintaining the
purity of the breed.

During the winter season these extensive heaths are converted by the
prolonged rains into immense marshes, as the impermeable _alios_ within
six inches of the surface prevents the absorption of moisture. The
peasant is then obliged to shut himself up with his beasts in his low,
damp cottage, with peat for his fuel, a pine torch for his candle,
brackish water relieved by a dash of vinegar for drink, meagre broth,
corn bread, and perhaps salt fish for his dinner. Whole generations are
said to live under one roof in the Landes, so thoroughly are the people
imbued with the patriarchal spirit. Woman has her rights here--at least
in the house. The old _dauna_ (from _domina_, perhaps) rules the little
kingdom with a high hand, including her sons and her sons’ wives down to
the remotest generation, with undisputed sway. It is the very paradise
of mothers-in-law. The _paterfamilias_ seldom interferes if his soup is
ready at due time and she makes both ends meet at the end of the year,
with a trifle over for a barrel of _pique-pout_ to be indulged in on
extraordinary occasions. From La Teste to the valley of the Gave this
old house-mother is queen of the hive, active, thrifty, keen of eye, and
sharp of tongue. The slightest murmur is frozen into silence beneath the
arctic ray of her Poyser-like glance. She is a hawk by day and an owl by
night. She directs the spinning and weaving of the wool and flax, orders
the meals, and superintends the wardrobe of the whole colony. The land
is so poor that it is seldom divided among the children. The oldest heir
becomes head of the family, and they all fare better by sharing in the
general income. In unity there is safety--and economy.

At every door is the clumsy machine for breaking the flax that is spun
during the long winter evenings for the sail-makers of Bayonne or the
weavers of Béarn, whose linen, if not equal to that of Flanders, is
as good as that of Normandy. Before every house is also the huge oven
where the bread is baked for general consumption. Flocks of geese paddle
from pool to pool in the marshes, and wild ducks breed undisturbed in
the fens. In the villages on the borders of the Landes you hear in the
morning a sharp whistle that might serve for a locomotive. It is the
swineherd summoning his charge, which issue in a gallop, two or three
from each house, to seek their food in the moors. They all come back in
the evening, and go to their own pens to get the bucket of bran that
awaits them. Feeding thus in the wild, their meat acquires a peculiar
flavor. Most of these animals go into the market. The hams of Bayonne
have always been famous. We might say they are historic, for Strabo
speaks of them.

When the rainy season is at an end, these bogs and stagnant pools give
out a deadly miasma in the burning sun, engendering fevers, dysentery,
and the fatal pellagra. The system is rapidly undermined, and the peasant
seldom attains to an advanced age. He marries at twenty and is old at
forty.

A kind of awe comes over the soul in traversing this region, and yet
it has a certain mysterious attraction which draws us on and on, as
if nature had some marvellous secret in store for us. The atmosphere
is charged with a thin vapor that quivers in the blazing sun. Strange
insects are in the air. A sense of the infinite, such as we feel in the
midst of the ocean, comes over us. We grow breathless as the air--grow
silent as the light that gilds the vast landscape before us. One of the
greatest of the sons of the Landes--the Père de Ravignan--says: “Solitude
is the _patrie des forts_: silence is their prayer.” One feels how true
it is in these boundless moors. It is the only prayer fit for this realm
of silence, where one is brought closer and closer to the heart of
nature, and restored, as it were, at least in a degree, to the primeval
relation of man with his Creator.

Carlyle says the finest nations in the world, the English and the
American, are all going away into wind and tongue. We recommend a season
in the Landes, where one becomes speedily impressed that “silence is the
eternal duty of man.”

We wonder such a region should be inhabited. The _daunas_, we hope, never
have courage enough to raise their still voices in the open air. We fancy
wooing carried on in true Shaksperian style:

    “O Imogen! I’ll speak to thee in silence.”

    --“What should Cordelia do? Love and be silent.”

However this may be, the Landes are peopled, though thinly. Here and
there at immense distances we come to a cottage. The men are shepherds,
fishermen, or _résiniers_, as the turpentine-producers are called.
Pliny, Dioscorides, and other ancient writers speak of the inhabitants
as collecting the yellow amber thrown up by the sea, and trafficking in
beeswax, resin, and pitch. The Phœnicians and Carthaginians initiated
them into the mysteries of mining and forging. The Moors taught them the
value of their cork-trees. They still keep bees that feed on the purple
bells of the heather, and sell vast quantities of wax for the candles
used in the churches of France--_cierges_, as they are called, from _cire
vierge_--virgin wax, wrought by chaste bees, and alone fit for the sacred
altars of Jesus and Mary.

Ausonius thus speaks of the pursuits of the people:

    “Mercatus ne agitas leviore numismate captans,
    Insanis quod mox pretiis gravis auctio vendat,
    Albentisque sevi globulos et pinguia ceræ
    Pondera, Naryciamque picem, scissamque papyrum
    Fumantesque olidum paganica lumina tœdas.”

They are devoting more and more attention to the production of turpentine
by planting the maritime pine which grew here in the days of Strabo,
and thereby reclaiming the vast tracts of sand thrown up by the sea.
A priest, the Abbé Desbiez, and his brother are said to have first
conceived the idea of reclaiming their native deserts and staying the
progress of the quicksands which had buried so many places, and were
moving unceasingly on at the rate of about twenty-five yards a year,
threatening the destruction of many more. That was about a hundred
years ago. A few years after M. Brémontier, a French engineer, tested
the plan by planting, as far as his means allowed, the maritime pine,
the strong, fibrous roots of which take tenacious hold of the slightest
crevice in the rock, and absorb the least nutriment in the soil. But this
experiment was slow to lead to any important result, as the _pinada_, or
pine plantations, involve an outlay that makes no return for years. It
was not till Louis Philippe’s time that the work was carried on with any
great activity. Napoleon III. also greatly extended the plantations--the
importance of which became generally acknowledged--not only to arrest the
progress of the sands, but to meet the want of turpentine in the market,
so long dependent on imports.

In ten years the trees begin to yield an income. Each acre then furnishes
twelve or fifteen thousand poles for vineyards or the coalman. The
prudent owner does not tap his trees till they are twenty-five years old.
By that time they are four feet in circumference and yield turpentine
to the value of fifty or sixty francs a year. Then the _résinier_ comes
with his hatchet and makes an incision low down in the trunk, from which
the resin flows into an earthern jar or a hollow in the ground. These
jars are emptied at due intervals, and the incision from time to time
is widened. Later, others are made parallel to it. These are finally
extended around the tree. With prudence this treatment may be continued
a century; for this species of pine is very hardy if not exhausted. When
the poor tree is near its end, it is hacked without any mercy and bled to
death. Then it is only fit for the sawmill, wood-pile, or coal-pit.

Poor and desolate as the Landes are, they have had their share of great
men. “Every path on the globe may lead to the door of a hero,” says some
one. We have spoken of La Teste. This was the stronghold of the stout old
Captals de Buch,[4] belonging to the De Graillys, one of the historic
families of the country. No truer specimen of the lords of the Landes
could be found than these old captals, who, poor, proud, and adventurous,
entered the service of the English, to whom they remained faithful as
long as that nation had a foothold in the land. Their name and deeds are
familiar to every reader of Froissart. The nearness of Bordeaux, and the
numerous privileges and exemptions granted the foresters and herdsmen of
the Landes, explain the strong attachment of the people to the English
crown. The De Graillys endeavored by alliances to aggrandize their
family, and finally became loyal subjects of France under Louis XI. They
intermarried with the Counts of Foix and Béarn, and their vast landed
possessions were at length united with those of the house of Albret.
Where would the latter have been without them? And without the Albrets,
where the Bourbons?

And this reminds us of the Sires of Albret, another and still more
renowned family of the Landes.

Near the source of the Midou, among the pine forests of Maremsin, you
come to a village of a thousand people called Labrit, the ancient
Leporetum, or country of hares, whence Lebret, Labrit, and Albret. Here
rose the house of Albret from obscurity to reign at last over Navarre and
unite the most of ancient Aquitaine to the crown of France. The history
of these lords of the heather is a marvel of wit and good-luck. Great
hunters of hares and seekers of heiresses, they were always on the scent
for advantageous alliances, not too particular about the age or face of
the lady, provided they won broad lands or a fat barony. Once in their
clutches, they seldom let go. They never allowed a daughter to succeed to
any inheritance belonging to the _seigneurie_ of Albret as long as there
was a male descendant. Always receive, and never give, was their motto.
Their daughters had their wealth of beauty for a dowry, with a little
money or a troublesome fief liable to reversion.

The Albrets are first heard of in the XIth century, when the Benedictine
abbot of S. Pierre at Condom, alarmed for the safety of Nérac, one of
the abbatial possessions, called upon his brother, Amanieu d’Albret, for
aid. The better to defend the monk’s property, the Sire of Albret built a
castle on the left bank of the Baïse, and played the _rôle_ of protector
so well that at last his descendants are found sole lords of Nérac, on
the public square of which now stands the statue of Henry IV., the most
glorious of the race. The second Amanieu went to the Crusades under the
banner of Raymond of St. Gilles, and entered Jerusalem next to Godfrey
of Bouillon, to whom an old historian makes him related, nobody knows
how. Oihenard says the Albrets descended from the old kings of Navarre,
and a MS. of the XIVth century links them with the Counts of Bigorre;
but this was probably to flatter the pride of the house after it rose to
importance. We find a lord of Albret in the service of the Black Prince
with a thousand lances (five thousand men), and owner of Casteljaloux,
Lavazan, and somehow of the abbey of Sauve-Majour; but not finding the
English service sufficiently lucrative, he passed over to the enemy.
Charles d’Albret was so able a captain that he quartered the lilies of
France on his shield, and held the constable’s sword till the fatal
battle of Agincourt. Alain d’Albret made a fine point in the game by
marrying Françoise de Bretagne, who, though ugly, was the niece and only
heiress of Jean de Blois, lord of Périgord and Limoges. His son had still
better luck. He married Catherine of Navarre. If he lost his possessions
beyond the Pyrenees, he kept the county of Foix, and soon added the lands
of Astarac. Henry I. of Navarre, by marrying Margaret of Valois, acquired
all the spoils of the house of Armagnac. Thus the princely house of
Navarre, under their daughter Jeanne, who married Antoine de Bourbon, was
owner of all Gascony and part of Guienne. It was Henry IV. of France who
finally realized the expression of the blind faith of the house of Albret
in its fortune, expressed in the prophetic device graven on the Château
de Coarraze, where he passed his boyhood: “_Lo que ha de ser no puede
faltar_”--That which must be will be!

But we have not yet come to the door of our hero. There is another native
of the Landes whose fame has gone out through the whole earth--whose
whole life and aim were in utter contrast with the spirit of these
old lords of the heather. The only armor he ever put on was that of
righteousness; the only sword, that of the truth; the only jewel, that
which the old rabbis say Abraham wore, the light of which raised up the
bowed down and healed the sick, and, after his death, was placed among
the stars! It need not be said we refer to S. Vincent de Paul, the great
initiator of public charity in France, who by his benevolence perhaps
effected as much for the good of the kingdom as Richelieu with his
political genius. He was born during the religious conflicts of the XVIth
century, in the little hamlet of Ranquine, in the parish of Pouy, on the
border of the Landes, a few miles from Dax. It must not be supposed the
_particule_ in his name is indicative of nobility. In former times people
who had no name but that given them at the baptismal font often added the
place of their birth to prevent confusion. S. Vincent was the son of a
peasant, and spent his childhood in watching his father’s scanty flock
among the moors. The poor cottage in which he was born is still standing,
and near it the gigantic old oak to the hollow of which he used to retire
to pray, both of which are objects of veneration to the pious pilgrim
of all ranks and all lands. Somewhere in these vast solitudes--whether
among the ruins of Notre Dame de Buglose, destroyed a little before by
the Huguenots, or in his secret oratory in the oak, we cannot say--he
heard the mysterious voice which once whispered to Joan of Arc among
the forests of Lorraine--a voice difficult to resist, which decided his
vocation in life. He resolved to enter the priesthood. The Franciscans
of Dax lent him books and a cell, and gave him a pittance for the love
of God; but he finished his studies and took his degree at Toulouse, as
was only discovered by papers found after his death, so unostentatious
was his life. He partly defrayed his expenses at Toulouse by becoming
the tutor of some young noblemen of Buzet. Near the latter place was a
solitary mountain chapel in the woods, not far from the banks of the
Tarn, called Notre Dame de Grâce. Its secluded position, the simplicity
of its decorations, and the devotion he experienced in this quiet
oratory, attracted the pious student, and he often retired there to pray
before the altar of Our Lady of Grace. It was there he found strength to
take upon himself the yoke of the priesthood--a yoke angels might fear
to bear. It was there, in solitude and silence, assisted by a priest and
a clerk, that he offered his first Mass; for, so terrified was he by the
importance and sublimity of this divine function, he had not the courage
to celebrate it in public. This chapel is still standing, and is annually
crowded with pilgrims on the festival of S. Vincent of Paul. It is good
to kneel on the worn flag-stones where the saint once prayed, and pour
out one’s soul before the altar that witnessed the fervor of his first
Mass. The superior-general of the Lazarists visited this interesting
chapel in 1851, accompanied by nearly fifty Sisters of Charity. They
brought a relic of the saint, a chalice and some vestments for the use of
the chaplain, and a bust of S. Vincent for the new altar to his memory.

Every step in S. Vincent’s life is marked by the unmistakable hand of
divine Providence. Captured in a voyage by Algerine pirates, he is sold
in the market-place of Tunis, that he might learn to sympathize with
those who are in bonds; he falls into the hands of a renegade, who,
with his whole family, is soon converted and makes his escape from the
country. S. Vincent presents them to the papal legate at Avignon, and
goes to Rome, whence he returns, charged with a confidential mission by
Cardinal d’Ossat. He afterwards becomes a tutor in the family of the
Comte de Gondi--another providential event. The count is governor-general
of the galleys, and the owner of vast possessions in Normandy. S. Vincent
labors among the convicts, and, if he cannot release them from their
bonds, he teaches them to bear their sufferings in a spirit of expiation.
He establishes rural missions in Normandy, and founds the College of
Bons-Enfants and the house of S. Lazare at Paris.

A holy widow, Mme. Legros, falls under his influence, and charitable
organizations of ladies are formed, and sisters for the special service
of the sick are established at S. Nicolas du Chardonnet. Little children,
abandoned by unnatural mothers, are dying of cold and hunger in the
streets; S. Vincent opens a foundling asylum, and during the cold winter
nights he goes alone through the most dangerous quarters of old Paris
in search of these poor waifs of humanity.[5] Clerical instruction is
needed, and Richelieu, at his instance, endows the first ecclesiastical
seminary. The moral condition of the army excites the saint’s compassion,
and the cardinal authorizes missionaries among the soldiers. The province
of Lorraine is suffering from famine. Mothers even devour their own
children. In a short time S. Vincent collects sixteen hundred thousand
livres for their relief. Under the regency of Anne of Austria he becomes
a member of the Council of Ecclesiastical Affairs. In the wars of
the Fronde he is for peace, and negotiates between the queen and the
parliament. The foundation of a hospital for old men marks the end of
his noble, unselfish life. The jewel of charity never ceases to glow
in his breast. It is his great bequest to his spiritual children. How
potent it has been is proved by the incalculable good effected to this
day by the Lazarists, Sisters of Charity, and Society of S. Vincent of
Paul--beautiful constellations in the firmament of the church!

In the midst of his honors S. Vincent never forgot his humble origin, but
often referred to it with the true spirit of _ama nesciri et pro nihilo
reputari_. Not that he was inaccessible to human weakness, but he knew
how to resist it. We read in his interesting _Life_ by Abbé Maynard that
the porter of the College of Bons-Enfants informed the superior one day
that a poorly-clad peasant, styling himself his nephew, was at the door.
S. Vincent blushed and ordered him to be taken up to his room. Then he
blushed for having blushed, and, going down into the street, embraced his
nephew and led him into the court, where, summoning all the professors of
the college, he presented the confused youth: “Gentlemen, this is the
most respectable of my family.” And he continued, during the remainder of
his visit, to introduce him to visitors of every rank as if he were some
great lord, in order to avenge his first movement of pride. And when, not
long after, he made a retreat, he publicly humbled himself before his
associates: “Brethren, pray for one who through pride wished to take his
nephew secretly to his room because he was a peasant and poorly dressed.”

S. Vincent returned only once to his native place after he began his
apostolic career. This was at the close of a mission among the convicts
of Bordeaux. During his visit he solemnly renewed his baptismal vows
in the village church where he had been baptized and made his First
Communion, and on the day of his departure he went with bare feet on a
pilgrimage to Notre Dame de Buglose, among whose ruins he had so often
prayed in his childhood, but which was now rebuilt. He was accompanied,
not only by his relatives, but by all the villagers, who were justly
proud of their countryman. He sang a solemn Mass at the altar of Our
Lady, and afterwards assembled the whole family around the table for a
modest repast, at the end of which he rose to take leave of them. They
all fell at his feet and implored his blessing. “Yes, I give you my
blessing,” replied he, much affected, “but I bless you poor and humble,
and beg our Lord to continue among you the grace of holy poverty.
Never abandon the condition in which you were born. This is my earnest
recommendation, which I beg you to transmit as a heritage to your
children. Farewell for ever!”

His advice was religiously kept. By mutual assistance his family might
have risen above its original obscurity. Some of his mother’s family were
advocates at the parliament of Bordeaux, and it would have been easy to
obtain offices that would have given them, at least, prominence in their
own village; but they clung to their rural pursuits. The advice of their
sainted relative was too precious a legacy to be renounced.

Not that S. Vincent was insensible to their condition or unambitious
by nature, but he knew the value of the hidden life and the perils
of worldly ambition. We have on this occasion another glimpse of his
struggles with nature. Hardly had he left his relatives before he gave
vent to his emotion in a flood of tears, and he almost reproached himself
for leaving them in their poverty. But let us quote his own words: “The
day I left home I was so filled with sorrow at separating from my poor
relatives that I wept as I went along--wept almost incessantly. Then came
the thought of aiding them and bettering their condition; of giving so
much to this one, and so much to that. While my heart thus melted within
me, I divided all I had with them. Yes, even what I had not; and I say
this to my confusion, for God perhaps permitted it to make me comprehend
the value of the evangelical counsel. For three months I felt this
importunate longing to promote the interests of my brothers and sisters.
It constantly weighed on my poor heart. During this time, when I felt a
little relieved, I prayed God to deliver me from this temptation, and
persevered so long in my prayer that at length he had pity on me and
took away this excessive tenderness for my relations; and though they
have been needy, and still are, the good God has given me the grace to
commit them to his Providence, and to regard them as better off than if
they were in an easier condition.”

S. Vincent was equally rigid as to his own personal necessities, as may
be seen by the following words from his own lips: “When I put a morsel of
bread to my mouth, I say to myself: Wretched man, hast thou earned the
bread thou art going to eat--the bread that comes from the labor of the
poor?”

Such is the spirit of the saints. In these days, when most people are
struggling to rise in the world, many by undue means, and to an unlawful
height, it is well to recall this holy example; it is good to get a
glimpse into the heart of a saint, and to remember there are still many
in the world and in the cloister who strive to counterbalance all this
ambition and love of display by their humility and self-denial.

Immediately after S. Vincent’s canonization, in 1737, the inhabitants of
Pouy, desirous of testifying their veneration for his memory, removed the
house where he was born a short distance from its original place, without
changing its primitive form in the least, and erected a small chapel
on the site, till means could be obtained for building a church. The
great Revolution put a stop to the plan. In 1821 a new effort was made,
a committee appointed, and a subscription begun which soon amounted to
thirty thousand francs; but at the revolution of 1830 material interests
prevailed, and the funds were appropriated to the construction of roads.

The ecclesiastical authorities at length took the matter in hand, and
formed the plan, not only of building a church, but surrounding it with
the various charitable institutions founded by S. Vincent--a hospital
for the aged, asylums for orphans and foundlings, and perhaps a _ferme
modèle_ in the Landes.

In 1850 the Bishop of Aire appealed to the Catholic world for aid. Pius
IX. blessed the undertaking. On the Festival of the Transfiguration,
1851, the corner-stone was laid by the bishop, assisted by Père Etienne,
the superior-general of the Lazarists. Napoleon III. and the Empress
Eugénie largely contributed to the work, and in a few years the church
and hospice were completed. The consecration took place April 24, 1864,
in the presence of an immense multitude from all parts of the country.
From three o’clock in the morning there were Masses at a dozen altars,
and the hands of the priests were fatigued in administering the holy
Eucharist. Among the communicants were eight hundred members of the
Society of S. Vincent de Paul, from Bordeaux, who manifested their joy
by enthusiastic hymns. At eight in the forenoon Père Etienne, surrounded
by Lazarists and Sisters of Charity, celebrated the Holy Sacrifice at
the newly-consecrated high altar, and several novices made their vows,
among whom was a young African, a cousin of Abdel Kader. A _châsse_
containing relics of S. Vincent was brought in solemn procession from the
parish church of Pouy, where he had been held at the font and received
the divine Guest in his heart for the first time. The road was strewn
with flowers and green leaves. The weather was delightful and the heavens
radiant. At the head of the procession was borne a banner, on which S.
Vincent was represented as a shepherd, followed by all the orphans of
the new asylum and the old men of the hospice. Then came a long line
of _Enfants de Marie_ dressed in white, carrying oriflammes, followed
by the students of the colleges of Aire and Dax. Behind were fifteen
hundred members of the Society of S. Vincent de Paul, and a file of
sisters of various orders, including eight hundred Sisters of Charity,
with a great number of Lazarists in the rear. Then came thirty relatives
of S. Vincent, wearing the peasant’s costume of the district, heirs of
his virtues and simplicity--_Noblesse oblige_. Then the Polish Lazarists
with the flag of their nation, beloved by S. Vincent, and after them
the clergy of the diocese and a great number from foreign parts, among
whom was M. Eugène Boré, of Constantinople, now superior-general of the
two orders founded by the saint. The shrine came next, surrounded by
Lazarists and Sisters of Charity. Behind the canons and other dignitaries
came eight bishops, four archbishops, and Cardinal Donnet of Bordeaux,
followed by the civil authorities and an immense multitude of people
nearly two miles in extent, with banners bearing touching devices.

This grand procession of more than thirty thousand people proceeded with
the utmost order, to the sound of chants, instrumental music, and salutes
from cannon from time to time, to the square in front of the new church,
where, before an altar erected at the foot of S. Vincent’s oak, they were
addressed by Père Etienne in an eloquent, thrilling discourse, admirable
in style and glowing with imagery, suited to the fervid nature of this
southern region. He spoke of S. Vincent, not only as the man of his age
with a providential mission, but of a type suited to all ages.

The man who loved his brethren, reconciled enemies, brought the rich and
poor into one common field imbued with a common idea of sacrifice and
devotion, fed the orphan, aided the needy, and wiped away the tears of
the sufferer, is the man of all times, and especially of an age marked by
the fomentation of political passions.

The old oak was gay with streamers, the hollow was fitted up as an
oratory, before which Cardinal Donnet said Mass in the open air, after
which thousands of voices joined in the solemn _Te Deum Laudamus_, and
the thirteen prelates terminated the grand ceremony by giving their
united benediction to the kneeling crowd.

A whole flock of Sisters of Charity, with their dove-like plumage of
white and gray, took the same train as ourselves the pleasant September
morning we left Bayonne for the birth-place of S. Vincent of Paul. They
seemed like birds of good omen. They were also going to the _Berceau_
(cradle), as they called it, not on a mere pilgrimage, but to make their
annual retreat. What for, the saints alone know; for they looked like the
personification of every amiable virtue, and quite ready to spread their
white wings and take flight for heaven. It was refreshing to watch their
gentle, unaffected ways, wholly devoid of those demure airs of superior
sanctity and repulsive austerity so exasperating to us worldly-minded
people. They all made the sign of the cross as the train moved out of
the station--and a good honest one it was, as if they loved the sign
of the Son of Man, and delighted in wearing it on their breast. Some
had come from St. Sebastian, others from St. Jean de Luz, and several
from Bayonne; but they mingled like sisters of one great family of
charity. Some chatted, some took out their rosaries and went to praying
with the most cheerful air imaginable, as if it were a new refreshment
just allowed them, instead of being the daily food of their souls; and
others seemed to be studying with interest the peculiar region we were
now entering. For we were now in the Landes--low, level, monotonous, and
melancholy. The railway lay through vast forests of dusky-pines, varied
by willows and cork-trees, with here and there, at long distances, an
open tract where ripened scanty fields of corn and millet around the low
cottages of the peasants. The sides of the road were purple with heather.
The air was full of aromatic odors. Each pine had its broad gash cut by
some merciless hand, and its life-blood was slowly trickling down its
side. Passing through this sad forest, one could not help thinking of
the drear, mystic wood in Dante’s _Inferno_, where every tree encloses a
human soul with infinite capacity of suffering, and at every gash cut,
every branch lopped off, utters a despairing cry:

                “Why pluck’st thou me?
    Then, as the dark blood trickled down its side,
    These words it added: Wherefore tear’st me thus?
    Is there no touch of mercy in thy breast?
    Men once were we that now are rooted here.”

Though the sun was hot, the pine needles seemed to shiver, the branches
swayed to and fro in the air, and gave out a kind of sigh which sometimes
increased into an inarticulate wail. We look up, almost expecting to see
the harpies sitting

    “Each on the wild thorn of his wretched shade.”

Could we stop, we might question these maimed trees and learn some
fearful tragedy from the imprisoned spirits. Perhaps they recount them
to each other in the wild winter nights when the peasants, listening
with a kind of fear in their lone huts, start up from their beds and
say it is Rey Artus--King Arthur--who is passing by with his long train
of dogs, horses, and huntsmen, from an old legend of the time of the
English occupation which says that King Arthur, as he was hearing Mass on
Easter-day, attracted by the cries of his hounds attacking their prey,
went out at the elevation of the Host. A whirlwind carried him into the
clouds, where he has hunted ever since, and will, without cessation or
repose, till the day of judgment, only taking a fly every seven years.
The popular belief that he is passing with a great noise through space
when the winds sweep across the vast moors on stormy nights probably
embodies the old tradition of some powerful lord whose hounds and
huntsmen ruined the crops of the poor, who, in their wrath, consigned
them to endless barren hunting-fields in the spirit-land--a legend which
reminds us of the _Aasgaardsreja_ of whom Miss Bremer tells us--spirits
not good enough to merit heaven, and yet not bad enough to deserve
hell, and are therefore doomed to ride about till the end of the world,
carrying fear and disaster in their train.

In a little over an hour we arrived at Dax, a pleasant town on the banks
of the Adour, with long lines of sycamores, behind which is a hill
crowned with an old château, now belonging to the Lazarists. The place
is renowned for its thermal springs and mud-baths, known to the Romans
before its conquest by the Cæsars. It was from Aquæ Augustæ, the capital
of the ancient Tarbelli (called in the Middle Ages the _ville d’Acqs_,
or _d’Acs_, whence Dax), that the name of Aquitaine is supposed to be
derived. Pliny, the naturalist, speaking of the Aquenses, says: _Aquitani
indè nomen provinciæ_. The Bay of Biscay was once known by the name of
Sinus Tarbellicus, from the ancient Tarbelli. Lucan says:

              “Tunc rura Nemossi
    Qui tenet et ripas Aturri, quo littore curvo
    Molliter admissum claudit Tarbellicus æquor.”

S. Vincent of Saintonge was the first apostle of the region, and fell a
martyr to his zeal. Dax formed part of the dowry of the daughter of Henry
II. of England when she married Alfonso of Castile, but it returned to
the Plantagenets in the time of Edward III. The city was an episcopal
see before the revolution of 1793. François de Noailles, one of the
most distinguished of its bishops, was famous as a diplomatist in the
XVIth century. He was sent to England on several important missions, and
finally appointed ambassador to that country in the reign of Mary Tudor.
Recalled when Philip II. induced her to declare war against France, he
landed at Calais, and, carefully examining the fortifications, his keen,
observant eye soon discovered the weak point, to which, at his arrival
in court, he at once directed the king’s attention, declaring it would
not be a difficult matter to take the place. His statements made such an
impression on King Henry, who had always found him as judicious as he was
devoted to the interests of the crown, that he resolved to lay siege to
Calais, notwithstanding the opposition of his ministers, and the Duke of
Guise began the attack January 1, 1558. The place was taken in a week.
It had cost the English a year’s siege two hundred and ten years before.
Three weeks after its surrender Cardinal Hippolyte de Ferrara, Archbishop
of Auch (the son of Lucretia Borgia, who married Alphonso d’Este, Duke
of Ferrara) wrote François de Noailles as follows: “No one can help
acknowledging the great hand you had in the taking of Calais, as it was
actually taken at the very place you pointed out.” French historians have
been too forgetful of the hand the Bishop of Dax had in the taking of a
place so important to the interests of the nation, which added so much to
the glory of the French arms, and was so humiliating to England, whose
anguish was echoed by the queen when she exclaimed that if her heart
could be opened the very name of Calais would be found written therein!

This great churchman was no less successful in his embassy to Venice,
where he triumphed over the haughty pretensions of Philip II., and, as
Brantôme says, “won great honor and affection.” After five years in Italy
he returned to Dax, where he devoted most of his revenues to relieve
the misery that prevailed at that fearful time of religious war. Dax,
as he said, was “the poorest see in France.” In 1571 he was appointed
ambassador to Constantinople by Charles IX. Florimond de Raymond, an old
writer of that day, tells us the bishop was at first troubled as to his
presentation to the sultan, who only regarded the highest dignitaries
as the dust of his feet, and exacted ceremonies which the ambassador
considered beneath the dignity of a bishop and a representative of
France. He resolved not to submit to them, and, thanks to his pleasing
address, and handsome person dressed for the occasion in red _cramoisie_
and cloth of gold, he was not subjected to them. Moreover, by his
fascinating manners and agreeable conversation, he became a great
favorite of the sultan, and took so judicious a course that his embassy
ended by rendering France mistress of the commerce of the Mediterranean,
and giving her a pre-eminence in the East which she has never lost.

It was after his return from the Levant that, in an interview with Henry
III., the sagacious bishop urged the king to declare war against Spain,
as the best means of delivering France from the horrors of a civil war.
De Thou says the king seemed to listen favorably to the suggestion; but
it was opposed by the council, and it was not till ten years later that
Henry IV. declared war against that country, as Duruy states, “the better
to end the civil war.”

The Bishop of Dax seems to have been poorly remunerated for his eminent
services. Like Frederick the Great’s father, he said kings were always
hard of hearing when there was a question of money, and complained
that, notwithstanding his long services abroad, he had never received
either honors or profit. Even his appointments as ambassador to Venice,
amounting to more than thirty thousand livres, were still due. Many of
his letters to the king and to Marie de Médicis have been preserved,
which show his elevation of mind, and his broad political and religious
views, which give him a right to be numbered among the great churchmen of
the XVIth century.

At Dax we took a carriage to the _Berceau_ of S. Vincent, and, after
half an hour’s drive along a level road bordered with trees, we came
in sight of the great dome of the church rising up amid a group of fine
buildings. Driving up to the door, the first thing we observed was the
benign statue of the saint standing on the gable against the clear, blue
sky, with arms wide-spread, smiling on the pilgrim a very balm of peace.
Before the church there is a broad green, at the right of which is the
venerable old oak; at the left, the cottage of the De Pauls; and in the
rear of the church, the asylums and hospice--fine establishments one is
surprised to find in this remote region. We at once entered the church,
which is in the style of the Renaissance. It consists of a nave without
aisles, a circular apsis, and transepts which form the arms of the cross,
in the centre of which rises the dome, lined with an indifferent fresco
representing S. Vincent borne to heaven by the angels. Directly beneath
is the high altar where are enshrined relics of the saint. Around it,
at the four angles of the cross, are statues of four S. Vincents--of
Xaintes, of Saragossa, of Lerins, and S. Vincent Ferrer. The whole life
of S. Vincent of Paul is depicted in the stained-glass windows. And on
the walls of the nave are four paintings, one representing him as a boy,
praying before Our Lady of Buglose; the second, his first Mass in the
chapel of Notre Dame de Grâce; in the third he is redeeming captives, and
in the fourth giving alms to the poor.

We next visited the asylums, admiring the clean, airy rooms, the
intelligent, happy faces of the orphans, and the graceful cordiality of
the sister who was at the head of the establishment--a lady of fortune
who has devoted her all to the work.

At length we came to the cottage--the door of the true hero to which
our path had led. The broad, one-story house in which S. Vincent was
born is now a mere skeleton within, the framework of the partitions
alone remaining, so one can take in the whole at a glance. There is the
kitchen, with the huge, old-fashioned chimney, around which the family
used to gather--so enormous that in looking up one sees a vast extent of
blue sky. Saint’s house though it was, we could not help thinking--Heaven
forgive us the profane thought!--it must have been very much like the
squire’s chimney in _Tylney Hall_, the draught of which, like the Polish
game of draughts, was apt to take backwards and discharge all the smoke
into his sitting-room! The second room at the left, where the saint was
born, is an oratory containing an altar, the crucifix he used to pray
before, some of the garments he wore, shoes broad and much-enduring as
his own nature, and many other precious relics. Not only this, but every
room has an altar. We counted seven, all of the simplest construction,
for the convenience of the pilgrims who come here with their _curés_ at
certain seasons of the year to honor their sainted countryman who in his
youth here led a simple, laborious life like themselves. We found several
persons at prayer in the various compartments, all of which showed the
primitive habits and limited resources of the family, though not absolute
poverty. The floor was of earth, the walls and great rafters only
polished with time and the kisses of the pilgrims, and above the rude
stairway, a mere loft where perchance the saint slept in his boyhood.
Everything in this cottage, where a great heart was cradled, was from its
very simplicity extremely touching. It seemed the very place to meditate
on the mysterious ways of divine Providence--mysterious as the wind that
bloweth where it listeth--the very place to chant the _Suscitans à terrâ
inopem: et de stercore erigens pauperem; ut collocet eum cum principibus,
cum principibus populi sui_.

S. Vincent’s oak, on the opposite side of the green, looks old enough to
have witnessed the mysterious rites of the Druids. It is surrounded by
a railing to protect it from the pious depredations of the pilgrim. It
still spreads broad its branches covered with verdure, though the trunk
is so hollowed by decay that one side is entirely gone, and in the heart,
where young Vincent used to pray, stands a wooden pillar on which is a
statue of the Virgin, pure and white, beneath the green bower. A crowd of
artists, _savants_, soldiers, and princes have bent before this venerable
tree. In 1823 the public authorities of the commune received the Duchess
of Angoulême at its foot. The learned and pious Ozanam, one of the
founders of the Society of S. Vincent of Paul, came here in his last days
to offer a prayer. On the list of foreign visitors is the name of the
late venerable Bishop Flaget of Kentucky, of whom it is recorded that he
kissed the tree with love and veneration, and plucked, as every pilgrim
does, a leaf from its branches.

There is an herb, says Pliny, found on Mt. Atlas; they who gather it see
more clearly. There is something of this virtue in the oak of S. Vincent
of Paul. One sees more clearly than ever at its foot the infinite moral
superiority of a nature like his to the worldly ambition of the old lords
of the Landes. Famous as the latter were in their day, who thinks of them
now? Who cares for the lords of Castelnau, the Seigneurs of Juliac, or
even for the Sires of Albret, whose ancient castle at Labrit is now razed
to the ground, and, while we write, its last traces obliterated for ever?
The shepherd whistles idly among the ruins of their once strong holds,
the ploughman drives thoughtlessly over the place where they once held
proud sway, as indifferent as the beasts themselves; but there is not a
peasant in the Landes who does not cherish the memory of S. Vincent of
Paul, or a noble who does not respect his name; and thousands annually
visit the poor house where he was born and look with veneration at the
oak where he prayed.

Charity is the great means of making the poor forget the fearful
inequality of worldly riches, and its obligation reminds the wealthy they
are only part of a great brotherhood. Its exercise softens the heart and
averts the woe pronounced on the rich. S. John of God, wishing to found
a hospital at Granada, and without a ducat in the world, walked slowly
through the streets and squares with a hod on his back and two great
kettles at his side, crying with a loud voice: “Who wishes to do good to
himself? Ah! my brethren, for the love of God, do good to yourselves!”
And alms flowed in from every side. It was these appeals in the divine
name that gave him his appellation. “What is your name?” asked Don
Ramirez, Bishop of Tuy. “John,” was the reply. “Henceforth you shall be
called John of God,” said the bishop.

And so, that we may all become the sons of God, let us here, at the foot
of S. Vincent’s oak, echo the words that in life were so often on his
lips:

CARITATEM, PROPTER DEUM!


LORD CASTLEHAVEN’S MEMOIRS.[6]

In the year 1638 the Earl of Castlehaven, then a young man, made the
Grand Tour, as became a nobleman of his family in that age. Being at
Rome, whither the duty of paying his respects to the Holy Father had
carried him--for this lord was the head of one of those grand old
families which had declined to forswear its faith at the behest of Henry
or Elizabeth--he received a letter from King Charles I., requiring him to
attend the king in his expedition against the Scots, then revolted and
in arms. With that instant loyalty which was the return made by those
proscribed families to an ungrateful court from the Armada down, Lord
Castlehaven, two days after the messenger had placed the royal missive
in his hands, took post for England. Near Turin he fell in with an army
commanded by the Marquis de Leganes, Governor of Milan for the King of
Spain, who was marching to besiege the Savoy capital. But the siege was
soon raised, and Lord Castlehaven entered the town. There he found her
Royal Highness the Duchess of Savoy in great confusion, as if she had got
no rest for many nights, so much had she been occupied with the conduct
of the defence; for even the wives of this warlike and rapacious family
soon learned to defend their own by the strong hand, and could stretch it
out to grasp still more when occasion served. But as yet the ambition of
the House of Savoy stopped short of sacrilege--or stooped to it like a
hawk on short flights--nor dreamed of aggrandizing itself with the spoils
of the whole territory of the church. When Lord Castlehaven came to
take leave of the duchess, her royal highness gave him a musket-bullet,
much battered, which had come in at her window and missed her narrowly,
charging him to deliver it safely to her sister, the Queen of England--as
it proved, a present of ill omen; for of musket-balls, in a little time,
the English sister had more than enough.

Arriving in London, Lord Castlehaven followed the king to Berwick,
where he found the royal army encamped, with the Tweed before it, and
the Scotch, under Gen. Leslie, lying at some distance. A pacification
was soon effected, and both armies partially disbanded. After this the
earl passed his time “as well as he could” at home till 1640. In that
year the King of France besieged Arras, and Lord Castlehaven set out to
witness the siege. Within was a stout garrison under Owen Roe O’Neal,
commanding for the Prince Cardinal, Governor of the Low Countries. This
was the first meeting of Castlehaven with the future victor of Benburb,
with whom he was afterwards brought into closer relations in the Irish
Rebellion. The French pressed Arras close, and the confederates being
defeated, and the hope of the siege being raised grown desperate,
the town was surrendered on honorable terms. This action over, Lord
Castlehaven returned to England and sat in Parliament till the attainder
of the Earl of Strafford. When that great nobleman fell, deserted by
his wavering royal master, and the king’s friends were beginning to
turn about--they scarce knew whither--to prepare for the storm that all
men saw was coming, Lord Castlehaven went to Ireland, where he had some
estate and three married sisters. While there the Rebellion of 1641 broke
out. Although innocent of any complicity in the outbreak, his faith
made him suspected, and he was imprisoned on a slight pretext by the
lords-justices. Escaping, his first design was to get into France, and
thence to England to join the king at York, and petition for a trial by
his peers. But coming to Kilkenny, he found there the Supreme Council
of the Confederate Catholics just assembled--many of them being of his
acquaintance--and was persuaded by them to throw in his lot with theirs,
seeing, as they truly told him, that they were all persecuted on the same
score, and ruined so that they had nothing more to lose but their lives.
From that time till the peace of 1646 he was engaged in the war of the
Confederate Catholics, holding important commands in the field under the
Supreme Council. His _Memoirs_ is the history of this war.

After the peace of 1646, concluded with the Marquis of Ormond, the king’s
lord-lieutenant, but which shortly fell through, Lord Castlehaven retired
to France, and served as a volunteer under Prince Rupert at the siege of
Landrecies. Then, returning to Paris, he remained in attendance on the
Queen of England and the Prince of Wales (Charles II.) at St. Germain
till 1648. In that year he returned to Ireland with the lord-lieutenant,
the Marquis of Ormond, and served the royal cause in that kingdom
against the parliamentary forces under Ireton and Cromwell. The battle
of Worcester being lost, and Cromwell the undisputed master of the three
kingdoms, Castlehaven again followed the clouded fortunes of Charles II.
to France. There he obtained permission to join the Great Condé. In the
campaigns under that prince he had the command of eight or nine regiments
of Irish troops, making altogether a force of 5,000 men. Thus we find
the Irish refugees already consolidated into a brigade some years before
the Treaty of Limerick expatriated those soldiers whose valor is more
commonly identified with that title.

Lord Castlehaven returned to England at the Restoration. In the war
with Holland he served as a volunteer in some of the naval engagements.
In 1667, the French having invaded Flanders, he was ordered there with
2,400 men to recruit the “Old English Regiment,” of which he was made
colonel. The peace of Aix-la-Chapelle ended this war. Peace reigned in
the Low Countries till the breaking out, in 1673, of the long and bloody
contest between the Prince of Orange and the confederate Spaniards and
Imperialists on the one side, and Louis XIV. on the other. This was
the age of grand campaigns, conducted upon principles of mathematical
precision by the great captains formed in the school of M. Turenne,
before the “little Marquis of Brandenburg”[7] and the “Corsican
corporal” in turn revolutionized the art of war. Castlehaven entered
the Spanish service, and shared the checkered but generally disastrous
fortunes of the Duke of Villahermosa and the Prince of Orange (William
III.) against Condé and Luxembourg, till the peace of Nymegen put an end
to the war in 1678.

Then, after forty years’ hard service, this veteran retired from the
field, and returning to England, like another Cæsar, set about writing
his commentaries on the wars. Thus he spent his remaining years. First
he published, but without acknowledging the authorship, his _Memoirs
of the Irish Wars_. This first edition was suppressed. Then, in 1684,
appeared the second edition, containing, besides the _Memoirs_,
his “Appendix”--being an account of his Continental service--his
“Observations” on confederate armies and the conduct of war, and a
“Postscript,” which is a reply to the Earl of Anglesey. And right well
has the modern reader reason to be thankful for his lordship’s literary
spirit. His _Memoirs_ is one of the most authentic and trustworthy
accounts we have of that vexed passage of Irish history--the Rebellion
of 1641. Its blunt frankness is its greatest charm; it has the value of
an account by an actor in the scenes described; and it possesses that
merit of impartiality which comes of being written by an Englishman
who, connected with the Irish leaders by the ties of faith, family, and
property, and sympathizing fully with their efforts to obtain redress
for flagrant wrongs was yet not blind to their mistakes and indefensible
actions.

Castlehaven, neglected for more than a century, has received more
justice at the hands of later historians. He is frequently referred to by
Lingard, and his work will be found an admirable commentary on Carte’s
_Life of Ormond_. There is a notice of him in Horace Walpole’s _Catalogue
of Royal and Noble Authors_ (vol. iii.)

“If this lord,” says Walpole, “who led a very martial life, had not
taken the pains to record his own actions (which, however, he has done
with great frankness and ingenuity), we should know little of his
story, our historians scarce mentioning him, and even our writers of
anecdotes, as Burnet, or of tales and circumstances, as Roger North,
not giving any account of a court quarrel occasioned by his lordship’s
_Memoirs_. Anthony Wood alone has preserved this event, but has not
made it intelligible. … The earl had been much censured for his share
in the Irish Rebellion, and wrote the _Memoirs_ to explain his conduct
rather than to excuse it; for he freely confesses his faults, and imputes
them to provocations from the government of that kingdom, to whose
rashness and cruelty, conjointly with the votes and resolutions of the
English Parliament, he ascribes the massacre. There are no dates nor
method, and less style, in these _Memoirs_--defects atoned for in some
measure by a martial honesty. Soon after their publication the Earl of
Anglesey wrote to ask a copy. Lord Castlehaven sent him one, but denying
the work as his. Anglesey, who had been a commissioner in Ireland for
the Parliament, published Castlehaven’s letter, with observations and
reflections very abusive of the Duke of Ormond, which occasioned first
a printed controversy, and this a trial before the Privy Council; the
event of which was that Anglesey’s first letter was voted a scandalous
libel, and himself removed from the custody of the Privy Seal; and that
the Earl of Castlehaven’s _Memoirs_, on which he was several times
examined, and which he owned, was declared a scandalous libel on the
government--a censure that seems very little founded; there is not a word
that can authorize that sentence from the Council of Charles II. but
the imputation on the lords-justices of Charles I.; for I suppose the
Privy Council did not pique themselves on vindicating the honor of the
republican Parliament! Bishop Morley wrote _A True Account of the Whole
Proceeding between James, Duke of Ormond, and Arthur, Earl of Anglesey_.”

Immediately after the Restoration, as it is well known, an act was
passed, commonly called in that age “the Act of Oblivion,” by which all
penalties (except certain specified ones) incurred in the late troublous
and rebellious times were forgiven. So superfine would have been the net
which the law of treason would have drawn around the three kingdoms, had
its strict construction been enforced, that it was quite cut loose, a few
only of the greatest criminals and regicides being held in its meshes.
So harsh had been Cromwell’s iron rule that there were few counties of
England in which the stoutest squires, and even the most loyal, might
not have trembled had the king’s commission inquired too closely into
the legal question of connivance at the late tyrant’s rule. And in the
great cities, London especially, the tide of enthusiasm which now ran
so strongly for the king could not hide the memory of those days when
the same fierce crowds had clamored for the head of the “royal martyr.”
Prudent it was, as well as benign, therefore, for the “merry monarch”
to let time roll smoothly over past transgressions. But though the law
might grant oblivion, and even punish the revival of controversies,
the old rancor between individuals and even parties was not so easily
appeased after the first joyful outburst. Books and pamphlets by the
hundred brought charges and counter charges. But these “authors of
slander and lyes,” as Castlehaven calls them, outdid themselves in their
tragical stories of the Irish Rebellion of 1641. Nor have imitators been
wanting in this age, as rancorous and more skilful, in the production
of “fictions and invectives to traduce a whole nation.” To answer those
calumnies by “setting forth the truth of his story in a brief and plain
method” was the design of Castlehaven’s work.

Then, as now, it was the aim of the libellers of the Irish people to
make the whole nation accountable for the “massacre,” so called, of
1641, and to confound the war of the Confederate Catholics and the
later loyal resistance to Cromwell in one common denunciation with the
first sanguinary and criminal outbreak. Lord Castlehaven’s narrative
effectually disposes of this charge. In a singularly clear and candid
manner he narrates the rise and progress of the insurrection, and
shows the wide difference between the aims and motives of those who
planned the uprising of October 23, 1641, and of those who afterwards
carried on the war under the title of the Confederate Catholics of
Ireland. The former he does not hesitate to denounce as a “barbarous
and inhumane” conspiracy, but the responsibility for it he fixes in the
right quarter--the malevolent character of the Irish government and the
atrocious spirit of the English Puritan Parliament, which, abandoning all
the duties of protection, kept only one object in view--the extirpation
of the native Irish.

With the successful example of the Scotch Rebellion immediately before
them, it was a matter of little wonder to observant and impartial minds
in that age that the Irish should have seized upon the occasion of the
growing quarrel between the king and Parliament as the opportune moment
for the redress of their grievances. For in the year 1640, two years
after the pacification of Berwick, the Scotch Rebellion, primarily
instigated by the same cause as the Irish--religious differences--broke
out with greater violence than ever. The Scots’ army invaded England,
defeated the king’s troops at Newburn, and took Newcastle. Then,
driven to extremity by those Scotch rebels, as mercenary as they
were fanatical,[8] and his strength paralyzed by the growing English
sedition, Charles I. called together “that unfortunate Parliament” which,
proceeding from one violence to another, first destroyed its master,
and then was in turn destroyed by its own servant. Far from voting the
Scotch army rebels and traitors, the Parliament at once styled them “dear
brethren” and voted them £300,000 for their kindness. Mr. Gervase Holles
was expelled from the House for saying in the course of debate “that the
best way of paying them was by arms to expel them out of the kingdom.”
The quarrel between King and Commons grew hotter, until finally it became
evident that, notwithstanding Charles’ concessions, a violent rupture
could not be long delayed.

No fairer opportunity could be hoped for by the Irish leaders,
dissatisfied with their own condition, and spurred on by the hope of
winning as good measure of success as the Scotch. The plan to surprise
the Castle of Dublin and the other English garrisons was quickly matured;
but failing, some of the conspirators were taken and executed, and the
rest forced to retire to the woods and mountains. But the flame thus
lighted soon spread over the whole kingdom, and occasioned a war which
lasted without intermission for ten years.

The following reasons are declared by Castlehaven to have been afterwards
offered to him by the Irish as the explanation of this insurrection:

First, that, being constantly looked upon by the English government as
a conquered nation, and never treated as natural or free-born subjects,
they considered themselves entitled to regain their liberty whenever they
believed it to be in their power to do so.

Secondly, that in the North, where the insurrection broke out with the
greatest violence, six whole counties had been escheated to the crown at
one blow, on account of Tyrone’s rebellion; and although it was shown
that a large portion of the population of those counties was innocent of
complicity in that rising, nothing had ever been restored, but the whole
bestowed by James I. upon his countrymen. To us, who live at the distance
of two centuries and a half from those days of wholesale rapine, these
confiscations still seem the most gigantic instance of English wrong;
but who shall tell their maddening effect upon those who suffered from
them in person in that age--the men flying to the mountains, the women
perishing in the fields, the children crying for food they could not get?

Thirdly, the popular alarm was heightened by the reports, current during
Strafford’s government in Ireland, that the counties of Roscommon, Mayo,
Galway, and Cork, and parts of Tipperary, Limerick, and Wicklow, were to
share the fate of the Ulster counties. It hardly needs the example of our
own Revolution to prove the truth of Castlehaven’s observation upon this
project: “That experience tells us where the people’s property is like
to be invaded, neither religion nor loyalty is able to keep them within
bounds if they find themselves in a condition to make any considerable
opposition.” And this brings to his mind the story related by Livy of
those resolute ambassadors of the Privernates, who, being reduced to such
extremities that they were obliged to beg peace of the Roman Senate, yet,
being asked what peace should the Romans expect from them, who had broken
it so often, they boldly answered--which made the Senate accept their
proposals--“If a good one, it shall be faithful and lasting; but if bad,
it shall not hold very long. For think not,” said they, “that any people,
or even any man, will continue in that condition whereof they are weary
any longer than of necessity they must.”

Fourthly, it was notorious that from the moment Parliament was convened
it had urged the greatest severities against the English Roman Catholics.
The king was compelled to revive the penalties of the worst days of
Edward and Elizabeth against them. His own consort was scarce safe from
the violence of those hideous wretches who concealed the vilest crimes
under the garb of Puritan godliness. Readers even of such a common and
one-sided book as Forster’s _Life of Sir John Eliot_ will be surprised
to find the prominence and space the “Popish” resolutions and debates
occupied in the sittings of Parliament. The popular leaders divided their
time nearly equally between the persecution of the Catholics and assaults
upon the prerogative. The same severities were now threatened against the
Irish Catholics. “Both Houses,” says Castlehaven, “solicited, by several
petitions out of Ireland, to have those of that kingdom treated with the
like rigor, which, to a people so fond of their religion as the Irish,
was no small inducement to make them, while there was an opportunity
offered, to stand upon their guard.”

Fifthly, the precedent of the Scotch Rebellion, and its successful
results--pecuniarily, politically, and religiously--encouraged the
Irish so much at that time that they offered it to Owen O’Conally as
their chief motive for rising in rebellion; “which,” says he (quoted by
Castlehaven), “they engaged in to be rid of the tyrannical government
that was over them, and to imitate Scotland, who by that course had
enlarged their privileges” (O’Conally’s _Exam._, October 22, 1641;
Borlace’s _History of the Irish Rebellion_, p. 21).

To the same purpose Lord Castlehaven quotes Mr. Howell in his _Mercurius
Hibernicus_ in the year 1643; “whose words, because an impartial author
and a known Protestant, I will here transcribe in confirmation of what I
have said and for the reader’s further satisfaction”:

    “Moreover,” says Mr. Howell, “they [the Irish] entered into
    consideration that they had sundry grievances and grounds of
    complaint, both touching their estates and consciences, which
    they pretended to be far greater than those of the Scots. For
    they fell to think that if the Scot was suffered to introduce
    a new religion, it was reason they should not be punished in
    the exercise of their old, which they glory never to have
    altered; and for temporal matters, wherein the Scot had no
    grievance at all to speak of, the new plantations which had
    been lately afoot to be made in Connaught and other places; the
    concealed lands and defective titles which were daily found
    out; the new customs which were enforced; and the incapacity
    they had to any preferment or office in church or state, with
    other things, they considered to be grievances of a far greater
    nature, and that deserved redress much more than any the Scot
    had. To this end they sent over commissioners to attend this
    Parliament in England with certain propositions; but they were
    dismissed hence with a short and unsavory answer, which bred
    worse blood in the nation than was formerly gathered. And this,
    with that leading case of the Scot, may be said to be the first
    incitements that made them rise.… Lastly, that army of 8,000
    men which the Earl of Strafford had raised to be transported
    into England for suppressing the Scot, being by the advice of
    our Parliament here disbanded, the country was annoyed by some
    of those straggling soldiers. Therefore the ambassadors from
    Spain having propounded to have some numbers of those disbanded
    soldiers for the service of their master, his majesty, by the
    mature advice of his Privy Council, to occur the mischiefs
    that might arise to his kingdom of Ireland from those loose
    cashiered soldiers, yielded to the ambassadors’ motion. But as
    they were in the height of that work (providing transports),
    there was a sudden stop made of those promised troops; and this
    was the last, though not the least, fatal cause of that horrid
    insurrection.

    “Out of these premises it is easy for any common understanding,
    not transported with passion or private interest, to draw
    this conclusion: That they who complied with the Scot in his
    insurrection; they who dismissed the Irish commissioners with
    such a short, impolitic answer; they who took off the Earl of
    Strafford’s head, and afterwards delayed the despatching of the
    Earl of Leicester; they who hindered those disbanded troops in
    Ireland to go for Spain, may be justly said to have been the
    true causes of the late insurrection of the Irish.

“Thus,” continues Castlehaven, “concludes this learned and ingenious
gentleman, who, as being then his majesty’s historiographer, was as
likely as any man to know the transactions of those times, and, as an
Englishman and a loyal Protestant, was beyond all exception of partiality
or favor of the Papists of Ireland, and therefore could have no other
reason but the love of truth and justice to give this account of the
Irish Rebellion, or make the Scotch and their wicked brethren in the
Parliament of England the main occasion of that horrid insurrection.”

As for the “massacre,” so called, that ensued, Lord Castlehaven speaks
of it with the abhorrence it deserves. But this very term “massacre” is
a misnomer plausibly affixed to the uprising by English ingenuity. In a
country such as Ireland then was--in which, though nominally conquered,
few English lived outside the walled towns--an intermittent state of
war was chronic; and therefore there was none of that unpreparedness
for attack or absence of means of defence on the part of the English
settlers which, in other well-known historical cases, has rightfully
given the name of “massacre” to a premeditated murderous attack upon
defenceless and surprised victims. To hold the English as such will be
regarded with contemptuous ridicule by every one acquainted with the
system of English and Scotch colonization in Ireland in that age. The
truth is, the cruelties on both sides were very bloody, “and though
some,” says Lord Castlehaven, “will throw all upon the Irish, yet ’tis
well known who they were that used to give orders to their parties sent
into the enemies’ quarters to spare neither man, woman, nor child.”
And as to the preposterous muster-rolls of Sir John Temple--from whom
the subsequent scribblers borrowed all their catalogues--giving _fifty
thousand (!)_ British natives as the number killed, Lord Castlehaven’s
testimony is to the effect that there was not one-tenth--or scarcely
five thousand--of that number of British natives then living in Ireland
outside of the cities and walled towns where no “massacre” was committed.
Lord Castlehaven also shows that there were not 50,000 persons to be
found even in Temple’s catalogue, although it was then a matter of common
notoriety that he repeats the same people and the same circumstances
twice or thrice, and mentions hundreds as then murdered who lived many
years afterwards. Some of Temple’s, not the Irish, victims were alive
when Castlehaven wrote.

But the true test of the character of this insurrection is to be found,
not in the exaggerated calumnies of English libellers writing after the
event, but in the testimony of the English settlers themselves when in a
position where lies would have been of no avail. We will therefore give
here, though somewhat out of the course of our narrative, an incident
related by Castlehaven to that effect.

Shortly after he had been appointed General of the Horse under Preston,
Commander-in-Chief of the Confederate Catholics in Leinster, that general
took, among other places, Birr, in King’s County. Here Castlehaven
had the good fortune, as he says, to begin his command with an act of
charity. For, going to see this garrison before it marched out, he came
into a large room where he found many people of quality, both men and
women. They no sooner saw him but, with tears in their eyes, they fell
on their knees, desiring him to save their lives. “I was astonished,”
says Castlehaven, “at their posture and petition, and, having made them
rise, asked what the matter was? They answered that from the first day of
the war there had been continued action and bloodshed between them and
their Irish neighbors, and little quarter on either side; and therefore,
understanding that I was an Englishman, begged I would take them into
my protection.” It is enough to say that Lord Castlehaven, with some
difficulty, and by personally taking command of a strong convoy, obtained
for them the protection they prayed for from the exasperated and outraged
population around them. But what we wish to point out is this: that here
are those victims of Sir John Temple’s “massacre”--not the garrison of
the fort, observe, but the English settlers driven in by the approach of
Preston’s army, after terrorizing the country for months--now, with the
fear of death before them, confessing on their knees that from the first
day of the war they had arms in their hands, and that little quarter was
given on either side!

How well the English were able to take care of themselves at this time,
and what _their_ “massacres” were like, are shown by the following
extract from a letter of Colonel the Hon. Mervin Touchett to his brother,
Lord Castlehaven. Col. Touchett is describing a raid made by Sir Arthur
Loffens, Governor of Naas, with a party of horse and dragoons, killing
such of the Irish as they met, to punish an attack upon an English party
a few days before: “But the most considerable slaughter was in a great
strength of furze, scattered on a hill, where the people of several
villages (taking the alarm) had sheltered themselves. Now, Sir Arthur,
having invested the hill, set the furze on fire on all sides, where the
people, being a considerable number, were all burned or killed, men,
women, and children. I saw the bodies and the furze still burning.”

We remember the horror-stricken denunciations of the English press some
years ago when it was stated, without much authentication, that some of
the French commanders in the Algerine campaigns had smoked some Arabs to
death in caves. But it would seem from Col. Touchett’s narrative that
the English troopers would have been able to give their French comrades
lessons in the culinary art of war some centuries ago. A grilled Irishman
is surely as savory an object for the contemplation of humanity as a
smoked Arab!

But whatever the atrocities on the English side, we will not say that
the cruelties committed by the Irish were not deserving of man’s
reprobation and God’s anger. Only this is to be observed: that whereas
the “massacres” by the Irish were confined to the rabble and Strafford’s
disbanded soldiers, those committed by the English side were shared in,
as the narratives of the day show, by the persons highest in position
and authority. They made part of the English system of government of
that day. On the other hand, the leading men of the Irish Catholic body
not only endeavored to stay those murders, but sought to induce the
government to bring the authors of them on both sides to punishment. But
in vain! On the 17th of March, 1642, Viscount Gormanstown and Sir Robert
Talbot, on behalf of the nobility and gentry of the nation, presented a
remonstrance, praying “that the murders on both sides committed should
be strictly examined, and the authors of them punished according to
the utmost severity of the law.” Which proposal, Castlehaven shrewdly
remarks, would never have been rejected by their adversaries, “but that
they were conscious of being deeper in the mire than they would have the
world believe.”

So far the “massacre” and first uprising.

Now, as to the inception of the war of the Confederate Catholics, and its
objects, Lord Castlehaven’s narrative is equally convincing and clear.

Parliament met in the Castle of Dublin, Nov. 16, 1641. The Rebellion
was laid before both Houses by the lords-justices, Sir William Parsons
and Sir John Borlace. Concurrent resolutions were adopted, without a
dissenting voice, by the two Houses, declaring their abhorrence of
the Rebellion, and pledging their lives and fortunes to suppress it.
Castlehaven had a seat in the Irish House of Lords as an Irish peer,
and being then in Ireland, as before related, took his seat at the
meeting of Parliament. Besides Castlehaven, most of the leaders of
the war that ensued were members of the Irish House of Lords. These
Catholic peers were not less earnest than the rest in their unanimous
intention to put down the Rebellion. Both Houses thereupon began to
deliberate upon the most effectual means for its suppression. “But this
way of proceeding,” says Castlehaven, “did not, it seems, square with
the lords-justices’ designs, who were often heard to say that ‘the
more were in rebellion, the more lands should be forfeit to them.’”
Therefore, in the midst of the deliberations of Parliament on the
subject, a prorogation was determined on. The lords, understanding this,
sent Castlehaven and Viscount Castelloe to join a deputation from the
commons to the lords-justices, praying them not to prorogue, at least
till the rebels--then few in number--were reduced to obedience. But the
address was slighted, and Parliament prorogued the next day, to the great
surprise of both Houses and the “general dislike,” says Castlehaven, “of
all honest and knowing men.”

The result was, as the lords-justices no doubt intended, that the
rebels were greatly encouraged, and at once began to show themselves in
quarters hitherto peaceful. The members of Parliament retired to their
country-houses in much anxiety after the prorogation. Lord Castlehaven
went to his seat at Maddingstown. There he received a letter, signed by
the Viscounts of Gormanstown and Netterville, and by the Barons of Slane,
Lowth, and Dunsany, containing an enclosure to the lords-justices which
those noblemen desired him to forward to them, and, if possible, obtain
an answer. This letter to the lords-justices, Castlehaven says, was very
humble and submissive, asking only permission to send their petitions
into England to represent their grievances to the king. The only reply
of the lords-justices was a warning to Castlehaven to receive no more
letters from them.

Meanwhile, parties were sent out from Dublin and the various garrisons
throughout the kingdom to “kill and destroy the rebels.” But those
parties took little pains to distinguish rebels from loyal subjects,
provided they were only Catholics, killing promiscuously men, women, and
children. Reprisals followed on the part of the rebels. The nobility and
gentry were between two fires. A contribution was levied upon them by the
rebels, after the manner of the Scots in the North of England in 1640.
But although to pay that contribution in England passed without reproach,
in Ireland it was denounced by the lords-justices as treason. The English
troopers insulted and openly threatened the most distinguished Irish
families as favorers of the Rebellion. “This,” says Castlehaven, “and
the sight of their tenants, the harmless country people, without respect
to age or sex, thus barbarously murdered, made the Catholic nobility and
gentry at last resolved to stand upon their guard.” Nevertheless, before
openly raising the standard of revolt against the Irish government,
which refused to protect them, they made several efforts to get their
petitions before Charles I. Sir John Read, a Scotchman, then going to
England, undertook to forward petitions to the king; but, being arrested
on suspicion at Drogheda, was taken to Dublin, and there put upon the
rack by the lords-justices to endeavor to wring from him a confession of
Charles I.’s complicity in the Rebellion. This Col. Mervin Touchett heard
from Sir John Read himself as he was brought out of the room where he was
racked. But that unfortunate monarch knew not how to choose his friends
or to be faithful to them when he found them. He referred the whole
conduct of Irish affairs to the English Parliament, thus increasing
the discontent to the last pitch by making it plain to the whole Irish
people that he abandoned the duty of protecting them, and had handed them
over to the mercy of their worst enemies--the English Parliament. That
Parliament at once passed a succession of wild votes and ordinances,
indicating their intention of stopping short at nothing less than utter
extirpation of the native race. Dec. 8, 1641, they declared they would
never give consent to any toleration of the Popish religion in Ireland.
In February following, when few of any estate were as yet engaged in
the Rebellion, they passed an act assigning two million five hundred
thousand acres of cultivated land, besides immense tracts of bogs, woods,
and mountains, to English and Scotch adventurers for a small proportion
of money on the grant. This money, the act stated, was to go to the
reduction of the rebels; but, with a fine irony of providence upon the
king’s weak compliance, every penny of it was afterwards used to raise
armies by the English rebels against him. “But the greatest discontent
of all,” says Castlehaven, “was about the lords-justices proroguing
the Parliament--the only way the nation had to express its loyalty and
prevent their being misrepresented to their sovereign, which, had it
been permitted to sit for any reasonable time, would in all likelihood,
without any great charge or trouble, have brought the rebels to justice.”

Thus all hopes of redress or safety being at an end--a villanous
government in Dublin intent only upon confiscation, a furious Parliament
in London breathing vengeance against the whole Irish race, and a king
so embroiled in his English quarrels that he could do nothing to help
his Irish subjects, even had he wished it--what was left those loyal,
gallant, and devoted men but to draw the sword for their own safety?
The Rebellion by degrees spread over the whole kingdom. “And now,”
says Castlehaven, “there’s no more looking back; for all were in arms
and full of indignation.” A council of the leading Catholic nobles,
military officers, and gentry met at Kilkenny, and formed themselves
into an association under the title of the Confederate Catholics of
Ireland. Four generals were appointed for the respective provinces of the
kingdom--Preston for Leinster, Barry for Munster, Owen Roe O’Neale for
Ulster, and Burke for Connaught. Thus war was declared.

When the Rebellion first broke out in the North, Lord Castlehaven
had immediately repaired to Dublin and offered his services to the
lords-justices. They were declined with the reply that “his religion
was an obstacle.” After the prorogation of Parliament, as we have seen,
he retired to his house in the country. Then, coming again to Dublin to
meet a charge of corresponding with the rebels which had been brought
against him, he was arrested by order of the lords-justices, and, after
twenty weeks of imprisonment in the sheriff’s house, was committed to the
Castle. “This startled me a little,” says Castlehaven--as it well might
do; for the state prisoner’s exit from the Castle in Dublin in those days
was usually made in the same way as from the Tower in London, namely, by
the block--“and brought into my thoughts the proceedings against the Earl
of Strafford, who, confiding in his own innocence, was voted out of his
life by an unprecedented bill of attainder.” Therefore, hearing nothing
while in prison but rejoicings at the king’s misfortunes, who at last
had been forced to take up arms by the English rebels, and knowing the
lords-justices to be of the Parliament faction, and the lord-lieutenant,
the Marquis of Ormond, being desperately sick of a fever, not without
suspicion of poison, and his petition to be sent to England, to be tried
there by his peers, being refused, he determined to make his escape,
shrewdly concluding, as he says, that “innocence was a scurvy plea in an
angry time.”

Arriving at Kilkenny, he joined the confederacy, as has been related.

From this time the war of the Confederate Catholics was carried on with
varying success until the cessation of 1646, and then until the peace of
1648, when the Confederates united, but too late, with the Marquis of
Ormond to stop the march of Cromwell.


A SWEET SINGER: ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

    She sang of Love--the love whose fires
      Burn with a pure and gentle flame,
    No passion lights of wild desires
      Red with the lurid glow of shame.

    She sang of angels, and their wings
      Seemed rustling through each soft refrain;
    Gladness and sorrow, kindred things
      She wove in many a tender strain.

    She sang of Heaven and of God,
      Of Bethlehem’s star and Calvary’s way,
    Gethsemane--the bloody sod,
      Death, darkness, resurrection-day.

    She sang of Mary--Mother blest,
      Her sweetest carols were of thee!
    Close folded to thy loving breast
      How fair her home in heaven must be!


THE COLPORTEURS OF BONN.

I was very stupid in my youth, and am still far from being sharp. I could
not master knotty questions like other boys; so this natural deficiency
had to be supplemented by some plan that would facilitate the acquisition
of knowledge. The advantage to be derived from a garrulous preceptor,
whose mind was stored with all sorts of learning without dogmatism or
hard formularies, were fully appreciated by my parents. John O’Neil was
a very old man when I was a boy, and he was just the person qualified
to impart an astonishing quantity of all sorts of facts, and perhaps
fancies. I hold him in affectionate remembrance though he be dead over
twenty-five years, and rests near the remains of his favorite hero,
O’Connell, in Glasnevin Cemetery. When he became the chief architect of
my intellectual structure, I thought him the most learned man in the
world. On account of my dulness, he adopted the method of sermonizing
to me instead of giving me unintelligible lessons to be learned out of
books. I took a great fancy to him, because I found him exceedingly
interesting, and he evinced a strong liking for me because I was docile.
We became inseparable companions, notwithstanding the great discrepancy
in our years. His tall, erect, lank figure and lantern jaw were to me the
physiological signs of profundity, firmness, and power, and his white
head was the symbol of wisdom. Our tastes--well, I had no tastes save
such as he chose to awaken in me, and hence there came to be very soon
a great similitude in our respective inclinations. I was like a ball of
wax, a sheet of paper, or any other original impressionable thing you
may name, in his hands for ten years, after which very probably I began
to harden, though I was not conscious of the process. However, the large
fund of knowledge that he imparted to me crystallized, as it were, and
became fixed in my possession as firmly as if it had been elaborately
achieved by a severe mental training. After I went to college he was
still my friend, and rejoiced in my subsequent successes, and followed me
with a jealous eye and a sort of parental anxiety in my foreign travels,
and even in death he did not forget me, for he made me the custodian of
his great heaps of literary productions, all in manuscript, embracing
sketches, diaries, notes of travel, learned fragments on scientific
and scholastic topics, essays, tales, letters, the beginnings and the
endings and the middles of books on history, politics, and polemics,
pieces of pamphlets and speeches, with a miscellaneous lot of poetry in
all measures. He was a great, good man, who never had what is called
an aim in life, but he certainly had an aim _after_ life; and yet no
one could esteem the importance of this pilgrimage more than he did. He
would frequently boast of being heterodox on that point. “You will hear,”
he would remark, “people depreciating this life as a matter of little
concern. Don’t allow their sophistry to have much weight with you. The
prevalent opinions which are flippantly spoken thereon will not stand the
test of sound Christian reasoning. That part of human existence which
finds its scene and scope of exertion in this life is filled with eternal
potentialities. You have heard it said that man wants but little here
below. Where else does he want it? Here is where he wants everything.
Then do not hesitate to ask, but be careful not to ask amiss. When the
battle is over, it will be too late to make requisitions for auxiliaries.
If you conquer, assistance will not be wanted; if you are defeated,
assistance cannot reach you. The fight cannot be renewed; the victory or
defeat will be final. This life is immense. You cannot think too much of
it, cannot estimate it too highly. A minute has almost an infinite value.
Man wants much here, and wants it all the time.” I thought his language
at that time fantastical; now I regard it as profound. From a survey
of his own aimless career, it is evident he did not reduce the good of
earthly existence of which he spoke to any sort of money value. Those
elements and forces of life to which he attached such deep significance
and importance could not have their equivalent in currency, nor in
comforts, nor in real estate, nor even in fame. My old preceptor had
spent most of his youth in travelling, and the picturesque meanderings
of the Rhine furnished subjects for many of his later recollections. I
recall now with a melancholy regret the many pleasant evenings I enjoyed
listening to his narratives of travel on that historic river, and in
imagination sat with him on the Drachenfels’ crest, looking down upon
scenes made memorable by the lives and struggles of countless heroes
and the crowds of humanity that came and went through the course of a
hundred generations--some leaving their mark, and others erasing it
again; some leaving a smile behind them on the face of the country, and
others a scar. He loved to talk about the beautiful city of Bonn, where
he had spent some years, it being the most attractive place, he said,
from Strasbourg to the sea--for learning was cheap there, and so were
victuals--the only things he found indispensable to a happy life. He
would glide into a monologue of dramatic glow and fervor in reciting how
he procured access to the extensive library of its new university, and,
crawling up a step-ladder, would perch himself on top like a Hun, who,
after a sleep of a thousand years, had resurrected himself, gathered his
bones from the plains of Chalons, and having procured a second-hand suit
of modern clothes from a Jew in Cologne, traced with eager avidity the
vicissitudes of war and empire since the days of Attila. It was there, no
doubt, he discovered the materials of this curious paper, which I found
among his literary remains. Whether he gathered the materials himself,
or merely transcribed the work of some previous writer, I am unable to
determine. Without laying any claim to critical acumen, I must confess
it appears to me to be a meritorious piece, and I picked it out, because
I thought it unique and brief, for submission to the more extensive
experience and more impartial judgment of THE CATHOLIC WORLD’S readers.
Having entire control of these productions of my friend and preceptor, I
took the liberty of substituting modern phraseology for what was antique,
and of putting the sketch in such style that the most superficial reader
will have no difficulty in running it over. Objection may be raised to
the title on the score of fitness. I did not feel authorized to change
it, believing the one chosen by the judgment of my old friend as suitable
as any I could substitute.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the year 1250 the mind of man was as restless and impatient of
restraint as now, and some people in Bonn, under a quiet exterior,
nursed in their bosoms latent volcanoes of passion, and indulged the
waywardness of rebellious fancy to a degree that would have proved
calamitous to the placid flow of life and thought could instrumentality
for action have been found. There is indubitable proof that the principle
of the Reformation, which three hundred years later burst through the
environment of dogma and spread like a flood of lava over Europe,
existed actively in Bonn in the year named, and would have arrived at
mature strength if nature had not interposed an impassable barrier to
the proceeding. It is hard to rebel against nature, and it is madness
to expect success in such a revolt. Fourteen men, whose names have come
down to us, gave body and tone, and a not very clearly defined purpose,
to this untimely uprising against the inevitable in Bonn. How many others
were in sympathy or in active affiliation with them is not shown. Those
fourteen were bold spirits, who labored under the misfortune of having
come into the world three or four centuries too soon. They were great
men out of place. There is an element of rebellion in great spirits
which only finds its proper antidote in the stronger and more harmonious
principle of obedience. Obedience is the first condition of creatures.
Those fourteen grew weary of listening to the Gospel preached every
Sunday from the pulpit of S. Remigius, when they attended Mass with the
thousands of their townsmen. The Scriptures, both New and Old, were given
out in small doses, with an abundant mixture of explanation and homily
and salutary exhortation. Their appetites craved a larger supply of
Scripture, and indeed some of them were so unreasonable as to desire the
reading of the whole book, from Genesis to Revelations, at one service.
“Let us,” said Giestfacher, “have it all. No one is authorized to give a
selection from the Bible and hold back the rest. It is our feast, and we
have a right to the full enjoyment thereof.”

“Well,” said Heuck, his neighbor, to whom he addressed the remonstrance;
“go to the scrivener’s and purchase a copy and send your ass to carry
it home. Our friend Schwartz finished a fine one last week. It can be
had for sixteen hundred dollars. When you have it safe at home, employ
a reader, who will be able to mouth it all off for you in fifty hours,
allowing a few intervals for refreshment, but none for sleep.” And Heuck
laughed, or rather sneered, at Giestfacher as he walked away.

Giestfacher was a reformer, however, and was not to be put down in
that frivolous manner. He had been a student himself with the view of
entering the ministry, but, being maliciously charged with certain grave
irregularities, his prospects in that direction were seriously clouded,
and in a moment of grand though passionate self-assertion he threw up
his expectations and abandoned the idea of entering the church, but
instead took to the world. He was a reformer from his infancy, and
continually quarrelled with his family about the humdrum state of things
at home; was at enmity with the system of municipal government at Bonn;
and held very animated controversies with the physicians of the place
on the system of therapeutics then pursued, insisting strongly that all
diseases arose from bad blood, and that a vivisection with warm wine
would prove a remedy for everything. He lacked professional skill to
attempt an experiment in the medical reforms he advocated; besides, that
department would not admit of bungling with impunity. For municipal
reforms he failed in power, and the reward in fame or popular applause
that might follow successful operations in that limited sphere of action
was not deemed equivalent to the labor. But in the field of religion
there was ample room for all sorts of tentative processes without danger;
and, in addition to security, notoriety might be obtained by being
simply _outré_. He had settled upon religious reform, and his enthusiasm
nullified the cautionary suggestions of his reason, and reduced mountains
of difficulty to the insignificant magnitude of molehills; even Heuck
could be induced to adopt his views by cogent reasoning and much
persuasion. Enthusiasm is allied to madness--a splendid help, but a
dangerous guide.

Giestfacher used his tongue, and in the course of a year had made twelve
or fourteen proselytes. Those who cannot enjoy the monotony of life and
the spells of _ennui_ that attack the best-regulated temperaments, fly
to novelty for relief. The fearful prospect of an unknown and nameless
grave and an oblivious future drives many restless spirits into
experiments in morals and in politics as well as in natural philosophy,
in the vain hope of rescuing their names from the “gulf of nothingness”
that awaits mediocrity. The new reformers, zealous men and bold, met
in Giestfacher’s house on Corpus Christi in 1251, the minutes of which
meeting are still extant; and from that record I learn there were present
Stein the wheelwright, Lullman the baker, Schwartz the scrivener, Heuck
the armorer, Giestfacher the cloth merchant, Braunn, another scrivener,
Hartzwein the vintner, Blum the advocate, Werner, another scrivener,
Reudlehuber, another scrivener, Andersen, a stationer, Esch the
architect, Dusch the monk, discarded by his brethren for violations of
discipline, and Wagner the potter. Blum was appointed to take an account
of the proceedings, and Giestfacher was made president of the society.

“We are all agreed,” said Giestfacher, “that the Scriptures ought to be
given to the people. From these divine writings we learn a time shall
come when wars shall cease, and the Alemanni and the Frank and the Tartar
may eat from the same plate and drink out of the same cup in peace and
fraternity, and wear cloth caps instead of brass helmets, and plough the
fields with their spears instead of letting daylight through each other
therewith, and the shepherds shall tend their flocks with a crook and
not with a bow to keep off the enemy. How can that time come unless the
people be made acquainted with those promises? I believe we, who, like
the apostles, number fourteen, are divinely commissioned to change things
for the better, and initiate the great movements which will bring about
the millennium. Let us rise up to the dignity of our position. Let us
prove equal to the inspiration of the occasion. We are called together by
heaven for a new purpose. The time is approaching when universal light
will dispel the gloom, and peace succeed to all disturbance. Let us give
the Scriptures to the people. They are the words of God, that carry
healing on their wings. They are the dove that was sent out from the ark.
They are the pillar of light in the desert. They are the sword of Joshua,
the sling of David, the rod of Moses. Let us fourteen give them to the
people, and start out anew, like the apostles from Jerusalem, to overturn
the idols of the times and emancipate the nations. We have piled up heaps
of stones in every town and monuments of brass, and still men are not
changed. We see them still lying, warring, hoarding riches, and making
gods of their bellies--all of which is condemned by the word of God. What
will change all this? I say, let the piles of stone and the monuments of
brass slide, and give the Scriptures a chance. Let us give them to the
people, and the reign of brotherhood and peace will commence, wars shall
cease, nation will no longer rise up against nation, rebellion will erect
its horrid front no more. Men will cease hoarding riches and oppressing
the poor. There will be no more robbing rings in corporate towns, and men
in power will not blacken their character and imperil the safety of the
state by nepotism. The whole world will become pure. No scandals will
arise in the church, and there will be no blasphemy or false swearing,
and Christian brethren shall not conspire for each other’s ruin.”

“We see,” remarked Heuck, “that those who have the Scriptures are no
better than other people. They too are given to lying, hoarding riches,
warring one against another, and making gods of their bellies. How is
that?”

“Yes,” said Blum, “I know three scriveners of this town who boast of
having transcribed twenty Bibles each, and they get drunk thrice a week
and quarrel with their wives; and there’s Giebricht, the one-legged
soldier, who can repeat the Scriptures until you sleep listening to
him, says he killed nine men in battle and wounded twenty others. The
Scriptures did not make him very peaceful. The loss of a leg had a more
quieting effect on him than all his memorizing of the sacred books.”

“We did not get together,” said Werner, “to discuss that phase of the
subject. It was well understood, and thereunto agreed a month ago, that
the spread of the Scriptures was desirable; and to this end we met, that
means wise and effective may be devised whereby we can supply every one
with the word of God, that all may search therein for the correct and
approved way of salvation.”

“So be it,” said Dusch the monk.

“Hear, hear!” said Schwartz.

“Let us agree like brethren,” said Braunn.

“We are subject to one spirit,” said Hartzwein the vintner, “and all
moved by the same inspiration. Discord is unseemly. We must not dispute
on the subject of drunkenness. Let us have the mature views of Brother
Giestfacher, and his plans. The end is already clear if the means be of
approved piety and really orthodox. In addition to the Scriptures, I
would rejoice very much to see prayer more generally practised. We ought
to do nothing without prayer. Let us first of all consult the Lord. What
says Brother Blum?”

Blum rose and said it was a purely business meeting. He had no doubt
it ought to have been opened with prayer. It was an old and salutary
practice that came down from the days of the apostles, and Paul
recommended it. But as they were now in the midst of business, he thought
it would be as wise and as conformable with ancient Christian and saintly
practice to go on with their work, and rest satisfied with mental
ejaculation, as to inaugurate a formal prayer-meeting.

Esch thought differently; he held that prayer was always in season.

Reudlehuber meekly said that the Scriptures showed there was a time for
everything, whence it was plain that prayer might be out of place as well
as penitential tears on some occasions. It would not look well for a man
to rise up in the midst of a marriage feast and, beating his breast, cry
out _Mea culpa_.

“We have too many prayers in the church,” said Giestfacher, “and not
enough of Scripture; that is the trouble with us. Brethren must rise
above the weaknesses of the mere pietist. Moses was no pietist; he was a
great big, leonine character. We must be broad and liberal in our views;
not given to fault-finding nor complaining. Pray whenever you feel like
it, and drink when you have a mind to. Noah got drunk. I’d rather be
the prodigal son, and indulge in a hearty natural appetite for awhile,
than be his cautious, speculating, avaricious brother, who had not soul
enough most likely to treat his acquaintances to a pint of wine once in
his lifetime. Great men get tipsy. Great nations are bibulous. We are
not here to make war on those who drink wine and cultivate the grape, nor
are we authorized in making war on weavers because Dives was damned for
wearing fine linen. It is our mission to spread the Scriptures. The world
wants light. He is a benefactor of mankind who puts two rays where there
was only one before.”

“Let us hear your plans, Brother Giestfacher,” cried out a number of
voices simultaneously.

In response, Brother Giestfacher stated that there were no plans
necessary. All that was to be done was to circulate the Scriptures. Let
us get one hundred thousand sheets of vellum to begin with, and set a
hundred scriveners to work transcribing copies of the Bible, and then
distribute these copies among the people.

The plan was plain and simple and magnificent, Braunn thought, but there
were not ten thousand sheets of vellum in the town nor in the whole
district, and much of that would be required for civil uses; besides, the
number of sheep in the neighborhood had been so reduced by the recent war
that vellum would be scarce and costly for ten years to come.

Werner lamented the irremediable condition of the world when the free
circulation of the word of God depended on the number of sheep, and the
number of sheep was regulated by war, and war by the ambition, jealousy,
or pride of princes.

“It is painfully true,” said Heuck, “that the world stands in sad need
of reform, if souls are to be rescued from their spiritual perils only
by the means proposed in the magnificent sheep-skin scheme of Brother
Giestfacher.” It was horrible to think that the immortal part of man was
doomed to perish, to be snuffed out, as it were, in eternal darkness,
because soldiers had an unholy appetite for mutton.

Braunn said the work could be started on three or four thousand hides,
and ere they were used up a new supply might arrive from some unexpected
quarter.

Esch said that they ought to have faith; the Hand that fed the patriarch
in the desert would provide vellum if he was prayerfully besought for
assistance. _He_ would be willing to commence on one sheet, feeling
convinced there would be more than enough in the end.

Blum did not take altogether so sanguine a view of things as Brother
Esch. He was especially dubious about that vellum supply; not that he
questioned the power of Providence at all, but it struck him that it
would be just as well and as easy for the society to prayerfully ask for
an ample supply of ready-made Bibles as to expect a miracle in prepared
sheep-skin; and he was still further persuaded that if the books were
absolutely necessary to one’s salvation, they would be miraculously
given. But he did not put the movement on that ground. It is very easy
for men, and particularly idiotic men, to convince themselves that God
will answer all their whims and caprices by the performance of a miracle.
We are going upon the theory that the work is good, just as it is good to
feed the hungry and clothe the naked. We expect to find favor in heaven
because we endeavor to do a work of charity according to our honest
impression.

“How many persons,” inquired Heuck, “do you propose to supply with
complete copies of the Scriptures?”

“Every one in the district,” replied Giestfacher.

“Brother Dusch,” continued Heuck, “how many heads of families are there
in the district? Your abbot had the census taken a few month’s ago, while
you were yet in grace and favor at the monastery.”

Brother Dusch said he heard there were twenty-two thousand from the
Drachenfels to within six miles of Cologne, but all of them could not
read.

“We will send out,” said Giestfacher enthusiastically, “an army of
colporteurs, who will distribute and read at the same time.”

“I perceive,” said Blum, “that this discussion will never stop. New
avenues of thought and new mountains of objection are coming to view
at every advance in the debate. Let us do something first, and talk
afterwards. To supply twenty-two thousand persons with expensive volumes
will require considerably more than mere resolves and enthusiasm. I
propose that we buy up all the vellum in the city to-day, and that we
all go security for the payment. I propose also that we employ Brothers
Braunn, Schwartz, Werner, and Reudlehuber to commence transcribing, and
that we all go security for their pay. Unless we begin somewhere, we can
never have anything done. What says Brother Giestfacher?”

Giestfacher said it did not become men of action, reformers who proposed
to turn over the world and inaugurate a new era and a new life and a
new law, to stop at trifles or to consider petty difficulties. The
design that had been developed at that meeting contemplated a sweeping
change. Instead of having a few books, here and there, at every church,
cathedral, monastery, and market-place, learnedly and laboriously
expounded by saints of a thousand austerities and of penitential garb,
every house would be supplied, and there should be no more destitution in
the land. The prophecies and the gospels and the mysteries of revelation
would be on the lips of sucking babes, and the people who stood at the
street-corners and at the marts of trade, the tiller of the soil, the
pedler, the sailor, the old soldier, and the liberated prisoner, together
with the man who sold fish and the woman who sold buttermilk, would
stand up and preach the Gospel and display a mission, schoolboys would
discuss the contents of that book freely, and even the inmates of lunatic
asylums would expound it with luminous aptitude and startling fancy. The
proposition of Brother Blum met his entire approval. He would pledge
everything he had, and risk even life itself, to start the new principle,
so that the world might bask in sunshine and not in shadow. It was about
time that men had their intellects brightened up some. Even in the days
of the apostles those pious men did not do their whole duty. They labored
with much assiduity and conscientiousness, but they neglected to adopt
measures looking to the spread of the Scriptures. He had no doubt but
they fell a long way short of their mission, and were now enduring the
pangs of a peck of purgatorial coal for their remissness. There were
good men who perhaps found heaven without interesting themselves in the
multiplication of copies of the Bible. They were not called to that work;
but what was to be thought of those who had the call, the power, the
skill, and yet neglected to spread the word. He believed SS. Gregory
Nazianzen, Athanasius, Jerome, Chrysostom, Augustine, and others of those
early doctors of the church, had a fearful account to render for having
neglected the Scriptures. S. Paul, too, was not free from censure. It was
true he wrote a few things, but he took no thought of multiplying copies
of his epistles.

“How many copies,” inquired Heuck, “do you think S. Paul ought to have
written of his letters before you would consider him blameless?”

“He ought,” said Giestfacher, “to have written all the time instead of
making tents. ‘How many copies’ is a professional question which I will
leave the scriveners to answer. I may remark that it would evidently be
unprofitable for us to enter on a minute and detailed discussion on that
point here. It is our duty to supplement the shortcomings of those early
workers in the field, and finish what they failed to accomplish. They
were bound to give the new principle a fair start. The plan suggested was
the best, simplest, and clearest, and he hoped every one of the brethren
would give it a hearty and cordial support.”

The principle of communism, or the right of communities to govern
themselves in certain affairs and to carry on free trade with certain
other communities, had been granted the previous century, and Bonn
was one of the towns that enjoyed the privilege; but the people still
respected religion and did no trafficking on holydays. Giestfacher could
not therefore purchase the vellum on Corpus Christi, but had to wait till
next day, at which time he could not conveniently find the other members
of the new Bible society, and, fearing that news of their project would
get abroad and raise the price of the article he wanted, he hastened to
the various places where it was kept for sale, and bought all of it up in
the course of two hours, paying his own money in part and giving his bond
for the balance. The parchment was delivered to the four scriveners, who
gathered their families about them, and all the assistants (journeymen)
that could be found in the town, and proceeded with the transcribing of
the Bible. At the next meeting each scrivener reported that he had about
half a book ready, that the work was going rapidly and smoothly forward,
and that the scribes were enthusiastic at the prospect of brisk business
and good pay. The report was deemed very encouraging. It went to show
that the society could have four Bibles every two weeks, or about one
hundred a year, and that in the course of two hundred and twenty years
every head of a family in the district could be provided with a Bible of
his own. The scriveners stated, moreover, that they had neglected their
profane business, for which they could have got cash, to proceed in the
sacred work, and as there were several people depending on them for means
of living, a little money would be absolutely necessary with the grace of
God.

Giestfacher also stated that he spent all the money he had in part
payment for the parchment, and pledged his property for the balance. His
business was somewhat crippled already in consequence of the outlay,
and he expected to have part of the burden assumed by every one of the
society.

Werner said he had fifteen transcribers working for him, and each one
agreed to let one-third of the market value of his work remain in the
hands of the society as a subscription to the good work, but the other
two-thirds would have to be paid weekly, as they could not live without
means. They were all poor, and depending solely on their skill in
transcribing for a living.

The debate was long, earnest, eloquent, and more or less pious.

Blum made a motion that the bishop of the diocese and the Pope be made
honorary members of the society. Giestfacher opposed this with eloquent
acrimony, saying it was a movement outside of all sorts of church
patronage; that it was designed to supersede churches and preaching; for
when every man had the Bible he would be a church unto himself, and would
not need any more teaching. He also had a resolution adopted pledging
each and every member to constitute himself a colporteur of the Bible,
and to read and peddle it in sun and rain; and it was finally settled
that a subscription should be taken up; that each member of the society
be constituted a collector, and proceed at once to every man who loved
the Lord and gloried in the Gospel to get his contribution.

At the next meeting the brethren were all present except Dusch, who was
reported as an absconder with the funds he had collected, and was said to
be at that moment in Cologne, drunk perhaps. Four complete Bibles were
presented as the result of two weeks’ hard labor and pious effort and the
aggregate production of forty-five writers. The financial reports on the
whole were favorable; and the scriveners were provided with sufficient
means and encouragement to begin another set of four Bibles. Brother
Giestfacher was partially secured in his venture for the parchment,
while it was said that the article had doubled in price during the past
fortnight, and very little of it could be got from Cologne, as there was
a scarcity of it there also, coupled with an extraordinary demand. It
was also stated that the monks at the monastery had to erase the works
of Virgil in order to find material for making a copy of the homilies
of S. John Chrysostom which was wanted for the Bishop of Metz. In like
manner, it was decided to erase the histories of Labanius and Zozirnus,
as being cheaper than procuring original parchment on which to transcribe
a fine Greek copy of the whole Bible, to take the place of one destroyed
by the late war. The heavy purchase that Brother Giestfacher had made
created a panic in the vellum market that was already felt in the heart
of Burgundy. The scriveners’ business had also experienced a revulsion.
People of the world who wanted testamentary and legal documents, deeds,
contracts, and the like properly engrossed, were offering fabulous
sums to have the work done, as most of the professionals of that class
were now engaged by the society, and had no time to do any other sort
of writing. A debate sprung up as to the proper disposition to be made
of the four Bibles on hand, and also as to the manner of beginning and
conducting the distribution. In view of the demand for the written word,
and of the scarcity of copies and the high price of parchment, it was
suggested by Heuck to sell them, and divide the proceeds among the poor
and the cripples left after the late war. Five hundred dollars each could
be readily got for the books, he said, and it was extremely doubtful
whether those who would get them as gifts from the society would resist
the temptation of selling them to the first purchaser that came along.
In addition to this heavy reason in favor of his line of policy, Heuck
suggested the possibility of trouble arising when they should come to
grapple with the huge difficulties of actual distribution; to give one of
those volumes, he said, would be like giving an estate and making a man
wealthy for life.

Giestfacher said it would be impracticable to make any private
distribution among the destitute for some time. The guilds of coopers,
tailors, shoemakers, armorers, fullers, tanners, masons, artificers,
and others should be first supplied; and in addition to the Bible kept
chained in the market-place for all who wished to read, he would have one
placed at the town-pump and one at the town-house, so that the thirsty
might also drink the waters of life, and those who were seeking justice
at the court might ascertain the law of God before going in.

Blum said another collection would have to be raised to erect a shed over
the Bibles that were proposed to be placed at the town-pump and at the
town-house and to pay for suitable chains and clasps to secure them from
the depredations of the pilfering.

Esch was of opinion that another subscription could not be successfully
taken up until their work had produced manifest fruit for good. The
people have much faith, but when they find salt mixed with their drink
instead of honey, credulity is turned into disgust. A Bible chained to
the town-pump will be a sad realization of their extravagant hopes.
Every man who subscribed five dollars expects to get a book worth five
hundred, an illuminated Bible fit for a cathedral church. He warned them
that they were getting into a labyrinth, and that they would have to
resort to prayer yet to carry them through in safety. Werner thought it
would be wisest to pursue a quiescent policy for some time, and to forego
the indulgence of their anxious desire for palpable results until they
should be in a condition to make an impression. He advocated the wisdom
of delay. They also serve, he said, who only stand and wait, and it might
prove an unwise proceeding to come out with their public exhibition just
then. In a few months, when thirty or forty Bibles would be on hand, a
larger number than could be found in any library in the world, they might
hope, by the show of so much labor, to create enthusiasm.

“But still,” urged Heuck, “you will have the difficulty to contend
with--who is to get them?”

“There will,” remarked Blum, “be a greater difficulty to contend with
about that time: the settlement of obligations for parchment and the pay
of the scriveners who are employed in transcribing. Our means at present,
even if we pay the scriveners but one-third their wages, will not suffice
to bring out twenty volumes. So we are just in this difficulty: in order
to do something, we must have means, and in order to get means, we must
do something. It is a sort of vicious circle projected from logic into
finance. It will take the keen-edged genius of Brother Giestfacher to cut
this knot.”

“The work,” said Giestfacher, “in which we are engaged is of such merit
that it will stand of itself. I have no fears of ultimate triumph. If
you all fail, God and I will carry it on. Heaven is in it. I am in it.
It must succeed. I am a little oldish, I confess, but there is twenty
years of work in me still. I feel my foot sufficiently sure to tread the
perilous path of this adventure to the goal.”

“Let us,” interposed Schwartz, “stop this profitless debate, and give
a cheer to Brother Giestfacher. He is the blood and the bone of this
movement. We are in with him. We are all in the same boat. If we have
discovered a pusillanimous simpleton among us, it is not too late to cast
him out. I feel my gorge and my strength rise together, and I swear to
you by S. Remigius, brethren, that I am prepared to sink or swim, and
whoever attempts to scuttle the ship shall himself perish first.”

Two or three other brethren, feeling the peculiar inspiration of the
moment, rose up and, stamping their feet on the floor, proclaimed their
adherence to the principles of the society, and vowed to see it through
to the end.

This meeting then adjourned.

There is no minute of any subsequent meeting to be found among the
manuscripts that I have consulted, but I discovered a statement made by
Heuck, dated six months later, who, being called before the municipal
authorities to testify what he knew about certain transactions of a
number of men that had banded themselves together secretly for the
purpose of creating a panic in the vellum market, and of disturbing
the business of the scriveners, said he was one of fourteen citizens
interested in the promulgation of the Gospel free to the poor. That,
after five or six meetings, he left the society in company with two
others; that two of the members became obnoxious, and were expelled--the
one, Dusch, for embezzling money collected for Scripture-writing and
Scripture-diffusing purposes, the other, Werner, for having retained
one of their volumes, and disposed of it to the lord of Drachenfels
for four hundred dollars; that they did not pursue and prosecute these
delinquents for fear of bringing reproach on the project; and then he
went on to state: “I left the society voluntarily and in disgust. We had
fourteen Bibles on hand, but could not agree about their distribution.
They were too valuable to give away for nothing, and it was discovered
that they were all written in Latin, and not in the vernacular, and they
would prove of as little value to the great mass of people for whom
they were originally designed as if they had been written in Hebrew.
In addition to this I found, for I understand the language perfectly,
that no two of them were alike, and, in conjunction with scrivener
Schwartz, I minutely examined one taken at random from the pile, and
compared it with the volume at the Cathedral. We found fifteen hundred
discrepancies. In some places whole sentences were left out. In others,
words were made to express a different sense from the original. In
others, letters were omitted or put in redundantly, in such a way as to
change the meaning; and the grammatical structure was villanously bad.
Seeing that the volumes were of no use as a representation of the word
of God, and being conscientiously convinced that the books contained
poison for the people instead of medicine, I made a motion in meeting
to have them all burned. Schwartz opposed it on the ground that they
were innoxious anyhow, there being none of the common people capable
of understanding the language in which they were written, and, though
they were a failure as Bibles, the vellum might be again used; and as
the scriveners were not paid for their labor, they had a claim upon the
volumes. The scriveners got the books, to which, in my opinion, they had
no just claim, for the villanous, bad work they did on them deserved
censure and not pay. I have heard since that some of those scriveners
made wealth by selling the books to Englishmen for genuine and carefully
prepared transcripts from authorized texts. The president and founder of
the society, Giestfacher, is now in jail for debt, he having failed to
meet his obligations for the vellum he purchased when he took it into
his head to enlighten mankind--more especially that portion of it that
dwells on the Rhine adjacent to the city of Bonn--by distributing corrupt
copies of Latin Bibles to poor people who are not well able to read their
own language. The ‘good work’ still occupies the brains and energies of
three or four enthusiasts, who have already arrived at the conclusion
that the apostles were in league with hell to keep the people ignorant,
because they did not give every man a copy of the Bible. The founder sent
me a letter two days ago, in which he complains of being deserted by his
companions in his extremity. His creditors have seized on all his goods,
and there is a considerable sum yet unpaid. He blames the Pope and the
bishop in unmeasured terms for this; says it is a conspiracy to keep the
Bible from the people. He sees no prospect of being released unless the
members of the society come to his speedy relief. The principles, he
says, for which he suffers will yet triumph. The time will come when
Bibles will be multiplied by some cheap and easy process. Until then,
the common run of humanity must be satisfied to be damned, drawing what
little consolation they may from the expectation that their descendants
a few centuries hence will enjoy the slim privilege of reading Bibles
prepared with as little regard to accuracy as these were. I am sorry to
see such a noble intellect as Giestfacher undoubtedly possesses show
signs of aberration. The entire failure of his project was more than
he could bear. He had centred his hopes upon it. He indulged dreams of
fame and greatness arising out of the triumph of his idea. Esch has
become an atheist. He says the Christian’s God would not have given
a book to be the guide and dependence of man for salvation, and yet
allow nature, an inferior creation, to interpose insuperable barriers
to its promulgation. Every time a sheep-skin is destroyed, says Esch,
a community is damned. The dearness and scarcity of parchment keep the
world in ignorance. Braunn says the world cannot be saved except by a
special revelation to every individual, for there is hardly a copy of the
Bible without errors, so that whether every human creature got one or
not, they would be still unsafe. One of the common herd must learn Latin
and Greek and Hebrew well, and then spend a lifetime tracing up, through
all its changes, transcriptions, and corruptions of idiom, one chapter,
or at most one book, and die before he be fully assured of the soundness
of one text, a paragraph, a line, a word. In fact, says Braunn, there
can be no certainty about anything. Language may have had altogether a
different meaning twelve hundred years ago to what it has now. Braunn
and Schwartz and myself wanted to have a committee of five of our number
appointed to revise and correct the text of each book that was produced
by comparing it with such Greek and Hebrew copies as were represented of
sound and correct authority; but Giestfacher laughed at us, saying we
knew nothing of Greek or Hebrew; that we would have to hire some monks
to do the job for us, which would be going back again to the very places
and principles and practices against which we had revolted and protested.
Moreover, continued Giestfacher, we cannot tell whether the oldest, most
original copies that can be found are true in every particular. How can
we know from any sort of mere human testimony that this copy or that is
in accordance with what the prophets and apostles wrote. The whole Bible
may be wrong as far as our _knowledge_, as such, is able to testify. We
are reduced to _faith_ in this connection and must rest on that alone.

“I thought, and so did Schwartz, that the faith of Giestfacher must be
peculiar when it could accept copies as good enough and true enough after
we had discovered hundreds of palpable and grievous errors in them. A
book of romance would do a person of Giestfacher’s temper as well as the
Bible--faith being capable of making up for all deficiencies. I saw that
an extravagance of credulity, called faith, on the part of Giestfacher,
led to monomania; and a predominance of irrational reason on the part of
Esch had led to utter negation. I did not covet either condition, and I
concluded to remain safe at anchor where I had been before, rather than
longer follow those adventurers in a wild career after a fancied good--a
mere phantom of their own creation. I lost twenty-five dollars by the
temporary madness. That cannot be recalled. I rejoice that I lost no
more, and I am grateful that the hallucination which lasted nearly a year
has passed away without any permanent injury.”

The remainder of Heuck’s statement had partially faded from the parchment
by time and dampness, and could not be accurately made out. Sufficient
was left visible, however, to show that he expressed a desire to be held
excusable for whatever injuries to souls might result from the grave
errors that existed in the Bibles disseminated by the cupidity of the
scriveners with the guilty knowledge of such errors.

I interested myself in rescuing from oblivion such parts of the record
of those curious mediæval transactions as served to show to the people
of later times what extraordinary mental and religious activity existed
in those ages, when it was foolishly and stupidly thought there were but
henchmen and slaves on the one side, and bloody mailed despots on the
other. The arrogance of more favored epochs has characterized those days
by the epithet of “dark.” Pride is apt to be blind. The characterization
is unjust. All the lights of science could not come in one blaze. The
people of those days looked back upon a period anterior to their own as
“dark,” and those looked still further backward upon greater obscurity,
as they thought. The universal boastfulness of man accounts for this
increasing obscurity as we reach back into antiquity. Philosophers and
poets and men of learning, thinking themselves, and wishing to have other
people think them, above personal egotism, adopted the method of praising
their age, and thus indirectly eulogizing, themselves; and as they could
not compare their times with the future of which they knew nothing, they
naturally fell into the unfilial crime of drawing disparaging comparisons
with their fathers. There is an inclination, too, in the imperfection
of human nature to belittle what is remote and magnify what is near at
hand. Even now, men as enthusiastic and conscientious and religious as
Heuck and Giestfacher and Schwartz find themselves surrounded by the same
difficulties, and as deeply at a loss to advance a valid reason for their
revolt and their protest.


EARLY PERSECUTIONS OF THE CHRISTIANS.

In one of his bold Apologies[9] the great African writer Tertullian said
to the rulers of the Roman Empire that “it was one and the same thing for
the truth [of Christianity] to be announced to the world, and for the
world to hate and persecute it.” This persecution of the church began
on the very spot that was her birth-place; for soon after the ascension
of our Lord the wicked Jews tried by every means to crush her. “From
the days of the apostles,” wrote Tertullian in the IIId century, “the
synagogue has been a source of persecutions.” At first the church was
attacked by words only; but these were soon replaced by weapons, when
Stephen was stoned, the apostles were thrown into prison and scourged,
and all the East had risen in commotion against the Christians. The
Gentiles soon followed the example of the Jews, and those persecutions
which bore an official character throughout the Roman Empire, and lasted
for three centuries, are commonly called the Ten General Persecutions.
Besides these, there were partial persecutions at all times in some part
or other of the empire. Nero, whose name is synonymous with cruelty, was
the first emperor to begin a general persecution of the Christians; and
Tertullian made a strong point in his favor when he cried out to the
people (_Apol. v._), saying, “That our troubles began at such a source,
we glory; for whoever has studied his nature knows well that nothing
but what is good and great was ever condemned by Nero.” This persecution
began in the year 64, and lasted four years. Its pretext was the burning
of Rome, the work of the emperor himself, who ambitiously desired, when
he would have rebuilt the city and made it still more grand, to call
it by his own name; but the plan not succeeding, he tried to avert the
odium of the deed from his own person, and accused the Christians. Their
extermination was decreed. The pagan historian Tacitus has mentioned,
in his _Annals_ (xv. 44), some of the principal torments inflicted on
the Christians. He says that they were covered with the skins of wild
beasts and torn to pieces by savage hounds, were crucified, were burned
alive, and that some, being coated with resinous substances, were put up
in the imperial garden at night to serve as human torches. The _Roman
Martyrology_ makes a special commemoration, on the 24th of June, of these
martyrs for having all been disciples of the apostles and the firstlings
of the Christian flock which the church in Rome presented to the Lord.
In this persecution S. Peter was crucified with his head downwards; S.
Paul was beheaded; and among the other more illustrious victims we find
S. Mark the Evangelist, S. Thecla, the first martyr of her sex, SS.
Gervase and Protase at Milan, S. Vitalis at Ravenna, and S. Polycetus at
Saragossa in Spain. The number of the slain, and the hitherto unheard-of
cruelties practised upon them, moved to pity many of the heathen, and
the sight of so much fortitude for a principle of religion was the
means, through divine grace, of many conversions. After this, as after
every succeeding persecution, the great truth spoken by Tertullian was
exemplified: that the blood of the martyrs was the seed of Christians.

By a law of the empire, which was not revoked until nearly three hundred
years afterwards, under Constantine, the profession of the Christian
religion was made a capital offence. This law, it is true, was not
enforced at all times, especially under benign or indifferent rulers; but
it hung continually suspended over the heads of the Christians like a
sword of Damocles.

The second persecution was that of Domitian, from 94 to 96. Tertullian
calls him “a portion of Nero by his cruelty.” At first he only imposed
heavy fines upon the wealthy Christians; but, thirsting for blood, he
soon published more cruel edicts against them. Among his noblest victims
were his cousin-german, Flavius Clemens, a man of consular dignity; John
the Evangelist, who was thrown into a caldron of boiling oil (from which,
however, he miraculously escaped unhurt); Andrew the Apostle, Dionysius
the Areopagite, and Onesimus, S. Paul’s convert. Hegesippus, quoted by
Eusebius in his _Ecclesiastical History_, has recorded a very interesting
fact about the children of Jude, surnamed Thaddeus in the Gospel,
telling us that, having confessed the faith under this reign, they were
always honored in the church of Jerusalem, not alone as martyrs, but as
relatives of Jesus Christ according to the flesh.

The third persecution was Trajan’s, from 97 to 116. In answer to a
letter from his friend Pliny the Younger, who had command in Asia Minor,
the emperor ordered that the Christians were not to be sought out, but
that, if accused, and they remained obstinate in their faith, they
were to be put to death. Under an appearance of mercy a large field
was opened for the cruelty and exactions of Roman officials, which
they were not slow to work. A single circumstance attests the severity
of the persecution. This was that the Tiberian governor of Palestine
wrote to the emperor complaining of the odious duty imposed upon him,
since the Christians were forthcoming in greater numbers than he could,
without tiring, have executed. The persecution was particularly severe
in the East. Simeon, bishop of Jerusalem, Ignatius of Antioch, and the
virgin Domitilla, who was related to three emperors, are among the more
illustrious martyrs of the period.

Next came the persecution of Hadrian, lasting from 118 to about 129. We
have the authority of S. Jerome for saying that it was very violent.
This emperor was a coward and, perhaps as a consequence, intensely
superstitious. One of his particular grievances against the Christians
was that they professed a religion in which he had no share. Under him
perished, with countless others, Pope Alexander I. and his priests,
Eventius and Theodulus; Eustace, a celebrated general, with his wife and
little children; Symphorosa and her seven sons; Zoe, with her husband and
two children.

The fifth was the persecution of Marcus Aurelius. Although he was by
nature well inclined, he was certainly the author of much innocent
bloodshed, which may be in part ascribed to the powerful influence
of the so-called philosophers whose company and tone he affected. The
persecution raged most severely among the Gauls; and elsewhere we find
the illustrious names of Justin the great Apologist, Polycarp, bishop of
Smyrna, and Felicitas and her seven children.

Followed the persecution of Septimius Severus, which lasted from 200
to 211, and was so extremely violent that many Christians believed
Antichrist had come. It reaped from the church such distinguished
persons as Pope Victor at Rome; Leonidas, father of the great Origen, at
Alexandria; Irenæus and companions at Lyons; Perpetua and Felicitas in
Mauritania. Egypt was particularly rich in holy martyrs.

After this one came the persecution of Maximinus, from 235 to 237. It was
in the beginning more especially directed against the sacred ministers
of the church. Several popes were put to death; and among the inferior
clergy we find the deacon Ambrose, who was the bosom friend of Origen and
one of his principal assistants in his work on the Holy Scriptures.

The persecution of Decius lasted from 249 to 251. The Christians, in
spite of all repressive measures, had steadily increased in numbers; but
this emperor thought to do what his predecessors had failed in, and was
hardly seated on the throne before he published most cruel edicts against
them. Among the more celebrated names of this persecution are those
of Popes Fabian and Cornelius; Saturninus, first bishop of Toulouse;
Babylas, bishop of Antioch; the famous Christopher in Lycia, about whom
there is a beautiful legend; and the noble virgin Agatha in Sicily. The
great scholar Origen was put to the torture during this persecution, but
escaped death. Like Maximinus, this emperor singled out the heads of
the various local churches, the most active and learned ministers, the
highest of both sexes in the social scale, aiming less at the death than
the apostasy of Christians, hoping in this way to destroy the faith;
whence S. Cyprian laments in one of his epistles that the Christians
suffer atrocious torments without the final consolation of martyrdom.
One effect of this persecution was of immense benefit to the church in
the East; for S. Paul, surnamed First Hermit, took refuge from the storm
in Upper Egypt, where he peopled by his example the region around Thebes
with those holy anchorites since called the Fathers of the Desert.

The ninth persecution was that of Valerian, who, although at first
favorable to the Christians, became one of their greatest opposers at
the instigation of their sworn enemy, Marcian. At this date we find upon
the list of martyrs the eminent names of Popes Stephen and Sixtus II.,
Lawrence the Roman deacon, and Cyprian, the great convert and bishop of
Carthage.

The persecution of Diocletian was the last and the bloodiest of all. It
raged from 303 to 310. Maximian, the emperor’s colleague, had already
put to death many Christians, and among others, on the 22d of September,
286, Maurice and his Theban legion, before the persecution became
general throughout the Roman Empire. It began in this form at Nicomedia
on occasion of a fire that consumed a part of the imperial palace, and
which was maliciously ascribed to the Christians; and it is remarkable
that the two extreme persecutions of the early church should both have
begun with a false charge of incendiarism. Diocletian used to sit upon
his throne at Nicomedia, watching the death-pangs of his Christian
subjects who were being burned, not singly, but in great crowds. Many
officers and servants of his household perished, and, to distinguish
them from the rest, they were dropped into the sea with large stones
fastened about their necks. A special object of the persecutors was to
destroy the churches and tombs of earlier martyrs, to seize the vessels
used in the Holy Sacrifice, and to burn the liturgical books and the
Holy Scriptures. The _Roman Martyrology_ makes a particular mention on
the 2d of January of those who suffered death rather than deliver up
these books to the tyrant. Although innumerable copies of the Scriptures
perished, not a few were saved, and new copies multiplied either by favor
of the less stringent executors of the law, or because the privilege
was bought by the faithful at a great price. Some years ago the German
Biblical critic Tischendorf discovered on Mount Sinai a Greek codex of
extraordinary antiquity and only two removes from an original of Origen.
It is connected with one of the celebrated martyrs of this persecution,
and bears upon what we have just said of the Sacred Scriptures. In this
codex, at the end of the Book of Esther, there is a note attesting that
the copy was collated with a very ancient manuscript that had itself
been corrected by the hand of the blessed martyr Pamphilus, priest
of Cæsarea in Palestine, while in prison, assisted by Antoninus, his
fellow-prisoner, who read for him from a copy of the Hexapla of Origen,
which had been revised by that author himself. The touching spectacle of
these two men, both of whom gave their blood for the faith, occupied,
in the midst of the inconveniences, pain, and weariness of captivity,
in transcribing good copies of the Bible, is one of the many instances,
discovered in every age, showing the care that the church has had to
multiply and guard from error the holy written Word of God.

Among the petty sources of annoyance during this persecution, was the
difficulty of procuring food, drink, or raiment that had not been offered
to idols; for the pagan priests had set up statues of their divinities
in all the market-places, hostelries, and shops, and at the private and
public fountains. They used also to go around city and country sprinkling
with superstitious lustral water the gardens, vineyards, orchards, and
fields, so as to put the Christians to the greatest straits to obtain
anything that had not been polluted in this manner. We learn from the
Acts of S. Theodotus, a Christian tradesman of Ancyra, the obstacles he
had to surmount at this time to procure pure bread and wine to be used
by the priests in the Mass. We can appreciate the intense severity of
this persecution in many ways; but one of the most singular proofs of
it is that pagans in Spain inscribed upon a marble monument, erected in
Diocletian’s honor, _that he had abolished the very name of Christian_.
This emperor had also the rare but unenviable privilege of giving his
name to a new chronological period, called by the pagans, in compliment
to his bloody zeal for their rites, the Era of Diocletian; but the
Christians called it the Era of the Martyrs. It began on the 29th of
August, 284, and was long in use in Egypt and Abyssinia. Some of the more
renowned victims of this persecution are Sebastian, an imperial officer;
Agnes, a Roman virgin; Lucy, a virgin of Syracuse, and the Forty Martyrs
of Sebaste.

It may be interesting to note briefly the chief causes of so much cruel
bloodshed, even under princes of undoubted moderation in the general
government of affairs, as were Trajan, Marcus Aurelius, Antoninus the
Pious, and a few others.

The most continual, if not the deepest, source of persecution were the
passions of the populace. Calumny of the subtlest and most popular kind,
and pressed at all times with patient effort, had so inflamed the minds
of the brutal lower classes that only a word or a sign was required to
set them upon the Christians. These were called disloyal to the empire,
unfriendly to the princes, of a foreign religion, people who refused to
fall into the ways of the majority, and enemies of the human race. From
the remains of ancient histories, from the Acts of martyrs, from pagan
inscriptions, and from other sources, more than fifty-seven different
opprobrious qualifications, applied to the Christians as a body, have
been counted up. But when particular calumnies became any way stale, the
Christians could always be accused as the cause of every calamity that
befell the state; so that, in the words of Tertullian (_Apol. xl._), “If
the Tiber exceeded its limits, if the Nile did not rise to irrigate the
fields, if the rain failed to fall, if the earth quaked, if famine or
pestilence scourged the land, at once the cry was raised, Christians to
the lions!”

The next most constant source of trouble was the pernicious influence of
the Philosophers--a set of men who pretended to be seekers after wisdom,
and distinguished themselves from the vulgar by a certain style of dress.
Puffed up as they were with their own knowledge, nothing irritated
their pride so much as that men of the despised Christian class should
presume to dispute their doctrines and teach that profane philosophy
was naught, since man could not be made perfect by human wisdom, but
only by the testimony of Christ who was crucified. Among the Christians,
too, a special order of men whom we call Apologists, and among whom we
count Justin, Tertullian, Tatian, Arnobius, Minutius Felix, Origen,
Aristides, Quadratus, Athenagoras, and Miltiades the chief, exposed in
their eloquent writings the vanity, contradictions, and vices of their
opponents, succeeding sometimes in silencing false accusations, and even
in arresting the course of persecution. Their apologies and memorials
form one of the most instructive branches of early Christian literature,
and are a considerable compensation for the loss of so many Acts of
martyrs and other venerable documents destroyed by the pagans or which
have otherwise perished.

The third great cause of persecution was found (to use a comparatively
modern word) in the Erastianism of the Roman Empire. The emperor was, by
right of the purple, high-pontiff, and no religion was recognized that
did not profess its existence and authority dependent upon the state.
Naturally, a religion whose followers would reply to every iniquitous
command, “We ought to obey God rather than men,” could expect no mercy,
but only continual war.

Sometimes the Christians were put to death in the same manner as the
common malefactors, such as by decapitation, crucifixion, or scourging;
sometimes in the manner reserved for particular classes of criminals, as
being hurled down a precipice, drowned, devoured by wild beasts, left to
starve. But sometimes, also, the exquisite cruelty of the persecutors
delighted to feed upon the sufferings of its victims, and make dying as
long and painful as possible. Thus, there are innumerable examples of
Christians being flayed alive, the skin being neatly cut off in long
strips, and pepper or vinegar rubbed into the raw flesh; or slowly
crushed between two large stones; or having molten lead poured down the
throat. Some Christians were tied to stakes in the ground and gored to
death by wild bulls, or thinly smeared with honey and exposed under a
broiling sun to the insects which would be attracted; some were tied to
the tails of vicious horses and dragged to pieces some were sewed up
in sacks with vipers, scorpions, or other venomous things, and thrown
into the water; some had their members violently torn from the trunk of
the body; some were tortured by fire in ways almost unknown to the most
savage Indians of America; some were slowly scourged to death with whips
made of several bronze chainlets, at the extremity of each of which was
a jagged bullet; while jerking out of the teeth in slow succession;
cutting off the nose, ears, lips, and breasts; tearing of the flesh with
hot pincers; sticking sharp sticks up under the finger-nails; being held
suspended, head downward, over a smoking fire; stretching upon a rack,
and breaking upon the wheel, were some only of the commonest tortures
that preceded the final death-stroke by sword or lance. Many instruments
used in tormenting the martyrs have been found at different times, and
are now carefully preserved in collections of Christian antiquities;
and from these, from early-written descriptions, and from the rude
representations on the tombs of martyrs in the Catacombs, it is known
positively that over one hundred different modes of torture were used
upon the Christians.

From the earliest period particular pains were taken by the pastors of
the church to have the remains of the martyrs collected and some account
of their sufferings consigned to letters; and Pope S. Clement, a disciple
of the Apostle Peter, instituted a college of notaries, one for each
of the seven ecclesiastical districts into which he had divided Rome,
with the special charge of collecting with diligence all the information
possible about the martyrs. They were not to pass over even the minutest
circumstances of their confession of faith and death. This attendance on
the last moments of the martyrs was often accompanied by great personal
risk, or at least a heavy expense in the way of buying the good-will of
venal officers; but it was a thing of the utmost importance, in view
of the church’s doctrine concerning the veneration and invocation of
saints, that nothing should be left undone which prudence would suggest
to leave it beyond a doubt that the martyrs had confessed the _true_
faith, and had suffered death _for_ the faith. The pagans soon discovered
the value that was set upon such documents, and very many of them were
seized and destroyed. The fact that the Act of the martyrs were objects
of careful search is so well attested--as is also the other fact, that
an immense number perished--that it is a wonder and a grace of divine
Providence how any, however few comparatively, have come down to us. It
has been calculated that at least five million Christians--men, women,
and children--were put to death for the faith during the first three
centuries of the church.

The French historian Ampère has very justly remarked that amidst the
moral decay of the Roman Empire, when all else was lust and despotism,
the Christians alone saved the dignity of human nature; and the Spaniard
Balmes, when treating of the progress of individuality under the
influence of Catholicity (_European Civilization_, ch. xxiii.), remarks
that it was the martyrs who first gave the great example of proclaiming
that “the individual should cease to acknowledge power when power exacts
from him what he believes to be contrary to his conscience.” The patience
of the martyrs rebuked the sensualism of the pagans; and their fearless
assertions that matters of conscience are beyond the jurisdiction of any
civil ruler proved them to be the best friends of human liberty; while
their constancy and number during three hundred years of persecution,
that only ceased with their triumph, is one of the solid arguments to
prove that the Catholic Church has a divine origin, and a sustaining
divinity within her.

    “A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchang’d,
    Fed on the lawns, and in the forest rang’d;
    Without unspotted, innocent within,
    She fear’d no danger, for she knew no sin:
    Yet had she oft been chas’d with horns and hounds,
    And Scythian shafts, and many wingèd wounds
    Aim’d at her heart; was often forc’d to fly,
    And doom’d to death, tho’ fated not to die.”

                                                --DRYDEN.


THE UNREMEMBERED MOTHER.

    Unknown, beloved, thou whose shadow lies
      Across the sunny threshold of my years;
    Whom memory with never-resting eyes
      Seeks thro’ the past, but cannot find for tears;
    How bitter is the thought that I, thy child,
      Remember not the touch, the look, the tone,
      Which made my young life thrill--that I alone
    Forget the face that o’er my cradle smil’d!
      And yet I know that if a sudden light
    Reveal’d thy living likeness, I should find
      That my poor heart hath pictur’d thee aright.
    So I will wait, nor think the lot unkind
      That hides thee from me, till I know by sight
    The perfect face thro’ love on earth divin’d.


DURATION.

Time and duration are usually considered synonymous, as no duration is
perceived by us, except the duration of movement, or of such things as
are subject to movement; and such duration is time. But, rigorously
speaking, time and duration are not synonymous; for they are to one
another in the same relation as place and space. As no place is possible
without real absolute space, so no time is possible without real absolute
duration; and as place consists of intervals in space, so time consists
of intervals in duration. Yet there may be duration independently of
time, just as there may be space independent of places; and for this
reason the nature of duration must be determined apart from the nature
of time. In treating of this subject we shall have to answer a series of
questions altogether similar to those which we have answered in treating
of space and place. Hence we shall follow the same order and method in
our present treatise which we have followed in our articles on space,
with this difference, however: that, to avoid useless repetitions, we
will omit the development of some of those reasonings which the reader
himself can easily transfer from space to duration.

Duration is commonly defined as “the permanence of a being in its
actuality”--_Permanentia rei in esse_. The duration of a being which
perseveres in existence without any intrinsic change is called “standing
duration”--_Duratio stans_. The duration of a being which is actually
subject to intrinsic mutations is called “flowing duration”--_Duratio
fluens_.

Flowing duration evidently implies succession, and succession involves
time; for succession is a relation between something which follows
and something which precedes. On the other hand, time also involves
succession; whence it would seem that neither time nor succession can be
defined apart from one another, the definition of the latter presupposing
that of the former, and that of the former presupposing the notion of
the latter. Although we need not be anxious about this point (for time
and succession really involve one another, and therefore may well be
included under the same definition), we must observe that the notion
of succession, though ordinarily applied to duration, extends to other
things also whenever they follow one another in a certain order. Thus
the crust of the earth is formed by a succession of strata, the Alps by
a succession of mountains, the streets of the city by a succession of
houses, etc. Hence the notion of succession is more general than the
notion of time, and consequently there must be some means of defining it
independently of the consideration of time.

Balmes explains succession, without mentioning time, in the following
manner: “There are things which exclude one another from the same
subject, and there are other things which do not exclude one another from
the same subject. The existence of those things which exclude one another
implies succession. Take a line _ABC_. A body placed in _A_ cannot pass
over to the place _B_ without ceasing to be in _A_, because the situation
_B_ excludes the situation _A_, and in a similar manner the situation
_C_ excludes the situation _B_. If, then, notwithstanding this mutual
exclusion, the three places are really occupied by the same body, there
is succession. This shows that succession is really nothing else than
_the existence of such things as exclude one another_. Hence succession
implies the existence of the thing that excludes, and the non-existence
of the things that are excluded. All variations involve some such
exclusion; hence all variations involve succession.… To perceive the
existence of things which exclude one another is to perceive succession
and time; to measure it is to measure time.” Thus far Balmes.[10]

But, if the _flowing_ duration can be easily conceived as the existence
of such things as exclude one another, the case is very different with
regard to _standing_ duration. For, since we measure all duration by time
or by successive intervals, we can scarcely conceive that there may be
duration without succession. Even the word “permanence” which we employ
in the definition of duration, and which seems to exclude all notion of
change, is always associated in our thought with succession and time.
The difficulty we experience in forming a concept of standing duration
is as great at least as that which we find in conceiving absolute space
without formal extension and parts. In fact, formal extension is to
absolute space what formal succession is to absolute standing duration.
To get over this difficulty we shall have to show that there is a
duration altogether independent of contingent changes, as there is a
space altogether independent of existing bodies, and that the succession
which we observe in the duration of created things is not to be found in
the fundamental reason of its existence, as our imagination suggests, but
only in the changes themselves which we witness in created things.

The following questions are to be answered: Is there any standing
duration? and if so, is it an objective reality, or a mere negation of
movement? Is standing duration anything created? What sort of reality
is it? Is it modified by the existence of creatures? What is a term of
duration? What is relative duration? What is an interval of duration, and
how is it measured? These questions are all parallel to those which we
have answered in our first and second articles on space, and they admit
of a similar solution.

_First question._--“Is there any duration absolutely standing?”
Certainly. For if there is a being whose entity remains always the same
without any intrinsic change, its duration will be absolutely standing.
But there is such a being. For there is, as we have proved, an infinite
reality absolutely immovable and unchangeable--that is, absolute space.
Its permanence is therefore altogether exempt from succession; and
consequently its duration is absolutely standing.

Again: As there is no movement in space without immovable space, so there
is no flowing in duration without standing duration. For as a thing
cannot change its ubication in space unless there be a field for real
ubications between the initial and the final term of the movement, so a
thing cannot change its mode of being (the _when_) in duration, unless
there be a field for real modes of being between the initial and the
final term of its duration. Now, this real field, owing to the fact that
it is, in both cases, prerequired for the possibility of the respective
changes, is something necessarily anterior to, and independent of, any of
such changes. Therefore, as the field of all local movements is anterior
to all movements and excludes movement from itself, so also the field of
all successive durations is anterior to all successivity and therefore
excludes succession.

Although these two arguments suffice to establish our conclusion, what we
have to say concerning the next question will furnish additional evidence
in its support.

_Second question._--“Is standing duration an objective reality or a mere
abstract conception?” We answer that standing duration is an objective
reality as much as absolute space. For, as movement cannot extend in
space, if space is nothing real, so movement cannot extend in duration,
if the field of its extension is nothing real. But we have just seen that
the field through which the duration of movement extends is standing
duration. Therefore standing duration is an objective reality.

Secondly, a mere nothing, or a mere fiction, cannot be the foundation of
real relations. But standing duration is the foundation of all intervals
of real succession, which are real relations. Therefore standing duration
is not a fiction, but an objective reality. The major of this argument
is well known. The minor is proved thus: In all real relations the terms
must communicate with each other through one and the same reality; and
therefore the foundation of a real relation must reach by one and the
same reality the terms related. But the terms of successive duration
are _before_ and _after_. Therefore the foundation of their relation
must reach both _before_ and _after_ with one and the same reality,
and therefore it has neither _before_ nor _after_ in itself. Had it
_before_ and _after_ in itself, its _after_ would not be its _before_;
and thus the reality by which it would reach the terms of succession
would not be the same. It is therefore manifest that the foundation of
all real intervals of succession is a reality whose duration ranges above
succession.

This proof may be presented more concisely as follows: Succession is a
relation between two terms, as _past_ and _present_. Its foundation must
therefore reach all the past as it reaches the present. But what reaches
the past as well as the present, is always present; for if it were
past, it would be no more, and thus it could not reach the past and the
present. Therefore the foundation of succession has no past, but only an
invariable present. Therefore there is a real standing duration, a real
field, over which successive duration extends.

Thirdly, in all intervals of succession the _before_ is connected
with the _after_ through real duration. But this real duration has
in itself neither _before_ nor _after_. For if it had _before_ and
_after_, it would fall under the very genus of relation of which it is
the foundation; which is evidently impossible, because it would then be
the foundation of its own entity. It is therefore plain that the real
connection between the _before_ and the _after_ is made by a reality
which transcends all _before_ and all _after_, and which is nothing else
than absolute standing duration.

Fourthly, if standing duration were not an objective reality, but a mere
fiction or a mere negation of movement, there would be no real length
of duration. For the terms of successive duration are indivisible,
and consequently they cannot give rise to any continuous quantity of
duration, unless something lies between them which affords a real ground
for continuous extension. That the terms of successive duration are
indivisible is evident, because the same term cannot be before itself nor
after itself, but is wholly confined to an indivisible instant. Now, that
according to which an interval of successive duration can be extended
from one of these terms to another, is nothing but absolute and standing
duration. For, if it were flowing, it would pass away with the passing
terms, and thus it would not lie between them, as is necessary in order
to supply a ground for the extension of the interval intercepted. In the
same manner, therefore, as there cannot be distance between two ubicated
points without real absolute space, there cannot be an interval between
two terms in succession without real absolute duration.

A fifth proof of the same truth may be drawn from the reality of the
past. Historical facts are real facts, although they are all past. There
really was a man called Solomon, who really reigned in Jerusalem; there
really was a philosopher called Plato, whose sublime doctrines deserved
for him the surname of Divine; there really was a man called Attila,
surnamed the Scourge of God. These men existed in different intervals
of duration, and they are no more; but their past existence and their
distinct duration constitute three distinct facts, which are _real facts_
even to the present day, and such will remain for ever. Now, how can
we admit that what has wholly ceased to exist in successive duration
is still a real and indelible fact, unless we admit that there is an
absolute duration which is, even now, as truly united with the past as it
is with the present, and to which the past is not past, but perpetually
present? If there is no such duration, then all the past must have been
obliterated and buried in absolute nothingness; for if the succession of
past things extended upon itself alone, without any distinct ground upon
which its flowing could be registered, none of past things could have
left behind a real mark of their existence.

Against this conclusion some will object that the relation between
_before_ and _after_ may be explained by a mere negation of simultaneous
existence. But the objection is futile. For the intervals of successive
duration can be greater or less, whilst no negation can be greater or
less; which shows that the negation of simultaneous existence must not be
confounded with the intervals of succession.

The following objection is more plausible. The duration of movement
suffices to fill up the whole interval of succession and to measure its
extent; and therefore the reality which connects the _before_ with the
_after_ is movement itself, not standing duration. To this we answer
that the duration of movement is essentially successive and relative;
and therefore it requires a real foundation in something standing and
absolute. In fact, although every movement formally extends and measures
its own duration, nevertheless it does not extend it upon itself, but
upon a field extrinsic to itself; and this field is permanently the
same. It is plain that the beginning and the end of movement cannot be
connected in mutual relation through movement alone, because movement is
always _in fieri_, and when it passes through one term of its duration
it loses the actuality it had in the preceding term; so that, when it
reaches its last term, it has nothing left of what it possessed in its
initial term or in any other subsequent term. This suffices to show that,
although the duration of the movement fills up the whole interval, yet,
owing to its very successivity, it cannot be assumed as the ground of the
relation intervening between its successive terms.

_Third question._--“Is absolute and standing duration a created or
an uncreated reality?” This question is easily answered; for, in the
first place, standing duration is the duration of a being altogether
unchangeable; and nothing unchangeable is created. Hence standing
duration is an uncreated reality. On the other hand, all that is created
is changeable and constantly subject to movement; hence all created (that
is, contingent) duration implies succession. Therefore standing duration
is not to be found among created realities. Lastly, standing duration,
as involving in itself all conceivable past and all possible future,
is infinite, and, as forming the ground of all contingent actualities,
is nothing less than the formal possibility of infinite terms of real
successive duration. But such a possibility can be found in God alone.
Therefore the reality of standing duration is in God alone; and we need
not add that it must be uncreated.

_Fourth question._--“What reality, then, is absolute standing duration?”
We answer that this duration is the infinite virtuality or extrinsic
terminability of God’s eternity. For nowhere but in God’s eternity can
we find the reason of the possibility of infinite terms and intervals of
duration. Of course, God’s eternity, considered absolutely _ad intra_,
is nothing else than the immobility of God’s existence; but its virtual
comprehension of all possible terms of successive duration constitutes
the absolute duration of God’s existence, inasmuch as the word “duration”
expresses a virtual extent corresponding to all possible contingent
duration; for God’s duration, though formally simultaneous, virtually
extends beyond all imaginable terms and intervals of contingent duration.
Hence standing duration is the duration of God’s eternity, the first and
fundamental ground of flowing duration, the infinite range through which
the duration of changeable things extend. In other words, the infinite
virtuality of God’s eternity, as equivalent to an infinite length of
time, is _duration_; and as excluding from itself all intrinsic change,
is _standing_ duration. This virtuality of God’s eternity is really
nothing else than its extrinsic terminability; for eternity is conceived
to correspond to all possible differences of time only inasmuch as it can
be compared with the contingent terms by which it can be extrinsically
terminated.

Secondly, if nothing had been created, there would have been no extrinsic
terms capable of extending successive duration; but, since God would
have remained in his eternity, there would have remained the reality in
which all extrinsic terms of duration have their virtual being; and
thus there would have remained, eminently and without formal succession,
in God himself the duration of all the beings possible outside of God.
For he would certainly not have ceased to exist in all the instants of
duration in which creatures have existed; the only change would have
been this: that those instants, owing to a total absence of creatures,
would have lacked their formal denomination of _instants_, and their
formal successivity. Hence, if nothing had been created, there would have
remained infinite real duration without succession, simply because the
virtuality of God’s eternity would have remained in all its perfection.
It is therefore this virtuality that formally constitutes standing
duration.

From this the reader will easily understand that in the concept of
standing duration two notions are involved, viz.: that of _eternity_,
as expressing the standing, and that of its _virtuality_, as connoting
virtual extent. In fact, God’s eternity, absolutely considered, is
simply the actuality of God’s substance, and, as such, does not connote
duration; for God’s substance is not said _to endure_, but simply
_to be_. The formal reason of duration is derived from the extrinsic
terminability of God’s eternity; for the word “duration” conveys the idea
of continuation, and continuation implies succession. Hence it is on
account of its extrinsic terminability to successive terms of duration
that God’s eternity is conceived as equivalent to infinite succession;
for what virtually contains in itself all possible terms and intervals of
succession virtually contains in itself all succession, and can co exist,
without intrinsic change, with all the changes of contingent duration.
Balmes, after defining succession as the existence of such things as
exclude one another, very properly remarks: “If there were a being which
neither excluded any other being nor were excluded by any of them,
that being would co-exist with all beings. Now, one such being exists,
viz.: God, and God alone. Hence theologians do but express a great and
profound truth when they say (though not all, perhaps, fully understand
what they say) that God is present to all times; that to him there is no
succession, no _before_ or _after_; that to him everything is present, is
_Now_.”[11]

We conclude that standing duration is infinite, all-simultaneous,
independent of all contingent things, indivisible, immovable, formally
simple and unextended, but equivalent to infinite intervals of successive
duration, and virtually extending through infinite lengths. This duration
is absolute.

_Fifth question._--“Does the creation of a contingent being in absolute
duration cause any intrinsic change in standing duration?” The answer
is not doubtful; for we have already seen that standing duration is
incapable of intrinsic modifications. Nevertheless, it will not be
superfluous to remark, for the better understanding of this answer, that
the “when” (the _quando_) of a contingent being has the same relation
to the virtuality of God’s eternity as has its “where” (the _ubi_) to
the virtuality of God’s immensity. For, as the “where” of every possible
creature is virtually precontained in absolute space, so is the “when”
of all creatures virtually precontained in absolute duration. Hence the
creation of any number of contingent beings in duration implies nothing
but the _extrinsic_ termination of absolute duration, which accordingly
remains altogether unaffected by the existence in it of any number of
extrinsic terms. The “when” of a contingent being, as contained in
absolute duration, is virtual; it does not become formal except in the
contingent being itself--that is, by extrinsic termination. Thus the
subject of the contingent “when” is not the virtuality of God’s eternity
any more than the subject of the contingent “where” is the virtuality of
God’s immensity.

This shows that the formal “when” of a contingent being is a mere
relativity, or a _respectus_. The formal reason, or the foundation,
of this relativity is the reality through which the contingent being
communicates with absolute standing duration, viz.: the real instant
(_quando_) which is common to both, although not in the same manner;
for it is _virtual_ in standing duration, whilst it is _formal_ in the
extrinsic term. Hence a contingent being, inasmuch as it has existence in
standing duration, is nothing but a term related by its “when” to divine
eternity as existing in a more perfect manner in the same “when.” But,
since the contingent “when” of the creature exclusively belongs to the
creature itself, God’s standing duration receives nothing from it except
a relative extrinsic denomination.

The relation resulting from the existence of a created term in standing
duration consists in this: that the created term by its formal “when”
really imitates the eminent mode of being of God himself in the same
“when.” This relation is called _simultaneousness_.

Simultaneousness is often confounded with presence and with
co-existence. But these three notions, rigorously speaking, differ from
one another. _Presence_ refers to terms in space; _simultaneousness_ to
terms in duration; _co-existence_ to terms both present and simultaneous.
Thus presence and simultaneousness are the constituents of co-existence.
Presence is to be considered as the material constituent, because it
depends on the “where,” which belongs to the thing on account of its
matter or potency; simultaneousness must be considered as the formal
constituent, because it depends on the “when,” which belongs to the thing
on account of its act or of its resulting actuality.

Before we proceed further, we must yet remark that in the same manner as
the infinite virtuality of divine immensity receives distinct extrinsic
denominations from the contingent terms existing in space, and is thus
said to imply _distinct virtualities_, so also the infinite virtuality
of God’s eternity can be said to imply distinct virtualities, owing to
the distinct denominations it receives from distinct terms of contingent
duration. It is for this reason that we can speak of virtualities of
eternity in the plural. Thus when we point out the first instant of any
movement as distinct from any following instant, we consider the flowing
of the contingent “when” from _before_ to _after_ as a passage from one
to another virtuality of standing duration. These virtualities, however,
are not distinct as to their absolute beings, but only as to their
extrinsic termination and denomination; and therefore they are really but
one infinite virtuality. As all that we have said of the virtualities
of absolute space in one of our past articles equally applies to the
virtualities of absolute duration, we need not dwell here any longer on
this point.

_Sixth question._--“In what does the ‘when’ of a contingent being
precisely consist?” From the preceding considerations it is evident
that the “when” of a contingent being may be understood in two manners,
viz., either _objectively_ or _subjectively_. Objectively considered,
the “when” is nothing else than _a simple and indivisible term in
duration_ formally marked out in it by the actuality of the contingent
being. We say _a simple and indivisible term_, because the actuality
of the contingent being by which it is determined involves neither
past nor future, neither _before_ nor _after_, but only its present
existence, which, as such, is confined to an indivisible _Now_. Hence
we do not agree with those philosophers who confound the _quando_ with
the _tempus_--that is, the “when” with the extent of flowing duration.
We admit with these philosophers that the “when” of contingent things
extends through movement from _before_ to _after_, and draws, so to say,
a continuous line in duration; but we must remind them that the _before_
and the _after_ are distinct modes of being in duration, and that every
term of duration designable between them is a distinct “when” independent
of every other “when,” either preceding or following; which shows that
the _tempus_ implies an uninterrupted series of distinct “whens,” and
therefore cannot be considered as synonymous with _quando_.

If the “when” is considered subjectively--that is, as an appurtenance of
the subject of which it is predicated--it may be defined as _the mode of
being of a contingent thing in duration_. This mode consists of a mere
relativity; for it results from the extrinsic termination of absolute
duration, as already explained. Hence the “when” is not _received_ in
the subject of which it is predicated, and does not _inhere_ in it, but,
like all other relativities and connotations, simply connects it with its
correlative, and intervenes or lies between the one and the other.

But, although it consists of a mere relativity, the “when” still admits
of being divided into _absolute_ and _relative_, according as it is
conceived absolutely as something real in nature, or compared with
some other “when”; for, as we have already explained when treating of
ubications, relative entities may be considered both as to what they are
in themselves, and as to what they are to one another.

If the “when” is considered simply as a termination of standing duration,
without regard for anything else, it is called _absolute_, and is defined
as _the mode of being of a thing in absolute duration_. This absolute
“when” is an _essential mode_ of the contingent being no less than its
dependence from the first cause, and is altogether immutable so long
as the contingent being exists; for, on the one hand, the contingent
being cannot exist but within the domain of divine eternity, and, on the
other, it cannot have different modes of being with regard to it, as the
standing duration of eternity is all uniform in its infinite virtual
extension, and the contingent being, however much we may try to vary its
place in duration, must always be in the very middle of eternity. Hence
the absolute “when” is altogether unchangeable.

If the “when” of a contingent being is compared with that of another
contingent being in order to ascertain their mutual relation, then the
“when” is called _relative_, and, as such, it may be defined as _the mode
of terminating a relation in duration_. This “when” is changeable, not
in its intrinsic entity, but in its relative formality; and it is only
under this formality that the “when” (_quando_) can be ranked among the
predicamental accidents; for this changeable formality is the only thing
in it which bears the stamp of an accidental entity.

The _before_ and the _after_ of the same contingent being are considered
as two distinct relative terms, because the being to which they refer,
when existing in the _after_, excludes the _before_; though the absolute
“when” of one and the same being is one term only. But of this we shall
treat more fully in the sequel.

_Seventh question._--“What is relative duration?” Here we meet again the
same difficulty which we have encountered in explaining relative space;
for in the same manner as relations in space are usually confounded
with space itself, so are the intervals in duration confounded with the
duration which is the ground of their extension. But, as the reasonings
by which we have established the precise notion of relative space can be
easily brought to bear on the present subject by the reader himself, we
think we must confine ourselves to a brief and clear statement of the
conclusions drawn from those reasonings, as applied to duration.

Relative duration is _the duration through which any movement extends_;
that is, the duration through which the “when” of anything in movement
glides from _before_ to _after_, and by which the _before_ and the
_after_ are linked in mutual relation. Now, the duration through which
movement extends is not exactly the duration of the movement itself, but
the ground upon which the movement extends its own duration; because
movement has nothing actual but a flowing instant, and therefore it has
no duration within itself except by reference to an extrinsic ground
through which it successively extends. This ground, as we have already
shown, is standing duration. And therefore relative duration is nothing
else than _standing duration as extrinsically terminated by distinct
terms_, or, what amounts to the same terminated by one term which, owing
to any kind of movement, acquires distinct and opposite formalities. This
conclusion is based on the principle that the foundation of all relations
between _before_ and _after_ must be something absolute, having in itself
neither _before_ nor _after_, and therefore absolutely standing. This
principle is obviously true. The popular notion, on the contrary, that
relative duration is the duration of movement, is based on the assumption
that movement itself engenders duration--which assumption is false;
for we cannot even conceive movement without presupposing the absolute
duration upon which the movement has to trace the line of its flowing
existence.

Thus relative duration is called relative, not because it is itself
related, but because it is the ground through which the extrinsic
terms are related. It is actively, not passively, relative; it is the
_ratio_, not the _rationatum_, the foundation, not the result, of the
relativities. In other terms, relative duration is absolute as to its
entity, and relative as to the extrinsic denomination derived from the
relations of which it is the formal reason. Duration, as absolute, may
be styled “the region of all possible _whens_,” just as absolute space is
styled “the region of all possible ubications”; and, as relative, it may
be styled “the region of all possible succession,” just as relative space
is styled “the region of all local movements.” Absolute standing duration
and absolute space are the ground of the _here_ and _now_ as statical
terms. Relative standing duration and relative space are the ground of
the _here_ and _now_ as gliding--that is, as dynamically considered.

_Eighth question._--“What is an interval of duration?” It is a relation
existing between two opposite terms of succession--that is, between
_before_ and _after_. An interval of duration is commonly considered as a
continuous extension; yet it is primarily a simple relation by which the
extension of the flowing from _before_ to _after_ is formally determined.
Nevertheless, since the “when” cannot acquire the opposite formalities,
_before_ and _after_, without continuous movement, all interval of
duration implies movement, and therefore may be considered also as a
continuous quantity. Under this last aspect, the interval of duration is
nothing else than the duration of the movement from _before_ to _after_.

We have already noticed that the duration of movement, or the interval
of duration, is not to be confounded with the duration through which the
movement extends. But as, in the popular language, the one as well as the
other is termed “relative duration,” we would suggest that the duration
through which the movement extends might be called _fundamental_ relative
duration, whilst the relation which constitutes an interval between
_before_ and _after_ might be called _resultant_ relative duration.

The philosophical necessity of this distinction is obvious, first,
because the _standing_ duration, through which movement extends, must not
be confounded with the _flowing_ duration of movement; secondly, because
the relation and its foundation are not the same thing, and, as we have
explained at length when treating of relative space, to confound the one
with the other leads to Pantheism. Intervals of relation are not _parts_
of absolute duration, though they are so conceived by many, but they are
mere relations, as we have stated. Absolute duration is all standing,
it has no parts, and it cannot be divided into parts. What is called an
interval _of_ duration should rather be called an interval _in_ duration;
for it is not a portion of standing duration, but an extrinsic result;
it is not a length of absolute duration, but the length of the movement
extending through that duration; it is not a divisible extension, but the
ground on which movement acquires its divisible extension from _before_
to _after_. In the smallest conceivable interval of duration there is
God, with all his eternity. To affirm that intervals of duration are
distinct durations would be to cut God’s eternity to pieces by giving it
a distinct being in really distinct intervals. Hence it is necessary to
concede that, whilst the intervals are distinct, the duration on which
they have their foundation is one and the same. The only duration which
can be safely confounded with those intervals is the flowing duration of
the movement by which they are measured. This is the duration which can
be considered as a continuous quantity divisible into parts; and this is
the duration which we should style “_resultant_ relative duration,” to
avoid all danger of error or equivocation.

The objections which can be made against this manner of viewing things do
not much differ from those which we have solved in our second article on
space; and therefore we do not think it necessary to make a new answer
to them. The reader himself will be able to see what the objections are,
and how they can be solved, by simply substituting the words “eternity,”
“duration,” etc., for the words “immensity,” “space,” etc., in the
article referred to.

Yet a special objection can be made against the preceding doctrine about
the duration of movement, independently of those which regard relations
in space. It may be presented under this form. “The foundation of the
relation between _before_ and _after_ is nothing else than movement
itself. It is therefore unnecessary and unphilosophical to trace the
duration of movement to the virtuality of God’s eternity as its extrinsic
foundation.” The antecedent of this argument may be proved thus: “That
thing is the foundation of the relation which gives to its terms their
relative being--that is, in our case, their opposite formalities,
_before_ and _after_. But movement alone gives to the _when_ these
opposite formalities. Therefore movement alone is the foundation of
successive duration.”

We answer that the antecedent of the first argument is absolutely false.
As to the syllogism which comes next, we concede the major, but we deny
the minor. For it is plain that movement cannot give to the absolute
_when_ the relative formalities _before_ and _after_, except by flowing
through absolute duration, without which it is impossible for the
movement to have its successive duration. And surely, if the movement has
no duration but that which it borrows from the absolute duration through
which it extends, the foundation of its duration from _before_ to _after_
can be nothing else than the same absolute duration through which the
movement acquires its _before_ and _after_. Now, this absolute duration
is the virtuality of God’s eternity, as we have proved. It is therefore
both philosophical and necessary to trace the duration of movement to
the virtuality of God’s eternity, as its extrinsic foundation. That
movement is also necessary to constitute the relation between _before_
and _after_, we fully admit; for there cannot be _before_ and _after_
without movement. But it does not follow from this that movement is
the _foundation_ of the relation; it merely follows that movement is
a _condition_ necessary to give to the absolute _when_ two distinct
actualities, according to which it may be compared with itself on the
ground of standing duration. For, as every relation demands two opposite
terms, the same absolute _when_ must acquire two opposite formalities,
that it may be related to itself.

The only other objection which may perhaps be made against our
conclusions is the following: The foundation of a real relation is that
reality through which the terms related communicate with one another.
Now, evidently, the _before_ and the _after_, which are the terms of
the relation in question, communicate with one another through the same
absolute _when_; for they are the same absolute _when_ under two opposite
formalities. Hence it follows that the foundation of the relation
between _before_ and _after_ is nothing else than the absolute _when_ of
a moving being.

To this we answer that the foundation of the relation is not all reality
through which the terms related communicate with one another, but only
that reality by the common termination of which they become formally
related to one another. Hence, since the _before_ and the _after_ do
not receive their relative formalities from the absolute _when_, it
is idle to pretend that the absolute _when_ is the foundation of the
interval of duration. The _before_ and the _after_ communicate with the
same absolute _when_ not as a formal, but as a material, cause of their
existence--that is, inasmuch as the same _when_ is the subject, not the
reason, of both formalities. The only relation to which the absolute
_when_ can give a foundation is one of identity with itself in all the
extent of its flowing duration. But such a relation presupposes, instead
of constituting, an interval in duration. And therefore it is manifest
that the absolute _when_ is not the foundation of the relation between
_before_ and _after_.

Having thus answered the questions proposed, and given the solution of
the few difficulties objected, we must now say a few words about the
_division_ and _measurement_ of relative duration, whether fundamental or
resultant.

Fundamental or standing duration is divided into _real_ and _imaginary_.
This division cannot regard the entity of standing duration, which is
unquestionably real, as we have proved. It regards the reality or the
unreality of the extrinsic terms conceived as having a relation in
duration. The true notion of real, contrasted with imaginary, duration,
is the following: Standing duration is called _real_ when it is _really_
relative, viz., when it is extrinsically terminated by real terms
between which it founds a real relation; on the contrary, it is called
_imaginary_ when the extrinsic terms do not exist in nature, but only in
our imagination; for, in such a case, standing duration is not really
terminated and does not found real relations, but both the terminations
and the relations are simply a figment of our imagination. Thus standing
duration, as containing none but imaginary relations, may justly be
called “imaginary,” though in an absolute sense it is intrinsically real.
Accordingly, the _indefinite_ duration which we imagine when we carry
our thought beyond the creation of the world, and which is also called
“imaginary,” is not absolute but relative duration, and is not imaginary
in itself, but only as to its denomination of relative, because, in the
absence of all real terms, there can be none but imaginary relations.

It is therefore unphilosophical to confound imaginary and indefinite
duration with absolute and infinite duration. This latter is not an
object of imagination, but of the intellect alone. Imagination cannot
conceive duration, except in connection with some movement from _before_
to _after_; hence absolute and infinite duration, which has no _before_
and no _after_, is altogether beyond the reach of imagination. Indeed,
our intellectual conception of infinite standing duration is always
accompanied in our minds by a representation of indefinite time; but
this depends, as we have stated in speaking of space, on the well-known
connection of our imaginative and intellectual operations, inasmuch
as our imagination strives to follow the intellect, and to represent
after its own manner what the intellect conceives in a totally different
manner. It was by confounding the objective notion of duration with our
subjective manner of imagining it that Kant came to the conclusion that
duration was nothing but a subjective form or a subjective condition,
under which all intuitions are possible in us. This conclusion is
evidently false; but its refutation, to be successful, must be based on
the objectivity of absolute standing duration, without which, as we have
shown, there can be no field for real and objective succession.

Resultant relative duration--that is, an interval of flowing
duration--admits of the same division into _real_ and _imaginary_. It
is real when a real continuous flowing connects the _before_ with the
_after_; in all other suppositions it will be imaginary. It may be
remarked that the “real continuous flowing” may be either intrinsic or
extrinsic. Thus, if God had created nothing but a simple angel, there
would have been no other flowing duration than a continuous succession
of intellectual operations connecting the _before_ with the _after_ in
the angel himself, and thus his duration would have been measured by a
series of intrinsic changes. It is evident that in this case one absolute
_when_ suffices to extend the interval of duration; for by its gliding
from _before_ to _after_ it acquires opposite formalities through which
it can be relatively opposed to itself as the subject and the term of
the relation. If, on the contrary, we consider the interval of duration
between two distinct beings--say Cæsar and Napoleon--then the real
continuous flowing by which such an interval is measured is extrinsic to
the terms compared; for the _when_ of Cæsar is distinct from, and does
not reach, that of Napoleon; which shows that their respective _whens_
have no intrinsic connection, and that the succession comprised between
those _whens_ must have consisted of a series of changes extrinsic to
the terms compared. It may seem difficult to conceive how an interval of
continuous succession can result between two terms of which the one does
not attain to the other; for, as a line in space must be drawn by the
movement of a single point, so it seems that a length in duration must be
extended by the flowing of a single _when_ from _before_ to _after_. The
truth is that the interval between the _whens_ of two distinct beings is
not obtained by comparing the _when_ of the one with that of the other,
but by resorting to the _when_ of some other being which has extended its
continuous succession from the one to the other. Thus, when Cæsar died,
the earth was revolving on its axis, and it continued to revolve without
interruption up to the existence of Napoleon, thus extending the duration
of its movement from a _when_ corresponding to Cæsar’s death to a _when_
corresponding to Napoleon’s birth; and this duration, wholly extrinsic to
Cæsar and Napoleon, measures the interval between them.

As all intervals of duration extend from _before_ to _after_, there
can be no interval between co-existent beings, as is evident. In the
same manner as two beings whose ubications coincide cannot be distant
in space, so two beings whose _whens_ are simultaneous cannot form an
interval of duration.

All real intervals of duration regard the past; for in the past alone
can we find a real _before_ and a real _after_. The present gives no
interval, as we have just stated, but only simultaneousness. The future
is real only potentially--that is, it will be real, but it is not yet.
What has never been, and never will be, is merely imaginary. To this
last class belong all the intervals of duration corresponding to those
conditional events which did not happen, owing to the non-fulfilment of
the conditions on which their reality depended.

As to the measurement of flowing duration a few words will suffice. The
_when_ considered absolutely is incapable of measuring an interval of
duration, for the reason that the _when_ is unextended, and therefore
unproportionate to the mensuration of a continuous interval; for the
measure must be of the same kind with the thing to be measured. Just
as a continuous line cannot be made up of unextended points, so cannot
a continuous interval be made up of indivisible instants; hence, as a
line is divisible only into smaller and smaller lines, by which it can
be measured, so also an interval of duration is divisible only into
smaller and smaller intervals, and is measured by the same. These smaller
intervals, being continuous, are themselves divisible and mensurable by
other intervals of less duration, and these other intervals are again
divisible and mensurable; so that, from the nature of the thing, it is
impossible to reach an absolute measure of duration, and we must rest
satisfied with a relative one, just as in the case of a line and of any
other continuous quantity. The smallest unit or measure of duration
commonly used is the second, or sixtieth part of a minute.

But, since continuous quantities are divisible _in infinitum_, it may be
asked, what prevents us from considering a finite interval of duration
as containing an infinite multitude of infinitesimal units of duration?
If nothing prevents us, then in the infinitesimal unit we shall have
the true and absolute measure of duration. We answer that nothing
prevents such a conception; but the mensuration of a finite interval by
infinitesimal units would never supply us the means of determining the
relative lengths of two intervals of duration. For, if every interval is
a sum of infinite terms, and is so represented, how can we decide which
of those intervals is the greater, since we cannot count the infinite?

Mathematicians, in all dynamical questions, express the conditions of the
movement in terms of infinitesimal quantities, and consider every actual
instant which connects the _before_ with the _after_ as an infinitesimal
interval of duration in the same manner as they consider every shifting
ubication as an infinitesimal interval of space. But when they pass from
infinitesimal to finite quantities by integration between determinate
limits, they do not express the finite intervals in infinitesimal terms,
but in terms of a finite unit, viz., a second of time; and this shows
that, even in high mathematics, the infinitesimal is not taken as the
measure of the finite.

Since infinitesimals are considered as evanescent quantities, the
question may be asked whether they are still conceivable as quantities.
We have no intention of discussing here the philosophical grounds of
infinitesimal calculus, as we may have hereafter a better opportunity
of examining such an interesting subject; but, so far as infinitesimals
of duration are concerned, we answer that they are still quantities,
though they bear no comparison with finite duration. What mathematicians
call an infinitesimal of time is nothing else rigorously than the
flowing of an actual “when” from _before_ to _after_. The “when” as
such is no quantity, but its flowing is. However narrow the compass
within which it may be reduced, the flowing implies a relation between
_before_ and _after_; hence every instant of successive duration,
inasmuch as it actually links its immediate _before_ with its immediate
_after_, partakes of the nature of successive duration, and therefore
of continuous quantity. Nor does it matter that infinitesimals are
called _evanescent_ quantities. They indeed vanish, as compared with
finite quantities; but the very fact of their vanishing proves that they
are still something when they are in the act of vanishing. Sir Isaac
Newton, after saying in his _Principia_ that he intends to reduce the
demonstration of a series of propositions to the first and last sums and
ratios of nascent and evanescent quantities, propounds and solves this
very difficulty as follows: “Perhaps it may be objected that there is no
ultimate proportion of evanescent quantities; because the proportion,
before the quantities have vanished, is not the ultimate, and, when they
are vanished, is none. But by the same argument it may be alleged that
a body arriving at a certain place, and there stopping, has no ultimate
velocity; because the velocity, before the body comes to the place, is
not its ultimate velocity; when it has arrived, is none. But the answer
is easy; for by the ultimate velocity is meant that with which the body
is moved, neither _before_ it arrives at its last place and the motion
ceases, nor _after_, but at the _very instant_ it arrives; that is,
the velocity with which the body arrives at its last place, and with
which the motion ceases. And in like manner, by the ultimate ratio of
evanescent quantities is to be understood the ratio of the quantities,
not before they vanish, not afterwards, but with which they vanish. In
like manner, the first ratio of nascent quantities is that with which
they begin to be.” From this answer, which is so clear and so deep, it
is manifest that infinitesimals are real quantities. Whence we infer
that every instant of duration which actually flows from _before_ to
_after_ marks out a real infinitesimal interval of duration that might
serve as a unit of measure for the mensuration of all finite intervals
of succession, were it not that we cannot reckon up to infinity.
Nevertheless, it does not follow that an infinitesimal duration is an
absolute unit of duration; for it is still continuous, even in its
infinite smallness; and accordingly it is still divisible and mensurable
by other units of a lower standard. Thus it is clear that the measurement
of flowing duration, and indeed of all other continuous quantity, cannot
be made except by some arbitrary and conventional unit.


THE STARS.

    As I gaze in silent wonder
      On the countless stars of night,
    Looking down in mystic stillness
      With their soft and magic light

    Seem they from my eyes retreating
      With their vast and bright array,
    Till they into endless distance
      Almost seem to fade away.

    And my thoughts are carried with them
      To their far-off realms of light;
    Yet they seem retreating ever,
      Ever into endless night.

    Whither leads that silent army,
      With its noiseless tread and slow?
    And those glittering bands, who are they?
      Thus my thoughts essay to know.

    But my heart the secret telleth
      That to thee, my God, they guide;
    That they are thy gleaming watchmen,
      Guarding round thy palace wide.

    Then, when shall those gates be opened
      To receive my yearning soul,
    Where its home shall be for ever,
      While the countless ages roll?

    Thou alone, O God! canst know it:
      Till then doth my spirit pine.
    Father! keep thy child from falling,
      Till for ever I am thine.


WILLIAM TELL AND ALTORF.

Brunnen, the “fort of Schwytz,” standing at that angle of the lake of
Lucerne where it turns abruptly towards the very heart of the Alps,
has always been a central halting-place for travellers; but since the
erection of its large hotel the attraction has greatly increased. We
found the Waldstätterhof full to overflowing, and rejoiced that, as
usual, we had wisely ordered our rooms beforehand. Our surprise was
great, as we threaded the mazes of the _table-d’hôte_ room, to see Herr
H---- come forward and greet us cordially. We expected, it is true,
to meet him here, but not until the eve of the feast at Einsiedeln,
whither he had promised to accompany us. An unforeseen event, however,
had brought him up the lake sooner, and he therefore came on to Brunnen,
in the hope of finding us. A few minutes sufficed to make him quit his
place at the centre table and join us at a small one, where supper had
been prepared for our party, and allow us to begin a description of our
wanderings since we parted from him on the quay at Lucerne. Yes, “begin”
is the proper word; for before long the harmony was marred by George,
who, with his usual impetuosity, and in spite of Caroline’s warning
frowns and Anna’s and my appealing looks, betrayed our disappointment at
having missed the Hermitage at Ranft, and the reproaches we had heaped on
Herr H----’s head for having mismanaged the programme in that particular.
The cheery little man, whose eyes had just begun to glisten with
delight, grew troubled.

“I am _so_ sorry!” he exclaimed. “But the ladies were not so enthusiastic
about Blessed Nicholas when I saw them. And as for you, Mr. George, I
never could have dreamt you would have cared for the Hermit.”

“Oh! but _he_ is a real historical character, you see, about whom there
can be no doubt--very unlike your sun-god, your mythical hero, William
Tell!” replied George.

“Take care! take care! young gentleman,” said Herr H----, laughing.
“Remember you are now in Tell’s territory, and he may make you rue the
consequences of deriding him! Don’t imagine, either, that your modern
historical critics have left even Blessed Nicholas alone! Oh! dear, no.”

“But he is vouched for by documents,” retorted George.“No one can doubt
them.”

“Your critics of this age would turn and twist and doubt anything,” said
Herr H----. “They cannot deny his existence nor the main features of his
life; yet some have gone so far as to pretend to doubt the most authentic
fact in it--his presence at the Diet of Stanz--saying that _probably_ he
never went there, but only wrote a letter to the deputies. So much for
their criticism and researches! After that specimen you need not wonder
that I have no respect for them. But I am in an unusually patriotic
mood to-day; for I have just come from a meeting at Beckenried, on
the opposite shore, in Unterwalden. It was that which brought me here
before my appointment with you. It was a meeting of one of our Catholic
societies in these cantons, which assembled to protest against the
revision of the constitution contemplated next spring. Before separating
it was suggested that they should call a larger one at the Rütli, to
evoke the memories of the past and conform themselves to the pattern of
our forefathers.”

“Why do you so much object to a revision?” inquired Mr. C----. “Surely
reform must sometimes be necessary.”

“Sometimes, of course, but not at present, my dear sir. ‘Revision’
nowadays simply means radicalism and the suppression of our religion and
our religious rights and privileges. It is a word which, for that reason
alone, is at all times distasteful to these cantons. Moreover, it savors
too much of French ideas and doctrines, thoroughly antagonistic to all
our principles and feelings. Everything French is loathed in these parts,
especially in Unterwalden, in spite of--or I should perhaps rather say in
consequence of--all they suffered from that nation in 1798.”

“I can understand that,” said Mr. C----, “with the memory of the massacre
in the church at Stanz always in their minds.”

“Well, yes; but that was only one act in the tragedy. The desolation they
caused in that part of the country was fearful. Above all, their total
want of religion at that period can never be forgotten.”

“As for myself,” remarked Mr. C----, “though not a Catholic, I confess
that I should much rather rely on the upright instincts of this pious
population than on the crooked teachings of our modern philosophers. I
have always noticed in every great political crisis that the instincts of
the pure and simple-minded have something of an inspiration about them;
they go straight to the true principles where a Macchiavelli is often at
fault.” Herr H---- completely agreed with him, and the conversation soon
became a deep and serious discussion on the tendencies of modern politics
in general, so that it was late that evening before our party separated.

The first sound that fell upon my ear next morning was the splashing of
a steamer hard by. It had been so dark upon our arrival the night before
that we had not altogether realized the close proximity of the hotel to
the lake, and it was an unexpected pleasure to find my balcony almost
directly over the water, like the stern gallery of a ship of war. A
small steamer certainly was approaching from the upper end of the lake,
with a time-honored old diligence in the bows and a few travellers,
tired-looking and dust-stained, scattered on the deck, very unlike the
brilliant throngs that pass to and fro during the late hours of the
day. But this early morning performance was one of real business, and
the magical words “Post” and “St. Gothard,” which stood out in large
letters on the yellow panels of the diligence, told at once of more than
mere pleasure-seeking. What joy or grief, happiness or despair, might
not this old-fashioned vehicle be at this moment conveying to unknown
thousands! It was an abrupt transition, too, to be thus brought from
pastoral Sarnen and Sachslen into immediate contact with the mighty Alps.
Of their grandeur, however, nothing could be seen; for, without rain
or wind, a thick cloud lay low upon the lake, more like a large flat
ceiling than aught else. Yet, for us, it had its own peculiar interest,
being nothing more nor less than the great, heavy, soft mass which we
had noticed hanging over the lake every morning when looking down from
Kaltbad, whilst we, revelling in sunshine and brightness above, were
pitying the poor inhabitants along the shore beneath. There was a kind
of superiority, therefore, in knowing what it meant, and in feeling
confident that it would not last long. And, as we expected, it did clear
away whilst we sat at our little breakfast-table in the window, revealing
in all its magnificence the glorious view from this point up the Bay of
Uri, which we have elsewhere described. Huge mountains seemed to rise
vertically up out of the green waters; verdant patches were dotted here
and there on their rugged sides; and, overtopping all, shone the glacier
of the Urirothstock, more dazzlingly white and transparent than we had
ever yet beheld it.

“Now, ladies!” exclaimed Herr H----, “I hope you have your Schiller
ready; for the Rütli is yonder, though you will see it better by and by.”

“Why, I thought you disapproved of Schiller,” retorted the irrepressibly
argumentative George.

“To a certain degree, no doubt,” replied Herr H----. “But nothing can
be finer than his _William Tell_ as a whole. My quarrel with it is that
the real William Tell would have fared much better were it not for this
play, and especially for the opera. They have both made the subject so
common--so _banale_, as the French say--that the world has grown tired
of it, and for this reason alone is predisposed to reject our hero.
Besides, the real history of the Revolution is so fine that I prefer it
in its simplicity. Schiller is certainly true to its spirit, but details
are frequently different. For instance, the taking of the Castle of the
Rossberg, which you passed on the lake of Alpnach: Schiller has converted
that into a most sensational scene, whereas the true story is far more
characteristic. That was the place where a young girl admitted her
betrothed and his twelve Confederate friends by a rope-ladder at night,
which enabled them to seize the castle and imprison the garrison “without
shedding a drop of blood or injuring the property of the Habsburgs,” in
exact conformity with their oath on the Rütli. You will often read of
the loves of Jägeli and Ameli in Swiss poetry. They are great favorites,
and, in my opinion, far more beautiful than the fictitious romance
of Rudenz and Bertha. And so in many other cases. But every one does
not object to Schiller as I do; for in 1859, when his centenary was
celebrated in Germany, the Swiss held a festival here on the Rütli,
and subsequently erected a tablet on that large natural pyramidal rock
you see at the corner opposite. It is called the Wytenstein, and you
can read the large gilt words with a glass. It is laconic enough, too;
see: ‘To Frederick Schiller--The Singer of Tell--The Urcantone.’ The
original cantons! Miss Caroline! let me congratulate you on being at last
in the ‘Urschweiz’--the cradle of Switzerland,” continued Herr H----,
as we sauntered out on the quay, pointing at the same time to some bad
frescos of Swen and Suiter on a warehouse close by. Stauffacher, Fürst,
and Van der Halden also figured on the walls--the presiding geniuses
of this region. “Brunnen is in no way to be despised, I assure you,
ladies; you are treading on venerated soil. This is the very spot that
witnessed the foundation of the Confederacy, where the oath was taken
by the representatives of Uri, Schwytz, and Unterwalden the day after
the battle of Morgarten. They swore ‘to die, each for all and all for
each’--the oath which made Switzerland renowned, and gave the name of
‘Ridsgenossen,’ or ‘oath-participators,’ to its inhabitants. The document
is still kept in the archives at Schwytz, with another dated August 1,
1291. Aloys von Reding raised his standard against the French here in
1798; and he was quite right in beginning his resistance to them at
Brunnen. It is full of memories to us Swiss, and is a most central point,
as you may see, between all these cantons. The increase in the hotels
tells what a favorite region it also is with tourists.”

On this point Mr. and Mrs. C----’s astonishment was unbounded. They
had passed a fortnight at Brunnen in 1861, at a small inn with scanty
accommodation, now replaced by the large and comfortable Waldstätterhof,
situated in one of the most lovely spots imaginable, at the angle of
the lake, one side fronting the Bay of Uri and the other looking up
towards Mount Pilatus. The _pension_ of Seelisberg existed on the heights
opposite even then--only, however, as a small house, instead of the
present extensive establishment, with its pretty woods and walks; but
Axenstein and the second large hotel now building near it, with the
splendid road leading up to them, had not been thought of. The only
communication by land between Schwytz and Fluelen, in those days, was
a mule-path along the hills, precipitous and dangerous in many parts.
The now famed Axenstrasse was not undertaken until 1862; and is said to
have been suggested by the French war in Italy. With the old Swiss dread
of the French still at heart, the Federal government took alarm at that
first military undertaking on the part of Napoleon III., and, seeing
the evil of having no communication between these cantons in case of
attack, at once took the matter seriously in hand. This great engineering
achievement was opened to the public in 1868. It looked most inviting
to-day, and we quickly decided to make use of it by driving along it to
Fluelen, and thence to Altorf, returning in the evening by the steamer.
Some were anxious to visit the Rütli; but Mr. and Mrs. C---- had been
there before, and knew that it was more than an hour’s expedition
by boat, so that the two excursions on the same day would be quite
impossible; consequently, we chose the longer one.

It was just ten o’clock when we started; Mrs. C----, Caroline, Herr
H----, and myself in one carriage, with George on the box, the others
following us in a second vehicle. We had not proceeded far when Herr
H---- made us halt to look at the Rütli, on the shore right opposite. We
distinctly saw that it was a small meadow, formed by earth fallen from
above on a ledge of rock under the precipitous heights of Seelisberg,
and now enclosed by some fine chestnut and walnut trees. Truly, it was
a spot fitted for the famous scene. So unapproachable is it, except by
water, that even that most enterprising race--Swiss hotel-keepers--have
hitherto failed to destroy it. Some years ago, however, it narrowly
escaped this fate; for Herr Müller, of Seelisberg, is said to have been
on the point of building a _pension_ on the great meadow. But no sooner
did this become known than a national subscription was at once raised,
the government purchased it, and now it has become inalienable national
property for ever.

“You may well be proud of your country, Herr H----,” exclaimed Mr.
C---- from the other carriage. “I always look on that tiny spot with
deep reverence as the true cradle of freedom. Look at it well, George!
It witnessed that wonderful oath by which these mountaineers bound
themselves ‘to be faithful to each other, just and merciful to their
oppressors’--the only known example of men--and these men peasants,
too--binding themselves, in the excitement of revolt, not to take revenge
on their oppressors.”

“Quite sublime!” ejaculated George.

“Well, it has borne good fruit,” returned Herr H---- in gleeful tones;
“for here we are still free! Except on the one occasion of the French in
’98, no foreign troops have ever invaded this part of Switzerland since
those days. Yes, there are three springs at the Rütli, supposed to have
jutted forth where the three heroes stood; but I do not pledge my word
for that,” he answered smilingly to Caroline, “nor for the legend which
says that their spirits sleep in the rocky vale under Seelisberg, ready
to come forth and lead the people in moments of danger.”

“I hope their slumbers may never be disturbed,” she replied; “but I wish
some one would prevent these cattle from frightening the horses,” as a
large drove swept past our carriages, making our steeds nervous. Splendid
animals they were, with beautiful heads, straight backs, light limbs, and
of a grayish mouse color.

“All of the celebrated Schwytz breed,” said Herr H----. “This part of
the country is renowned for its cattle. Each of these probably cost from
five to six hundred francs. The Italians take great advantage of this new
road, and come in numbers to buy them at this season, when the cattle
are returning from the mountains. These are going across the St. Gothard
to Lombardy. Those of Einsiedeln are still considered the best. Do you
remember, Miss Caroline, that the first mention of German authority in
this land was occasioned by a dispute between the shepherds of Schwytz
and the abbots of Einsiedeln about their pasturage--the emperor having
given a grant of land to the abbey, while the Schwytzers had never heard
of his existence even, and refused to obey his majesty’s orders?”

“Ah! what historical animals: that quite reconciles me to them,” she
answered, as we drove on again amongst a group that seemed very uneasy
under their new masters, whose sweet language George averred had no power
over them.

Who can describe the exquisite beauty of our drive?--winding in and
out, sometimes through a tunnel; at others along the edge of the high
precipice from which a low parapet alone separated us; at another passing
through the village of Sisikon, which years ago suffered severely from a
fragment of rock fallen from the Frohnalp above. Time flew rapidly, and
one hour and a half had glided by, without our perceiving it, when we
drew up before the beautiful little inn of “Tell’s Platte.”

“But there is no Platform here,” cried George. “We are hundreds of feet
above the lake. The critics are right, Herr H----, decidedly right! I
knew it from the beginning. How can you deny it?”

“Wait, my young friend! Don’t be so impatient. Just come into the inn
first--I should like you to see the lovely view from it; and then we can
look for the Platform.” Saying which, he led us upstairs, on through the
_salon_ to its balcony on the first floor. This is one of the smaller
inns of that olden type which boast the enthusiastic attachment of
regular customers, and display with pride that old institution--the
“strangers’ book”--which has completely vanished from the monster hotels.
It lay open on the table as we passed, and every one instinctively
stopped to examine it.

“The dear old books!” exclaimed Mrs. C----. “How they used to amuse me in
Switzerland! I have missed them so much this time. Their running fire of
notes, their polyglot verses--a sort of album and scrap-book combined,
full, too, of praise or abuse of the last hotel, as the humor might be.”

“Yes,” said Mr. C----, “I shall never forget the preface to one--an
imprecation on whoever might be tempted to let his pen go beyond bounds.
I learned it by rote:

    “May the mountain spirits disturb his slumbers;
    May his limbs be weary, and his feet sore;
    May the innkeepers give him tough mutton and
    Sour wine, and charge him for it as though he were
    Lord Sir John, M.P.!”

“How very amusing!--a perfect gem in its way,” cried Anna. “Lord Sir
John, M.P., must have been the model of large-pursed Britons in his
time.” Here, however, everything seemed to be _couleur de rose_. The
book’s only fault was its monotony of praise. Two sisters keep the hotel,
and “nowhere,” said its devoted friends, “could one find better fare,
better attendance, and greater happiness than at Tell’s Platform.” The
testimony of a young couple confessedly on their bridal tour had no
weight. We know how, at that moment, a barren rock transforms itself into
a paradise for them; but three maiden ladies had passed six weeks of
unalloyed enjoyment here once upon a time, and had returned often since;
English clergymen and their families found no words of praise too strong;
while German students and professors indulged in rhapsodical language not
to be equalled out of fatherland.

Duchesses, princesses, and Lords Sir John, M.P., were alone wanting
amongst the present guests. “But they come,” said Herr H----, “by the
mid-day steamers, dine and rest here awhile, and return in the evenings
to the larger hotels in other places.”

And standing on the balcony of the _salon_, facing all the grand
mountains, with the green lake beneath, it truly seemed a spot made for
brides and bridegrooms, for love and friendship. So absorbed were we in
admiration of the enchanting view that we did not at first notice two
little maidens sitting at the far end. They were pretty children, of nine
and thirteen, daughters of an English family stopping here, and their
countenances brightened as they heard our exclamation of delight; for
Tell’s Platte was to them a paradise. Like true Britons, however, they
said nothing until George and Caroline commenced disputing about the
scenery. Comment then was irresistible. “No,” said the youngest, “that
is the Isenthal,” pointing to a valley beneath the hills opposite; “and
that the Urirothstock, with its glacier above, and the Gütschen. Those
straight walls of rock below are the Teufel’s-Münster.”

“Don’t you remember where Schiller says:

    ‘The blast, rebounding from the Devil’s Minster,
      Has driven them back on the great Axenberg’?

That is it, and this here is the Axenberg,” said Emily, the elder girl.

“But I see no Platform here,” remarked George with mischief in his eye,
as he quickly detected the young girl’s faith in the hero.

“It would be impossible to see it,” she rejoined, “as it is three hundred
feet below this house.”

“But we can show you the way, if you will come,” continued the younger
child, taking George’s hand, who, partly from surprise and partly
amusement, allowed himself to be led like a lamb across the road and
through the garden to the pathway winding down the cliff, followed by us,
under guidance of the elder sister, Emily.

“Yes,” the children answered, “they had spent the last two years in
France and Germany.” And certainly they spoke both languages like
natives. Emily was even translating _William Tell_ into English blank
verse. “Heigho!” sighed Mr. C----, “for this precocious age.” But the
lake of the Forest Cantons was dearer to them than all else. They had
climbed one thousand feet up the side of the Frohnalpstock that very
morning with their father; knew every peak and valley, far and near,
with all their legends and histories; even the _ranz des vaches_ and
the differences between them--the shepherds’ calls to the cows and the
goats. Annie, our smaller friend, entertained George with all their
varieties, as she tripped daintily along, like a little fairy, with
her tiny alpenstock. Very different was she from continental children,
who rarely, if ever, take interest in either pastoral or literary
matters. She knew the way to the platform well; for did she not go up
and down it many times a day? A difficult descent it was, too--almost
perpendicular--notwithstanding the well-kept pathway; but not dangerous
until we reached the bottom, when each one in turn had to jump on to a
jutting piece of rock, in order to get round the corner into the chapel.
Most truly it stands on a small ledge, with no inch of room for aught but
the small building raised over it. The water close up to the shore is
said to be eight hundred feet deep, and it made one shudder to hear Herr
H----’s story of an artist who a few years ago fell into the lake while
sketching on the cliffs above. Poor man! forgetful of the precipice, he
had thoughtlessly stepped back a few steps to look at his painting, fell
over, and was never seen again. His easel and painting alone remained to
give pathetic warning to other rash spirits.

The chapel, open on the side next the water, is covered with faded
frescos of Tell’s history, which our little friends quaintly described;
and it contains, besides, an altar and a small pulpit. Here Mass is said
once a year on the Friday after the Ascension, when all the people of
the neighborhood come hither, and from their boats, grouped outside,
hear Mass and the sermon preached to them from the railing in front.
This was the feast which my Weggis guide so much desired to see. It is
unique in every particular, and Herr H---- was eloquent on the beauty and
impressiveness of the scene, at which he had once been present, and which
it was easy to understand amidst these magnificent surroundings. Nor is
it a common gathering of peasants, but a solemn celebration, to which the
authorities of Uri come in state with the standard of Uri--the renowned
Uri ox--floating at the bows. As may be supposed, the sermon is always
national, touching on all those points of faith, honor, and dignity which
constitute true patriotism. Mr. C---- had Murray’s guide-book in his
hand, and would not allow us to say another word until he read aloud Sir
James Macintosh’s remarks on this portion of the lake, which there occur
as follows:

    “The combination of what is grandest in nature with whatever is
    pure and sublime in human conduct affected me in this passage
    (along the lake) more powerfully than any scene which I had
    ever seen. Perhaps neither Greece nor Rome would have had such
    power over me. They are dead. The present inhabitants are a
    new race, who regard with little or no feeling the memorials
    of former ages. This is, perhaps, the only place on the globe
    where deeds of pure virtue, ancient enough to be venerable,
    are consecrated by the religion of the people, and continue
    to command interest and reverence. No local superstition so
    beautiful and so moral anywhere exists. The inhabitants of
    Thermopylæ or Marathon know no more of these famous spots than
    that they are so many square feet of earth. England is too
    extensive a country to make Runnymede an object of national
    affection. In countries of industry and wealth the stream of
    events sweeps away these old remembrances. The solitude of
    the Alps is a sanctuary destined for the monuments of ancient
    virtue; Grütli and Tell’s chapel are as much reverenced by
    the Alpine peasants as Mecca by a devout Mussulman; and the
    deputies of the three ancient cantons met, so late as the year
    1715, to renew their allegiance and their oaths of eternal
    union.”

“All very well,” said George, “if there really had been a Tell; but
this seems to me a body without a soul. Why, this very chapel is in the
Italian style, and never could have been founded by the one hundred and
twenty contemporaries who are said to have known Tell and to have been
present at its consecration.”

“I never heard that any one insisted on this being the original
building,” said Herr H----. “It is probably an improvement on it;
but it was not the fashion in those times--for people were not then
incredulous--to put up tablets recording changes and renovations,
as nowadays at Kaltbad and Klösterle, for instance. But speaking
dispassionately, Mr. George, it seems to me quite impossible that the
introduction of any legend from Denmark or elsewhere could have taken
such strong hold of a people like these mountaineers without some
solid foundation, especially here, where every inhabitant is known to
the other, and the same families have lived on in the same spots for
centuries. Why is it not just as likely that the same sort of event
should have occurred in more than one place? And as to its not being
mentioned in the local documents, that is not conclusive either; for we
all know how careless in these respects were the men of the middle ages,
above all in a rude mountain canton of this kind. Transmission by word of
mouth and by religious celebrations is much more in character with those
times. I go heart and hand with your own Buckle, who places so much
reliance on local traditions. The main argument used against the truth
of the story is, you know, that it was first related in detail by an old
chronicler called Ægidius Tschudi, a couple of hundred years after the
event. But I see nothing singular in that; for most probably he merely
committed to writing, with all the freshness of simplicity, the story
which, for the previous two hundred years, had been in the hearts and
on the lips of the peasants of this region. No invention of any writer
could have founded chapels or have become ingrained in the hearts of the
locality itself in the manner this story has done. It was never doubted
until the end of the last century, when a Prof. Freudenberger, of Bern,
wrote a pamphlet entitled _William Tell: a Danish Fable_.”

“Yes,” broke in little Emily, latest translator of Schiller, and who had
been listening attentively to our discussion, “and the people of the
forest cantons were so indignant that the authorities of Uri had the
pamphlet burned by the common hangman, and then they solemnly proclaimed
its author an outlaw.”

“I told you, Mr. George, that you were on dangerous ground here,” said
Herr H----, laughing.

“I must make him kiss this earth before he leaves,” said Mrs. C----, “as
I read lately of a mother making her little son do when passing here
early in this century, regarding it as a spot sacred to liberty. She
little thought a sceptic like you would so soon follow.”

“Well! I am _almost_ converted,” he answered, smiling, “but I wish Miss
Emily would tell us the story of Tell’s jumping on shore here,” trying to
draw out the enthusiastic little prodigy.

“Oh! don’t you remember that magnificent passage in Schiller where,
after the scene of shooting at the apple, Gessler asked Tell why he put
the second arrow into his quiver, and then, promising to spare his life
if he revealed its object, evades his promise the instant he hears that
it was destined to kill him if Tell had struck his son instead of the
apple? He then ordered him to be bound and taken on board his vessel at
Fluelen. The boat had no sooner left Fluelen than one of those sudden
storms sprang up so common hereabouts. There was one two days ago. Annie
and I tried to come down here, but it was impossible--the wind and waves
were so high we could not venture, so we sat on the pathway and read out
Schiller. Oh! he is a great genius. He never was in Switzerland. Yes!
just fancy that; and yet he describes everything to perfection. Well!
Tell was as good a pilot as a marksman, and Gessler, in his fright, again
promised to take off his fetters if he would steer the vessel safely. He
did, but steered them straight towards this ledge of rock, sprang out
upon it, climbed up the cliff, and, rushing through the country, arrived
at the Hohle-Gasse near Küssnacht before the tyrant had reached it.”

“Schiller decidedly has his merit, it must be confessed, when he can get
such ardent admirers as these pretty children,” said Herr H---- when we
bade farewell to our dear little friends.

“Yes,” answered the incorrigible George from the box seat, “poetry,
poetry!--an excellent mode of transmitting traditions, making them
indelible on young minds; but I am so far converted, Herr H----,”
continued he, laughing, “that I am sorry the doubts were ever raised
about the Tell history. It is in wonderful keeping with the place and
people, and it will be a great pity if _they_ give it up. ‘Se non è vero,
è ben trovato,’[12] at least.”

Hence onwards to Fluelen is the finest portion of the Axenstrasse, and
the opening views of the valley of the Reuss and the Bristenstock,
through the arches of the galleries or tunnels, every minute increased
in beauty. Several of us got out the better to enjoy them, sending the
carriages on ahead. The Schwytz cattle had quite escaped our memories,
when suddenly a bell sounded round a sharp angle of the road and a large
drove instantly followed.

A panic seized us ladies. The cliff rose vertically on the inner side,
without allowing us the possibility of a clamber, and in our fright,
before the gentlemen could prevent us, we leaped over a low railing,
which there served as a parapet, on to a ledge of rock, a few yards
square, rising straight up from the lake hundreds of feet below. All
recollection of their historical interest vanished from our minds; for,
as the cattle danced along, they looked as scared and wild as ourselves,
and it was not until they had passed without noticing us, and that their
dark-eyed masters had spoken some soft Italian words to us, that we fully
realized the extent of our imprudence. Had any one of these animals
jumped up over the railing, as we afterwards heard they have sometimes
done, who can say what might not have happened? Fortunately, no harm
ensued beyond a flutter of nerves, which betrayed itself by Anna’s
turning round to a set of handsome goats that soon followed the cattle,
crying out to them in her own peculiar German: “Nix kommen! nix kommen!”

Fluelen has nothing to show beyond the picturesqueness of a village
situated in such scenery and a collection of lumbering diligences and
countless carriages, awaiting the hourly arrival of the steamers from
Lucerne. The knell of these old diligences, however, has tolled, for the
St. Gothard Railway tunnel has been commenced near Arnsty, and though
it may require years to finish it, its “opening day” will surely come.
Half an hour’s drive up the lovely valley brought us to Altorf, at the
foot of the Grünwald, which, in accord with its name, is clothed with a
virgin forest, now called the “Bann forest,” because so useful is it in
protecting the town from avalanches and landslips that the Uri government
never permits it to be touched. Altorf, like so many of the capitals in
these forest cantons, has a small population, 2,700 inhabitants only,
but it has many good houses, for it was burnt down in 1799 and rebuilt
in a better manner. Tell’s story forms its chief interest, and certainly
did so in our eyes. We rushed at once to the square, where one fountain
is said to mark the spot where Tell took aim, and another that upon
which his boy stood. Tradition says that the latter one replaced the
lime-tree against which the son leant, portions of which existed until
1567. A paltry plaster statue of the hero is in the same square, but the
most remarkable relic of antiquity is an old tower close by, which Herr
H---- assured us is proved by documents to have been built before 1307,
the date of Tell’s history. Had the young friends we left at “Tell’s
Platform” accompanied us hither, Emily might have quoted Schiller to
us at length. But George, having recently bought a Tauchnitz edition
of Freeman’s _Growth of the English Constitution_, which opens with a
fine description of the annual elections of this canton, he earnestly
pleaded a prolongation of our drive to the spot where this takes place,
three miles further inland. Accordingly, after ordering dinner to be
ready on our return at a hotel which was filled with Tell pictures, and
an excellent one of the festival at the Platform, we left the town and
proceeded up the valley. Soon we crossed a stream, the same, Herr H----
told us, in which Tell is said to have been drowned while endeavoring to
save a child who had fallen into it. He also pointed out to us Bürglen,
his home, and an old tower believed to have been his house, attached to
which there is now a small ivy-clad chapel. It stands at the opening
of the Schächen valley, celebrated to this day for its fine race of
men--likewise corresponding in this respect with the old tradition.
But more modern interest attaches to this valley, for it was along its
craggy sides and precipices that Suwarow’s army made its way across the
Kinzig-Kulm to the Muotta. The whole of this region was the scene of
fearful fighting--first between the French and the Austrians, who were
assisted by the natives of Uri, in 1799, and then, a month later, between
the Russians coming up from Lombardy and the French.

“That was the age of real fighting,” said Herr H----, “hand-to-hand
fighting, without _mitrailleuses_ or long ranges. But the misery it
brought this quarter was not recovered from for years after. Altorf
was burnt down at that time, and everything laid waste. The memory of
the trouble lingers about here even yet. What wonder! Certainly, in
all Europe no more difficult fighting ground could have been found. In
the end, the French General Lecourbe was all but cut off, for he had
destroyed every boat on the lake; in those days a most serious matter,
as neither steamers nor Axenstrasse existed. When he therefore wished to
pursue the Russians, who by going up this Schächen valley intended to
join their own corps, supposed to be at Zürich, he too was obliged to
make a bold manœuvre. And then it was that he led his army by torchlight
along the dangerous mule-path on the Axenberg! Sad and dreadful times
they were for these poor cantons.”

Herr H---- showed us Attinghausen, the birth-place of Walter Fürst, and
the ruins of a castle near, which is the locality of a fine scene in
Schiller, but the last owner of which died in 1357, and is known to have
been buried in his helmet and spurs. Shortly after, about three miles
from Altorf, we reached the noted field, and George, opening Freeman,
read us the following passage aloud:

    “Year by year, on certain spots among the dales and the
    mountain-sides of Switzerland, the traveller who is daring
    enough to wander out of beaten tracks and to make his journey
    at unusual seasons, may look on a sight such as no other corner
    of the earth can any longer set before him. He may there gaze
    and feel, what none can feel but those who have seen with their
    own eyes, what none can feel in its fulness more than once in a
    lifetime--the thrill of looking for the first time face to face
    on freedom in its purest and most ancient form. He is there in
    a land where the oldest institutions of our race--institutions
    which may be traced up to the earliest times of which history
    or legend gives us any glimmering--still live on in their
    primeval freshness. He is in a land where an immemorial
    freedom, a freedom only less eternal than the rocks that guard
    it, puts to shame the boasted antiquity of kingly dynasties,
    which, by its side, seem but as innovations of yesterday.
    There, year by year, on some bright morning of the springtide,
    the sovereign people, not entrusting its rights to a few of
    its own number, but discharging them itself in the majesty of
    its corporate person, meets, in the open market-place or in
    the green meadow at the mountain’s foot, to frame the laws
    to which it yields obedience as its own work, to choose the
    rulers whom it can afford to greet with reverence as drawing
    their commission from itself. Such a sight there are but few
    Englishmen who have seen; to be among these few I reckon among
    the highest privileges of my life. Let me ask you to follow me
    in spirit to the very home and birth-place of freedom, to the
    land where we need not myth and fable to add aught to the fresh
    and gladdening feeling with which we for the first time tread
    the soil and drink in the air of the immemorial democracy of
    Uri. It is one of the opening days of May; it is the morning
    of Sunday; for men there deem that the better the day the
    better the deed; they deem that the Creator cannot be more
    truly honored than in using in his fear and in his presence the
    highest of the gifts which he has bestowed on man. But deem not
    that, because the day of Christian worship is chosen for the
    great yearly assembly of a Christian commonwealth, the more
    directly sacred duties of the day are forgotten. Before we,
    in our luxurious island, have lifted ourselves from our beds,
    the men of the mountains, Catholics and Protestants alike,
    have already paid the morning’s worship in God’s temple. They
    have heard the Mass of the priest or they have listened to the
    sermon of the pastor, before some of us have awakened to the
    fact that the morn of the holy day has come. And when I saw
    men thronging the crowded church, or kneeling, for want of
    space within, on the bare ground beside the open door, when I
    saw them marching thence to do the highest duties of men and
    citizens, I could hardly forbear thinking of the saying of
    Holy Writ, that ‘where the spirit of the Lord is, there is
    liberty.’ From the market-place of Altorf, the little capital
    of the canton, the procession makes its way to the place of
    meeting at Bözlingen. First marches the little army of the
    canton, an army whose weapons never can be used save to drive
    back an invader from their land. Over their heads floats the
    banner, the bull’s-head of Uri, the ensign which led men to
    victory on the fields of Sempach and Morgarten. And before
    them all, on the shoulders of men clad in a garb of ages past,
    are borne the famous horns, the spoils of the wild bull of
    ancient days, the very horns whose blast struck such dread into
    the fearless heart of Charles of Burgundy. Then, with their
    lictors before them, come the magistrates of the commonwealth
    on horseback, the chief-magistrate, the Landamman, with his
    sword by his side. The people follow the chiefs whom they have
    chosen to the place of meeting, a circle in a green meadow,
    with a pine forest rising above their heads, and a mighty spur
    of the mountain range facing them on the other side of the
    valley. The multitude of freemen take their seats around the
    chief ruler of the commonwealth, whose term of office comes
    that day to an end. The assembly opens; a short space is given
    to prayer--silent prayer offered up by each man in the temple
    of God’s own rearing. Then comes the business of the day. If
    changes in the law are demanded, they are then laid before the
    vote of the assembly, in which each citizen of full age has an
    equal vote and an equal right of speech. The yearly magistrates
    have now discharged all their duties; their term of office is
    at an end; the trust that has been placed in their hands falls
    back into the hands of those by whom it was given--into the
    hands of the sovereign people. The chief of the commonwealth,
    now such no longer, leaves his seat of office, and takes his
    place as a simple citizen in the ranks of his fellows. It
    rests with the free-will of the assembly to call him back to
    his chair of office, or to set another there in his stead.
    Men who have neither looked into the history of the past, nor
    yet troubled themselves to learn what happens year by year
    in their own age, are fond of declaiming against the caprice
    and ingratitude of the people, and of telling us that under a
    democratic government neither men nor measures can remain for
    an hour unchanged. The witness alike of the present and of the
    past is an answer to baseless theories like these. The spirit
    which made democratic Athens year by year bestow her highest
    offices on the patrician Pericles and the reactionary Phocion,
    still lives in the democracies of Switzerland, alike in the
    Landesgemeinde of Uri and in the Federal Assembly at Bern.
    The ministers of kings, whether despotic or constitutional,
    may vainly envy the sure tenure of office which falls to
    the lot of those who are chosen to rule by the voice of the
    people. Alike in the whole confederation and in the single
    canton, re-election is the rule; the rejection of the outgoing
    magistrate is the rare exception. The Landamman of Uri, whom
    his countrymen have raised to the seat of honor, and who has
    done nothing to lose their confidence, need not fear that when
    he has gone to the place of meeting in the pomp of office, his
    place in the march homeward will be transferred to another
    against his will.”

The grand forms of the Windgälle, the Bristenstock, and the other
mighty mountains, surrounded us as we stood in deep silence on this
high green meadow, profoundly impressed by this eloquent tribute to a
devout and liberty-loving people, all the more remarkable as coming from
a Protestant writer. There was little to add to it, for Herr H----’s
experience could only confirm it in every point. Dinner had to be got
through rapidly on our return to Altorf, as we wished to catch the
steamer leaving Fluelen at five o’clock. Like all these vessels, it
touched at the landing-place beside Tell’s Platform, whence our young
friends of the morning, who had been watching for our return, waved us a
greeting. Thence we sat on deck, tracing Lecourbe’s mule-path march of
torch-light memory along the Axenberg precipices, and finally reached
the Waldstätterhof at Brunnen in time to see the sun sink behind Mont
Pilatus, and leave the varied outlines clearly defined against a deep-red
sky.


S. PHILIP’S HOME.[13]

    O Mary, Mother Mary! our tears are flowing fast,
    For mighty Rome, S. Philip’s home, is desolate and waste:
    There are wild beasts in her palaces, far fiercer and more bold
    Than those that licked the martyrs’ feet in heathen days of old.

    O Mary, Mother Mary! that dear city was thine own,
    And brightly once a thousand lamps before thine altars shone;
    At the corners of the streets thy Child’s sweet face and thine
    Charmed evil out of many hearts and darkness out of mine.

    By Peter’s cross and Paul’s sharp sword, dear Mother Mary, pray!
    By the dungeon deep where thy S. Luke in weary durance lay;
    And by the church thou know’st so well, beside the Latin Gate,
    For love of John, dear Mother, stay the hapless city’s fate.

    For the exiled Pontiffs sake, our Father and our Lord,
    O Mother! bid the angel sheathe his keen avenging sword;
    For the Vicar of thy Son, poor exile though he be,
    Is busied with thy honor _now_ by that sweet southern sea.

    Oh! by the joy thou hadst in Rome, when every street and square
    Burned with the fire of holy love that Philip kindled there,
    And by that throbbing heart of his, which thou didst keep at Rome,
    Let not the spoiler waste dear Father Philip’s Home!

    Oh! by the dread basilicas, the pilgrim’s gates to heaven,
    By all the shrines and relics God to Christian Rome hath given,
    By the countless Ave Marias that have rung from out its towers,
    By Peter’s threshold, Mother! save this pilgrim land of ours.

    By all the words of peace and power that from S. Peter’s chair
    Have stilled the angry world so oft, this glorious city spare!
    By the lowliness of Him whose gentle-hearted sway
    A thousand lands are blessing now, dear Mother Mary, pray.

    By the pageants bright, whose golden light hath flashed through
        street and square,
    And by the long processions that have borne thy Jesus there;
    By the glories of the saints; by the honors that were thine;
    By all the worship God hath got from many a blazing shrine;

    By all heroic deeds of saints that Rome hath ever seen;
    By all the times her multitudes have crowned thee for their queen;
    By all the glory God hath gained from out that wondrous place,
    O Mary, Mother Mary! pray thy strongest prayer for grace.

    O Mary, Mother Mary! thou wilt pray for Philip’s Home,
    Thou wilt turn the heart of him who turned S. Peter back to Rome.
    Oh! thou wilt pray thy prayer, and the battle will be won,
    And the Saviour’s sinless Mother save the city of her Son.


NEW PUBLICATIONS.

    THE TROUBLES OF OUR CATHOLIC FOREFATHERS, RELATED BY
    THEMSELVES. Second Series. Edited by John Morris, S. J.
    London: Burns & Oates. 1875. (New York: Sold by The Catholic
    Publication Society.)

Whilst our ears are deafened and our feelings shocked by the calumnies
and lying vituperation heaped upon all that is most worthy of love
and veneration upon earth by the Satanic societies which the Popes
have smitten with repeated excommunications, it is consoling to be
supplied--by limners, too, who are themselves no mean exemplars of the
noble development which the Church can give to virtue when it follows
her counsels--with lifelike portraits of Christian athletes in times
gone by. We do not know how soon our courage, patience, and charity may
be put to a similar test. Multitudes of our fellow-Catholics are already
subjected to every suffering but the martyrdom of death; and this seed of
the Church our enemies, more wily than the sanguinary heretics of the age
of Elizabeth, seem to be unwilling to sow. But they will not long be able
to restrain their passion. The word of persecution has gone forth; and so
bitter is the hatred of the very name of Christ, that before very long
nothing but the blood of Christians will satiate its instincts.

The persecution of the Church in England in the time of Elizabeth
resembled the persecution which is now raging against it, in the
political complexion given to it. But there were far stronger grounds for
it then than now. The superior claims of Mary to the throne, her virtues,
and her surpassing beauty, were a just subject of jealousy and uneasiness
to Elizabeth, and she might very naturally suppose that her Catholic
subjects were not likely to regard with any fondness the usurpation of an
illegitimate daughter of her apostate and tyrannical father.

In the present persecutions there is no political pretext, but one is
made under cover of which to extirpate from among mankind the religion
and very name of Christ.

This volume is the second of a series which promises to supply us with a
whole gallery of Christian heroes, which we of this age of worldliness,
cowardice, and self-seeking will do well to study attentively. As is
often the case, it is to the untiring zeal of the Society of Jesus we
owe so interesting as well as edifying a work. Father Morris, formerly
Secretary to Cardinal Wiseman, but who joined the Society after the death
of that eminent prelate, is its author, and he appears to us to have
executed his task with rare judgment. By allowing his characters to speak
in great part for themselves, the biographies and relations he presents
us with have a dramatic interest which is greatly increased by the quaint
and nervous style of the time in which they express themselves. We feel,
too, that it is the very innermost soul and mind of the individual that
is being revealed to us; and certainly in most of them the revelation
is so beautiful that we should possibly have ascribed something of
this to the partiality of a panegyrist, or to his descriptive skill,
if the picture had been sketched by the pen of any other biographer
than themselves. It is, indeed, the mean opinion they evidently have
of themselves, and the naïve and modest manner in which they relate
incidents evoking heroic virtue, their absolute unconsciousness of aught
more than the most ordinary qualities, which fascinate us. It bears
an impress of genuineness impossible to any description by the most
impartial of historians. They express a beauty which could no more be
communicated in any other way than can the odor of the flower or the
music of the streams be conveyed by any touch, how ever magic, of the
painter.

The present volume of the series contains the “Life of Father William
Weston, S.J.,” and “The Fall of Anthony Tyrrell,” by Father Persons; for
“our wish is,” says Father Morris, “to learn not only what was done by
the strong and brave, but also by the weak and cowardly.”

We are much struck in this history with the resemblance between those
times and the present in the unsparing calumny of which the purest and
the holiest men were made the victims.

For confirmation of these remarks, we refer the reader to the book
itself. But we cannot refrain from quoting, in spite of its length, the
following incident related by Father Weston. It is a remarkable example
of the salutary effect of the Sacrament of Penance:

“For there lay in a certain heretical house a Catholic who, with the
consent of his keeper, had come to London for the completion of some
urgent business. He had been committed to a prison in the country, a
good way out of London. He was seized, however, and overpowered by a
long sickness which brought him near to death. The woman who nursed
him, being a Catholic, had diligently searched the whole city through
to find a priest, but in vain. She then sent word to me of the peril of
that person, and entreated me, if it could be contrived, to come to his
assistance, as he was almost giving up the ghost. I went to him when the
little piece of gold obtained for me the liberty to do so. I explained
that I was a priest, for I was dressed like a layman, and that I had come
to hear his confession. ‘If that is the reason why you have come, it
is in vain,’ he said; ‘the time for it is passed away.’ I said to him:
‘What! are you not a Catholic? If you are, you know what you have to do.
This hour, which seems to be your last, has been given you that by making
a good and sincere confession you may, while there is time, wash away
the stains of your past life, whatever they are.’ He answered: ‘I tell
you that you have come too late: that time has gone by. The judgment is
decided; the sentence has been pronounced; I am condemned, and given up
to the enemy. I cannot hope for pardon.’ ‘That is false,’ I answered,
‘and it is a most fearful error to imagine that a man still in life can
assert that he is already deprived of God’s goodness and abandoned by
his grace, in such a way that even when he desires and implores mercy it
should be denied him. Since your faith teaches you that God is infinitely
merciful, you are to believe with all certitude that there is no bond
so straitly fastened but the grace of God can unloose it, no obstacle
but grace has power to surmount it.’ ‘But do you not see,’ he asked me,
‘how full of evil spirits this place is where we are? There is no corner
or crevice in the walls where there are not more than a thousand of the
most dark and frightful demons, who, with their fierce faces, horrid
looks, and atrocious words threaten perpetually that they are just going
to carry me into the abyss of misery. Why, even my very body and entrails
are filled with these hateful guests, who are lacerating my body and
torturing my soul with such dreadful cruelty and anguish that it seems
as if I were not so much on the point merely of going there, as that
I am already devoted and made over to the flames and agonies of hell.
Wherefore, it is clear that God has abandoned me for ever, and has cast
me away from all hope of pardon.’

“When I had listened in trembling to all these things, and to much more
of a similar kind, and saw at the same time that death was coming fast
upon him, and that he would not admit of any advice or persuasion, I
began to think within myself, in silence and anxiety, what would be
the wisest course to choose. There entered into my mind, through the
inspiration, doubtless, of God, the following most useful plan and
method of dealing with him: ‘Well, then,’ I said, ‘if you are going to
be lost, I do not require a confession from you; nevertheless, recollect
yourself just for a moment, and, with a quiet mind, answer me, in a few
words, either yes or no to the questions that I put to you; I ask for
nothing else, and put upon you no other burden.’ Then I began to question
him, and to follow the order of the Commandments. First, whether he had
denied his faith. ‘See,’ I said, ‘do not worry yourself; say just those
simple words, yes or no.’ As soon as he had finished either affirming or
denying anything, I proceeded through four or five Commandments--whether
he had killed any one, stolen anything, etc. When he had answered with
tolerable calmness, I said to him, ‘What are the devils doing now? What
do you feel or suffer from them?’ He replied: ‘They are quieter with
me; they do not seem to be so furious as they were before.’ ‘Lift up
your soul to God,’ I said, ‘and let us go on to the rest.’ In the same
fashion and order I continued to question him about other things. Then
I enquired again, saying, ‘How is it now?’ He replied; ‘Within I am not
tormented. The devils stand at a distance; they throw stones; they make
dreadful faces at me, and threaten me horribly. I do not think that I
shall escape.’ Going forward as before, I allured and encouraged the man
by degrees, till every moment he became more reasonable, and at last made
an entire confession of all his sins, after which I gave him absolution,
and asked him what he was suffering from his cruel and harassing enemies.
‘Nothing,’ he said; ‘they have all vanished. There is not a trace of
them, thanks be to God.’ Then I went away, after strengthening him by
a few words, and encouraging him beforehand against temptations which
might return. I promised, at the same time, that I would be with him
on the morrow, and meant to bring the most Sacred Body of Christ with
me, and warned him to prepare himself diligently for the receiving of
so excellent a banquet. The whole following night he passed without
molestation from the enemy, and on the next day he received with great
tranquillity of mind the most Holy Sacrament, after which, at an interval
of a few hours without disturbance, he breathed forth his soul, and
quietly gave it up to God. Before he died, I asked the man what cause
had driven him into such desperation of mind. He answered me thus: ‘I
was detained in prison many years for the Catholic faith. Nevertheless,
I did not cease to sin, and to conceal my sins from my confessor, being
persuaded by the devil that pardon must be sought for from God, rather
by penances and severity of life, than by confession. Hence I either
neglected my confessions altogether, or else made insincere ones; and so
I fell into that melancholy of mind and that state of tribulation which
has been my punishment.’”

    LIGHT LEADING UNTO LIGHT: A Series of Sonnets and Poems. By
    John Charles Earle, B.A. London: Burns & Oates. 1875.

Mr. Earle has undoubtedly a facility in writing sonnets; and a good
sonnet has been well called “a whole poem in itself.” It is also, we
think, peculiarly suitable for didactic poetry. The present sonnets are
in advance, we consider, of those we first saw from Mr. Earle’s pen. But
we still observe faults, both of diction and of verse, which he should
have learnt to avoid. His model seems to be Wordsworth--the greatest
sonneteer in our language; but, like him, he has too much of the prosaic
and the artificial.

We wish we could bestow unqualified praise upon the ideas throughout
these sonnets. And were there nothing for criticism but what may be
called poetic subtleties--such as the German notion of an “ether body,”
developed during life, and hatched at death, for our intermediate
state of being--we should have no quarrel with Mr. Earle. But when we
meet two sonnets (XLVIII. and XLIX.) headed “Matter Non-Existent,” and
“Matter Non-Substantial,” we have a philosophical error serious in its
consequences, and are not surprised to find the two following sonnets
teach Pantheism. In Sonnet XLVIII. the author’s excellent intention is to
refute materialism:

    “‘Thought is,’ you say, ‘a function of the brain,
    And matter all that we can ever know;

    …

    “‘From it we came; to it at last we go,
    And all beyond it is a phantom vain,’ etc.

    …

    “I answer: ‘Matter is _a form of mind_,
    _So far as it is aught_. It has no base,
    Save in the self-existent.’”

Sonnet L. is headed, “As the Soul in the Body, so is God in the
Universe.” Surely, this is the old “Anima Mundi” theory! Then, in Sonnet
LI., the poet says of nature, and addressing God:

    “She cannot live detached from thee. Her heart
      Is beating with thy pulse. _I cannot tell_
    _How far she is or is not of thee part_;
      How far in her thou dost or dost not dwell;
    That _thou her only base and substance art_,
      This--this at least--I know and feel full well.”

Now, of course, Mr. Earle is unconscious that this is rank Pantheism.
He has a way of explaining it to himself which makes it sound perfectly
orthodox. But we do call such a blunder inexcusable in a Catholic writer
of Mr. Earle’s pretensions. The title of his volume, “Light leading unto
Light,” has little to do with the contents, as far as we can see; and,
certainly, there are passages which would more fitly be headed “Darkness
leading unto Darkness.”

We are sorry to have had to make these strictures. The great bulk of the
sonnets, together with the remaining poems, are very pleasant reading,
and cannot fail to do good.

    FIRST ANNUAL REPORT OF THE REV. THEODORE NOETHEN, FIRST
    CATHOLIC CHAPLAIN OF THE ALBANY PENITENTIARY, TO THE
    INSPECTORS. April 6, 1875. Albany: J. Munsell. 1875.

    THIRTEEN SERMONS PREACHED IN THE ALBANY COUNTY PENITENTIARY. By
    the Rev. Theodore Noethen. Published under the auspices of the
    Society of S. Vincent de Paul. Albany: Van Benthuysen Printing
    House. 1875.

We are glad to see Father Noethen’s familiar hand thus charitably and
characteristically engaged. These are the first documents of the kind
we have observed under the improving state of things in this country,
in which the priest of the Church is seen occupied in one of his most
important duties--reclaiming the erring; and in doing this the means
which he employs will doubtless be found more efficacious than any the
state has at its command. Did the state fully appreciate its highest
interest as well as duty, it would afford the Church every facility,
not only in reclaiming such of her children as have fallen into the
temptations by which they are surrounded, but also in the use of those
preventive measures involved in parish schools, which would save
multitudes from penitentiaries and houses of correction. Our over-zealous
Protestant friends throw every obstacle in the way of the adequate moral
and religious training of the class most exposed to the temptations
arising from poverty and lack of employment, and then blame the Church
for the result. We heartily welcome these signs of a better time coming.

    AN EXPOSITION OF THE EPISTLES OF S. PAUL AND OF THE CATHOLIC
    EPISTLES; consisting of an Introduction to each Epistle, an
    Analysis of each Chapter, a Paraphrase of the Sacred Text,
    and a Commentary, embracing Notes, Critical, Explanatory, and
    Dogmatical, interspersed with Moral Reflections. By the Rt.
    Rev. John MacEvilly, D.D., Bishop of Galway. Third edition,
    enlarged. Dublin: W. B. Kelly. 1875. (New York: Sold by The
    Catholic Publication Society.)

After quoting this full, descriptive title-page, it will suffice to say
that the notes which form the commentary have in the present edition
been considerably enlarged. The work was originally published under the
approbation of the Holy Father, the late Cardinals Barnabo and Wiseman,
and the present venerable Archbishop of Tuam.


BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS RECEIVED.

    From Scribner, Armstrong & Co., New York: Personal
    Reminiscences. By O’Keefe, Kelly, and Taylor. Edited by R. H.
    Stoddard (Bric-à-Brac Series, No. VIII)

    From the Author: An Address on Woman’s Work in the Church
    before the Presbytery of New Albany. By Geo. C. Heckman, D.D.
    Paper, 8vo, pp. 28.

    From Wm. Dennis, G.W.S.: Journal of Proceedings of the Ninth
    Annual Session of the Grand Lodge of Nova Scotia. Paper, 8vo,
    pp. 73.

    From the Author: The Battle of Life: An Address. By D. S. Troy,
    Montgomery, Alabama. Paper, 8vo, pp. 14.

    From Ginn Brothers, Boston: Latin Composition: An Elementary
    Guide to Writing in Latin. Part I.--Constructions. By J. H.
    Allen and J. B. Greenough. 12mo, pp. vi., 117.



THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XXII., No. 128.--NOVEMBER, 1875.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by Rev. I. T.
HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.


FREEMASONRY.[14]

The saints have all, whilst yet in the flesh, foretastes of heavenly
bliss. But in these the closing days of time all the elect have a
presentiment of coming judgment. And that presentiment is strong in
proportion to their faith; stronger still in proportion to their charity.
Let our readers be assured at the outset. We are not about to imitate the
irreverence of the Scotch Presbyterian minister who, some few years ago,
pretended that he had discovered in the prophetic visions of S. John the
year in which will come to pass that event of stupendous awfulness, of
which He, before whom all mankind will then be judged, said: “Of that day
or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but the
Father only.”

One fearful catastrophe, however, to befall mankind before the general
judgment is insisted on so often and with such solemn emphasis by the
Holy Spirit that the love of God seems to be, as it were, trembling
for his redeemed creature, and longing to reveal to him more than is
consistent with his own designs in the trial of his faith. For it must
be remembered that faith is a merit, and the absolutely indispensable
condition of our receiving the benefits of the divine atonement. Although
the gift of God, it is the part we ourselves, by co-operating with the
gift, contribute towards our own salvation. And what we are required
to believe is so beautiful and ennobling to the moral sense, and so
satisfying to the reason, that, supported as it is by the historical
evidence of the divinity of Christ and of his church, no one can refuse
to believe but those who deliberately choose darkness rather than light,
sin rather than virtue, Satan rather than God.

Yet so formidable was to be that last trial of the faith of Christians,
so crucial that conclusive test of their charity, which was to “deceive,
if it were possible, even the very elect,”[15] that the Spirit of Love,
yearning for the safety of his regenerate ones, and compassionating the
weakness of human nature, revealed its marks and signs in the fullest
and most circumstantial detail; so that, warned of the danger, and
recognizing it when it arrived, they might pass through it unhurt, whilst
those who succumbed to it might be without excuse before the divine
justice. It is the yearning of the heart of Christ towards his children,
whom he foresees will fail by thousands in that decisive trial, which
prompts the ejaculation that sounds almost like a lament over his own
inability to put any pressure on their free-will: “When the Son of man
cometh, will he find faith on the earth?” It is his anxiety, as it were,
about the fate of his elect amidst the seductions of that appalling
apostasy, which urged him, after he had indicated the signs that would
accompany it, to be on the perpetual, sleepless lookout for them. “Be
ever on the alert. Lo! I have foretold you all.”[16]

“Be ever on the alert, watch and pray. For you do not know when the time
may be.”[17]

“Watch, then, lest when he (the head of the family) shall have come on a
sudden, you be found sleeping.”[18]

“Moreover, what I say to you I _say to all_: Watch!”[19]

Throughout all the ages that have elapsed since those words of solemn
import fell from the lips of Jesus Christ it has been the plain duty
of all Christians--nay, of all to whose knowledge they were brought--to
narrowly scrutinize events, to keep their attention fixed upon them,
watching for the signs he foretold, lest they should appear unheeded,
and they be seduced from the faith; or be the cause, through their
indifference, of others being carried away in the great misleading.

But who now can be insensible to the predicted portents? So notorious
are they, and so exactly do they answer to the description of them
handed down to us from the beginning, that they rudely arouse us from
sleep; that they force our attention, however indifferent to them we may
be, however dull our faith or cold our charity. And when we see a vast
organization advancing its forces in one united movement throughout the
entire globe in an avowed attack, as insidious as it is formidable, upon
altars, thrones, social order, Christianity, Christ, and God himself,
where is the heart that can be insensible to the touching evidence of
loving solicitude which urged Him whom surging multitudes of his false
creatures were deliberately to reject in favor of a fouler being than
Barabbas, to iterate so often the warning admonition, “Be ever on the
watch”?

To study, therefore, the signs of the times, cannot be without profit to
all, but especially to us who have but scant respect for the spirit of
the age, who are not sufficiently enlightened by it to look upon Christ
as nothing more than a remarkable man, the sublime morality he taught and
set an example of as a nuisance, and his church as the enemy of mankind,
to be extirpated from their midst, because it forbids their enjoying the
illumination of the dagger-guarded secrets of the craft of Freemasonry.

To fix the date of the _Dies iræ_ is completely out of our power. It is
irreverent, if not blasphemous, to attempt it. It is of the counsels
of God that it should come with the swiftness of “lightning” and the
unexpectedness of “a thief in the night”; and that expressly that we
may be ever on the watch. But the signs of its approach are given to us
in order to help those who do not abandon “watching” in indifference,
to escape the great delusion--the imposition of Antichrist--which is to
immediately precede it. It is these signs we propose to study in the
following pages.

The predictions of Christ himself on this subject are far more obscure
than those subsequently given to us by his apostles. But this has always
been God’s way of revelation to his creature. To Moses alone, in the
mount, he revealed the moral law and that wondrous theocratic polity
which remained even after the perversity of his people had given it a
monarchical form; and Moses communicated it to the people. To the people
Christ spoke in parables, “and without a parable spake he not unto them.
But when he was alone with them, he explained all to his disciples.”[20]
“To you,” he said, “it is given to have known the mystery of the kingdom
of God; but to those without everything is a parable.”[21] The apostles
themselves, who were to declare the revelation, in order to increase
the merit of their faith, were not fully illuminated before the coming
down of the Holy Spirit. “You do not know this parable?” he said; “and
how are you going to understand all parables?”[22] To their utterances,
therefore, it is we shall confine ourselves, as shedding as much light
as it has seemed good to the Holy Ghost to disclose to us upon the
profounder and more oracular predictions of God himself in the flesh.

Besides SS. Peter, Paul, and John, S. Jude is the only other apostle, we
believe, who has bequeathed to the church predictions of the terrible
apostasy of Antichrist which is to consummate the trial of the faith of
the saints under the very shadow of the coming judgment. We will take
them in the order in which they occur. The first is in a letter of S.
Paul to the church at Thessalonica, where, exhorting them not to “be
terrified as if the day of the Lord were at hand,” he assures them that
it will not come “before there shall have first happened an apostasy, and
the man of sin shall have been revealed, the son of perdition--he who
opposes himself to, and raises himself above, all that is called God, or
that is held in honor, so that he may sit in the temple of God, showing
himself as if he were God.… And you know what now is hindering his
being revealed in his own time. For the mystery of iniquity is already
working; only so that he who is now keeping it in check will keep it in
check until he be moved out of its way. And then will the lawless one be
revealed, whom the Lord Jesus will slay with the breath of his mouth,
and destroy with the illumination of his coming; whose coming is after
the manner of working of Satan, with all strength and symbols, and lying
absurdities, and in every enticement of iniquity in those who perish;
for the reason that they did not receive the love of the truth that they
might be saved. So God will send them the working of error, that they
may believe falsehood; that all may be judged who have not believed the
truth, but have consented to iniquity.”[23]

In a letter to Timothy, Bishop of Ephesus, S. Paul writes: “Now, the
Spirit says expressly that, in the last times, some shall apostatize
from the faith, giving heed to spirits of error and to doctrines of
demons, speaking falsehood in hypocrisy, and having their own conscience
seared.”[24]

In a second letter to the same bishop he writes: “Know this, moreover:
that in the last days there will be a pressure of perilous times; men
will be self-lovers, covetous, lifted up, proud, blasphemous, disobedient
to parents, ungrateful, malicious, without affection, discontented,
calumniators, incontinent, hard, unamiable, traitors, froward, fearful,
and lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God, having indeed a form of
piety, but denying its power.”[25] S. Peter writes that “there will come
in the last days mockers in deception, walking according to their own
lusts.”[26]

S. Jude describes them as “mockers, walking in impieties according to
their own desires. These are they who separate themselves--animals, not
having the Spirit.”[27]

It would seem from the expressions of S. John-who of all the apostles
appears to have had most pre-eminently the gift of prophecy--as well as
from the manner in which the last days of Jerusalem and the last days
of the world appear to be mingled together in the fore-announcement
of Christ, that powerful manifestations of Antichrist were to precede
both events; although the apostasy was to be far more extensive and
destructive before the latter. “Little children,” writes the favorite
apostle, “it is the last time; and as you have heard that Antichrist
comes, so now many have become Antichrists; whence we know that it is the
last time.… He is Antichrist who denies the Father and the Son.”[28]

“Every spirit who abolishes Jesus is not of God. And he is Antichrist
about whom we have heard that he is coming, and is even now in the
world.”[29]

We believe that these are the only passages wherein the Holy Ghost has
vouchsafed to give us distinct and definite information as to the marks
and evidences by which we are to know that there is amongst us that
Antichrist whose disastrous although short-lived triumph is to precede
by only a short space the end of time and the eternal enfranchisement of
good from evil.

The prophetic utterances on this subject in the revelations of S. John
are veiled in such exceedingly obscure imagery that we do not propose to
attempt any investigation of their meaning in this article. It is our
object to influence the minds of such Protestants as believe in God the
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and of Catholics whose faith is so dull
and whose charity is so cold that they can listen to the blasphemies of
Antichrist without emotion.

We may remark here, however, that if we succeed in supplying solid
reasons for believing that Antichrist is already amongst us, and that
his dismal career of desolating victory has already begun, the duty of
studying those utterances of the Holy Ghost, so darkly veiled that the
faith of those who stand firm may have more merit in the trial of that
great tribulation, will have assumed a position of importance impossible
to be overrated. That they are to be understood, the Holy Ghost himself
implies. He intimates that their meaning is accessible to the spiritually
minded, and would even seem to make dulness of apprehension of it a
reproach, a lack of spiritual discernment. “If any one has the ear, let
him hear,”[30] he writes. And again: “This is wisdom. Let him who has
understanding reckon the number of the beast.”[31]

It is not necessary to the object we have in view that we should identify
“the beast” of the Apocalypse, seven-headed and having ten horns crowned
with diadems, with Antichrist. The question we propose to answer is
simply, “Are there under our eyes at this moment evidences of a present
Antichrist, or of his being close at hand?” In other words, “Is what is
called ‘the spirit of the age’ the spirit of Antichrist?”

For us, that we may be on our guard against his wiles, and armed to the
teeth to fight against him to the death, it is comparatively unimportant
whether we decide him to be actually amongst us or only just about to
appear. His marks and characteristics, his badges or decorations--these
are all we require.

If the Antichrist of the prophecies is a single, separate impersonation
of the demoniac attributes described by the Holy Ghost--if, in short, he
is an individual man, then he has not yet been revealed. In that case,
our identification of Antichrist will only have exposed that temper and
spirit with which “the red dragon”--“the devil”--“Satan”--“the ancient
serpent”--has possessed such vast multitudes of the human race throughout
the entire globe as to afford ground for calling it “the spirit of the
age,” and which is to culminate in some terrible personal embodiment--a
typical personage, as men speak. But if the prophecies do not designate
an individual man, but only the impersonation of a multitude of
individuals organized into a unity and animated with the same spirit,
then we think we shall be able to point the finger of horror and loathing
at the very Antichrist at present amongst us, and in the midst of
victory, as decisively and as clearly as the prophet of penance pointed
the finger of adoring love towards the Lamb of God.

We incline, and strongly, to the latter view. We must withhold our
reasons, partly because, as we have said, our object is equally subserved
by either view; but more because to do so would leave us too little space
for treating the main subject. We will content ourselves with stating
that those reasons are founded on the internal evidence supplied by the
several predictions; and also on our aversion to admit the possibility of
a more depraved _individual_ impersonation of evil than that unhappy man
whom God in human flesh pronounced a devil!

Whether, however, Antichrist be or not an individual man, one thing is
certain: that if we can point out an immense army of men, co-extensive
with the globe, highly organized, animated with the same spirit, and
acting with as much unity of purpose as if their movements were directed
by one head, who exhibit precisely those marks and characteristics
described in the predictions of Antichrist, we may expect even on the
supposition that they are to have a visible head, an individual leader,
who has yet to make his appearance; and that they are his hosts, who have
already achieved a great part of his victories.

What is first noticeable is that the stigma which is to be deeply branded
on the front of the Antichristian manifestation which is to precede the
close of time is “_Apostasy_”.

The day of the Lord will not come, “nisi venerit discessio primum;
Spiritus dicit quia in novissimis temporibus quidam a fide discedunt.”

There can be no need of dwelling on this. It is sufficiently obvious
that the great apostasy inaugurated by Luther was the first outbreak of
Antichristian victory. The success of that movement assured the spirit
of error of a career of victory. He was lurking in the fold, watching
for his opportunity, and snatching away stray souls, as S. John tells
us, in the time of the apostles. For a millennium and a half has he
been preparing his manifestation. He inspired Julian, he inspired the
Arians, he inspired all the heresies against which the definitions
of the faith were decreed. But when he had seduced men away from the
church, whole nations at a time, “dominationem contemnentes” (2 S. Peter
ii. 10), and captivated them to the irrational opinion that there is
no higher authority for the obligatory dogmas of the Christian Church
than the conviction of every individual, _solvere Jesum_, and then God,
was merely a matter of time. What human passion had begun human reason
would complete. The life of faith could not be annihilated at a blow.
It has taken three centuries for the sap of charity to wither away in
the cut-off branches. But sooner or later the green wood could not but
become dry; and reason, void of charity, would be forced to acknowledge
that if the Bible has no definite meaning other than what appears to be
its meaning to every individual, practically it has no definite meaning
at all; that God cannot have revealed any truth at all, if we have no
means of ascertaining what it is beyond our own private opinions; that
a book the text of which admits of as many interpretations as there are
sects cannot, without an authoritative living expositor, reveal truths
which it is necessary to believe in order to escape eternal punishment.
The claim of the Catholic Church to this authority having been pronounced
an usurpation, the progress, although slow, was sure and easy towards
pronouncing Christianity itself an usurpation. God himself cannot survive
Christianity. And we have now literally “progressed” to so triumphant
a manifestation of Antichrist that the work of persecution of God’s
Church has set in with a vengeance, and men hear on all sides of them the
existence of God denied without horror, even without surprise.

The first mark of a present Antichrist we propose to signalize is that
distinctly assigned to him by S. Paul--ὁ ἄνομος. This epithet is but
feebly rendered by the Latin _ille iniquus_, or the English “that wicked
one.” “The lawless one” better conveys the force of the Greek. For the
root νόμος includes in its meaning not only enacted law of all kinds, but
whatever has become, as it were, a law by custom; or a law of nature, as
it were, by the universal observance of mankind.

The first marked sequel of the apostasy, the first outbreak of success
of Antichrist in the political order, was the first French Revolution,
during which a harlot was placed for worship upon the altar of Notre Dame.

That fearful outbreak may have sat for its portrait to S. Peter in
the following description of the members of the Antichrist of the
“last times”: “Who walk after the flesh in the lust of concupiscence,
and despise authority; … irrational beasts, following only their own
brute impulses, made only to be caught and slain; … having eyes full
of adultery and of ceaseless sin; … speaking proud things of vanity,
enticing, through the desires of the luxury of the flesh, those who by
degrees go away from the truth, who become habituated to error; promising
them liberty, whereas they themselves are the slaves of corruption” (2
Pet. ii. 10, 12, 14, 18, 19).

That saturnalia of lawlessness, which Freemason writers have ever since
dared to approve, was the work of the “craft” of Freemasonry, to whose
organization and plan of action does indeed, in an especial sense,
apply S. Paul’s designation of τὸ μυστήριον τῆς ανομίας “the mystery
of lawlessness.” Mirabeau, Sieyès, Grégoire, Robespierre, Condorcet,
Fauchet, Guillotine, Bonneville, Volney, “Philippe Egalité,” etc., had
all been initiated into the higher grades.

Louis Blanc, himself a Freemason, writes thus: “It is necessary to
conduct the reader to the opening of the subterranean mine laid at that
time beneath thrones and altars by revolutionists, differing greatly,
both in their theory and their practice, from the Encyclopedists. An
association had been formed of men of every land, every religion, and
every class, bound together by mysterious signs agreed upon amongst
themselves, pledged by a solemn oath to observe inviolable secrecy as to
the existence of this hidden bond, and tested by proofs of a terrible
description.… Thus we find Freemasonry to have been widely diffused
immediately before the outbreak of the Revolution. Spreading over the
whole face of Europe, it poisoned the thinking minds of Germany, and
secretly stirred up rebellion in France, showing itself everywhere in the
light of an association resting upon principles diametrically opposed
to those which govern civil society.… The ordinances of Freemasonry did
indeed make great outward display of obedience to law, of respect to the
outward forms and usages of profane society, and of reverence towards
rulers; at their banquets the Masons did indeed drink the health of kings
in the days of monarchy, and of presidents in the time of republics,
such prudent circumspection being indispensable on the part of an
association which threatened the existence of the very governments under
whose eyes it was compelled to work, and whose suspicion it had already
aroused. This, nevertheless, did not suffice to counteract the radically
revolutionary influence continually exercised by the craft, even while it
professed nothing but peaceful intentions.”[32]

In the work from which the above and the greater part of our materials in
this article are borrowed, we read as follows: “It was precisely these
revolutionary designs of the secret society which induced its Provincial
Grand Master, the Prussian Minister Count von Haugwitz, to leave it. In
the memorial presented by him to the Congress of Monarchs at Verona,
in 1830, he bids the rulers of Europe to be on their guard against the
hydra. ‘I feel at this moment firmly persuaded,’ writes the ex-grand
master, ‘that the French Revolution, which had its first commencement
in 1788, and broke out soon after, attended with all the horrors of
regicide, existed heaven knows how long before, having been planned,
and having had the way prepared for it, by associations and secret
oaths.’”[33]

And the following:

“After the events of February, 1848, the ‘craft’ sang songs of triumph
at the open success of its secret endeavors. A Belgian brother, Van der
Heym, spoke thus: ‘On the day following the revolution of February a
whole nation rose as one man, overturned the throne, and wrote over the
frontal of the royal palace the words Liberty, Fraternity, Equality, all
the citizens having adopted as their own this fundamental principle of
Freemasonry. The combatants had not to battle long before the victory
over their oppressors was gained--that freedom won which for centuries
had formed the theme of Masonic discourses. We, the apostles of
fraternity, aid the foundation-stone of the Republic.’”[34]

And another master of the Freemasons, one Peigné, said about the same
time: “In our glorious Revolution of 1792 the Lodge of the Nine Sisters
gave to the world such men as Garat, Brissot, Bailly, Camille Desmoulins,
Condorcet, Champfort, Petion; the Lodge of the Iron Mouth gave to it
Fauchet, Goupil de Prefeln, Sieyès; the Lodge of Candor, Custine, the two
Lameths, and Lafayette.”

The horrors of that Revolution occasioned a temporary reaction and
checked the triumphs of the Freemasons. But well they know how to repair
their broken fortunes, bide their time, and reappear with renewed force.

Barruel, who was an eye-witness of the events of the period, and also
himself intimately acquainted with many Freemasons in Paris, relates that
the brethren, considering that the time had come when they were free to
publish the secret they had sworn to keep, shouted aloud: “At last our
goal is reached; from this day France will be one vast lodge, and all
Frenchmen Freemasons.”

A strong reaction of disgust and terror at the satanic orgies of
Freemasonry in the ascendant, moderated for a while this shout of
triumph. But in the disasters inflicted on France by the conquering
Germans, the “craft” thought to find a recurring opportunity. If the
Communist attempt at Paris in 1871 was not originally planned by the
Freemasons, they openly and officially joined it. “A procession composed
of at least five thousand persons, in which members of all the grades
took part, wearing their insignia, and in which one hundred and fifty
lodges of France were represented, wended its way to the town hall of
Paris. Maillet, bearing the red flag as a token of universal peace,
headed the band, and openly proclaimed, in a speech which met with
the approval of all present, that the new Commune was the antitype of
Solomon’s temple and the corner-stone of the social fabric about to be
raised by the efforts of the craft. The negotiations carried on with the
government of Versailles on behalf of the socialists, and the way in
which they planted the banners of the craft on the walls of the capital,
accompanying this action with a threat of instantly joining the ranks of
the combatants if a single shot were fired at one of those banners (of
which a graphic account appeared in the _Figaro_ at the time), was all
of a piece with the sentiments they expressed” (_The Secret Warfare of
Freemasonry_, p. 172).

_Figaro_ closed its account of these strange events with the following
reflections: “But when posterity shall be informed that in the middle
of the XIXth century, in the midst of an unbelieving generation, which
openly denied God and his Christ, under the very guns of an enemy in
possession of all the French fortresses, hostilities were all at once
suspended, and the course of a portentous and calamitous civil war
interrupted because, forsooth, Brother Thirifoque, accompanied by two
Knights Kadosch, went to offer to M. Thiers’ acceptance the golden mallet
of supreme command (in the craft)--when, I say, this story is told to
those who come after us, it will sound in their ears as a nursery tale,
utterly unworthy of credence.”[35]

In _Révélations d’un Franc-maçon au lit de mort, pièce authentique,
publicé, par_ M. de Hallet (Courtrai, 1826, p. 10), we find the
following: “We must restore man to his primeval rights, no longer
recognizing rank and dignity--two things the mere sight of which offends
the eye of man and wounds his self-love. Obedience is a mere chimera, and
has no place in the wise plans of Providence.”

In the _Astræa, Taschenbuch für Freimaurer_, von Bruder Sydow (1845), an
orator thus speaks: “That which is destined to destruction must in the
course of things be destroyed; and if human powers resist this law, at
the behest of fate, a stronger power will appear upon the scene to carry
out the eternal decrees of Providence. The Reformation of the church,
as well as the French Revolution, proves the existence of this law.…
Revolution is a crisis necessary to development.”

The _Révélations_ says: “The poison must be neutralized by means of its
antidote, revolution must succeed to obedience, vengeance follow upon
effeminacy, power must grapple with power, and the reign of superstition
yield before that of the one true natural religion.”

Barruel, who had been a master Mason, states that the oath administered
to him was: “My brother, are you prepared to execute every command you
may receive from the Grand Master, even should contrary orders be laid on
you by king or emperor, or any other ruler whatever?”

“The grade of Kadosch”--the thirtieth grade--writes Barruel (p. 222),
“is the soul of Freemasonry, and the final object of its plots is the
reintroduction of absolute liberty and equality through the destruction
of all royalty and the abrogation of all religious worship.”

“Socialism, Freemasonry, and communism have, after all, a common origin”
(The _Latomia_--an organ of the craft--vol. xii. p. 237).

_Le Libertaire_, a Masonic journal published in this city, had the
following in 1858: “The _Libertaire_ knows no country but that which is
common to all. He is a sworn foe to restraints of every kind. He hates
the boundaries of countries; he hates the boundaries of fields, houses,
workshops; he hates the boundaries of family.”

Is it within the power of the human mind to conceive of any possible
individual or spiritual incarnation more deeply, vividly, and distinctly
branded with the note-mark or sign of Antichrist, given to us by the
Holy Spirit some two thousand years ago, by which we might recognize him
when he appeared--“the lawless one,” “spurning authority”--ὁ ἄνομος, qui
contemnunt dominationem?

And when we add to this, the one special and most wicked and lawless
characteristic of the “craft”--its portentous mystery--to our thinking,
they must willingly, and of set purpose, close their eyes who fail
to detect in it the very Antichrist whom the apostle declares shall
be manifested in the last days, after the apostasy, and whom he
designates by the epithet τὸ μυστήριον τῆς ἀνομίας--“the mystery of
lawlessness”--which he tells us had even then, at the very cradle of
the church, begun to put in movement its long conspiracy against the
salvation of mankind: τὸ γὰρ μυστηριον ἢδη ενεργεῖται τῆς ἀνομίας--“for
the mystery of lawlessness is even now already working.”

No sooner was Christ born than his infant life was sought; no sooner
did he begin to teach than “the ancient serpent” sought his ruin; just
before the triumph of his resurrection the enemy of mankind seemed to
have finally and completely triumphed in his crucifixion; no sooner had
his church, brought to life by his resurrection, begun her work of saving
mankind than the devil was at work with his “mystery of lawlessness”
for her destruction. All along it is Antichrist dogging the steps of
Christ; before the second coming of Christ there is to be the second
coming of Antichrist; before the final triumph over evil and revelation
of the sons of God, Antichrist is to have that his last open and avowed
manifestation--ἀποκάλυψις--and success, which the craft of Freemasonry is
already so far on the road to compassing.

Whether or no he is to receive a serious check before that terrific
triumph over all but the few remaining elect we know not. But so
unmistakable is his present manifestation that it is woe to those who
blink their eyes and follow in his wake! Woe to those whose judicial
blindness causes them to “believe a lie”! Woe to those who are caught
napping!

The next of the indications given us by the Holy Spirit of the Antichrist
is his _modus operandi_--his method--the way in which he will effect
his purposes, “whose coming is according to the way of working of
Satan”--_cujus est adventus secundum operationem Satanæ_.

The beast with seven heads and ten horns crowned with diadems described
in the Apocalypse is, we are there told, fully commissioned with his
own power by the red dragon, whom we are distinctly informed is the old
serpent, who is called the devil (διάβολος, or slanderer), “Satan, who
deceives the whole world.”

Now, Satan is designated as “the prince of darkness” in opposition to
Christ, “who is the true light, enlightening every one that cometh
into the world”; he is the father of those who “hate the light because
their deeds are evil.” When he would destroy Christ, “night was his
hour and the power of darkness.” But in taking a survey of the craft of
Freemasonry, what first seizes our attention? Is it not the profound
darkness in which all its operations are veiled? Those terrible oaths of
secrecy, made under the assured menace of assassination, attended with
all that sanguinary gibberish, the lie involved in which is not known
until the “seared conscience” is already in the chains of hell--surely,
if anything is, these are “secundum operationem Satanæ.”

In the _Vienna Freemason’s Journal_, MSS. for circulation in the craft,
second year of issue, No. 1, p. 66, is the following: “We wander amidst
our adversaries, shrouded in threefold darkness. Their passions serve as
wires, whereby, unknown to themselves, we set them in motion and compel
them unwittingly to work in union with us.”

In a work written in High-German, the authorship of which is ascribed
to a Prof. Hoffman of Vienna, the contents of which are supported by
documentary evidence, and of which a Dutch translation was published in
Amsterdam in 1792, which was reprinted at the Hague in 1826, the method
of working of this “mystery of lawlessness” is thus summed up:

“2. To effect this, a literary association must be formed to promote the
circulation of our writings, and suppress, as far as possible, those of
our opponents.

“3. For this end we must contrive to have in our pay the publishers of
the leading literary journals of the day, in order that they may turn
into ridicule and heap contempt on everything written in a contrary
interest to our own.

“4. ‘He that is not with us is against us.’ Therefore we may persecute,
calumniate, and tread down such an one without scruple; individuals like
this are noxious insects which one shakes from the blossoming tree and
crushes beneath one’s foot.

“5. Very few can bear to be made to look ridiculous; let ridicule,
therefore, be the weapon employed against persons who, though by no means
devoid of sense, show themselves hostile to our schemes.

“6. In order the more quickly to attain our end, the middle classes of
society must be thoroughly imbued with our principles; the lower orders
and the mass of the population are of little importance, as they may
easily be moulded to our will. The middle classes are the principal
supporters of the government; to gain them we must work on their
passions, and, above all, bring up the rising generation in our ideas, as
in a few years they will be in their turn masters of the situation.

“7. License in morals will be the best means of enabling us to provide
ourselves with patrons at court--persons who are nevertheless totally
ignorant of the importance of our cause. It will suffice for our purpose
if we make them absolutely indifferent to the Christian religion. They
are for the most part careless enough without us.

“8. If our aims are to be pursued with vigor, it is of absolute necessity
to regard as enemies of enlightenment and of philosophy all those who
cling in any way to religious or civil prejudices, and exhibit this
attachment in their writings. They must be viewed as beings whose
influence is highly prejudicial to the human race, and a great obstacle
to its well-being and progress. On this account it becomes the duty of
each one of us to impede their action in all matters of consequence,
and to seize the first suitable opportunity which may present itself of
putting them entirely _hors du combat_.

“9. We must ever be on the watch to make all changes in the state serve
our own ends; political parties, cabals, brotherhoods, and unions--in
short, everything that affords an opportunity of creating disturbances
must be an instrument in our hands. For it is only on the ruins of
society as it exists at present that we can hope to erect a solid
structure on the natural system, and ensure to the worshippers of nature
the free exercise of their rights.”

If this method of working, _operatio_, is not _secundum adventum Satanæ_,
we should be glad to know what is. Herein we find every feature of
Antichrist and his hosts which the Holy Ghost has drawn for our warning.
They are heaped together in such hideous combination throughout this
summary as scarcely to need particularizing. Our readers may not,
however, be unwilling that we should single them out one by one as they
appear more or less prominently in the several paragraphs; premising that
throughout one characteristic reigns and prevails, and, indeed, lends
its color to all the rest, that special attribute of “the father of
lies”--falsehood!

We will take the paragraphs in order, and photograph their most prominent
Antichristian features.

_The first._--Spurning authority. Giving ear to spirits of error and
doctrines of demons.

Speaking lies in hypocrisy, having a conscience seared.

Blasphemers.

Mockers, walking according to their own desires; animals, not having the
Spirit.

Mockers in deception, walking according to their own lusts.

_The second and third._--Lovers of themselves, lawless, proud, malicious,
traitors, froward, discourteous, fearful, mockers in deception.

_The fourth._--Calumniators, cruel, traitors.

_The fifth._--Mockers in deception.

_The sixth._--Traitors, without affection, without peace.

_The seventh._--Traitors, walking in impieties, walking according to
their own lusts, incontinent.

_The eighth._--Having their conscience seared, without peace, cruel.

_The ninth._--Spurning authority, traitors, lawless, without peace.

It must be borne in mind, moreover, that these are not merely
repulsive infirmities of individuals, but the essential and inevitable
characteristics deliberately adopted by the craft of Freemasons, and
which it cannot be without, if they are the brand which the finger of
God has marked upon the loathsome brow of the Antichrist of “the last
time.”[36]

In illustration of the former of these we quote the words of Brother
Gotthold Salomon, D.Ph., preacher at the new Synagogue at Hamburg, member
of the lodge entitled “The Dawn in the East,” in Frankfort-on-Main, who
thus writes in his _Stimmen aus Osten_, MSS. for the brethren: “Why is
there not a trace of anything appertaining to the Christian Church to be
found in the whole ritual of Freemasonry? Why is not the name of Jesus
once mentioned, either in the oath administered, or in the prayers on the
opening of the lodges, or at the Masonic banquets? Why do Masons reckon
time, not from the birth of Christ, but from the creation of the world,
as do the Jews? Why does not Freemasonry make use of a single Christian
symbol? Why have we the compasses, the triangle, the hydrometer,
instead of the cross and other emblems of the Passion? Why have wisdom,
beauty, and strength superseded the Christian triad of faith, hope, and
charity?”[37]

Brother Jochmus Müller, president of the late German-Catholic Church at
Berlin, says in his _Kirchenreform_ (vol. iii. p. 228): “We have more in
common with a free-thinking, honest paganism than with a narrow-minded
Christianity.”[38]

In the Waarscherwing (vol. xi. Nos. 2 and 8) we find the following:

“The laws of the Mosaic and Christian religions are the contemptible
inventions of petty minds bent on deceiving others; they are the most
extravagant aberrations of the human intellect.

“The selfishness of priests and the despotism of the great have for
centuries upheld this system (Christianity), since it enabled them to
rule mankind with a rod of iron by means _of its rigid code of morality_,
and to confirm their power over weak minds by means of certain oracular
utterances, in reality the product of their own invention, but palmed off
on the world as the words of revelation.”[39]

In a review of Kirchenlehre and Ketzerglaube by Dr. A. Drechsler in
vol. iv. of the _Latomia_, we find: “The last efforts made to uphold
ecclesiastical Christianity occasioned its complete expulsion from the
realm of reason; for they proved but too plainly that all negotiations
for peace must result in failure. Human reason became aware of the
irreconcilable enmity existing between its own teachings and the dogmas
of the church.”

At a congress of Masons held at a villa near Locarno, in the district
of Novara, preparatory to a socialistic demonstration to be held in the
Colosseum at Rome, in answer to the sapient question, “What new form of
worship is to supersede Catholicism?” the equally sapient answer was
returned, “Communist principles with a new religious ideal.”

From a document published, the author of _Secret Warfare of Freemasonry_
tells us,[40] by the Orient of Brussels, “to the greater glory of the
Supreme Architect of the world, in the year of _true light_ 5838” (1838),
we quote the following:

“1. That at the head of every document issued by the brethren, in an
individual or corporate capacity, should stand a profession of faith
in our lawgiver Jesus, the son of Mary Amram (the Josue of the Old
Testament), the invariable formula to be employed being, ‘To the glory of
the Great Architect of the Universe,’ … to expose and oppose the errors
of pope and priest, who commence everything in the name of their Trinity.

…

“3. That in remembrance of the Last Supper or Christian love-feast
of Jesus, the Son of Mary Amram, an account of which is given in the
Arabic traditions and in the Koran, a solemn festival should be held,
accompanied by a distribution of bread, in commemoration of an ancient
custom observed by the slaves of eating bread together, and of their
deliverance by means of the liberator (Josue). The distribution is to
be accompanied by these memorable words: ‘This is the bread of misery
and oppression which our fathers were forced to eat under the Pharaos,
the priests of Juda; whosoever hungers, let him come and eat; this is
the Paschal sacrifice; come unto us, all you who are oppressed; yet this
one year more in Babylon, and the next year shall see us free men!’
This instructive, and at the same time commemorative, supper of the
Rosicrucians is the counterpart of the Supper of the Papists.”

Dr. Dupuy, indeed, informs us of the corrupt portion of the Order of
Templars, that “Receptores dicebant illis quos recipiebant, Christum
non esse verum Deum, et ipsum fuisse falsum, non fuisse passum pro
redemptione humani generis, sed pro sceleribus suis”--“They who received
said to those whom they received that Christ was not really God; that he
was himself false, and did not suffer for the redemption of the human
race, but for his own crimes.”

In harmony with all this was the offensively blasphemous utterance of Mr.
Frothingham at the Masonic hall in this city some weeks ago, at which the
New York _Tablet_ expressed a just indignation--an indignation which must
have been shared by all who believe, in any way or form, in Jesus Christ,
Redeemer of the world: “Tom Paine has keyed my moral being up to a higher
note than the Jesus of Nazareth.”

The argument we have advanced seems to us to be convincing enough as it
stands. Could we have taken a historical survey of the μυστήριον τῆς
ανομίας in the two hemispheres from the “apostasy” up to the present
time, but especially during the last fifteen years, it would have
acquired the force of a logical demonstration. The limits to which we
are necessarily restrained in a monthly periodical put this completely
out of our power. Whoever he may be who has intelligently appreciated
the political events of the latter period will be able to supply the
deficiency for himself. Merely hinting, therefore, at the impossibility
of getting anti-Freemason appreciations of contemporary events before
the public--well known to all whose position has invited them to that
duty--as an illustration of the plan of action laid down in the second
clause of the above summary; at the recent unconcealed advocacy of the
“craft” by the New York _Herald_, and the more cautious conversion of
the London Times,[41] of that in the third; at the ribaldry of the press
under Freemason influence directed against the bishops, clergy, and
prominent laymen, as well as against the Pope; the nicknames they are
for ever coining, such as “clericals,” “ultramontanes,” “retrogrades,”
“reactionists”; their blasphemous travesties of the solemnities of
religion in theatres and places of public resort, and so on, of that
in the fourth and fifth; at the world-wide effort to induce states to
exclude religious influences from the education of youth, of that of
the sixth; at Victor Emanuel, the Prince of Wales, etc., of that of the
seventh; at the assassination of Count Rossi at the beginning of the
present Pope’s reign, the quite recent assassination of the President of
Ecuador, the repeated attempts at assassination of Napoleon III., the
deposition of so many sovereigns, even of the Pope himself--so far as
it was in their power to depose him--of that of the eighth; and at the
whole area of Europe strewn with the wreck of revolution, of that of the
ninth; we pass on to the last two marks of Antichrist with which we brand
the Freemason confraternity--_Qui solvit Jesum_ (Who abolishes Christ)
and _Qui adversatur et extollitur supra omne quod dicitur Deus, aut quod
colitur, ita ut in templo Dei sedeat ostendens se tanquam sit Deus_ (Who
opposes himself to, and raises himself above, all that is called God, or
is worshipped, so that he may sit in the temple of God, making himself
out to be, as it were, God).

Barruel, who was completely versed in Freemasonry, and who had been
himself a Mason, states (p. 222) that “the grade of Kadosch is the soul
of Freemasonry, and the final object of its plots is the reintroduction
of absolute liberty and equality through the destruction of all royalty
and the abrogation of all religious worship.” And he backs this statement
by a tragic incident in the history of a friend of his, who, because he
was a Rosicrucian, fancied himself to be “in possession of the entire
secret of Freemasonry.” It is too long to admit of our quoting it.
The reader anxious for information we refer to _The Secret Warfare of
Freemasonry_ (pp. 142-144).

_Le Libertaire_, a New York paper, in the interests of Freemasonry, about
the year 1858 had the following: “As far as religion is concerned, the
_Libertaire_ has none at all; he protests against every creed; he is an
atheist and materialist, openly denying the existence of God and of the
soul.”

In 1793 belief in God was a crime prohibited in France under pain of
death.

Those of our readers who have some acquaintance with modern philosophy
we need here only remind of the _natura naturans_ and _natura naturata_
of Spinoza, born a Jew, but expelled from the synagogue for his advocacy
of these principles of Freemasonry: “The desire to find truth is a noble
impulse, the search after it a sacred avocation; and ample field for this
is offered by both the mysterious rites peculiar to the craft and those
of the Goddess Isis, adored in our temples as the wisest and fairest of
deities.”--_Vienna Freemason’s Journal_ (3d year, No. 4, p. 78 et seq.)

In the _Rappel_, a French organ of Freemasonry, was the following passage
a few weeks ago: “God is nothing but a creation of the human mind. In a
word, God is the ideal. If I am accused of being an atheist, I should
reply I prefer to be an atheist, and have of God an idea worthy of him,
to being a spiritualist and make of God a being impossible and absurd.”

In short, the craft is so far advanced in its course of triumph as to
have at length succeeded in familiarizing the public ear with the denial
of the existence of a God; so that it is now admitted as one amongst the
“open questions” of philosophy.

Our illustration of the crowning indications of the satanic mark of
Antichrist afforded by the Freemasons--the sitting in the temple of God,
so as to make himself out to be, as it were, God--will be short but
decisive.

The well-known passage in the last work of the late Dr. Strauss, to the
effect that any worship paid to a supposed divine being is an outrage on
_the dignity of human nature_, goes far enough, we should have thought,
in this direction; but they go beyond even this.

A Dutch Mason, N. J. Mouthan, in a work entitled _Naa een werknur
in’t Middenvertrek Losse Bladzijde; Zaarboekje voor Nederlandsche
Vrijmetselaren_ (5872, p. 187 et seq.), says: “The spirit which animates
us is an eternal spirit; it knows no division of time or individual
existence. A sacred unity pervades the wide firmament of heaven; it is
our one calling, our one duty, our one God. Yes, we are God! We ourselves
are God!”

In the Freemasons’ periodical “for circulation amongst the brethren”
(Altenberg, 1823, vol. i., No. 1) is the following: “The idea of religion
indirectly includes all men as men; but in order to comprehend this
aright, a certain degree of education is necessary, and unfortunately
the overweening egoism of the educated classes prevents their taking
in so sublime a conception of mankind. For this reason our temples
consecrated to the _worship of humanity_ can as yet be opened only to a
few.[42] We should, indeed, expose ourselves to a charge of idolatry,
were we to attempt to personify the moral idea of humanity in the way
in which divinity is usually personified.… On this account, therefore,
it is advisable not to reveal the cultus of humanity to the eyes of the
uninitiated, until at length the time shall come when, from east to west,
this lofty conception of humanity shall find a place in every breast,
this worship shall alone prevail, and all mankind shall be gathered into
one fold and one family.”

The principles of this united family, “seated in the temple of God,”
the Masonic philosopher Helvetius expounds to us; from whom we learn
that “whatever is beneficial to all in general may be called virtue;
what is prejudicial, vice and sin. Here the voice of interest has
alone to speak.… Passions are only the intensified expression of
self-interest in the individual; witness the Dutch people, who, when
hatred and revenge urged them to action, achieved great triumphs, and
made their country a powerful and glorious name. And as sensual love is
universally acknowledged to afford happiness, purity must be condemned
as pernicious, the marriage bond done away with, and children declared
to be the property of the state.”[43] The father of such a “one fold and
one family” no one not himself signed with the “mark of the beast” could
hesitate to point out. The consummation above anticipated we are bid to
expect. Nor is it now far off. They who are not “deceived” have, however,
the consoling assurance that _our_ Lord will “slay him with the spirit of
his mouth, and destroy him with the illumination of his coming.”


SIR THOMAS MORE.

_A HISTORICAL ROMANCE._

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

II.

“You understand, M. de Soria,” said Wolsey to one of his secretaries, in
whom he placed the greatest confidence. “As soon as you see him, present
yourself before him, give the usual password, and then conduct him
through the subterranean passage that leads to the banks of the Thames.
Bring him here by the secret stairway. He will be dressed in a cloak and
suit of brown clothes, wearing a black felt hat tied round with a red
ribbon.”

“My lord, you may feel perfectly satisfied,” replied the secretary with a
self-sufficient air, “that all your orders will be punctually executed.
But he cannot possibly arrive for an hour yet; I will vouch for that, my
lord.”

“Go, however, sir,” replied the minister, impatiently; “I fear being
taken by surprise. Have less confidence in your own calculations, sir,
and be more prompt in your actions.” And saying this he made a sign for
him to go at once.

The door had scarcely closed on Soria, when the cardinal, who sat writing
in silence, heard in the court of the chancellor’s palace an unusual
noise. For some time he continued his work; but the tumult increasing,
and hearing loud bursts of laughter, he arose, opened the window and went
out on a high balcony, whence he had a view of all that was passing in
the principal court.

There a crowd of servants had assembled, and formed a circle around an
old woman who was apparently the object of their ridicule. Her large felt
hat, around which was tied a band of red ribbon, had fallen to the ground
leaving uncovered, not the head of an old woman, as they had supposed,
but one thickly covered with short hair, black and curling.

On seeing this head-dress the crowd redoubled their cries, and one of
them advancing suddenly, raised the mask concealing the features. What
was their surprise to find under that disguise a great rubicund face,
the nose and cheeks of which were reddened with the glow that wine
and strong drink alone produce, and giving sufficient evidence of the
sex to which it belonged. The man, seeing he was discovered, defended
himself with vigor, and, dealing sharp blows with his feet and hands,
endeavored to escape from his tormentors; but he was unable to resist
their superior numbers. They threw themselves upon him, tearing off his
brown cloak, and one of his blue cotton petticoats. The wretched creature
cried out vociferously, loudly threatening them with the indignation of
the cardinal; but the valets heard nothing, vain were all his efforts
to escape them. Nevertheless, being exceedingly robust, he at length
succeeded in overthrowing two of his antagonists, and then, dashing
across the courtyard, he sprang quickly into the second court, where,
finding a ladder placed at the window of a granary, he clambered up with
all the dexterity of a frightened cat, and hid himself under a quantity
of straw which had been stored there. In the meantime, the cardinal had
recognized from his elevated position on the balcony the red ribbon that
announced the messenger for whom he awaited with so much anxiety. Greatly
enraged at the scene before him, and forgetting his dignity, he hurried
from the balcony, rushing through the apartments that led from his own
room (in which were seated the numerous secretaries of state, engaged
in the work of the government). Without addressing a word to them, he
descended the stairs so rapidly that in another instant he stood in the
midst of his servants, who were stupefied at finding themselves in the
presence of their master, all out of breath, bareheaded, and almost
suffocated with indignation. He commanded them in the most emphatic terms
to get out of his sight, which they did without waiting for a repetition
of the order. From every direction the pages and secretaries had
assembled, among them being M. de Soria, who was in great trepidation,
fearing some accident had happened to the individual whom he had been
instructed to introduce with such great secrecy into the palace. His
fears were more than realized on seeing the cardinal, who cast on him
a glance of intense anger, and in a loud voice exclaimed: “Go, sir, to
the assistance of this unfortunate man who is being subjected to such
outrages in my own house. Not a few of those who have attempted to drive
him off shall themselves be sent away!” Then the cardinal, giving an
authoritative signal, those around him understood that their presence was
no longer desired, and immediately ascended the stairs and returned to
their work.

Wolsey himself quickly followed them; and M. de Soria, greatly confused,
in a short time appeared and ushered into the minister’s cabinet the
messenger, who was still suffering from the effects of the contest in
which he had been compelled to engage.

“Your letters! your letters!” said Wolsey eagerly, as soon as they were
alone. “All is right, Wilson. I am satisfied. I see that you are no
coward, and all that you have just now suffered will be turned to your
advantage. Nevertheless, it is quite fortunate that I came to your rescue
when I did, for I really do not know what those knaves might have done to
you.”

“They would have thrown me into the water, I believe, like a dog,” said
Wilson, laughing. “Oh! that was nothing though. I have been through worse
than that in my life. All I was afraid of was, that they might discover
the package of letters and the money.”

As he said this, the courier proceeded to unfasten the buckles of an
undervest, made of chamois leather, that he wore closely strapped around
his body. After he had taken off the vest he unfastened a number of bands
of woollen cloth which were crossed on his breast. In each one of these
bands was folded a great number of letters, of different forms and sizes.
Then he unstrapped from his waist and laid on the table a belt that
contained quite a large sum of money in gold coin, that Francis I. had
sent to the minister. The avarice of Wolsey was so well understood by
the different princes and sovereigns of Europe that they were accustomed
to send him valuable presents, or to confer on him rich annuities,
whenever they wished to gain him over to their interests. Wolsey had for
a long time been engaged in a correspondence with France. He carried
it on with the utmost secrecy, for he well understood if discovered by
Henry he would never be pardoned. His apprehensions were still greater,
now that he was endeavoring to direct the influence of his political
schemes, and that of the paid agents whom he had at the different courts
of Europe, towards bringing about a reconciliation between the Emperor
Charles V. and the King of France; hoping by such an alliance to prevent
the marriage of the king with Anne Boleyn, and thus to destroy the hopes
of that ambitious family. He saw with intense satisfaction his intrigues
succeeding far beyond his most sanguine expectations.

Francis I. anxiously entreated him to use his influence with the King of
England, in order to dispose him favorably toward the treaty of peace
which he was determined to make with Charles V. “I assure you,” he wrote,
“that I have so great a desire to see my children, held so long now as
hostages, that I would without hesitation willingly give the half of my
kingdom to ensure that happiness. If you will aid me in removing the
obstacles that Henry may interpose to the accomplishment of this purpose,
you may count on my gratitude. The place of meeting is already arranged;
we have chosen the city of Cambrai; and I have felt great pleasure in the
assurance that you prefer, above all other places, that the conference
should be held in that city.” Charmed with his success, the cardinal sent
immediately in quest of Cromwell, whom he found every day becoming more
and more indispensable to him, and to whom he wished to communicate the
happiness he experienced in receiving this joyful intelligence; but, at
the same time, closely concealing the manner in which he had obtained the
information.

       *       *       *       *       *

On a terrace of Windsor Castle a tent had been erected of heavy Persian
cloth interwoven with silk and gold. Voluminous curtains of royal purple,
artistically looped on each side with heavy silk cords, descended in
innumerable folds of most graceful drapery. Rare flowers embalmed the
air in every direction with exquisite perfumes, which penetrated into an
apartment of the royal palace, through the open windows of which were
seen the richness and elegance of the interior.

In this apartment were seated three persons apparently engaged in an
animated conversation.

“So there is yet another difficulty!” cried a young girl, a charming and
beautiful blonde, who seemed at this moment in an extremely impatient and
excited mood. “But what say you?” she added presently, addressing herself
with vivacity to a gentleman seated immediately in front of her; “speak
now, Sir Cromwell; say, what would you do in this desperate situation? Is
there no way in which we can prevent this treaty from being concluded?”

“Well truly, madam,” he replied, “it will be useless to attempt it. The
Duchess of Angoulême has at this moment, perhaps, already arrived at
Cambrai, for the purpose of signing the treaty; and we cannot reasonably
hope that the Archduchess Margaret, who accompanies her, will not agree
with her on every point, since the preliminaries have already been
secretly concluded between the Emperor and the King of France.”

“Well, my dear Cromwell,” she replied, in a familiar and angry tone,
“what shall we do then?”

“If I have any counsel to give you, madam,” answered Cromwell, with an
air of importance, “it is to begin by preventing the king from consenting
to the departure of Cardinal Wolsey; because his greatest desire now
is to be sent as envoy to the congress at Cambrai, and you may be well
assured, if he wishes to go there, it is certainly not with the intention
of being useful to you, but, on the contrary, to injure you.”

“Do you think so?” replied Lady Anne. “Then I shall most certainly
endeavor to prevent him from making his appearance there. But has he told
you nothing about the letter I wrote him the other day?”

“Excuse me, madam,” replied Cromwell, “he has shown me the letter; in
fact, he conceals nothing from me.”

“Well! and did it not give him pleasure? It seemed to me it ought to
please him, for I made protestations of friendship sufficient to reassure
him, and remove all apprehensions he may have felt that I would injure
him in the estimation of the king.”

“He has said nothing to me on the subject,” replied Cromwell, “but I
remarked that he read the letter over several times, and when he handed
it to me it was with a very ominous shake of the head. Understanding so
well his every gesture and thought, I comprehended perfectly he was but
little convinced of what you had written, and that he has no confidence
in it. Moreover, madam, it is necessary that you should know that Wolsey
has been most active in his endeavors to forward the divorce so long as
he believed the king would espouse a princess of the house of France; but
since he knows it is _you_ he has chosen, his mind is entirely changed,
and he tries in every possible manner to retard the decision and render
success impossible.”

“It is clear as day, my dear sister!” exclaimed Lord Rochford, earnestly
interrupting Cromwell. “You know nothing about the affairs you are
trying to manage; therefore you will never be able to rid yourself of
this imperious minister. I have already told you that all your efforts
to flatter or appease him will be in vain. He believes you fear him, and
he likes you no better on that account. What Cromwell says is but too
true, and is verified by the fact that nothing advances in this affair.
Every day some new formalities are introduced, or advantages claimed,
or they wait for new instructions and powers. They tell us constantly
that Campeggio is inflexible; that nothing will induce him to deviate
from his instructions and the usages of the court of Rome. But whom
has he chosen--with whom has he conferred? Is it not Wolsey? And he
has certainly prevented us from obtaining anything but what he himself
designed to accomplish.”

“You are right, brother!” cried Anne Boleyn, with a sudden gesture of
displeasure. “It is necessary to have this haughty and jealous minister
removed. Henceforth all my efforts shall be directed to this end. It may,
perhaps, be less difficult than we suppose. The king has been violently
opposed to this treaty, which Wolsey has so earnestly labored to bring
about--or at least the king suspects him of it--and he told me yesterday
that it was vain for the king of France to address him as ‘his good
brother and perpetual ally,’ for he regarded as enemies all who presumed
to oppose his will. ‘Because,’ he added, ‘I understand very well,
beforehand, what their terms will be. Once become the ally of Charles V.,
Francis will use all his efforts to prevent the repudiation of his aunt;
but nothing under heaven shall divert me from my purpose. I will resist
all the counsels he may give me!’”

“He is much disappointed,” said Lord Rochford, “that the Pope should have
been raised, as it were, from the dead. His death would have greatly
lessened these difficulties; for he holds firmly to his opinions. I am
much deceived, or the commission of legates will pass all their time, and
a very long time too, without coming to any decision.”

As Lord Rochford made this remark, his wife, the sister-in-law of Anne
Boleyn, entered the apartment, accompanied by the young wife of Lord
Dacre. Now, as Lady Rochford belonged entirely to the queen’s adherents,
and Lady Anne was very much in fear of her, the tone of conversation was
immediately changed, becoming at once general and indifferent.

“The Bishop of Rochester has returned to London,” carelessly remarked
Anne Boleyn, as she stooped to pick up a little embroidered glove.

“Yes, madam,” replied Cromwell. “I have seen him, and I find him looking
quite old and feeble.”

“Ah! I am truly sorry to hear it,” replied Lady Anne; “the king is very
much attached to him. I have often heard him say he regarded him as the
most learned and remarkable man in England, and that he congratulated
himself on possessing in his kingdom a prelate so wise, virtuous, and
accomplished.”

“What would you wish, madam?” replied Cromwell, who never could suffer
any one to be eulogized in his presence; “all these old men should give
place to us--it is but just; they have had their time.”

“Ah! Sir Cromwell,” replied Lady Boleyn, smiling, “you have no desire,
I am sure, to be made bishop; therefore, the place he will leave vacant
will not be the one for you.”

“You have decided that question very hastily, madam. Who knows? I may one
day, perhaps, be a curate. It has been predicted of me.”

“Oh! that would indeed be a very strange sight,” she replied, laughing
aloud. “You certainly have neither the turn nor the taste for the office.
How would you ever manage to leave off the habit of frequenting our
drawing-rooms? Truly we could not afford to lose you, and would certainly
get up a general revolt, opposing your ordination, rather than be
deprived of your invaluable society.”

“You are very kind, madam,” said Cromwell; “but I should perhaps not
be so ridiculous as you imagine. I should wear a grave and severe
countenance and an air of the greatest austerity.”

“Oh! I understand you now,” she replied; “you would not be converted;
you would only become a hypocrite!”

“I have a horror of hypocrites!” said Cromwell scornfully.

“I wonder what you are, then?” thought Lady Rochford.

“And I also,” replied Lady Anne. “I have a perfect detestation of
hypocrites; it is better to be bad out and out!”

“Is it true there has been a riot in the city?” asked Lady Rochford.

“Yes, madam,” replied Cromwell; “but it was suppressed on the spot. It
was only a hundred wool-spinners, carders, and drapers, who declared they
were no longer able to live since the market of the Netherlands has been
closed, and that they would soon starve if their old communications were
not re-established. The most mutinous were arrested, the others were
frightened and quickly dispersed.”

“Oh!” said Lord Rochford, “there is nothing to fear from such a rabble
as that; they are too much afraid of their necks. Let them clamor, and
let us give ourselves no uneasiness on the subject. I met Sir Thomas More
this morning going to the king with a petition which they had addressed
to him yesterday.”

“Why was he charged with the commission?” asked young Lady Dacre.

“In virtue of his office as sheriff of the city,” replied Cromwell.

“He constitutes, then, part of our city council?” she replied. “He is a
man I have the greatest desire to know; they say such marvellous things
of him, and I find his poetry full of charming and noble thoughts.”

“I see,” replied Cromwell, “you have not read the spirited satire just
written by Germain de Brie? It points out the perfectly prodigious
faults of More’s productions. It is certainly an _anti-Morus_!”

“I am inclined to think your opinion is prompted by a spirit of jealousy,
Sir Cromwell,” answered Lady Rochford, sharply. “Read, madam,” she
continued, addressing young Lady Sophia Dacre, “his _History of Richard
III._; I suppose Sir Cromwell will, at least, accord some merit to that
work?”

“Entirely too light, and superficial indeed, madam,” said Cromwell;
“the author has confined himself wholly to a recital of the crimes
which conducted the prince to the throne. The style of that history is
very negligent, but, at the same time, very far above that of his other
works, and particularly of his _Utopia_, which is a work so extravagant,
a political system so impracticable, that I regard the book simply as
a wonderful fable, agreeable enough to listen to, but at which one is
obliged to laugh afterwards when thinking of the absurdities it contains.”

“Your judgment is as invidious as it is false!” exclaimed Lady Rochford,
who always expressed her opinions bluntly, and without dissimulation. “If
it is true,” she continued, “that this philosophical dream can never be
realized, yet it is nevertheless impossible not to admire the wise and
virtuous maxims it contains. Above all others there is one I have found
so just, and so beautifully conceived, I could wish every young girl
capable of teaching it to her future husband. ‘How can it be supposed,’
says the author, ‘that any man of honor and refinement could resolve
to abandon a virtuous woman, who had been the companion of his bosom,
and in whose society he had passed so many days of happiness; only
because time, at whose touch all things fade, had laid his destroying
hand upon the lovely features of that gentle wife, once so cherished and
adored? Because age, which has been the first and most incurable of all
the infirmities she has been compelled to drag after her, had forcibly
despoiled her of the charming freshness of her youth? Has that husband
not enjoyed the flower of her beauty and garnered in the most beautiful
days of her life, and will he forsake his wife now because she has become
feeble, delicate, and suffering? Shall he become inconstant and perjured
at the very moment when her sad condition demands of him a thousand
sacrifices, and claims a return to the faithful devotion and vows of
his early youth? Ah! into such a depth of unworthiness and degradation
we will not presume it possible for any man to descend! It was thus the
people of the Utopian Isle reasoned, declaring it would be the height of
injustice and barbarity to abandon one whom we had loved and cherished,
and who had been so devoted to us, at the moment when suffering and
affliction demanded of us renewed sympathy and a generous increase of
our tenderest care and consolations!’[44] And now, my dear sister,” she
added, fixing her eyes steadfastly on Lady Boleyn, “what do you think
of that passage? Are you not forcibly struck by the truth and justice
of the sentiment? Let me advise you when you marry to be well satisfied
beforehand that your husband entertains the same opinions.”

As she heard these last words the beautiful face of Anne Boleyn became
suddenly suffused with a deep crimson, and for some moments not a word
was uttered by any one around her. They understood perfectly well that
Lady Rochford’s remarks were intended to condemn in the most pointed
manner the king’s conduct towards the queen, whose failing health was
entirely attributable to the mortification and suffering she endured on
account of her husband’s ingratitude and ill-treatment.

In the meantime, the silence becoming every moment more and more
embarrassing, Anne Boleyn, forcibly assuming an air of gayety, declared
her sister was disposed to look very far into the future; “but,” she
added, “happily, my dear sister, neither you nor I are in a condition to
demand all those tender cares due to age and infirmity.”

“Come, ladies, let us go,” said Cromwell in a jesting tone, hoping to
render himself agreeable to Lady Anne by relieving the embarrassment the
conversation had caused her. “I am unable to express my admiration for
Lady Rochford. She understands too well the practice of the Utopian laws
not to wish for the position of Dean of the Doctors of the University of
Oxford.”

“You are very complimentary and jocose, sir,” replied Lady Rochford;
“and if you wish it, I will introduce you to one who will be personally
necessary if you should ever aspire to fill a position in that kingdom.
You must know, however, that their wise law-giver, Utopia, while he
accorded to each one liberty of conscience, confined that liberty within
legitimate and righteous bounds, in order to prevent the promulgation
of the pernicious doctrines of pretended philosophers, who endeavor
to debase the dignity of our exalted human nature; he also severely
condemned every opinion tending to degenerate into pure materialism,
or, what is more deplorable still, veritable atheism. The Utopians were
taught to believe in the reality of a future state, and in future rewards
and punishments. They detested and denounced all who presumed to deny
these truths, and, far from admitting them to the rank of citizens, they
refused even to class among men those who debased themselves to the
abject condition of vile animals. ‘What,’ they asked, ‘can be done with
a creature devoid of principle and without faith, whose only restraint
is fear of punishment, who without that fear would violate every law
and trample under foot those wise rules and regulations which alone
constitute the bulwark of social order and happiness? What confidence
can be reposed in an individual purely sensual, living without morals
and without hope, recognizing no obligation but to himself alone; who
limits his happiness to the present moment; whose God is his body; whose
law, his own pleasures and passions, in the gratification of which he
is at all times ready to proceed to the extremity of crime, provided he
can find means of escaping the vigilant eye of justice, and be a villain
with impunity? Such infamous characters are of course excluded from all
participation in municipal affairs, and all positions of honor and public
trust; they are veritable automatons, abandoned to the “error of their
ways,” wretched, wandering “cumberers of the earth” on which they live!’
You perceive, Sir Cromwell,” continued Lady Rochford ironically, “that
my profound knowledge and retentive memory may prove very useful to you,
should you ever arrive at the Utopian Isle, for you must be convinced
that your own opinions would meet with very little favor in that country.”

Cromwell, humiliated to the last degree, vainly endeavored to reply
with his usual audacity and spirit. Finding all efforts to recover his
self-possession impossible, he stammered forth a few incoherent words,
and hastily took his leave.

The desire of winning the approbation of Anne Boleyn at the expense
of her sister-in-law had caused him to commit a great blunder, and
he received nothing in return to remove the caustic arrows from his
humiliated and deeply wounded spirit. Extremely brilliant and animated in
conversation, Lady Rochford was accustomed to “having the laugh entirely
on her own side,” which, knowing so very well, Anne had pretended not
to understand the conversation, although the remarks had been so very
piquant.

As soon as he had retired Cromwell became the subject of conversation,
and Anne timidly, and with no little hesitation, ventured to remonstrate
with her sister-in-law, expressing her regret that the conversation
should have been made so personal, as she liked Cromwell very much.

“And that is just what you are wrong in doing,” replied Lady Rochford;
“for he is a deceitful and dangerous man! He pretends to be extremely
devoted to you, but it is only because he believes he can make you
useful to himself; and he is full of avarice and ambition. This you
will discover when it is perhaps too late, and I advise you to reflect
seriously on the subject. It is so cruel to be mistaken in the choice of
a friend that, truly, the surer and better way would seem to be, to form
no friendships at all! There are so few, so very few, whose affections
are pure and disinterested, that they scarcely ever withstand the ordeal
of misfortune, or the loss of those extraneous advantages with which they
found us surrounded.”

“You speak like a book, my dear sister,” cried Lady Boleyn, laughing
aloud; “just like a book that has been sent me from France, with such
beautiful silver clasps.”

Saying this, she ran to fetch the book, which she had opened that evening
in the middle, not having sufficient curiosity to examine the title or
inquire the name of the author of the volume. She opened it naturally
at the same place, and read what follows, which was, as far as could be
discovered, the fragment of a letter:

“You ask me for the definition of a friend! In reply, I am compelled to
declare that the term has become so vague and so obscure, it has been
used in so many senses, and applied to so many persons, I shall first
be obliged to give you a description of what is called a friend in
the world--a title equivalent, in my estimation, to the most complete
indifference, intermingled at the same time with no insignificant degree
of envy and jealousy. For instance, I hear M. de Clèves speaking of his
friend M. Joyeuse, and he remarks simply: ‘I know more about him than
anybody else; I have been his most intimate friend for a great many
years; he is meanly avaricious--I have reproached him for it a hundred
times.’ A little further on, and I hear the great Prof. de Chaumont
exclaim, ‘Valentino d’Alsinois is a most charming woman; everybody is
devoted to her. But this popularity cannot last long--she is full of
vanity; intolerably conceited and silly; it really amuses me!’ I go
on still further, and meet a friend who takes me enthusiastically by
both hands: ‘Oh! I expected a visit from you yesterday, and was quite
in despair that you did not come! You know how delighted I always am to
see you, and how highly I appreciate your visits!’ But I happen to have
very keen eyes, and an ear extremely acute and delicate; and I distinctly
heard her whisper to her friend as I approached them, ‘How fortunate
I have been to escape this visit!’ What a change! I did not think it
could last long. Well, with friends like these you will find the world
crowded; they will obstruct, so to speak, every hour of your life; but it
is rare indeed to encounter one who is true and loyal, a friend of the
heart! A man truly virtuous: and sincerely religious is alone capable
of comprehending and loving with pure and exalted friendship. A man of
the world, on the contrary, accustomed to refer everything to himself,
and consulting his own desires, becomes his own idol, and on the altar
of _self_ offers up the only sincere worship of which his sordid soul is
capable. And you will find he will always end by sacrificing to his own
interests and passions the dearest interests of the being who confided in
his friendship.

“But with the sincere and earnest friend, love and gratitude are
necessities of his nature; they constitute the unbroken chain which links
all pure and reasonable friendship. He will assist his friend in all
emergencies, for he has assumed in a manner even his responsibilities.
He will never flatter; his counsel and advice, on the contrary, may be
severely administered, because it is impossible to be happy without
being virtuous, and the happiness of his friend is as dear to him as his
own. He is ready to sacrifice his own interests to those of his friend,
and none would dare attack his friend’s reputation in his presence;
for they know he will defend and sustain him under all circumstances,
sympathizing in his misfortunes, mingling tears with his tears--in a
word, that it is another self whom they would presume to attack.

“Death itself cannot dissolve the ties of such an affection--the soul,
nearer to God, will continue to implore unceasingly for him the divine
benediction. Oh! what joy, what happiness, to participate in a friendship
so pure and exalted! He who can claim one such friend possesses a source
of unbounded joy, and an inexhaustible consolation of which cruel
adversity can never deprive him. If prosperity dazzles him with its
dangerous splendor, if sorrow pierce him with her dart, if melancholy
annihilate the life of his soul, then ever near him abides this friend,
like a precious gift which God alone had power to bestow!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Queen Catherine was walking in that portion of the vast grounds of
Greenwich called the Queen’s Garden, which in happier days had often been
her favorite retreat. Jets of limpid water (conveyed by means of pipes
through the grounds) burst in every direction, and then fell in silvery
showers among the lovely parterres of flowers, and covered the green
velvet turf with a glittering veil of diamond-like spray. On the bosom of
the murmuring waters floated myriads of leaves and flowers, flung with
gentle hand by the wooing breeze, while thousands of gold fishes sported
amid their crystal depths. The eye of the stranger was at once arrested
and ravished by these marvels of nature and art, admiring the power and
riches thus united; but the queen, with slow and painful steps, only
sought this solitude for liberty there to indulge her tears in silence
and oblivion.

At no great distance Mary, full of joy, engaged in the sportive plays of
the ladies of the queen. A golden insect or a brilliant butterfly was the
only conquest to which she aspired. Gaily flitting from place to place,
with step so light that her little feet scarcely impressed the delicate
white sand covering the walks, her shouts of expectation and happiness
were still powerless to rejoice the maternal heart.

Catherine hastily withdrew from the scene. Fatigued and worn with
suffering, she regarded with painful indifference all that surrounded her.

In the meantime one of the gardeners advanced towards her and presented a
bouquet.

“Give it,” said she, “to one of my ladies.” And she turned away; but the
gardener would not withdraw. “The queen does not recognize me,” he said
at length in a low voice.

“Ah! More,” exclaimed Catherine, greatly agitated. “Friend always
faithful! But why expose yourself thus to serve me? Go on. I will
follow!” And Catherine continued her walk until she reached a wide and
extended avenue planted with venerable old lindens.

“More,” she exclaimed, trembling with fear, yet still indulging a slight
hope, “what have you to tell me? Speak, oh! speak quickly! I fear we may
be observed; every step of mine is watched.”

“Madam,” cried More, “a general peace has been concluded. The emperor’s
difficulty with the Holy See is ended; he consents to surrender all the
conquered territory originally belonging to the Ecclesiastical States.
He binds himself to re-establish the dominion of the Medici in Florence;
he abandons Sforza, leaving the Pope absolute master of the destiny
of that prince and the sovereignty of the Milanese. Urged on by these
concessions, the two princesses cut short their negotiations, and the
treaty between France and Austria was concluded immediately. Your appeal
and protestation have been despatched, and conveyed safely out of the
kingdom. The messenger to whom they were entrusted was most rigorously
searched, but the papers were so securely and adroitly concealed they
were not discovered. They were carried to Antwerp by Peter Gilles, the
‘friend of my heart,’ and from thence he despatched them to Rome. Hope,
therefore hope; let us all hope!”

“Ah! More,” replied the queen, who had listened with deep anxiety, “would
that I were able to acknowledge your services as I appreciate them.
Your friendship has been my only consolation. But I know not why it is,
hope every day grows more and more faint in my heart. And so utterly
insensible to joy have I become that it seems now I am incapable of aught
but suffering, and that for me I fear greater sorrow is to be added.”

“What do you say, madam?” replied More. “How sadly discouraging and
painful to your servants to hear such reflections from you at the very
moment when everything becomes favorable to your cause. The emperor will
use his influence at the court of Rome, and Francis, between the two
allies, will at least be forced to remain neutral.”

“What were the conditions of the Treaty of Cambrai?” asked the queen.

“They were very hard and exacting,” replied More. “The king of France
entirely renounces his pretensions to Burgundy and Italy; thus nine years
of war, the battle of Pavia, and a humiliating captivity, become of no
avail. He sacrifices all, even his allies. Fearing to add to these harsh
conditions the reconciliation of their interests, he abandoned to the
mercy of the emperor, without the slightest stipulation, the Venetians,
the Florentines, the Duke of Ferrara, and the Neapolitan barons who were
attached to his arms.”

“What a cruel error!” exclaimed the queen. “The prince has surely
forgotten that even in political and state affairs, he who once
sacrifices his friends cannot hope to recall them ever again to his
support. It is very evident that he has not more prudent nor wise
counsellors in his cabinet than skilful and accomplished generals in the
field. Who now among them all can be compared with Pescaire, Anthony de
Lêve, or the Prince of Orange?”

“He might have had them, madam, if his own negligence and the wickedness
of his courtiers had not alienated and driven them away. The Constable
of Bourbon, Moran, and Doria would have powerfully counterbalanced the
talents and influence of the chiefs you have just named, had the king of
France engaged them in his own cause, instead of having to encounter them
in the ranks of his enemies. His undaunted courage and personal valor,
however, have alone caused the unequal and hopeless contest to be so long
continued.”

“And what does your king say of these affairs?” asked the queen,
anxiously.

“Alas! madam, he seems but little satisfied,” responded More, hesitating.

“That is just as I suspected,” replied the queen. “Yes, it is because
he foresees new obstacles to the unjust divorce he is prosecuting with
so much ardor. O More!” she continued, bursting into tears, “what have
I done to merit such cruel treatment? When I look back on the happy
years of my youth, the years when he loved me so tenderly; when I recall
the devoted and affectionate demonstrations of those days, and compare
them with the actual rudeness and severity of the present, my bleeding
heart is crushed by this sorrow! What have I done, More, to lose thus so
suddenly and entirely my husband’s affection? It is true, the freshness
of my early youth has faded, but was it to such ephemeral advantages
alone I owed his devotion? Can a marriage be contracted by a man with
the intention of dissolving it as soon as the personal attractions, the
youthful charms, of his wife have faded? Oh! it seems to me it should be
just the contrary, and that the hour of affliction should only call forth
deeper proofs of affection. No, More, no! neither you nor any other of my
friends will be able to accomplish anything for me. I feel that my life
is rapidly ebbing away; that my spirit is crushed and broken for ever.
For admitting, even, that Henry will not be successful in his attempt
to sever the sacred bonds of our union, what happiness could I ever
hope to enjoy near one to whom I had become an object of aversion--who
would behold in me only an invincible obstacle to his will and the
gratification of his criminal and disorderly passions?”

“Alas! madam,” replied More, “we are all grieved at the contemplation of
the great affliction by which you are overwhelmed, and how much do we
wish the expression of our sympathy and devotion had power to relieve
you. But remember the Princess of Wales--you will surely never cease to
defend her rights.”

“Never, never!” exclaimed the queen passionately. “That is the sole
inducement I have once more to arouse myself--it sustains my courage
and animates my resolution, when health and spirits both fail. O More!
could you but know all that passes in the depths of my soul; could
you but realize, for one moment, the anguish and agony, the deep
interior humiliation, into which I am plunged! Oh! fatal and for ever
unfortunate day when I left my country and the royal house of my father!
Why was I not born in obscurity? Would not my life then have passed
quietly and without regret? Far from the tumult of the world and the
éclat of thrones, I should have been extremely happy. Now I am dying
broken-hearted and unknown.”

“Is it really yourself, madam,” answered More, “who thus gives way to
such weakness? Truly, it is unworthy of your rank, and still more of
your virtues. When adversity overtakes us, we should summon all our
courage and resolution. You are our queen, and you should remember your
daughter is born sovereign of this realm, beneath whose soil our buried
forefathers sleep. No, no! Heaven will never permit the blood of such
a race to be sullied by that of an ambitious and degraded woman. That
noble race will triumph, be assured of it; and in that triumph the honor
of our country will shine forth with renewed glory and splendor. I
swear it by my head, and hope it in my heart!” As he said these words,
footsteps were heard, and Catherine perceived the king coming towards
them. She turned instantly pale, but, remaining calm in the dangerous
crisis, made a sign for More to withdraw. The king immediately approached
her, and, observing with heartless indifference the traces of recent
tears on her cheek, exclaimed:

“Always in tears!” Then, assuming a playful manner, he continued: “Come,
Kate, you must confess that you are always singularly sad and depressed,
and the walls of a convent would suit you much better than this beautiful
garden. You have in your hand a fine bouquet; I see at least you still
love flowers.”

“I do indeed,” replied the queen, with a deep sigh.

“Well,” said Henry, “I do not mean to reproach you, but it would be
advisable not to hold those roses so close to your cheek; the contrast
might be unfavorable--is it not so, my old Kate? Have you seen the
falcons just sent me from Scotland? They are of a very rare species, and
trained to perfection. I am going out now to try them.”

“I wish your majesty a pleasant morning,” answered the queen.

“Adieu, Kate,” he continued, proceeding on his way, and giving in the
exuberance of his spirits a flourish with his trumpet. Very soon the
notes of the hunting-horns announced his arrival in the outer courtyard.
He found there assembled a crowd of lords and pages, followed by
falconers, carrying the new birds on their wrists. These birds were
fettered, and wore on their heads little leathern hoods, which were to
be removed at the moment they mounted in the air in search of their
accustomed prey.

In a very short time the party rode off, and Catherine thoughtfully
entered the palace, thinking it was a long time since the king had shown
himself so indulgent and gracious towards her.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Are you well assured of the truth of these statements?” said the king,
returning Cromwell a letter he had just read. “No! I will not believe
it,” he cried, stamping his foot violently on the richly-tessellated
floor of his cabinet. “I certainly hoped to have gained the legate over.”

“But your majesty may no longer indulge in this illusion,” replied
Cromwell, who stood before the king in an attitude the most humble and
servile possible to assume. “You are furnished with incontrovertible
proof; Campeggio, in order to escape your imperious commands, urges the
Pope to evoke the trial to his own tribunal. Of this there is no doubt,
for this copy of his letter I received from the hand of his confidential
secretary.”

“You are very adroit, sir,” replied the king, haughtily. “Later, I will
consider the manner of rewarding you. But I declare to you your patron
is on the brink of ruin. I shall never pardon him for permitting that
protest and appeal of the queen to reach Rome.”

“That was truly an unfortunate affair,” replied Cromwell; “but it was
perhaps not the fault of my lord, Cardinal Wolsey.”

“Whose fault was it then?” demanded Henry in the imperious tone he used
to disconcert this spy whenever his reports displeased him.

“The queen has friends,” replied Cromwell, whilst on his thin, colorless
lips hovered a false and treacherous smile, worthy of the wicked instinct
that prompted and directed all his suspicions, and made him foresee the
surest plan of injuring those whom he envied or destroying those whose
reputation he intended to attack.

“And who are they?” demanded the king, his ill-humor increasing with the
reflection. “Why do you not name them, sir?”

“Well, for instance, Sir Thomas More, whom your Majesty loads with favors
and distinctions, the Bishop of Rochester, the Duke of Norfolk, and the.…”

“You will soon accuse my entire court, and each one of my servants in
particular,” cried the king; “and in order still more to exasperate and
astound me, you have taken particular pains to select and name those whom
I most esteem, and who have always given me the sincerest proofs of their
devoted affection. Go!” he suddenly cried in a furious tone; and he fell
into one of those wild transports of rage that frequently attacked him
when his will clashed against obstacles which he foresaw he could neither
surmount nor destroy. He often passed entire days absorbed in these moods
of violence, shut up in his own apartments, suffering none to speak to or
approach him nor on any account to attempt to divert him.

Abashed and alarmed, Cromwell hastily withdrew, stammering the most
humble apologies, none of which, however, reached the ear of Henry
VIII., who, on returning to his chamber, raving in a demoniacal manner,
exclaimed:

“Vile slaves! you shall be taught to know and to respect my power. I will
make you sorely repent the hour you have dared to oppose me!”

Just as he had uttered this threatening exclamation, Cardinal Wolsey
appeared. He could not have chosen a more inauspicious moment. The
instant he beheld him, the king, glaring on him with flashing eyes, cried
out:

“Traitor! what has brought you here? Do you know the ambassadors of
Charles and Ferdinand, fortified by the queen’s appeal and protest, have
overthrown all I had accomplished at Rome with so much precaution and
difficulty? Why have you not foreseen these contingencies, and known that
the Pope would prove inflexible? Why have you not advised me against
undertaking an almost impossible thing, which will sully the honor of my
name and obscure for all time the glory of my reign.”

“Stop, sire,” replied Wolsey; “I do not deserve these cruel reproaches.
You can readily recall how earnestly I endeavored to dissuade you from
your purpose, but all my efforts were vain.”

“It is false!” cried the king, giving vent to his rage in the most
shocking and violent expressions he could command, to inflict upon his
minister. “And now,” he continued, “remember well, if you fail to extort
from your legate such a decision as I require, you shall speedily be
taught what it is to deride my commands.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The sun had scarcely risen above the horizon when already Cardinal
Campeggio (whose age and infirmities had not changed the long habits of
an austere and laborious life) was silently kneeling in the midst of the
choir of the palace chapel.

The velvet cushions of his _prie-dieu_ protected him from the cold marble
of the sacred pavement, while the rays of the rising sun, descending in
luminous jets through the arches of the antique windows, fell on the head
of the venerable old man, giving him the appearance of being surrounded
by a halo of celestial light. His eyes were cast down, and he seemed to
be entirely absorbed in pious and profound meditation.

Other thoughts, however, intruded on his agitated mind, and filled him
with anxious apprehension. “The hour rapidly approaches,” he mentally
exclaimed--“the hour when it will be essential to come to a decision. I
have still hoped to receive a reply--it has not yet arrived. I alone am
made responsible, and doubtless the wrath of the king will burst upon my
head. His vengeance will be terrible. More than once already he has taken
occasion to manifest it. What cruel incertitude! What dreadful suspense!
Yet what shall be done? Speak! O my conscience!” he exclaimed, “let me
listen, and be guided by thy voice alone!”

“Despise the power of the king who demands of thee an injustice,”
immediately replied that faithful monitor whose stern and inflexible
voice will be summoned to testify against us at the last judgment.
“Sayest thou, thou art afraid? Then thou hast forgotten that the last
even of those gray hairs still remaining to thee cannot fall without the
permission of him who created the universe. Know that the anger of man
is but as a vain report--a sound that vanishes in space; and that God
permits thee not to hesitate for one instant, O judge! when the cause of
the feeble and the innocent claims all the strength of thy protection.”

Irrevocably decided, Campeggio continued his prayer, and waited without
further apprehension the decisive moment, so rapidly approaching.

In the meantime, another cardinal, Wolsey, in great anguish of mind,
contemplated with terror the approaching day when he would be compelled
to decide the fate of the queen. Weary after passing a sleepless night,
spent in reflecting on the punishment threatening him if the will of the
king was not accomplished, he had scarcely closed his eyes when a troop
of valets entered the chamber to assist at his toilet. They brought his
richest vestments, with all the insignia of his elevated rank. Wolsey
regarded them with a feeling of terror. And when they presented him the
ivory rod which the high-chancellor is alone empowered to carry, he
seized it with convulsive eagerness, grasping it in his hand, as though
he feared they would tear it from him; and with that fear the reflection
overshadowed his soul that yesterday he had made a last effort to
ascertain and influence the decision of the legate, without being able to
succeed!

Followed by his pages and gentlemen, and still harassed by these
misgivings, he arrived at Blackfriars, where the court awaited him. The
assembly of cardinals arose deferentially as he entered, though all
remarked with astonishment the pallor of his countenance and his extreme
embarrassment of manner, so invariably composed and assured. A portion of
this visible restraint was communicated to the assembly, on learning that
the king himself had arrived, and was resolved to sit in the adjoining
apartment, where he could see and hear the entire proceedings.

Dr. Bell, his advocate, after a long preamble, began a discourse,
and during its delivery hurried exclamations and hasty comments were
constantly indulged in by the excited assembly, so different in their
hopes, desires, and opinions.

“O Rochester,” cried More, invested with the grand official robes of the
king’s exchequer, “do you think this man will succeed with his arguments
in carrying the crown by storm?”

“No, no,” replied Rochester, “and especially as he wishes to place it
upon such a head.”

“But listen, listen!” exclaimed More, “he declares the brief of
dispensation to have been a fraud.”

“Ah! what notorious bad faith!” murmured the bishop.

“What answer can they make to that?” said Viscount Rochford, in another
part of the hall, addressing the lords belonging to Anne Boleyn’s party.
“It is certainly encouraging; we cannot doubt of our success now.”

But at length the arguments, principally dictated by Henry himself, were
closed; his advocate demanding, in the most haughty and authoritative
manner, that a decision should at once be rendered, and that it should
be as favorable as it was prompt. The king during this time, in a state
of great excitement, paced to and fro before the entrance of the hall,
the door being left open by every one in passing, as if he were afraid
to close it behind him. He surveyed from time to time, with a glance
of stern, penetrating scrutiny, the assembly before him, each member
of which tried to conceal his true sentiments--some because they were
secretly attached to the queen, others through fear that the cause of
Anne Boleyn might ultimately triumph. When the advocate had finished
his discourse, each one sat in breathless suspense anxiously waiting
the queen’s reply; but not recognizing the authority or legality of the
tribunal, she had refused to accept counsel, and no one consequently
appeared to defend her. Profound silence reigned throughout the assembly,
and all eyes were turned toward Campeggio, who arose and stood ready to
speak. The venerable old man, calm and dignified, in a mild but firm and
decided tone began:

“You ask, or rather you demand,” he said, “that we pronounce a decision
which it would be impossible for us in justice to render.” Here, on
seeing the king turn abruptly around and confront him, he paused, looking
steadily at him. “Knowing that the defendant hath challenged this
court, and refused to recognize in our persons loyal and disinterested
judges, I have considered it my duty, in order to avoid error, to submit
every part of the proceedings of this council to the tribunal of the
Sovereign Pontiff; and we shall be compelled to await his decision before
rendering judgment or proceeding further. For myself individually, I will
furthermore affirm, that I am here to render justice--strict, entire, and
impartial justice, and no earthly power can induce me to deviate from
the course I have adopted or the resolutions I have taken; and I boldly
declare that I am too old, too feeble, and too ill to desire the favor
or fear the resentment of any living being.” Here he sat down, visibly
agitated.

Had a thunderbolt fallen in the midst of the assembly, the tumult and
astonishment could not have been greater. Anger, joy, fear, hope--all
hearts were agitated by the most contradictory emotions; while nothing
was heard but the deep murmur of voices, the noise of unintelligible
words, as they crossed and clashed in an endless diversity of tones.
The Duke of Suffolk, brother-in-law of the king, cried out, beating his
fists violently on the table before him, with the gross impetuosity of an
upstart soldier, that the old adage had again been verified; “Never did
a cardinal do any good in England.” And with flashing eyes and furious
gestures he pointed to Cardinal Wolsey. The cardinal at once comprehended
his danger, but found it impossible not to resent the insult. He arose,
pale with anger, and with forced calmness replied that the duke, of
all living men, had the least cause to depreciate cardinals. For,
notwithstanding he had himself been a very insignificant cardinal, yet,
if he had not held the office, the Duke of Suffolk would not this day
actually carry his head on big shoulders. “And you would not now,” he
added, “be here to exhibit the ostentatious disdain you have manifested
toward those who have never given you cause of offence. If you were, my
lord, an ambassador of the king to some foreign power, you would surely
not venture to decide important questions without first consulting your
sovereign. We also are commissioners, and we have no power to pronounce
judgment, without first consulting those from whom we derive our
authority; we can do neither more nor less than our commissions permit.
Calm yourself, then, my lord, and no more address, in this insulting
manner, your best friend. You very well know all I have done for you,
and you must also acknowledge that on no occasion have I ever referred to
your obligations before.”

But the Duke of Suffolk heard nothing of the last words uttered by
Wolsey. Exasperated beyond measure, he abruptly turned his back on the
cardinal and went to join the king in the next apartment. He found the
latter in the act of retiring, being no longer able to restrain his wrath
within bounds; and as his courtiers entered and stood regarding him with
a look of hesitation he went out, commanding them in a fierce tone and
with an imperious gesture to follow him immediately.

Meanwhile, in the council chamber the utmost confusion prevailed. “God be
praised!” cried Sir Thomas More, who in the simplicity of his heart and
the excess of his joy was incapable of dissimulation or concealment. “God
be praised! Our queen is still queen; and may she ever triumph thus over
all her enemies!”

Ensconced in the deep embrasure of a window stood Cromwell, a silent
observer of the scene; not permitting a word to escape him, but gathering
up every sentence with keen avidity, and cherishing it in his envious
and malicious memory. He found himself, nevertheless, in a precarious
and embarrassing situation. Foreseeing the downfall and disgrace of
Wolsey, he had sought to make friends by betraying his benefactor. But
the king treated him with indignant scorn, Viscount Rochford with supreme
contempt, and he strongly suspected he had prejudiced his sister, Anne
Boleyn, also against him.

Anxious and alarmed, he at once determined to begin weaving a new web of
intrigue, and instantly cast about him to discover what hope remained, or
what results the future might possibly bring forth from the discord and
difficulties reigning in the present.

When selfish, corrupt creatures like Cromwell find themselves surrounded
by great and important events, they at once assume to become identified
with the dearest interests of the community in which they live, without
however in reality being in the slightest degree affected, unless through
their own interests--seeking always themselves, and themselves alone.
Thus this heartless man, this shameful leprosy of the social body that
had nurtured him, regarding the whole world entirely with reference to
his own selfish designs, coolly speculated upon his premeditated crimes,
revolving in his mind a thousand projects of aggrandizement, which he
ultimately succeeded in bringing to a culpable but thoroughly successful
termination.

       *       *       *       *       *

The night had already come, yet all were in a state of commotion in the
household of the French ambassador, in consequence of William du Bellay,
his brother, having at a late hour received a few hasty lines from the
bishop, written in the midst of the assembly at Blackfriars, commanding
him to hold himself in readiness to depart.

The young envoy, at once obeying orders, assumed his travelling costume,
and had scarcely more than attended to the last instructions of his
brother when the latter made his appearance.

“Well, brother,” he exclaimed on entering the chamber, “all is over.
Are you ready to set out?” he continued, hurriedly surveying his
brother’s travelling attire. “The king is furiously enraged--first
against the legate, then against Wolsey. But Campeggio has displayed an
extraordinary degree of firmness and courage. After he had refused to
pronounce the decision, and just as the king was retiring, the expected
courier arrived with instructions from Rome. The queen’s protestation
has been received, and the Pope, dissolving the council, revokes the
commissioners’ authority, and requires the case to be brought before his
own tribunal. The adherents of Catherine, as you may suppose, are wild
with delight--the people throng the streets, shouting ‘Long live the
queen!’ Our gracious king, Francis I., will be in despair.”

“Well,” replied William, “I am satisfied, for I am in favor of the
queen. And now, between ourselves, my dear brother, laying all diplomacy
aside--for we are alone, and these walls have no ears--I know as well as
you that it matters not to our king whether the wife of Henry VIII. be
named Anne or Catherine.

“And yet, after all, it may be the name of this new Helen will become the
signal for war,” replied the bishop. “You forget that in marrying Anne
Boleyn Henry will be compelled to seek an alliance with France, in order
to resist the opposition of the Emperor Charles V.; and as for ourselves,
we have use for the five thousand crowns he has promised to assist us
in paying the ransom of the children of France. This family quarrel
can be arranged so entirely to our advantage that it would really be a
misfortune should it come to a sudden termination. I hope, however, such
may not be the result.”

“You are right, brother,” said Du Bellay, laughing. “I see I have too
much heart to make a skilful diplomatist. I have already let myself
become ensnared, you perceive, and drawn over to the cause of this Queen
Catherine. But it is nevertheless a veritable fact, while families
are engaged in disputing among themselves, they generally leave their
neighbors in peace. It would seem, however, the king must have become
a madman or a fool, thus to ignore kindred, allies, fortune, and
kingdom--all for this Lady Anne.”

“Yes, much more than a madman,” replied his brother, phlegmatically;
“after he has married her, he will be cured of his insanity. But
come, now, let us leave Lady Anne and her affairs. You must know that
immediately after the adjournment of the cardinals, the king sent for
me. I found him terribly excited, walking rapidly up and down the great
hall formerly used as a chapter-room by the monks. Wolsey alone was with
him, standing near the abbot’s great arm-chair, and wearing an air of
consternation. The instant he saw me approaching, he cried out, ‘Come,
come, my lord, the king wishes to have your advice on the subject we are
now discussing.’ And I at once perceived my presence was a great relief
to him.

“The king spoke immediately, while his eyes flashed fire. ‘M. du Bellay,’
he exclaimed, ‘Campeggio shall be punished!--yes, punished! Parliament
shall bring him to trial! I will never submit to defeat in this matter. I
will show the Pope that he has underrated both my will and my power.’

“‘Sire,’ I answered, ‘after mature reflection, it seems to me it would be
a mistaken policy in your majesty to resort to such violent measures.
Nothing has yet been decided, and the case is by no means hopeless;
the wisest course would therefore be to restrain all manifestation of
displeasure toward Campeggio. What advantage could you possibly gain by
insulting or ill-treating an old man whom you have invited into your
kingdom, or how could you then expect to obtain a favorable decision from
the Holy See?’

“Delighted to hear me express such opinions, Wolsey eagerly caught at
my words, declaring he agreed with me entirely. He also advised that
the doctors of the French and German universities should be consulted,
opinions favorable to the divorce obtained from them, and afterwards this
high authority brought to bear upon the decision of the court of Rome.

“‘What do you think of that?’ demanded the king of me. ‘As for His
Eminence Monseigneur Wolsey,’ he added, in a tone of cruel contempt,
his counsels have already led me into so many difficulties, or proved
so worthless, I shall not trouble him for any further advice.’ And he
abruptly turned his back on the cardinal.

“A tear rolled slowly down Wolsey’s hollow cheek, but he made no reply. I
at once assured the king that I thought, on the contrary, the cardinal’s
advice was most excellent, and doubted not our king, and his honored
mother, Madame Louise, might be induced to use their influence in order
to secure him the suffrages of the University of Paris. Whereupon he
appeared very much pleased with me, and bowed me out in the most gracious
manner imaginable.

“Report all these things faithfully to your master; tell him I fear the
downfall of Wolsey is inevitable; he is equally disliked by the queen’s
adherents and those of Anne Boleyn, and I have every reason for believing
he will never again be reinstated in the king’s favor. You will also say
to him he need not be astonished that I so often send him despatches
by express, as Cardinal Wolsey informs me confidentially that the Duke
of Suffolk has his emissaries bribed to open all packages of letters
sent by post, and that one addressed to me has been miscarried; which
circumstance troubles me very much.”

“I will also inform my master,” replied William, “that the Picardy routes
are so badly managed, the gentlemen and couriers he sends are constantly
detained and kept a considerable time on the journey. I have complained
recently to the authorities themselves, who assure me that their salaries
are not paid, and consequently they are unable to keep the routes in
better condition.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The sun descended toward the horizon. Sir Thomas More, seated on a
terrace of his mansion at Chelsea, sought temporary quiet and repose
from the oppressive burdens of a life every hour of which was devoted to
the service of his king and country. His young children formed a joyous
group around him, their flaxen heads crowned with blades of wheat and
wild flowers they had gathered in the fields, for it was the golden
time of harvest. Margaret, assisted by William Roper, directed their
games, and was now trying to teach them a Scotch dance, marking the
wild, fantastical rhythm with the notes of her sweet, melodious voice.
Sir Thomas himself had joined in their play, when suddenly the king
made his appearance. He had many times already honored them with such
visits since Sir Thomas became a member of the council, having apparently
conceived a great affection for him, and every day seeming to become more
and more pleased with his conversation.

“I know not why it is,” he would often say, “but when I have been for
any length of time in conversation with More I experience a singular
tranquillity of soul, and indeed feel almost happy. His presence has the
magical effect of lulling my cares to sleep and calming my anxieties.”

On seeing the king, More immediately advanced with great deference to
receive him, while the children at once left off their sports.

“Why, what is this?” he exclaimed; “I did not come to interrupt your
amusements, but on the contrary to enjoy them with you.” But the
wild mirth and _abandon_ of the children had fled at the approach of
royalty, and, in spite of these kind assurances, they withdrew in rapid
succession, too glad to recover their liberty, and their father was thus
left alone with the king.

“Who is the young man I see here?” inquired the sovereign.

“He is the affianced husband of my daughter, sire; his name is William
Roper,” answered More.

“What! is she affianced already?” said the king.

“Yes, sire; the family of Roper has for many years been united to ours
by the sincerest ties of friendship, and, strengthening these by ties of
blood, we hope greatly to increase our mutual happiness.”

“That is so,” replied the king. “And they will doubtless be happy.
In your families you preserve liberty of choice, while we princes,
born to thrones, sacrifice our interior happiness to those political
combinations demanded by the interests of our subjects.”

“But,” replied Sir Thomas--who understood at once the king’s intention
was to introduce the subject of his divorce, a topic he especially
wished to avoid--“I believe that happiness depends on ourselves, on our
dispositions, and the manner in which we conduct our affairs, a great
deal more than on circumstances, or the social position in which we
chance to be born. There are some who, possessing every advantage in
life, are still unable to enjoy it. We would suppose them to be perfectly
happy, and they really should be so; but true happiness consists alone
in tranquillity of soul, which is attained by always doing good to
others, and suffering with patient submission the trials and afflictions
with which life is inevitably beset. Such, it seems to me, is the
circumscribed circle in which man is confined; it is well with him so
long as he accommodates himself to its legitimate limits, but all is lost
the moment he endeavors to venture beyond it.”

“I am every day more entirely convinced that this figure of the circle is
a painful reality,” replied the king, with ill-concealed impatience. “I
have always hoped to find happiness in the pursuit of pleasure--in the
gratification of every desire--and believed it might thus be attained,
but never yet have I been able to grasp it.”

“Which means, your majesty expected to pass through the world without
trials--a thing utterly impossible,” added More, smiling.

“It is that which makes me despair, my dear Thomas. Reflecting on the
bitter disappointments I have experienced, I am often almost transported
with rage. No, More, you can never understand me. You are always equally
calm and joyous. Your desires are so happily directed that you can feel
well assured of a peaceful, quiet future awaiting you.”

“Your majesty is entirely mistaken,” replied More, “if you believe I
have never entertained other desires than those I have been able to
accomplish. The only secret I possess, in that respect, is, I compel my
inclinations to obey _me_, instead of making my will subservient to them.
Nevertheless, they oftentimes rebel and contend bitterly for supremacy,
but then, it is only necessary to command silence, and not be disturbed
by their cries and lamentations. Ultimately, they become like refractory
children, who, constantly punished and severely beaten, at last are made
to tremble at the very thought of the chastisement, and no longer dare to
revolt.”

“This explanation of your system of self-government is very ingenious,”
replied the king; “and hearing you speak in this quiet manner one would
be induced to believe it were the easiest thing imaginable to accomplish,
rather than the most difficult. Ah!” he continued with a deep sigh, “I
understand but too well _how_ difficult.”

“It is true,” replied More with earnest simplicity, “and I would not deny
that, far from being agreeable, it is often, on the contrary, exceedingly
painful and difficult for a man to impose these violent restraints
upon his inclinations. But if he who hesitates on all occasions in the
practice of virtue to do this necessary violence to himself and remain
faithful to the requirements of duty, would reflect but for a single
instant, he will find that although at first he may escape suffering and
privation by voluntarily abandoning himself to his passions, yet, later,
he will inevitably be made to endure a far more bitter humiliation in the
torturing reproaches of conscience; the shame he will suffer in the loss
of self-respect and the respect of others; and, in the inevitable course
of events, he will at last discover that his passions have carried him
far beyond the power of self-control or reformation!”

“Let us banish these reflections, my dear More,” exclaimed the king in a
petulant tone, passing his hand across his forehead; “they distress me,
and I prefer a change of subject.” Saying this he arose, and, putting his
arm around Sir Thomas’ neck, they walked on together toward the extremity
of the garden, which terminated in an extensive and beautiful terrace, at
the foot of which flowed the waters of the Thames.

The view was an extended one, and the king amused himself watching the
rapid movements of the little boats, filled with fishermen, rowing in
every direction, drawing in the nets, which had been spread to dry on the
reeds covering the banks of the river. Quantities of water-lilies, blue
flowers, floating on their large brilliant green leaves, intermingled
with the dark bending heads of the reeds, presenting to the distant
observer the appearance of a beautiful variegated carpet of flowers.
“What a charming scene!” said the king, gazing at the prospect, and
pointing to a boat just approaching the opposite side of the river to
land a troop of young villagers, who with their bright steel sickles in
hand were returning from the harvest fields.

“And the graceful spire of your Chelsea belfry, gleaming in the distance
through the light silvery clouds, completes this charming landscape,” he
added.

“Would it were possible to transport this view to the end of one of my
drives in St. James’ Park,” continued the king.

“Will it be very soon completed?” asked Sir Thomas, at a loss what to say
to his royal visitor.

“I hope so,” replied Henry languidly, “but these architects are so
very slow. Before going to Grafton, I gave them numerous orders on the
subject.”

“Your majesty has been quite pleased with your journey, I believe,”
replied Sir Thomas, instantly reflecting what he should say next.

“I should have been extremely well pleased,” he answered, with a sudden
impatience of manner, “had Wolsey not persisted so obstinately in
following me. I have been much too indulgent,” he continued sharply,
“infinitely too indulgent towards him, and am now well convinced of the
mistake I have made in retaining the slightest affection for a man who
has so miserably deceived me. What would you think, More,” he continued,
his manner suddenly changing, “if I appointed you in his place as lord
chancellor?” And, turning towards Sir Thomas, he gazed fixedly in his
eyes, as if to read the inmost emotions of his soul.

“What would I think?” answered More, calmly--then adding with a careless
smile, “I should think your majesty had done a very wrong thing, and made
a very bad choice.”

“Well, I believe I could not possibly make a better,” said the king,
emphasizing the last words. “But I have not come here to discuss business
matters; rather, on the contrary, to get rid of them. Come, then,
entertain me with something more agreeable.” But the words designedly
(though with seeming unconcern) uttered by the king cast a sudden gloom
over the spirit of Sir Thomas he vainly endeavored to dispel.

“Sire, your majesty is greatly mistaken in entertaining such an idea,” he
said, stammering and confused; for, with his sincere and truthful nature,
More under all circumstances resolutely looked to the end of everything
in which he suspected the least dissimulation.

The king whirled round on his heel, pretending not to hear him. “This
is a beautiful rose,” he said, stooping down, “a very beautiful
variety--come from the seed, no doubt? Are you a gardener? I am very fond
of flowers. Oh! my garden will be superb.”

“Sire,” said More, still pursuing his subject.

“I must have a cutting of that rose--do you hear me, More?” As he ran on
in this manner, to prevent Sir Thomas from speaking, the silvery notes of
a bell were heard, filling the air with a sweet and prolonged vibrating
sound.

“What bell is that?” asked the king.

“The bell of our chapel, sire,” replied More, “summoning us to evening
prayers, which we usually prefer saying all together. But to-day, your
majesty having honored us with a visit, there will be no obligation to
answer the call.”

“By all means,” replied Henry. “Let me interfere with nothing. It is
almost night: come. We will return, and I will join in your devotions.”

Sir Thomas conducted him through the shrubbery towards the chapel, a
venerable structure in the Anglo-Saxon style of architecture. A thick
undergrowth of briers, brambles, and wild shrubbery was matted and
interlaced around the foundation of the building; running vines clambered
over the heavy arches of the antique windows, and fell back in waving
garlands upon the climbing branches from which they had sprung. The
walls, of rough unhewn stone, were thickly covered with moss and ivy,
giving the little structure an appearance of such antiquity that the most
scrupulous antiquarian would have unhesitatingly referred its foundation
to the time of King Athelstan or his brother Edmund. The interior was
adorned with extreme care and taste. A bronze lamp, suspended before
the altar, illuminated a statue of the Holy Virgin placed above it. The
children of Sir Thomas, with the servants of his household, were ranged
in respectful silence behind the arm-chair of his aged father. Margaret
knelt beside him with her prayer-book, waiting to begin the devotions.

The touching voice of this young girl as she slowly repeated the sublime
words--“Our Father who art in heaven”--those words which men may so
joyfully pronounce, which teach us the exalted dignity of our being, the
grandeur of our origin and destiny--those sublime words penetrated the
soul of the king with a profound and singular emotion.

“What a happy family!” he exclaimed, mentally. “Nothing disturbs their
harmony; day after day passes without leaving a regret behind it. Why can
I not join in this sweet prayer--why, O my soul, hast thou banished and
forgotten it?” He turned from the contemplation of these youthful heads
bowed before the Mother of God, and a wave of bitter remorse swept once
again over his hardened, hypocritical soul.

After the king had returned to his royal palace and the evening repast
was ended, William Roper approached Sir Thomas and said:

“You must consider yourself most fortunate, my dear father, in enjoying
so intimately the favor of his majesty--why, even Cardinal Wolsey cannot
boast of being honored with such a degree of friendship and familiarity.”

With a sad smile More, taking the young man’s hand, replied:

“Know, my son, I can never be elated by it. If this head, around which he
passed his royal arm so affectionately this evening, could in falling pay
the price of but one single inch of French territory, he would, without a
moment’s hesitation, deliver it up to the executioner.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“What acknowledgments do I not owe you, madam,” said Sir Thomas Cheney to
Lady Anne Boleyn, “for the services you have rendered me. But dare I hope
for a full pardon from the king?”

“Feel perfectly secure on that point,” replied Lady Anne. “He is
convinced that Wolsey had you banished from court because of your
disagreement with Cardinal Campeggio, and he considers you now one of his
most faithful adherents.”

“And I hope, madam, to have the happiness of proving to you that I am
none the less faithfully your servant,” replied Sir Thomas Cheney.

“You must admit now,” said Lady Anne, addressing her father and brother,
the Earl of Wiltshire and the Viscount Rochford, who were both present,
“that I succeed in doing what I undertake.”

“You succeed in what you undertake,” replied her father humorously, “but
you are a long time in deciding what to do. For instance, Cardinal Wolsey
finds himself to-day occupying a position in which he has no right to be.”

“Ah! well, he will not remain in it very long,” replied Anne Boleyn,
petulantly. “This morning the king told me the ladies would attend the
chase to see the new falcons the king of France has sent him by Monsieur
de Sansac. I will talk to him, and insist on his having nothing more to
do with this horrid cardinal, or I shall at once quit the court. But,”
she added, pausing suddenly with an expression of extreme embarrassment,
“how should I answer were he to demand what his eminence Monseigneur
Wolsey had ever done to _me_?”

“Here, sister, here is your answer,” replied Viscount Rochford, taking a
large manuscript book from his father’s portfolio. “Take it and read for
yourself; you will find here all you would need for a reply.”

“That great book!” cried Anne, strongly opposed to this new commission,
and pouting like a spoilt child. Taking the book, she read--skipping a
great deal, however--a minutely detailed statement, formally accusing
Wolsey of having engaged in a secret correspondence with France, and with
the most adroit malice misrepresenting every act of his administration as
well as of his private life.

“What! can all this be true?” cried Anne Boleyn, closing the book.

“Certainly true,” replied Rochford. “And furthermore, you should know,
the cardinal, in order to reward Campeggio for the good services he has
rendered _you_, has persuaded the king to send him home loaded with rich
presents, to conciliate the Pope, he says, by his filial submission and
pious dispositions, and incline him to a favorable decision. That is the
way he manages,” continued Rochford, shrugging his shoulders, “and keeps
you in the most humiliating position ever occupied by a woman.”

Hearing her brother speak thus, the beautiful face of Anne Boleyn became
instantly suffused with a deep crimson.

“Oh! that odious man,” she cried passionately. “I shall no longer submit
to it. It is to insult me he makes such gracious acknowledgments to that
old cardinal. I will complain to the king. Oh! how annoying all this is,
though,” and she turned the book over and over in her white hands.

“But see, it is time to start,” she added, pointing to a great clock
standing in one corner of the apartment. “Good-by; I must go!” And
Anne, attired in an elegant riding-habit, abruptly turning to a mirror,
proceeded to adjust her black velvet riding-cap, when, observing a small
plume in her hat that was not arranged to her taste, she exclaimed,
violently stamping her little foot:

“How many contradictions shall I meet this day? I cannot endure it! All
those horrid affairs to think of, to talk about and explain; all your
recommendations to follow in the midst of a delightful hunting party; and
then, after all, this hat which so provokes me! No; I can never fix it.”
And she hurried away to find a woman skilled in the arts of the toilet.
But after making her sew and rip out again, bend the plume and straighten
it, place it forward and then back, she did not succeed in fixing it to
suit the fancy of Anne Boleyn, who, seeing the time flying rapidly, ended
by cutting off the plume with the scissors, throwing it angrily on the
floor and stamping it, putting the offending cap on her head without a
plume; then mounting her horse she rode off, accompanied by Sir Thomas
Cheney, who escorted her, knowing she was to join the king on the road.

“How impulsive and thoughtless your sister is,” said Earl Wiltshire to
his son, after Anne had left them, looking gloomily at the plume, still
lying on the floor where she had thrown it. “She wants to be queen! Do
you understand how much is comprised in that word? Well, she would accept
a crown and fix it on her head with the same eager interest that she
would order a new bonnet from her milliner. Yet I firmly believe, before
accepting it, she would have to be well assured by her mirror that it was
becoming to her style of beauty.”

“I cannot comprehend her,” responded Rochford. “Her good sense and
judgment sometimes astonish me; then suddenly a ball, a dress, a new
fashion has sufficed to make her forget the most important matter that
might be under discussion. I am oftentimes led to wonder whence comes
this singular mixture of frivolity and good sense in women. Is it a
peculiarity of their nature or the result of education?”

“It is entirely the fault of education, my son, and not of their
weakness. From infancy they are taught to look upon ribbons, laces,
frivolities, and fashions as the most precious and desirable things. In
fact, they attach to these miserable trifles the same value that young
men place on a brilliant armor or the success of a glorious action.”

“It may be so,” replied Rochford, “but I think they are generally found
as incompetent for business as incapable of managing affairs of state.”

“While very young, perhaps not,” answered Wiltshire; “proud and
impulsive, they are neither capable of nor inclined to dissimulation; but
later in life they develop a subtle ingenuity and an extreme degree of
penetration, that enable them to succeed most admirably.”

“Ah! well, if the truth might be frankly expressed, I greatly fear that
all this will turn out badly. Should we not succeed in espousing my
sister to the king, she will be irretrievably compromised; and then you
will deeply regret having broken off her marriage with Lord Percy.”

“You talk like an idiot,” replied the Earl of Wiltshire. “Your sister
shall reign, or I perish. Why should my house not give a queen to the
throne of England? Would it not be far better if our kings should select
wives from the nobility of their country instead of marrying foreign
princesses--strangers alike to the manners and customs as well as to the
interests of the people over whom they are destined to reign?”

“You would probably be right,” replied Viscount Rochford, “if the king
were not already married; but the clergy will always oppose this second
marriage. They do not dare to express themselves openly because they fear
the king, but in the end they will certainly preserve the nation in this
sentiment. I fear that Anne will yet be very unhappy, and I am truly
sorry now she cannot be made Countess of Northumberland.”

“Hold your tongue, my son,” cried Wiltshire, frantic with rage; “will you
repeat these things to your sister, and renew her imaginary regrets also?
As to these churchmen over whom you make so great an ado,” he continued
with a menacing gesture, “I hope soon we shall be able to relieve them
of the fortunes with which they are encumbered, and compel them to
disgorge in our favor. You say that women are weak and fickle! If so, you
certainly resemble them in both respects--the least difficulty frightens
you into changing your opinions, and you hesitate in the midst of an
undertaking that has been planned with the greatest ability, and which,
without you, I confidently believe I shall be able to accomplish.”

TO BE CONTINUED.


IS SHE CATHOLIC?

The claim put forth by the Episcopal Church--or, to use her full and
legal title, The Protestant Episcopal Church of the United Slates
of America--of being the Holy Catholic Church--Holy, Catholic, and
Apostolic--and the acceptance of her theory by a small portion of the
Christian world, makes her and her theory, for a little time, worthy our
attention.

She is accustomed to use the formula, “I believe in the Holy Catholic
Church.” It is but natural to infer that she considers herself to be at
least an integral part of that church. We have examined the question, and
thus present our convictions as to her status.

We note, in the first place, that her bishops possess no power. They are
bishops but in name. There is not one of them, no matter how eminent he
may be, who can say to a clergyman in his diocese: “Here is an important
parish vacant; occupy it.” He would be met with the polite remark from
some member of the parish, “We are very much obliged to you, bishop, but
you have nothing to say about it. Mr. M. is the warden.”

Mr. M., the warden, may be, and in many instances is, a man who cares so
little about the church that he has never yet been baptized, much less is
he a communicant. He and his brother vestrymen, whether baptized or not,
may, if the bishop claims an authority by virtue of his office, meet him
at the church door, and tell him he cannot come in unless he will pledge
himself to do as they wish; and the bishop may write a note of protest,
and leave it behind him for them to tear up, as was done in Chicago with
Bishop Whitehouse. Some local regulations have occasionally varied the
above, but in the majority of parishes the authority is vested as we have
stated.

The bishop’s power of appointing extends to none but feeble missionary
stations; and even these put on, at their earliest convenience, the airs
of full-grown parishes.

We note an instance where a bishop wrote to a lady in a remote missionary
station, and asked regarding some funds which had been placed in her
hands by parties interested in the growth of the church in that place.
It had been specified that the money was to be used for whatever purpose
was deemed most necessary. The bishop requested that the money be paid to
the missionary toward his salary. The lady declined on the ground that
she did not like the missionary. Another request in courteous language,
as was befitting a bishop. He also stated his intention of visiting the
place shortly in his official character.

The lady’s reply equalled his own in courteous phraseology; but the
money was refused and the bishop informed that he “need not trouble
himself about making a visitation, as there was no class to be confirmed;
besides, the church had been closed for repairs, and would not be open
for some months, at least not until a new minister was settled.”

To the bishop’s positive knowledge, no repairs were needed; but he deemed
it wise to stay away, and no further steps were taken.

With the clergy in his diocese the case is not very different.

If a presbyter of any diocese chooses for any reason to go from one
parish to another for the purpose of taking up a permanent abode, he can
do so with or without consulting his bishop. In fact, the bishop has
nothing to do with it. Should the presbyter desire to remove to another
diocese, it is requisite that he obtain letters dimissory from the
bishop, and the bishop is obliged to give them. So also is the bishop in
the diocese to which he goes obliged to receive them, unless they contain
grave criminal charges.

There is, in reality, but one thing the bishop of the Protestant
Episcopal Church can do, and that is make an appointment once in three
years to confirm. So insignificant is his power in any other direction
that certain persons, ill-natured or otherwise, have fastened upon him,
whether deserved or undeserved, the name of “confirming machine.” Certain
it is that, were the power of confirming in any degree vested in the
“priests” of the church, the office of bishop might easily be dispensed
with. He would appear only as the ornamental portion of a few occasional
services. For he cannot authoritatively visit any parish, vacant or
otherwise, except on a confirmation tour; and should this be too frequent
in the estimation of the vestry, the doors of the church could be shut
against him on any plea the vestry should choose to advance.

2. He cannot increase the number of his clergy, except as parishes choose.

3. He cannot prevent a man fixing himself in the diocese if a
congregation choose to “call” him, no matter how worthy or unworthy the
man may be.

4. He cannot call a clergyman into his diocese, though every parish were
empty.

5. He cannot officiate in any church without invitation.

6. He has no church of his own, except as he officiates as rector; and
unless invited to some place, he is forced, although a bishop, to sit in
the congregation as a layman, if he do not stay at home.

And, lastly, he cannot on any account visit a parish unless the vestry of
that parish is willing.

We sum up: That so far as the bishops of the Protestant Episcopal
Church of the United States of America are concerned, they are simply
figure-heads, ornaments possessing the minimum of authority--in point of
fact, no authority at all.

Their own convention addresses are a virtual confession of the condition
of affairs as above laid down. To every one who has ever heard an
Episcopal bishop’s address, as delivered before the annual convention
of clergymen and laymen, the following sample will not appear as in the
least overdrawn:

July 10.--Visited the parish of S. John, Oakdale, and confirmed three.

July 17.--Visited the parish of Longwood, and preached and confirmed one.

July 24.--Visited S. Paul’s, and preached and confirmed two in the
forenoon. Preached also in the afternoon.

This is a very large and thriving parish.

July 26.--At Montrose I visited and confirmed one at the evening service.

July 29.--Took a private conveyance to Hillstown, and preached in the
evening; confirmed one. The rector of this parish is very energetic.

Aug. 2.--Attended the burial of a dear friend.

Aug. 7.--Attended the consecration of S. Mark’s Church in Hyde Park. It
is hoped that the difficulties in this parish are settled. The Rev. John
Waters has resigned and gone to Omaha. Mr. William Steuben is the senior
warden. May the Lord prosper him and his estimable lady!

[To continue the list would cause a tear, and we do not wish to weep.]

The address each year of a Protestant Episcopal bishop is thoroughly
exemplified in the foregoing specimen. It is the same endless list of
_enteuthen exelauneis_, varied only by the number of _parasangas_. To the
lazy grammar-boy it is a most fascinating chapter of ancient history when
he reaches the _enteuthen_ section in the _Anabasis_. There is an immense
list of them, and the lesson for that day is easy. When the first phrase
is mastered, he knows all the rest, except the occasional figures.

We once saw a reporter for a prominent Daily making a short-hand report
of an address before an illustrious diocesan gathering. Having had
some experience in the matter, he came to the meeting with his tablets
prepared. They were as follows:

    VISITED AT         AND CONFIRMED.

    _______________    _____  _________

    _______________    _____  _________

    _______________    _____  _________

Three-quarters of the address was thus prepared beforehand, it only
being necessary to leave the lines sufficiently far apart to permit the
insertion of occasional notes.

By his extra care he was enabled to present the most complete report of
any paper in the city.

The specimen we have given is a fair average. In future generations, when
a classical student is given a bishop’s address to read, his labor for
that day will be easy.

Almost any bishop’s address will substantiate the statements we have
made. We refer to them freely, without wasting time in selection.

We begin a new paragraph: The system of the Protestant Episcopal Church
is eminently congregational.

If a parish chooses to “call” a given man, he is “called.”

Should the bishop “interfere” and recommend him, the recommendation,
without an exception that has ever come to our knowledge, militates
against the proposed “call.”

Should a parish desire to get rid of a pastor, it does so with or
without the consent of the bishop, as happens, in the estimation of the
wardens, to be most convenient. The officers may consult the bishop,
and, if he agree with them, well and good. The words of the diocesan are
quoted from Dan to Beersheba, and the pastor is made to feel the lack of
sympathy--“Even his bishop is against him,” is whispered by young and old.

If the bishop does not agree with them, they do not consult him again.
They proceed to accomplish what they desire as if he had no existence,
and--they always succeed.

There is a farcical canon of the Protestant Episcopal Church which says,
if a parish dismiss its rector without concurrence, it shall not be
admitted into convention until it has apologized.

It is a very easy thing for the wardens and vestrymen to address the
convention, after they have accomplished their ends, with “Your honorable
body thinks we have done wrong, and--we are sorry for it,” or something
else equally ambiguous and absurd. The officers of the parish and the
laymen of the congregation have done what they wished, and are content.
As the convention is composed principally of laymen, the sympathy is
naturally with the laymen’s side of the question. The rector is hurriedly
passed over, his clerical brethren looking helplessly on.

To get a new parish the dismissed rector must “candidate”--a feature of
clerical life most revolting to any man with a spark of manhood in him.

We note, in the next place, an utter want of unity in the Protestant
Episcopal Church.

There are High-Church and Low-Church bookstores, where the publications
of the one are discarded by the other. There are High-Church and
Low-Church seminaries, where a man, to graduate from the one, will be
looked upon inimically, at least with suspicion, by the other. There
is a High-Church “Society for the Increase of the Ministry,” where the
principal thing accomplished is the maintenance of the secretary of the
said society in a large brick house in a fashionable city, while he
claims to support a few students on two meals a day; and a Low-Church
Evangelical Society, where they require the beneficiary to subscribe to
certain articles of Low-Churchism before they will receive him.

The one society is thoroughly hostile to the other, and, in point of
fact, the latter was created in opposition to the former.

There is but one thing in common between the two, and that is
cold-shoulderism.

There are High-Church and Low-Church newspapers, in which the epithets
used by the one toward the other do not indicate even _respect_.

Some of the “church’s” ministers would no more enter a “denominational”
place of worship than they would put their hand in the fire. Others will
fraternize with everything and everybody, and when Sunday comes will
close their eyes--sometimes they roll them upward--and pray publicly:
“From heresy and schism good Lord deliver us.”

It may be necessary that there should be wranglings and bickerings within
her fold, in order to constitute her the church militant; but we cannot
forgive hypocrisy.

With some of her ministers the grand object of existence seems to be to
prove “Popery” an emanation from hell. With others the effort is equally
great to prove the Episcopal Church as a “co-ordinate” branch with the
Roman Church, and entitled to the same consideration as is paid by the
devotees of Rome to its hierarchy. In both instances--viz., High Church
and Low Church--history records failure.

We notice next the relation which the Protestant Episcopal Church holds
to the Church of England.

The English Church evidently regards the Protestant Episcopal Church of
the United States of America as a weaker sister, and not to be admitted
to doubtful disputations. She is courteous toward her, and accepts
her present of a gold alms-basin from an unrobed representative with
a certain amount of ceremony. She invites her bishops to the Lambeth
Conference, and they pay their own fare across the Atlantic; but they
confer about nothing. It is true the Protestant Episcopal Church approved
the action of the English Church in condemning Colenso; but this was a
safe thing for the English Church to present. It would have been hardly
complimentary to have their guests go home without doing something,
especially as they were not to be invited into Westminster Abbey, and
were to have nothing to do with the coming Bible revision.

The bishops of the Protestant Episcopal Church of the United States of
America were invited to the English conference very much as country
cousins are invited to tea, and that was all.

By way of asserting her right to a recognition as an equal with
the Church of England, she--the Protestant Episcopal Church of the
United States of America--has established, or rather individuals have
established and the act has received the sanction of the General
Convention, certain rival congregations in a few foreign cities where
the English service was already established. If she be of the same
Catholic mould as the Church of England, why does she thus in a foreign
city attempt to maintain an opposition service? The variations in the
Prayer-Book are no answer to the question. If the English Church be Holy,
Catholic, and Apostolic, and the Protestant Episcopal Church be Holy,
Catholic, and Apostolic, the two are therefore one; for they both claim
that there is but one Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic church.

She is in this case unmistakably uncatholic, or else the English Church
is. In either case she falls to the ground.

Our attention is directed again to the many laws enacted against her
bishops as compared with the laws enacted against the other members of
the church. If Mosheim were to be restored to the flesh, and were to
write the history of the Episcopal Church, and used as an authority
the Digest of Canons, as he has been accustomed in his _Ecclesiastical
History_ to use ecclesiastical documents generally, he would style the
bishops of the Protestant Episcopal Church a set of criminals of the
deepest dye, and the priests and deacons not much better. The laity would
be regarded as all that could be desired in lofty integrity and spotless
morality. For why? A glance at their vade-mecum of law--the Digest of
Canons--shows an immense bulk of its space to be devoted “to the trial of
a bishop.” The laity go scot-free.

We question the propriety, as well as the Catholicity, of covering the
higher clergy with laws till they are helpless, while the laity revel in
a freedom that amounts, when they choose, to mob-license; but it is done,
and the Episcopal Church is degraded to a level lower than any of the
denominations around her.

With other bodies who call themselves Christian there is a certain amount
of consistency. Their rulers are from among their own members. With the
church under consideration, her rulers, in many cases, are any unbaptized
heathen who may choose to work themselves into a temporary favor with the
pew-holders. It is not necessary that they should even have ever attended
church. We note an instance where the chief man of a small parish was a
druggist, and kept in the rear of his drug-store a low drinking-room;
and this man was elected treasurer year after year by a handful of
interested parties, and, when elected, he managed all the finances of the
parish according to his own notions of propriety. It was his habit to go
to the church near the close of the sermon, and go away immediately after
the collection.

We note another instance where a warden visited the rector of his parish,
and threatened, with a polite oath, to give him something hotter than
a section of the day of judgment if he did not ask his (the warden’s)
advice a little more on parish matters. The parish grew so warm that at
the end of three weeks the rector was candidating for another.

We note another instance where a warden was so overjoyed at having
settled a rector according to his own liking that, on the arrival of the
new incumbent, he not only did not go to hear him preach, but stayed at
home with certain friends, and enjoyed, to use his own expression, a
“dooced big drunk.” Out of consideration for the feelings of his family
we use the word “dooced” instead of his stronger expression.

The rector of this happily-ruled parish was imprudent enough to incur
the displeasure of his warden after a few months of arduous labor. He
received a note while sitting at the bedside of his sick wife, saying
that after the following Sunday his services would be dispensed with;
that if he attempted to stay, the church would be closed for repairs.

We are well acquainted with a parish where a congregation wished to
displace both the senior and junior wardens. These two gentlemen had
been shrewd enough to foresee the event. They succeeded, by calculating
management, in having vested in themselves the right of selling pews.
When Easter Monday came, they sold for a dollar a pew to loafers on the
streets, and swarmed the election with men who never had entered the
place before. The laws of the parish were such that there was no redress.
As a matter of course, the rector was soon candidating.

During the earliest portion of the official life of one of the oldest and
most eminent bishops, he was called on to officiate at the institution of
a Low-Church rector. At the morning service the bishop took occasion to
congratulate the congregation on the assumed fact that they had now “an
altar, a priest, and a sacrifice,” and went on to enlarge on that idea.
In the evening of the same day the instituted minister, in addressing
the congregation, said: “My brethren, so help me God! if the doctrines
you heard this morning are the doctrines of the Protestant Episcopal
Church, then I am no Protestant Episcopalian; but they are not such”--and
essayed substantiating the assertion. All that came of the affair was the
publication, on the part of each, of their respective discourses. On the
supposition of the bishop’s having any foundation for his ecclesiastical
character and for the doctrines he taught, would that have been the end
of the matter?

Can it be that the Episcopal Church is Catholic? Is it possible that she
is part of the grand structure portrayed by prophets and sung in the
matchless words of inspiration as that against which the gates of hell
shall not prevail? Rather, we are forced to class her as a “sister” among
the very “heretics” from whom in her litany she prays, “Good Lord deliver
us.”


ARE YOU MY WIFE?

BY THE AUTHOR OF “PARIS BEFORE THE WAR,” “NUMBER THIRTEEN,” “PIUS VI.,”
ETC.

CHAPTER X.

ALARMING SYMPTOMS.

November had come, and was gathering up the last tints and blossoms
of autumn. One by one the garden lights were being put out; the tall
archangel lilies drooped their snow and gold cups languidly; the jasmine,
that only the other day twinkled its silver stars amidst the purple bells
of the clematis, now trailed wearily down the trellis of the porch; the
hardy geraniums made a stand for it yet, but their petals dropped off at
every puff of wind, and powdered the gravel with a scarlet ring round
their six big red pots that flanked the walk from the gate to the cottage
door; the red roses held out like a forlorn hope, defying the approach of
the conqueror, and staying to say a last good-by to sweet Mother Summer,
ere she passed away.

It was too chilly to sit out of doors late of afternoons now, and night
fell quickly. M. de la Bourbonais had collapsed into his brown den; but
the window stood open, and let the faint incense of the garden steal in
to him, as he bent over his desk with his shaded lamp beside him.

Franceline had found it cold, and had slipt away, without saying why,
to her own room upstairs. She was sitting on the floor with her hands
in her lap, and her head pressed against the latticed window, watching
the scarlet geraniums as they shivered in the evening breeze and dropped
into their moist autumn tomb. A large crystal moon was rising above the
woods beyond the river, and a few stars were coming out. She counted
them, and listened to the wood-pigeon cooing in the park, and to the
solitary note of an owl that answered from some distant grove. But the
voices of wood and field were not to her now what they once had been.
There was something in her that responded to them still, but not in the
old way; she had drifted somewhere beyond their reach; she was hearkening
for other voices, since one had touched her with a power these had never
possessed, and whose echoing sweetness had converted the sounds that had
till then been her only music into a blank and aching silence. Other
pulses had been stirred, other chords struck within her, so strong and
deep, and unlike the old childish ones, that these had become to her what
the memory of the joys of childhood are to the full-grown man--a sweet
shadow that lingers when the substance has fled; part of a life that has
been lived, that can never be quickened again, but is enshrined in memory.

She was very pale, almost like a shadow herself, as she sat there in the
silver gloom. Mothers who met her in her walks about the neighborhood
looked wistfully after the gentle young face, and said with a sigh:
“What a pity! And so young too!” Yet Franceline was not ill; not even
ailing; she never complained even of fatigue, and when her father
tapped the pale cheek and asked how his _Clair-de-lune_ was, she would
answer brightly that she had never been better in her life, and as she
had no cough, he believed her. A cough was Raymond’s single diagnosis of
disease and death; he had a vague but deep-seated belief that nobody,
no young person certainly, ever died a natural death without this fatal
premonitory symptom. And yet he could not help following Franceline with
an anxious eye as he saw her walking listlessly about the garden, or
sitting with a book in her hand that she let drop every now and then to
look dreamily out of the window, and only resumed with an evident effort.
Sometimes she would go and lean her arms on the rail at the end of the
garden, and stand there for an hour together gazing at the familiar
landscape as if she were discovering some new feature in it, or straining
her eyes to see some distant object. He could not lay his finger on any
particular symptom that justified anxiety, and still he was anxious; a
change of some sort had come over the child; she grew more and more like
her mother, and it was not until Armengarde was several years older than
Franceline that the disease which had been germinating in her system from
childhood developed itself and proved fatal.

M. de la Bourbonais never alluded to Franceline’s refusal of Sir Ponsonby
Anwyll, but he had not forgotten it. In his dreamy mind he cogitated on
the possibility of the offer being renewed, and her accepting it. As to
Clide de Winton, he had quite ceased to think of him, and never for an
instant coupled him in his thoughts with Franceline. It did not strike
him as significant that Sir Simon had avoided mentioning the young man
since his return. After the conversation that Clide had once been the
subject of between them, this reticence was natural enough. The failure
of his wild, affectionate scheme placed him in a somewhat ridiculous
position towards Raymond, and it was no wonder that he shrank from
alluding to it.

Sir Ponsonby had left Rydal immediately after the eventful ride we know
of. He could not remain in Franceline’s neighborhood without seeing her,
and he had sense enough to feel that he would injure rather than serve
his cause by forcing his society on her after what had passed. This
is as good as admitting that he did not look upon his cause as lost.
What man in love for the first time would give up after one refusal, if
his love was worth the name? Ponsonby was not one of the faint-hearted
tribe. He combined real modesty as to his own worth and pretensions
with unbounded faith in the power of his love and its ultimate success.
The infallibility of hope and perseverance was an essential part of his
lover’s creed. He did not apply the tenet with any special sense of its
fitness to Franceline in particular. He was no analyzer of character;
he did not discriminate nicely between the wants and attributes of one
woman and another; he blended them all in a theoretical worship, and
included all womankind in his notions as to how they were individually
to be wooed and won. He would let them have their own way, allow them
unlimited pin-money, cover them with trinkets, and gratify all their
little whims. If a girl were ever so beautiful and ever so good, no man
could do more for her than this; and any man who was able and willing to
do it, ought to be able to win her. Ponsonby took heart, and trusted to
his uniform good luck not to miss the prize he had set his heart on. He
would rejoin his regiment for the present, and see what a month’s absence
would do for him. He had one certain ground of hope: Franceline did not
dislike him, and, as far as he could learn or guess, she cared for no one
else. Sir Simon was his ally, and would keep a sharp lookout for him, and
keep the little spark alive--if spark there were--by singing his praises
judiciously in the ear of the cruel fair one.

She, meanwhile, went on in her usual quiet routine, tending the sick,
teaching some little children, and working with her father, who grew
daily more enamored of her tender and intelligent co-operation. Lady
Anwyll called soon after Ponsonby’s departure, and was just as kind and
unconstrained as if nothing had happened. She did not press Franceline to
go and stay at Rydal, but hoped she would ride over there occasionally
with Sir Simon to lunch. Her duties as secretary to Raymond made the
sacrifice of a whole afternoon repugnant to her; but she did go once,
just to show the old lady that she retained the same kind feeling
towards her as before anything had occurred to make a break in their
intimacy. It was delightful when she came home to find that her father
had been utterly at sea without her, mooning about in a helpless way
amongst the notes and papers that under her management had passed from
confusion and chaos into order and sequence. While everything was in
confusion he could find his way through the maze, but he had no key to
this new order of things. Franceline declared she must never leave
him so long again; he had put everything topsy-turvy, he was not to be
trusted. The discovery of his dependence on her in a sphere where she
had till lately been as useless to him as Angélique or Miss Merrywig
was a source of infinite enjoyment to her, and she threw herself into
her daily task with an energy that lightened the labor immensely to her
father, without, as far as Franceline could say, fatiguing herself. But
fatigue for being unconscious is sometimes none the less real. It may be
that this sustained application was straining a system already severely
tried by mental pressure. She was one day writing away as usual, while
Raymond, with a bookful of notes in his hand, stood on the hearth-rug
dictating. Suddenly she was seized with a fit of coughing, and, putting
her handkerchief quickly to her mouth, she drew it away stained with
crimson. She stifled a cry of terror that rose to her lips, and hurried
out of the room. Her father had seen nothing, but her abrupt departure
startled him; he hastened after her, and found her in the kitchen holding
the handkerchief up to Angélique, who was looking at the fatal stain with
a face rather stupefied than terrified.

“My God, have pity upon me! My child! My child!” he cried, clasping
his hands and abandoning himself to his distress with the impassioned
demonstrativeness of a Frenchman.

Woman, it is said truly, is more courageous at bearing physical pain
than man; it is true also that she has more self-command in controlling
the expression of mental pain. Her instinct is surer too in guiding
her how to save others from suffering; let her be ever so untutored,
she will prove herself shrewder than the cleverest man on occasions
like the present. Angélique’s womanly instinct told her at once that it
was essential not to frighten Franceline: that the nervous shock would
infallibly aggravate the evil, wherever the cause lay, and that the best
thing to do now was to soothe and allay her fears.

“Bless me! what is there to make a row about?” she cried with an angry
chuckle, crushing the handkerchief in her fingers and darting a look on
her master which, if eyes could knock down, must have laid him prostrate
on the spot; “the child has an indigestion and has thrown up a mouthful
of bread from her stomach. Hein!”

“How do you know it is from the stomach and not from the lungs?” he
asked, already reassured by her confidence, and still more by her
incivility.

“How do I know? Am I a fool? Would it be that color if it was from the
lungs? I say it is from the stomach, and it is a good business. But we
must not have too much of it. It would weaken the child; we must stop it.”

“I will run for the doctor at once!” exclaimed M. de la Bourbonais, still
trembling and excited. “Or stay!--no!--I will fly to the Court and they
will despatch a man on horseback!” He was hurrying away when Angélique
literally shouted at him:

“Wilt thou be quiet with thy doctor and thy man on horseback! I tell thee
it is from the stomach; I know what I am about. I want neither man nor
horse. It is from the stomach! Dost thou take me for a fool at this time
of my life?”

Raymond stood still like a chidden child while the old servant poured
this volley at him. Franceline stared at her aghast. In her angry
excitement the grenadier had broken through not only all barriers of
rank, but all the common rules of civility--she who was such a strict
observer of both that they seemed a very part of herself. This ought to
have opened their eyes, if nothing else did; but Franceline was only
bewildered, Raymond was cowed and perplexed.

“If thou art indeed quite sure,” he said, falling into the familiar “thee
and thou” by which she addressed him, and which on her deferential lips
sounded so outrageous and unnatural--“if thou art indeed certain I will
be satisfied; but, my good Angélique, would it not be a wise precaution
to have a medical man?--only just, as thou sayest well, to prevent its
going too far.”

“Well, well, if Monsieur le Comte wishes, let it be; let the doctor come;
for me, I care not for him; they are an ignorant lot, pulling long faces
to make long bills; but if it pleases Monsieur le Comte, let him have one
to see the child.” She nodded her flaps at him, as if to say, “Be off
then at once and leave us in peace!”

He was leaving the room, when, turning round suddenly, he came close
up to Franceline. “Dost thou feel a pain, my child?” he said, peering
anxiously into her face.

“No, father, not the least pain. I am sure Angélique is right; I feel
nothing here,” putting her hand to her chest.

“God is good! God is good!” muttered the father half audibly, and,
stroking her cheek gently, he went.

“Let not Monsieur le Comte go rushing off himself; let him send one of
those thirty-six lackeys at the Court!” cried Angélique, calling after
him through the kitchen window.

In her heart and soul Angélique was terrified. She had thrown out quite
at random, with the instinct of desperation, that confident assurance as
to the color of the stain. Her first impulse was to save Franceline from
the shock, but it had fallen full upon herself. This accident sounded
like the first stroke of the death-knell. No one would have supposed it
to look at her. She set her arms akimbo and laughed till she shook at her
own impudence to M. le Comte, and how meekly M. le Comte had borne it,
and how scared his face was, and what a joke the business was altogether.
To see him stand there wringing his hands, and making such a wailing
about nothing! But when Franceline was going to answer and reproach her
old _bonne_ with this inopportune mirth, she laid her hand on the young
girl’s mouth and bade her peremptorily be silent.

“If you go talking and scolding, child, there is no knowing what mischief
you may do. Come and lie down, and keep perfectly quiet.”

Franceline obeyed willingly enough. She was weak and tired, and glad to
be alone awhile.

Angélique placed a cold, wet cloth on her chest, and made her some cold
lemonade to drink. It was making a fuss about nothing, to be sure; but
it would please M. le Comte. He was never happier than when people were
making a fuss over his _Clair-de-lune_.

It was not long before the count returned, accompanied by Sir Simon.
Angélique saw at a glance that the baronet understood how things were. He
talked very big about his confidence that Angélique was right; that it
was an accident of no serious import whatever; but he exchanged a furtive
glance with the old woman that sufficiently belied all this confident
talk. He was for going up to see Franceline with M. de la Bourbonais,
but Angélique would not allow this. M. le Comte might go, if he liked,
provided he did not make her speak; but nobody else must go; the room
was too small, and it would excite the child to see people about her. So
Raymond went up alone. As soon as his back was turned, Angélique threw up
her hands with a gesture too significant for any words. Sir Simon closed
the door gently.

“I am not duped any more than you,” he said. “It is sure to be very
serious, even if it is not fatal. Tell me what you really think.”

“I saw her mother go through it all. It began like this. Only Madame
la Comtesse had a cough; the petite has never had one. That is the
only thing that gives me a bit of hope; the petite has never coughed.
O Monsieur Simon! it is terrible. It will kill us all three; I know it
will.”

“Tut, tut! don’t give up in this way, Angélique,” said the baronet
kindly, and turning aside; “that will mend nothing; it is the very worst
thing you could do. I agree with you that it is very serious; not so
much the accident itself, perhaps--we know nothing about that yet--but
on account of the hereditary taint in the constitution. However, there
has been no cough undermining it so far, and with care--I promise you she
shall have the best--there is every reason to hope the child will weather
it. At her age one weathers everything,” he added, cheerfully. “Come
now, don’t despond; a great deal depends on your keeping a cheerful
countenance.”

“I know it, monsieur, and I will do my best. But I hear steps! Could it
be the doctor already? For goodness’ sake run out and meet him, and tell
him, as he hopes to save us all, not to let Monsieur le Comte know there
is any danger! It is all up with us if he does. Monsieur le Comte could
no more hide it than a baby could hide a pin in its clothes.”

She opened the door and almost pushed Sir Simon out, in her terror lest
the doctor should walk in without being warned.

Sir Simon met him at the back of the cottage. A few words were exchanged,
and they came in together. Raymond met them on the stairs. The medical
man preferred seeing his patient alone; the nurse might be present, but
he could have no one else. In a very few minutes he came down, and a
glance at his face set the father’s heart almost completely at rest.

“Dear me, Sir Simon, you would never do for a sick nurse. You prepared me
for a very dangerous case by your message; it is a mere trifle; hardly
worth the hard ride I’ve had to perform in twenty minutes.”

“Then there is nothing amiss with the lungs?”

“Would you like to sound them yourself, count? Pray do! It will be
more satisfactory to you.” And he handed his stethoscope to M. de la
Bourbonais--not mockingly, but quite gravely and kindly.

That provincial doctor missed his vocation. He ought to have been a
diplomatist.

Instead of the proffered stethoscope, M. de la Bourbonais grasped his
hand. His heart was too full for speech. The reaction of security
after the brief interval of agony and suspense unnerved him. He sat
down without speaking, and wiped the great drops from his forehead. The
medical man addressed himself to Sir Simon and Angélique. There was
nothing whatever to be alarmed at; but there was occasion for care and
certain preventive measures. The young lady must have perfect rest and
quiet; there must be no talking for some time; no excitement of any sort.
He gave sundry directions about diet, etc., and wrote a prescription
which was to be sent to the chemist at once. M. de la Bourbonais
accompanied him to the door with a lightened heart, and bade him _au
revoir_ with a warm pressure of the hand.

“Now, let me hear the truth,” said Sir Simon, as soon as they entered the
park.

“You have heard the truth--though only in a negative form. If you
noticed, we did not commit ourselves to any opinion of the case; we only
prescribed for it. This was the only way in which we could honestly
follow your instructions,” observed the doctor, who always used the royal
“we” of authorship when speaking professionally.

“You showed great tact and prudence; but there is no need for either now.
Tell me exactly what you think.”

“It will be more to the purpose to tell you what we know,” rejoined the
medical man. “There is a blood-vessel broken; not a large one, happily,
and if the hemorrhage does not increase and continue, it may prove of no
really serious consequence. But then we must remember the question of
inheritance. That is what makes a symptom in itself trifling assume a
grave--we refrain from saying fatal--character.”

“You are convinced that this is but the beginning of the end--am I to
understand that?” asked Sir Simon. He was used to the doctor’s pompous
way, and knew him to be both clever and conscientious, at least towards
his patients.

“It would be precipitating an opinion to say so much. We are on the
whole inclined to take a more sanguine view. We consider the hitherto
unimpaired health of the patient, and her extreme youth, fair grounds for
hope. But great care must be taken; all excitement must be avoided.”

“You may count on your orders being strictly carried out,” said Sir Simon.

They walked on a few yards without further speech. Sir Simon was busy
with anxious and affectionate thoughts.

“I should fancy a warm climate would be the best cure for a case of this
kind,” he observed, answering his own reflections, rather than speaking
to his companion.

“No doubt, no doubt,” assented Dr. Blink, “if the patient was in a
position to authorize her medical attendant in ordering such a measure.”

“Monsieur de la Bourbonais is in that position,” replied Sir Simon,
quietly.

“Ah! I am glad to know it. I may act on the information one of these
days. The young lady could not bear the fatigue of a journey to the south
just now; the general health is a good deal below par; the nervous system
wants toning; it is unstrung.”

Sir Simon made no comment--not at least in words--but it set his mind
on painful conjecture. Perhaps the electric chain passed from him to
his companion, for the latter said irrelevantly but with a significant
expression, as he turned his glance full upon Sir Simon:

“We medical men are trusted with many secrets--secrets of the heart as
well as of the body. We ask you frankly, as a friend of our patient, is
there any moral cause at work--any disappointed affection that may have
preyed on the mind and fostered the inherited germs of disease?”

“I cannot answer that question,” replied the baronet after a moment’s
hesitation.

“You cannot, or you will not? Excuse my pertinacity; it is professional
and necessary.”

Sir Simon hesitated again before he answered.

“I cannot even give a decided answer to that. I had some time ago feared
there existed something of the sort, but of late those apprehensions had
entirely disappeared. If you had put the question to me yesterday, I
should have said emphatically there is nothing to fear on that score; the
child is perfectly happy and quite heart-whole.”

“And to-day you are not prepared to say as much,” persisted Dr. Blink.
“Something has occurred to modify this change of opinion?”

“Nothing, except the accident that you know of and your question now.
These suggest to me that I may have been right in the first instance.”

“Is it in your power or within the power of circumstances to set the
wrong right--to remove the cause of anxiety--assuming that it actually
exists?”

“No, it is not; nothing can remove it.”

“And she is aware of this?”

“I fear not.”

“Say rather that you hope not. In such cases hope is the best physician;
let nothing be done, as far as you can prevent it, to destroy this hope
in the patient’s mind; I would even venture to urge that you should do
anything in your power to feed and stimulate it.”

“That is impossible; quite impossible,” said Sir Simon emphatically. The
doctor’s words fell on him like a sting, and this very feeling increased
to conviction what had, at the beginning of the conversation, been only a
vague misgiving.

       *       *       *       *       *

Franceline rallied quickly, and with her returning strength Sir Simon’s
fears were allayed. He had not been able to follow the doctor’s advice
as to keeping alive any soothing delusions that might exist in her mind,
but he succeeded, by dint of continually dinning it into his ears that
there was no danger, in convincing her father that there was not; and the
cheerfulness and security that radiated from him acted beneficially on
her, and proved of great help to the medical treatment. And was Dr. Blink
right in his surmise that a moral cause had been at work and contributed
to the bursting of the blood-vessel? If Franceline had been asked she
would have denied it; if any one had said to her that the accident had
been brought on by mental suffering, or insinuated that she was still
at heart pining for a lost love, she would have answered with proud
sincerity: “It is false; I am not pining. I have ceased to think of Clide
de Winton; I have ceased to love him.”

But which of us can answer truly for our own hearts? We do not want to
idealize Franceline. We wish to describe her as she was, the good with
the evil; the struggle and the victory as they alternated in her life;
her heart fluctuating, but never consciously disloyal. There must be
flaws in every picture taken from life. Perfection is not to be found in
nature, except when seen through a poet’s eyes. Perhaps it was true that
Franceline had ceased to love Clide. When our will is firmly set upon
self-conquest we are apt to fancy it achieved. But conquest does not of
necessity bring joy, or even peace. Nothing is so terrible as a victory,
except a defeat, was a great captain’s cry on surveying the bloody field
of yesterday’s battle. The frantic effort, the bleeding trophies may
inflict a death-wound on the conqueror as fatal, in one sense, as defeat.
We see the “good fight” every day leading to such issues. Brave souls
fight and carry the day, and then go to reap their laurels where “beyond
these voices there is peace.” Franceline had gained a victory, but there
was no rejoicing in the triumph. Her heart plained still of its wounds;
if she did not hear it, it was because she would not; it still bemoaned
its hard fate, its broken cup of happiness.

She rose up from this illness, however, happier than she had been for
months. It was difficult to believe that the period which had worked such
changes to her inward life counted only a few months; it seemed like
years, like a lifetime, since she had first met Clide de Winton. She
resumed her calmly busy little life as before the break had come that
suspended its active routine. By Dr. Blink’s desire the teaching class
was suppressed, and the necessity of guarding against cold prevented her
doing much amongst the sick; but this extra leisure in one way enabled
her to increase her work in another; she devoted it to writing with her
father; this never tired her, she affirmed--it only interested and amused
her.

The advisability of a trip to some southern spot in France or Italy had
been suggested by Dr. Blink; but the proposal was rejected by his patient
in such a strenuous and excited manner that he forebore to press it.
He noticed also an expression of sudden pain on M. de la Bourbonais’
countenance, accompanied by an involuntary deep-drawn sigh, that led him
to believe there must be pecuniary impediments in the way of the scheme,
notwithstanding Sir Simon’s assurance to the contrary. The _émigré_
was universally looked upon as a poor man. Who else would live as he
did? Still Sir Simon must have known what he was saying. However, as it
happened, the cold weather, which was now setting in pretty sharp, was
by no means favorable to travelling, so the doctor consented willingly
enough to abide by the patient’s circumstances and wishes. A long journey
in winter is always a high price for an invalid to pay for the benefit of
a warm climate.

In the first days of December, Sir Simon took flight from Dullerton to
Nice. Lady Rebecca was spending the winter at Cannes, and as Mr. Simpson
reported that “her ladyship’s health had declined visibly within the
last month,” it was natural that her dutiful step-son should desire to
be within call in case of any painful eventuality. If the climate of the
sunny Mediterranean town happened to be a very congenial winter residence
to him, so much the better. It is only fair that a man should have some
compensation for doing his duty.

The day before he started Sir Simon came down to The Lilies.

“Raymond,” he said, “you have sustained a loss lately; you must be in
want of money; now is the time to prove yourself a Christian, and let
others do unto you as you would do unto them. You offered me money once
when I did not want it; I offer it to you now that you do.” And he
pressed a bundle of notes into the count’s hands.

But Raymond crushed them back into his. “Mon cher Simon! I do not thank
you. That would be ungrateful; it would look as if I were surprised,
whereas I have long since come to take brotherly kindness as a matter of
course from you. But in truth I do not want this money; I give you my
word I don’t!”

“If you pledge your word, I must believe you, I suppose,” returned the
baronet; “but promise me one thing--if you should want it, you will let
me know?”

“I promise you I will.”

Sir Simon with a sigh, which Raymond took for reluctance, but which was
really one of relief, replaced the notes in his waistcoat pocket. “I had
better leave you a blank check all the same,” he said; “you might happen
to want it, and not be able to get a letter to me at once. There is no
knowing where the vagabond spirit may lead me, once I am on the move.
Give me a pen.” And he seated himself at the desk.

Raymond protested; but it was no use, Sir Simon would have his own way;
he wrote the blank check and saw it locked up in the count’s private
drawer. M. de la Bourbonais argued from this reckless committal of his
signature that the baronet’s finances were in a flourishing condition,
and was greatly rejoiced. Alas! if the truth were known, they had never
been in a sorrier plight. He had offered the bank-notes in all sincerity,
but if Raymond had accepted it, Sir Simon would have been at his wit’s
end to find the ready money for his journey. But he kept this dark, and
rather led his friend to suppose him flush of money; it was the only
chance of getting him to accept his generosity.

“Mind you keep me constantly informed how Franceline gets on,” were his
parting words; and M. de la Bourbonais promised.

She got on in pretty much the same way for some time. Languid and pale,
but not suffering; and she had no cough, and no return of the symptoms
that had alarmed them all so much. Angélique watched her as a cat watches
a mouse, but even her practised eye could detect no definite cause for
anxiety.

One morning, about a fortnight after Sir Simon’s departure, Franceline
was alone in the little sitting-room--her father had gone to do some
shopping for her in the town, as it was too cold for her to venture
out--when Sir Ponsonby Anwyll called. The moment she saw him she flushed
up, partly with surprise, partly with pleasure. A casual observer would
have concluded this to be a good sign for the visitor; a male friend
would have unhesitatingly pronounced him a lucky dog. Ponsonby himself
felt slightly elated.

“I heard you were ill,” he said, “and as I am at home on leave for a
few days, I could not resist coming to inquire for you. You are not
displeased with me for coming?”

“No, indeed; it is very kind of you. I am glad to see you,” Franceline
replied with bright, grateful eyes.

Hope bounded up high in Ponsonby.

“They told me you had been very ill. I hope it is not true. You don’t
look it,” he said anxiously.

“I have been frightening them a little more than it was worth; but I am
quite well now. How is Lady Anwyll?”

“Thank you, she’s just as usual; in very good health and a tremendous
bustle. You know I always put the house topsy-turvy when I come down. Not
that I mean to do it; it seems to come of itself as a natural consequence
of my being there,” he explained, laughing. “Is M. de la Bourbonais quite
well?”

“Quite well. He will be in presently; he is only gone to make a few
purchases for me.”

“How anxious he must have been while you were ill!”

“Dear papa! yes he was.”

“Do you ride much now?”

“Not at all. I am forbidden to take any violent exercise for the present.”

All obvious subjects being now exhausted, there ensued a pause. Ponsonby
was the first to break it.

“Have you forgiven me, Franceline?” he said, looking at her tenderly, and
with a sort of sheepish timidity.

“Indeed I have; forgiven and forgotten,” she replied; and then blushing
very red, and correcting herself quickly: “I mean there was nothing to
forgive.”

“That’s not the sort of forgiveness I want,” said Ponsonby, growing
courageous in proportion as she grew embarrassed. “Franceline, why can
you not like me a little? I love you so much; no one will ever love you
better, or as well!”

She shook her head, but said nothing, only rose and went to the window.
He followed her.

“You are angry with me again!” he exclaimed, and was going to break out
in entreaties to be forgiven; when stooping forward he caught sight of
her face. It was streaming with tears!

“There, the very mention of it sets you crying! Why do you hate me so?”

“I do not hate you. I never hated you! I wish with all my heart I could
love you! But I cannot, I cannot! And you would not have me marry you if
I did not love you? It would be false and selfish to accept your love,
with all it would bring me, and give so little in return?” She turned her
dark eyes on him, still full of tears, but unabashed and innocent, as if
he had been a brother asking her to do something unreasonable.

“So little!” he cried, and seizing her hand he pressed it to his lips;
“if you knew how thankful I would be for that little! What am I but an
awkward lout at best! But I will make you happy, Franceline; I swear to
you I will! And your father too. I will be as good as a son to him.”

She made no answer but the same negative movement of her head. She looked
out over the winter fields with a dreamy expression, as if she only half
heard him, while her hand lay passively in his.

“Say you will be my wife! Accept me, Franceline!” pleaded the young man,
and he passed his arm around her.

The action roused her; she snatched away her hand and started from
him. It was not aversion or antipathy, it was terror that dictated the
movement. Something within her cried out and forbade her to listen. She
could no more control the sudden recoil than she could control the tears
that gushed out afresh, this time with loud sobs that shook her from head
to foot.

“Good heavens! what have I done?” exclaimed Ponsonby, helpless and
dismayed. “Shall I go away? shall I leave you?”

“Oh! it is nothing. It is over now,” said Franceline, her agitation
quieted instantaneously by the sight of his. She dashed the tears from
her cheeks impatiently; she was vexed with herself for giving way so
before him. “Sit down; you are trembling all over,” said the young man;
and he gently forced her into a chair. “I am sorry I said anything; I
will never mention the subject again without your permission. Shall I go
away?”

“It would be very ungracious to say ‘yes,’” she replied, trying to smile
through the tears that hung like raindrops on her long lashes; “but you
see how weak and foolish I am.”

“My poor darling! I will go and leave you. I have been too much for you.
Only tell me, may I come soon again--just to ask how you are?”

She hesitated. To say yes would be tacitly to accept him; yet it was
odious to turn him off like this without a word of kindly explanation to
soften the pang. Ponsonby could not read these thoughts, so he construed
her hesitation according to the immemorial logic of lovers.

“Well, never mind answering now,” he said; “I won’t bother you any more
to-day. You will present my respects to the count, and say how sorry I
was not to see him.”

He held out his hand for good-by.

“You will meet him on the road, I dare say,” said Franceline, extending
hers. “You will not tell him how I have misbehaved to you?”

The shy smile that accompanied the request emboldened Ponsonby to raise
the soft, white hand to his lips. Then turning away he overturned a
little wicker flower-stand, happily with no injury to the sturdy green
plant, but with considerable damage to the dignity of his exit.

Perhaps you will say that Mlle. de la Bourbonais behaved like a flirt in
parting with a discarded lover in this fashion. It is easy for you to say
so. It is not so easy for a woman with a heart to inflict unmitigated
pain on a man who loves her, and whose love she at least requites with
gratitude, esteem, and sisterly regard.

Sir Ponsonby met the count on the road; he made sure of the encounter by
walking his horse up and down the green lane which commanded the road
from Dullerton to The Lilies. What passed between them remained the
secret of themselves and the winter thrush that perched on the brown
hedge close by and sang out lustily to the trees and fields while they
conversed.

M. de la Bourbonais made no comment on his daughter’s tear-stained cheeks
when he came home; but taking her face between his hands, as he was fond
of doing, he gave one wistful look, kissed it, and let it go.

“How long you have been away, petit père! Shall we go to our writing
now?” she inquired cheerfully.

“Art thou not tired, my child?”

“Tired! What have I done to tire me?”

She sat down at his desk, and nothing was said of Sir Ponsonby Anwyll’s
visit.

       *       *       *       *       *

The excitement of that day’s interview told, nevertheless, on Franceline.
It left her nervous, and weaker than she had been since her recovery.
These symptoms escaped her father’s notice, and they would have escaped
Angélique’s, owing to Franceline’s strenuous efforts to conceal them, if
a slight cough had not come to put her on the _qui vive_ more than ever.
It was very slight indeed, only attacking her in the morning when she
awoke, and quite ceasing by the time she was dressed and down-stairs.
Franceline’s room was at one end of the cottage; Angélique slept next to
her; and at the other end, with the stairs intervening, was the count’s
room. He was thus out of ear-shot of the sound, which, however rare and
seemingly unimportant, would have filled him with alarm. Franceline
treated it as a trifle not worth mentioning; but when her old _bonne_
insisted on taking her discreetly to Dr. Blink and having his opinion
about it, she gave in to humor her. The doctor once more applied his
stethoscope, and then, smiling that grim, satisfied smile of his that was
so reassuring to patients till they had seen it practised on others and
found out it was a fallacy, remarked:

“We are glad to be able to assure you again that there is nothing to
be frightened at; no mischief that cannot be forestalled by care, and
docility to our instructions,” he added emphatically. “We must order you
some tonics, and you must take them regularly. How is the appetite?”
turning to Angélique, who stood by devouring the oracle’s words and
watching every line of his features with a shrewd, almost vicious
expression of mistrust on her brown face.

“Ah! the appetite. She will not be eating many; she will be wanting
dainty plates which I cannot make,” explained the Frenchwoman, sticking
pertinaciously to the future tense, as usual when she spoke English.

“Invalids are liable to those caprices of the palate,” remarked Dr. Blink
blandly; “but Miss Franceline will be brave and overcome them. Dainty
dishes are not always the most nourishing, and nourishment is necessary
for her; it is essential.”

“That is what I will be telling mamselle,” assented Angélique; “but she
will not be believing me. I will be telling her every day the strength is
in the bouillon; but she will be making a grimace and saying ‘Pshaw!’”

The last word was uttered with a grimace so expressive that Franceline
burst out laughing, and the pompous little doctor joined in it in spite
of his dignity. She promised to do her best to obey him and overcome
her dislike to the bouillon, Angélique’s native panacea, and to other
substantial food.

But she found it very hard to keep the promise. It required something
savory to tempt her weak appetite. Angélique saw she was doing her
best, and never pressed the poor child needlessly; but she would groan
over the plate as she removed it, sometimes untouched. “I used to think
myself a ‘blue ribbon’ until now,” she said once to Franceline, with an
impatient sigh; “but I am at the end of my talent; I can do nothing to
please mamselle.” And then she would long for Sir Simon to come home.
It happened unluckily that the professed artist who presided over the
kitchen at the Court was taking a holiday during his master’s absence.
Angélique would have scorned to invoke the skill of the subaltern who
replaced him, but she had a profound admiration for the _chef_ himself,
and, though an Englishman, she bowed unreservedly to his superior
talents. The belief was current that Sir Simon would spend the Christmas
at Dullerton; he always did when not at too great a distance at that
time. It was the right thing for an English gentleman to do, and his
bitterest foe would not accuse the baronet of failing to act up to that
standard.

This year, however, it was not possible. The weather was glorious at Nice
and it was anything but that at Dullerton, and the long journey in the
cold was not attractive. He wrote home desiring the usual festivities
to be arranged according to the old custom of the place; coals and
clothing were to be distributed _ad libitum_; the fatted calf was to be
killed for the tenantry, and everybody was enjoined to eat, drink, and
be merry in spite of the host’s absence. They conscientiously followed
these hospitable injunctions, but it was a grievous disappointment that
Sir Simon was not in their midst to stimulate the conviviality by his
kindly and genial presence. Pretty presents came to The Lilies, but they
did not bring strength to Franceline. She grew more transparent, more
fragile-looking, as the days went on. Angélique held private conferences
with Miss Merrywig, and that lady suggested that any of the large houses
in the neighborhood would be only too delighted to be of any use in
sending jellies flavored with good strong wine. There was nothing so
nourishing for an invalid; Miss Merrywig would speak to one where there
was a capital cook. But Angélique would not hear of it. No, no! Much as
she longed for the jelly she dared not get it in this way. M. le Comte
would never forgive her. “He will be so proud, M. le Comte! He will be a
Scotchman! He will not be confessing even to me that he wants nothing.
But Monsieur Simon will be coming; he will be coming soon, and then he
will be making little plates for mamselle every day.” Meantime she and
Franceline did their best to hide from Raymond this particular reason
for desiring their friend’s return. But he noticed that she ate next to
nothing, and that she often signed to Angélique to remove her plate on
which the food remained untasted. Once he could not forbear exclaiming:
“Ah! if we were in Paris I could get some _friandise_ to tempt thee!”

In the middle of January one morning a letter came from Sir Simon,
bearing the London postmark.

He had been obliged to come to England on pressing business of a
harassing nature.

“Is Sir Simon coming home, petit père?” inquired Franceline eagerly, as
her father opened the letter.

“Yes; but only for a day. He will be here after to-morrow, and fly away
to Nice the next day.”

“How tiresome of him! But it is better to see him for a day than not at
all. Does he say what hour he arrives? We will go and meet him.”

“It will be too late for thee to be out, my child. He comes by the late
afternoon train, just in time to dress for dinner and receive us all. He
has invited several friends in the neighborhood to dine.”

“What a funny idea! And he is only coming for the day?”

“Only for the day.”

Raymond’s eyebrows closed like a horseshoe over his meditative eyes
as he folded the baronet’s letter and laid it aside. There was more
in it than he communicated to Franceline. It was the old story; money
tight, bills falling due, and no means of meeting them. Lady Rebecca
had taken a fresh start, thanks to an Italian quack who had been up
from Naples and worked wonders with some diabolical elixir--diabolical
beyond a doubt, for nothing but the black-art could explain the sudden
and extraordinary rally; she was all but dead when the quack arrived--so
Mr. Simpson heard from one of her ladyship’s attendants. Simpson himself
was terribly put out by the news; it overturned all his immediate plans;
he saw no possibility of any longer avoiding extremities. Extremities
meant that the principal creditor, a Jew who had lent a sum of thirty
thousand pounds on Sir Simon’s life-interest in Dullerton, at the rate
of twenty per cent, was now determined to wait no longer for his arrears
of twenty per cent, but turn the baronet out of possession and sell his
life-interest in the estate. This sword of Damocles had been hanging over
his debtor’s head for the last ten years. It was to meet this usurious
interest periodically that Sir Simon was driven to such close quarters.
He had up to this time contrived to answer the demand--Heaven and Mr.
Simpson alone knew at what sacrifices. But now he had come to a point
beyond which even he declared he could not possibly carry his client. He
had tried to negotiate post-obit bills on Lady Rebecca’s fifty thousand
pounds, but the Jews were too sharp for that. Lady Rebecca was sole
master of her fifty thousand pounds, and might leave it to whom she
liked. She had made her will bequeathing it to her step-son, and _he_
was morally as certain of ultimately possessing the money as if it were
entailed; but moral security is no security at all to a money-lender.
The money was _not_ entailed; Lady Rebecca might take it into her head
to alter her will; she might leave it to a quack doctor, or to some
clever sycophant of an attendant. There is no saying what an old lady of
seventy-five may not do with fifty thousand pounds. Sir Simon pshawed
and pooh-poohed contemptuously when Simpson enumerated these arguments
against the negotiation of the much-needed P. O. bills; but it was no
use. Israel was inexorable. And now one particular member of the tribe
called Moses to witness that if he were not paid his “twenty per shent”
on the first of February, he would seize upon the life-interest of
Dullerton Court and make its present owner a bankrupt. He could sell
nothing, either in the house or on the estate; the plate and pictures and
furniture were entailed. If this were not the case, things need not have
come to this with Sir Simon. Two of those Raphaels in the great gallery
would have paid the Jew principal and interest together; but not a spoon
or a hearth-brush in the Court could be touched; everything belonged to
the heir. No mention has hitherto been made of that important person,
because he in no way concerns this story, except by the fact of his
existence. He was a distant kinsman of the present baronet, who had never
seen him. He was in diplomacy, and so lived always abroad. People are
said to dislike their heirs.

If Sir Simon disliked any human being, it was his. He did not dislike
Lady Rebecca; he was only out of patience with her; she certainly was
an aggravating old woman--living on to no purpose, that he could see,
except to frustrate and harass him. Yet he had kindly thoughts of her;
he had only cold aversion towards the man who was waiting for his own
death to come and rule in his stead. He had never spoken of him to M. de
la Bourbonais except to inform him that he existed, and that he stood
in his way on many occasions. In the letter of this morning he spoke of
him once more. The letter was a long one, and calmer than any previous
effusion of the kind that Raymond remembered. There was very little
vituperation of the duns, or even of the chief scoundrel who was about
to tear away the veil that had hitherto concealed the sores and flaws
in the popular landlord’s life. This was what he felt most deeply in
it all; the disgrace of being shown up as a sham--a man who had lived
like a prince while he had been in reality a beggar, in debt up to his
ears, and who was now about to be made a bankrupt. Raymond had never
before understood the real nature of his friend’s embarrassment; he
was shocked and distressed more than he could express. It was not the
moment to judge him; to remember the reckless extravagance, the criminal
want of prudence, of conscience, that had brought him to this pass. He
only thought of the friend of his youth, the kind, faithful, delightful
companion who had never failed in friendship, whatever his other sins
may have been. And now he was ruined, disgraced before the world, going
to be driven forth from his ancestral home branded as a life-long sham.
Raymond could have wept for pity. Then it occurred to him with a strange
pang that he was to dine with Sir Simon the next day; the head cook had
been telegraphed for to prepare the dinner; there was to be a jovial
gathering of friends to “cheer him up.” What a mystery it was, this
craving for being cheered up, as if the process were a substantial remedy
that in some way helped to pay debts, or postpone payment! The count was
too sad at heart to smile. He rose from the breakfast-table with a sigh,
and was leaving the room when Franceline linked her hands on his arm, and
said, looking up with an anxious face:

“It is a long letter, petit père; is there any bad news?”

“There is hardly any news at all,” he replied evasively. In truth there
was not.

“Then why do you look so sad?”

“Why dost thou look so pale?” was the reply. And he smiled tenderly and
sighed again as he kissed her forehead.

TO BE CONTINUED.


ÆSCHYLUS.

    A sea-cliff carved into a bas-relief!
    Art, rough from Nature’s hand; by brooding Nature
    Wrought out in spasms to shapes of Titan stature;
    Emblems of Fate, and Change, Revenge, and Grief,
    And Death, and Life; in giant hieroglyph
    Confronting still with thunder-blasted frieze
    All stress of years, and winds, and wasting seas--
    The stranger nears it in his western skiff,
    And hides his eyes. Few, few shall dare, great Bard,
    Thy watery portals! Entering, fewer yet
    Shall pierce thy music’s meaning, deep and hard!
    But these shall owe to thee an endless debt;
    The Eleusinian caverns they shall tread
    That wind beneath man’s heart; and wisdom learn with dread.

                                                          AUBREY DE VERE.


A PRECURSOR OF MARCO POLO.

The merchants and missionaries who were the first travellers and
ambassadors of Christian times little thought, absorbed as they were in
the object of their quest, how large a share of interest in the eyes
of posterity would centre in the quaint observations, descriptions,
and drawings which they were able incidentally to gather or make.
Marco Polo’s name, and even those of his father and uncle, Niccolo and
Matteo Polo, are well known, and are associated with all that barbaric
magnificence the memory of which had a great share in keeping alive
the perseverance of subsequent explorers. It was fitting that traders
in jewels should reach the more civilized and splendid Tartars, and
no doubt their store of rich presents, and their garments of ample
dimensions as well as fine texture, would prove a passport through
tribes so passionately acquisitive as the Tartars seem to have been.
Nomads are not always simple-minded or unambitious. The Franciscan whose
travels come just between the expedition of the elder Polo and the more
famous Marco--Friar William Rubruquis--did not have the good-luck to
see the wonders his successor described; but he mentions repeatedly
that his entertainers made reiterated and minute inquiries as to the
abundance of flocks and herds in the country he came from, and that they
wondered--rather contemptuously--at the presents of sweet wine, dried
fruits, and delicate cakes which were all he had to offer their great
princes.

Rubruquis was traveller, missionary, and ambassador, but in the two
pursuits denoted by the last-mentioned titles his success was but small.
As a traveller, however, he was hardy, persevering, and observant. Though
not bred a horseman, he often rode thirty leagues a day, and half the
time at full gallop, he says. His companions, monks like himself, could
not stand the fatigue, and both, at different intervals, parted company
from him. But Rubruquis was young and strong, though, as he himself says,
corpulent and heavy; and, above all, he was enterprising. He was not
more than five-and-twenty when he started on his quest of the Christian
monarch whom all the rulers of Europe firmly believed in, and whose name
has come down to us as Prester John.

Born in 1230, he devoted himself early to the church, and during the
Fourth Crusade went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. His real name was
Ruysbroek, but, according to the unpatriotic fashion of the times, he
Latinized it into Rubruquis. S. Louis, King of France, eager for the
Christian alliance which the supposed Prester John would be able to enter
into with him, had once already sent an embassy of monks to seek him; but
they had failed to perform a sixth part of the journey set down for them,
and had heard no tidings of a monarch answering to the description. The
king, nothing daunted, determined to send another embassy on a voyage
of discovery Vague news of a Christian Tartar chief, by name Sartach,
had come to him; probably the toleration extended by the Tartars to
Christians--a contrast to the behavior of most Saracenic chiefs--led to
this obstinate belief in a remote Christian empire of the East.

William de Rubruquis, Bartholomew of Cremona, and a companion named
Andrew, all Franciscan friars, were chosen for this new expedition.
On the 7th of May, 1253 (says his narrative, though it has since been
calculated that, as S. Louis was a captive at the time, the date 1255 is
more likely to be correct), the travellers, having crossed the Black Sea
from Constantinople, landed at Soldaia, near Cherson. The king, somewhat
unwisely as it proved, had told his envoy to represent himself as a
private individual travelling on his own account. But the Tartars were
acute and jealous of foreigners; they knew that travelling entailed too
much fatigue and danger to be undertaken simply for pleasure, and they
had small regard for any stranger, unless the representative of a prince.
They guessed his mission, and taxed him with it, till he was obliged to
acknowledge that he was the bearer of letters from the Christian King of
France to the mighty khan, Sartach. But though the people do not seem to
have taken him for a private person, they were puzzled by the poverty of
his dress and the scantiness of the presents he offered them. Even small
dignitaries expected to be royally propitiated. He explained his vow of
poverty to them, but this did not impress the Tartars as favorably as he
wished. Still, he met with nothing but civility and hospitality.

Rubruquis says that Soldaia was a great mart for furs, which the
Russians exchanged with the merchants of Constantinople for silks,
cotton, spices, etc. The third day after his departure he met a wandering
tribe, “among whom being entered,” he says, “methought I was come into a
new world.”

He goes on to describe their houses on wheels, no despicable or narrow
habitations, even according to modern ideas:

“Their houses, in which they sleep, they raise upon a round foundation of
wickers artificially wrought and compacted together, the roof consisting
of wickers also meeting above in one little roundel, out of which there
rises upwards a neck like a chimney, which they cover with white felt;
and often they lay mortar or white earth upon the felt with the powder
of bones, that it may shine and look white; sometimes, also, they cover
their houses with black felt. This cupola … they adorn with a variety
of pictures. Before the door they hang a felt curiously painted over;
for they spend all their colored felt in painting vines, trees, birds,
and beasts thereupon. These houses they make so large that they contain
thirty feet in breadth; for, measuring once the breadth between the
wheel-ruts, … I found it to be twenty feet over, and when the house was
upon the cart it stretched over the wheels on each side five feet at
least. I told two-and-twenty oxen in one draught, drawing an house upon a
cart, and eleven more on the other side. (Two rows, one in front of the
other, we suppose.) … A fellow stood in the door of the house, driving
the oxen.”

Sometimes a woman drove, or walked at the head of the leaders to guide
them. “One woman will guide twenty or thirty carts at once; for their
country is very flat, and they fasten the carts with camels or oxen one
behind another. A girl sits in the foremost cart, driving the oxen, and
all the rest of themselves follow at a like pace. When they come to a
place which is a bad passage, they loose them, and guide them one by
one.…”

The baggage was so arranged as to be taken through the smaller rivers
of Asia without being injured or wetted. It consisted of square chests
of wicker-work, with a hollow lid or cover of the same, “covered with
black felt, rubbed over with tallow or sheep’s milk to keep the rain from
soaking through, which they also adorn with painting or white feathers.”
These were placed on carts with very high wheels, and drawn by camels
instead of oxen. The encampment was like a large village, well defended
by palisades formed of the carts off which the houses had been taken,
and which were drawn up in two compact lines, one in front and one in
the rear of the dwellings, “as it were between two walls,” says our
traveller. A rich Tartar commonly had one hundred, or even two hundred,
such cart-houses. Each house had several small houses belonging to it,
placed behind it, serving as closets, store-rooms, and sleeping chambers,
and often as many as two hundred chests and their necessary carts. This
made immense numbers of camels and oxen for draught necessary; and,
besides, there were the animals for food and milk, and the horses for the
men. They had cow’s milk and mare’s milk, two species of food which they
used very differently, and even made of social and religious importance.
Only the men were allowed to milk the mares, while the women attended to
the cows; and any interchange of these offices would have been deemed,
in a man, unpardonable effeminacy, and in a woman indelicacy. At the door
of the houses stood two tutelary deities, monsters of both sexes. The
cow’s milk served for the food of women and children, while the mare’s
milk was made into a fermented liquor called cosmos. This was supposed
to make a heathen of the man who drank it; for the Nestorian Christians
found among them, “who keep their own laws very strictly, will not drink
thereof; they account themselves no Christians after they have once drunk
of it; and their priests reconcile them to the church as if they had
renounced the Christian faith.”

This cosmos was made thus: The milk was poured into a large skin bag,
and the bag beaten with a wooden club until the milk began to ferment
and turn sour. The bag was then shaken and cudgelled again until most of
it turned to butter; after which the liquid was supposed to be fit for
drinking. Rubruquis evidently liked it; says it was exhilarating to the
spirits, and even intoxicating to weak heads; pungent to the taste, “like
raspberry wine,” but left a flavor on the palate “like almond-milk.”
Cara-cosmos, a rarer quality of the same, and reserved for the chiefs
only, was produced by prolonging the beating of the bag until the
coagulated portions subsided to the bottom. These drinks were received as
tribute or taxes. Baatu, a chief with sixteen wives, received the produce
of three thousand mares daily, besides a quantity of common cosmos, a
bowl of which almost always stood on the threshold of every rich man’s
house. The Tartars often drank of it to excess, and their banquets were
relieved by music.

At these feasts, in which both sexes participated, the guests clapped
their hands and danced to the music, the men before their host, the
women before his principal wife. The host always drank first. The moment
he put his lips to the bowl of cosmos, his cup-bearer cried aloud
“Ha!” and the musicians struck up. This almost sounds like a mediæval
Twelfth-night banquet, when all the guests rose and shouted, “The king
drinks!” and then drained their goblets in imitation of the monarch of
the night. The Tartars respectfully waited till the lord of the feast
had finished his draught, when the cup-bearer again cried “Ha!” and the
music ceased. After a pause, the guests, male and female, drank round in
turns, each one to the sound of music, with a pause and silence before
the next person took up the cup. This fashion of drinking continued
unchanged for many centuries, and later travellers, amid the increased
pomp of the court of the Tartar emperors of China, found it still in
force--music, cries, pauses, and all. We have also seen, not many years
ago, on the occasion of the marriage of the late young emperor of China,
illustrations of the wedding procession, representing immensely wide
carts, drawn by eleven oxen abreast, laden with costly state furniture;
and if we take away the pomp and gilding, the picture is not unlike that
of the Tartar camp-carts seen by our traveller. Rubruquis hints that the
Tartars were not a temperate people; they drank much and not cleanly,
and the way of “inviting” a person to drink was to seize his ears and
pull them forcibly. The sweet wine, of which the monk had a small supply,
pleased them very well, but they thought him not lavish enough in his
hospitality; for once, on his offering the master of the house one flagon
of this wine, the man gravely drained it and asked for another, saying
that “a man does not go into a house with one foot.” In return, however,
they did not give him much to eat; but perhaps he suffered hunger rather
from his prejudice to the meat they ate than from their niggardliness
in giving. He at last learned to eat horse-flesh, but was disgusted at
his friends’ eating the bodies of animals that had died of disease. The
Tartars were honest enough, and, never even took things by force; but
they begged for everything that took their fancy as unblushingly as some
of Paul Du Chaillu’s negroes in Africa. It surprised them to be refused
anything--knives, gloves, purses, etc.--and, when gratified, never
thought it necessary to thank their guests.

After a while Rubruquis met the carts of Zagatai, one of the chieftains,
to whom he brought a letter from the Emperor of Constantinople. Here
the Tartars asked “what we had in our carts--whether it were gold, or
silver, or rich garments”; and both Zagatai and his interpreter were
haughtily discontented at finding that at least some garment of value
was not forthcoming. This is not wonderful, considering the wealth of
their own great khans, of whom a later one, Kooblai, so celebrated in
Marco Polo’s travels, gave his twelve lords, twelve times in the year,
robes of gold-colored silk, embroidered with gold and precious stones.
Zagatai, however, received the ambassador graciously. “He sat on his
bed,”[45] says Rubruquis, “holding a musical instrument in his hand,
and his wife sat by him, who, in my opinion, had cut and pared her nose
between the eyes, that she might seem to be more flat-nosed; for she had
left herself no nose at all in that place, having anointed the very scar
with black ointment, as she also did her eyebrows, which sight seemed to
me most ugly.… I besought him that he would accept this small gift at our
hands, excusing myself that I was a monk, and that it was against our
profession to possess gold, silver, or precious garments, and therefore
that I had not any such thing to give him, unless he would receive some
part of our victuals instead of a blessing.” The Tartars were always
eager to receive a blessing over and above any present. He was constantly
asked to make over them the sign of the cross; but it is to be feared
that they looked upon it as a charm, and of charms they couldn’t have
too many. From Zagatai, Rubruquis went to Sartach, who said he had no
power of treating with him, and sent him on to his father-in-law, Baatu,
the patriarch with sixteen wives and several hundred houses. Losing
his ox-wagons and baggage on the way--for the independent tribes did
not scruple to exact tribute from a traveller, even if he was a friend
of their neighbors--he never lost his courage and his determination
to sow the seeds of truth in Tartary. He did not know the language at
first, and only learnt it very imperfectly at the last. Here and there
a captive Christian, mostly Hungarians, or a Tartar who had learnt the
rudiments of Christianity during an invasion of his tribe into Europe,
acted as interpreter. All were uniformly kind to him. One of them,
who understood Latin and psalmody, was in great request at all the
funerals of his neighborhood; but the “Christianity” of the natives was
but a shred of Nestorianism worked into a web of paganism, so that, the
farther he advanced, the farther the great, powerful, united Christian
community headed by Prester John seemed to recede. The people took kindly
to Christian usages, and had some respect for the forms and ceremonies
which the monk and his companions endeavored to keep up; but when it
came to doctrine and morality, they grew impatient and unresponsive. One
of Rubruquis’ interpreters often refused to do his office. “And thus,”
says the traveller, “it caused me great chagrin when I wished to address
to them a few words of edification; for he would say to me, ‘You shall
not make me preach to-day; I understand nothing of all you tell me.’ …
And then he spoke the truth; for afterwards, as I began to understand a
little of their tongue, I perceived that when I told him one thing he
repeated another, just according to his fancy. Therefore, seeing it was
no use to talk or preach, I held my tongue.”

Hard riding was not the only thing that distressed the ambassador of
the King of France. His companions gave him meat that was less than
half-cooked, and sometimes positively raw. Then the cold began to be
severe, and still there were at least four months’ travel before him.
The Tartars were kind to him in their rough way, and gave him some of
their thick sheepskins and hide shoes. He had insisted on journeying most
of the time in his Franciscan sandals, and, full of ardor for his rule,
had constantly refused gifts of costly garments. This the Tartars never
quite understood, but they respected the principle which caused him to
make so many sacrifices for the sake and furtherance of his religion.
Wherever he passed, he and his companions endeared themselves to the
inhabitants by many little services (doubtless also by cures wrought
by simple remedies), and generally by their gentle, unselfish conduct
towards all men. Rubruquis observed everything minutely as he passed. The
manners and customs of the people interested him, and perhaps he did not
consider them quite such barbarians as we of later days are apt to do.
When we read the accounts of domestic life among the majority of people
in mediæval times, and see that refinement of manner was less thought of
than costliness of apparel and wealth of plate and cattle, the difference
between such manners and those of the Tartars is not appreciable. Few in
those days were learned, and learning it is that has always made the real
difference between a gentleman and a boor. The marauding chieftains of
feudal times were only romantic and titled highwaymen after all. So were
the wandering Tartars. The difference that has since sprung up between
the descendants of the marauding barons and those of the Tartar chiefs is
mainly one of race. The former are of an enterprising, improving race,
the latter of a stagnant one; and while the European nations that then
trembled before the invading hordes of Jengis-Khan have now developed
into intellectual superiority over every other race in the world, the
Tartar is still, socially and intellectually, on the same old level, and
his political advantages have vanished with his rude warlike superiority
before the diplomacy and the military organization of his former victims.

Rubruquis noticed that among the superstitions common in Tartary was a
belief that it was unlucky for a visitor to touch the threshold of a
Tartar’s door. Modern travellers assert the same of the Chinese. Whenever
our envoy paid a visit, he deferred to this belief by carefully stepping
across the threshold of the house or tent, without letting any part of
his person or dress come in contact with it. Their dress, on festive
occasions, was rich; for they traded with China, Persia, and other
southern and eastern countries for “stuffs of silk, cloths of gold, and
cotton cloths, which they wear in time of summer; but out of Russia,
Bulgaria, Hungaria, and out of Chersis (all which are northern regions
and full of woods), … the inhabitants bring them rich and costly skins
and furs of divers sorts, which I never saw in our countries, wherewithal
they are clad in winter.” The rough sheepskin coats had their place also
in their toilet, and a material made of two-thirds wool and one-third
horsehair furnished them with caps, saddle-cloths, and felt for covering
their wagons.

The women’s dress was distinguished from the men’s simply by its greater
length, and they often rode, like the men, astride their horses, their
faces protected by a white veil, crossing the nose just below the eyes
and descending to the breast. Immense size and flat noses were the great
desiderata among them. Marriage was a mere bargain, and daughters were
generally sold to the highest bidder. Though expert hunters, the Tartars
were scarcely what we should call sportsmen. They hunted on the _battue_
system, spreading themselves in a wide circle, and gradually contracting
this as they drove the game before them, until the unfortunate animals
being penned in in a small space, they were easily shot down by
wholesale. Hawking was also in vogue among the Tartars, and was reduced
as much to a science as in Europe. They strenuously punished great crimes
with death, as, for instance, murder, theft, adultery, and even minor
offences against chastity. This, however, was less the consequence of a
regard for virtue _per se_ than of a vivid perception of the rights of
property. No code but the Jewish and the Christian ever protected the
honor of women for its own sake. In mourning for the dead it is strange
that violent howling and lamentation, even on the part of those not
personally concerned, should be a form common to almost all nations, not
only of different religions, but of various and widely-separated races.
The Tartars, as well as the Celts, practised it. Rubruquis mentions that
they made various monuments over the graves of their dead, sometimes mere
mounds or barrows of earth, or towers of brick and even of stone--though
no stone was to be found near the spot--and sometimes large open spaces,
paved with stone, with four large stones placed upright at the corners,
always facing the four cardinal points.

It was during winter that the envoy arrived at the court or encampment of
Mandchu-Khan. He says that it was at the distance of twenty days’ journey
from Cataya, or Cathay (China), but it is difficult to say exactly where
that was. Here Rubruquis found a number of Nestorian priests peacefully
living under the khan’s protection, and among them one who had only
arrived a month before the Franciscan friar, and said he had come, in
consequence of a vision, to convert the khan and his people. He was an
Armenian from the Holy Land. Our missionary describes him thus in his
terse, direct way, which has this advantage over the long-winded and
minute descriptions of our day, that we seem to see the man before us:
“He was a monk, somewhat black and lean, clad with a rough hair-coat
to the knees, having over it a black cloak of bristles, furred with
spotted skins, girt with iron under his hair-cloth.” Mandchu-Khan was
tolerant and liberal, and rather well disposed than otherwise to the
Christian religion. His favorite wife, whom he had lately lost, had
been a Christian, and so was his first secretary, but both Nestorian
Christians. The khan, or his servants--who doubtless expected to be
propitiated with the usual gifts if they could only succeed in wearying
out the patience of the new-comers--made the envoy wait nine days for
an audience. The Tartars thought it strange that a king’s ambassador
should come to court bare-foot; but a boy, a Hungarian captive, again
gave the required and often-repeated explanation. Before entering the
large hall, whose entrance was closed by curtains of gayly-painted felt,
the monks were searched, to see if they carried any concealed arms; and
then the procession formed, the Christian missionaries entering the
khan’s presence singing the hymn _A Solis ortus cardine_. The khan,
like the lesser chieftains Rubruquis had already met, was seated on a
“bed” or divan, dressed “in a spotted skin or fur, bright and shining.”
The multitudinous bowings and prostrations in use at the Chinese court
were very likely exacted, though the envoy says in general terms that
“he had to bend the knee.” Such simplicity is, however, very far from
the ceremonious Oriental ideal of homage, and it was not then, as it
is now, esteemed an honor to receive Frankish envoys in the Frankish
manner. Mandchu first offered his guests a drink of fermented milk, of
which they partook sparingly, not to offend him; but the interpreter
soon made himself unfit for his office by his indulgence in his favorite
beverage. Rubruquis stated his mission with modest simplicity. In his
quality of ambassador he might have resented the delay in receiving
him; he might have complained of the familiarity and want of respect
with which he had been often treated, and of the advantage taken of
his gentleness and ignorance of the language to plunder him; but he
was more than a king’s messenger. He was intent upon preaching the
“good tidings” to the Tartars, and only used human means to compass a
divine end. He acknowledged that he had no rich presents nor temporal
goods to offer, but only spiritual benefits to impart. His practice
certainly did not belie his theory. The people never disbelieved him,
nor suspected him of being a political emissary. But still, he was
unsuccessful. He soon perceived that his interpreter was blundering, and
says: “I easily found he was drunk, and Mandchu-Khan himself was drunk
also, as I thought.” All he could obtain was leave to remain in the
country during the cold season. Inquiries met him on all sides as to the
wealth and state of Europe; but of religion, beyond the few forms that
pleased their eye, the people did not seem to think. They looked down
with lofty indifference on the faith of those various adventurers whom
their sovereign kindly sheltered, and ranked the Christian priests they
already knew in the same category with conjurers and quack doctors. The
Christianity of these Nestorians was even more imperfect than that of
the Abyssinians at the time of the late English invasion of the unlucky
King Theodore’s dominions. Rubruquis was horrified to find in these
priests mere superstitious mountebanks. They mingled Tartar rites with
corrupt ceremonies of the Catholic Church, and practised all manner of
deceptions, mixing rhubarb with holy water as a medicinal drink, and
carrying to the bedside of the sick lances and swords half-drawn from
their sheaths along with the crucifix. Upon these grounds they pretended
to the power of working miracles and curing the sick by spiritual means
alone. The Franciscan zealously tried to reform these abuses and to
convert the Nestorians before he undertook to preach to the Tartars; but
here again he was unsuccessful. The self-interest of these debased men
was in question, and truth was little to them in comparison with the
comfort and consideration they enjoyed as leeches.

A curious scene occurred while at this encampment of the khan. There
were many Mahometans in the country, and the sovereign, with impartial
tolerance, protected them and their commerce as he did the person and
property of other refugees. They, the Christians, and some representative
Tartars were all assembled one day, by order of Mandchu, to discuss in
public the merits of their respective faiths. But even on this occasion
no bitterness was evinced, and the meeting, though it turned out useless
in a spiritual sense, ended in a friendly banquet. Rubruquis did
his best to improve this opportunity of teaching the truth; but the
hour of successful evangelization had not yet struck, and much of the
indifference of the Tartars is to be attributed to the culpable practices
of the Nestorians, whose behavior was enough to discredit the religion
they pretended to profess. But if the missionary, notwithstanding all
his zeal, was unable to convert the heathens, he at least comforted and
strengthened many captive Christians. We have already mentioned a few of
these, and in Mandchu’s camp he met with another, a woman from Metz in
Lorraine, who had been taken prisoner in Hungary, and been carried back
into their own country by the invaders. She had at first suffered many
hardships, but ended by marrying a young Russian, a captive like herself,
who was skilful in the art of building wooden houses. The Tartars prized
this kind of knowledge, and were kind to the young couple, who were now
leading a tolerably comfortable life, and had a family of three children.
To fancy their joy at seeing a genuine Christian missionary is almost
out of our power in these days of swift communication, when nothing is
any longer a marvel; but if we could put ourselves in their place, we
might paint a wonderful picture of thankfulness, surprise, and simple,
rock-like faith. The latter part of Lent was spent in travelling, as the
khan broke up his encampment, and went on across a chain of mountains to
a great city, Karakorum, or Karakûm, on the river Orchon. Every vestige
of such a city has disappeared centuries ago, but Marco Polo mentions it
and describes its streets, situation, defences, etc. He arrived there
nearly twenty years later, and noticed that it was surrounded by a strong
rampart of earth, there being no good supply of stone in those parts.

The passage of the Changai Mountains was a terrible undertaking; the
cold was intense and the weather stormy, and the khan, with his usual
bland eclecticism, begged Rubruquis to “pray to God in his own fashion”
for milder weather, chiefly for the sake of the cattle. On Palm Sunday
the envoy blessed the willow-boughs he saw on his way, though he says
there were no buds on them yet; but they were near the city now, and
the weather had become more promising. Rubruquis had his eyes wide open
as he came to the first organized city of the Tartars, as Marco Polo
affirms this to have been. It had scarcely been built twenty years when
our monk visited it, and owed its origin to the son and successor of
Jengis-Khan. “There were two grand streets in it,” says Rubruquis, “one
of the Saracens, where the fairs are kept (held), and many merchants
resort thither, and one other street of the Cathayans (Chinese), who are
all artificers.” Many of the latter were captives, or at least subjects,
of the khan; for the Tartars had already conquered the greater part of
Northern China. The khan lived in a castle or palace outside the earthen
rampart. In Karakorum, again, the monk found many Christians, Armenian,
Georgian, Hungarian, and even of Western European origin. Among others
he mentions an Englishman--whom he calls Basilicus, and who had been
born in Hungary--and a few Germans. But the most important personage of
foreign birth was a French goldsmith, William Bouchier, whose wife was
a Hungarian, but of Mahometan parentage. This Benvenuto Cellini of the
East was rich and liberal, an excellent interpreter, thoroughly at home
in the Tartar dialects, a skilful artist, and in high favor at court. He
had just finished a masterpiece of mechanism and beauty which Rubruquis
thus minutely describes: “In the khan’s palace, because it was unseemly
to carry about bottles of milk and other drinks there, Master William
made him a great silver tree, at the root whereof were four silver
lions, having each one pipe, through which flowed pure cow’s milk; and
four other pipes were conveyed within the body of the tree unto the top
thereof, and the tops spread back again downwards, and upon every one
of them was a golden serpent, whose tails twined about the body of the
tree. And one of these pipes ran with wine, another with cara-cosmos,
another with _ball_--a drink made of honey--and another with a drink made
of rice. Between the pipes, at the top of the tree, he made an angel
holding a trumpet, and under the tree a hollow vault, wherein a man
might be hid; and a pipe ascended from this vault through the tree to
the angel. He first made bellows, but they gave not wind enough. Without
the palace walls there was a chamber wherein the several drinks were
brought; and there were servants there ready to pour them out when they
heard the angel sounding his trumpet. And the boughs of the tree were of
silver, and the leaves and the fruit. When, therefore, they want drink,
the master-butler crieth to the angel that he sound the trumpet. Then
he hearing (who is hid in the vault), bloweth the pipe, which goeth to
the angel, and the angel sets his trumpet to his mouth, and the trumpet
soundeth very shrill. Then the servants which are in the chamber hearing,
each of them poureth forth his drink into its proper pipe, and all the
pipes pour them forth from above, and they are received below in vessels
prepared for that purpose.”

This elaborate piece of plate makes one think rather of the XVIth
century banquets of the Medici and the Este than of feastings given
by a nomad Tartar in the wilds of Central Asia. The goldsmith was not
unknown to fame even in Europe, where he was called William of Paris.
Several old chroniclers speak of him, and his brother Roger was well
known as a goldsmith “living upon the great bridge at Paris.” This clever
artist very nearly fell a victim to the quackery of a Nestorian monk,
whereupon Rubruquis significantly comments thus: “He entreated him to
proceed either as an apostle doing miracles indeed, by virtue of prayer,
or to administer his potion as a physician, according to the art of
medicine.” Besides the Tartars and their Christian captives, Rubruquis
had opportunities of observing the numerous Chinese, or Cathayans, as
they were called, who have been mentioned as the artificers of the town.
There were also knots of Siberians, Kamtchatkans, and even inhabitants
of the islands between the extremities of Asia and America, where at
times the sea was frozen over. Rubruquis picked up a good deal of
miscellaneous information, chiefly about the Chinese. He mentions their
paper currency--a fact which Marco Polo subsequently verified--and their
mode of writing; _i.e._, with small paint-brushes, and each character or
figure signifying a whole word. The standard of value of the Russians,
he says, consisted in spotted furs--a currency which still exists in the
remoter parts of Siberia.

It was not without good reason, no doubt, that the monk-envoy made up
his mind to leave the country he had hoped either to evangelize or to
find already as orthodox as his own, and ruled by a great Christian
potentate. Such perseverance as he showed throughout his journey was not
likely to be daunted by slight obstacles; but finding the object of his
mission as far from attainment as when he first entered Tartary, he at
last reluctantly left the field. Only one European besides himself had
ventured so far--Friar Bartholomew of Cremona; but even he shrank before
a renewal of the hardships of mountain and desert travel, and chose
rather to stay behind with Master William, the hospitable goldsmith, till
some more convenient opportunity should present itself of returning to
his own country. Rubruquis accordingly started alone, with a servant,
an interpreter, and a guide; but though he had asked for leave to go
on Whitsunday, the permission was delayed till the festival of S. John
Baptist, the 24th of June. The khan made him a few trifling presents, and
gave him a complimentary letter to the King of France; but no definite
results were obtained. The homeward journey was long and tedious, and
the only provision made for the sustenance of the party was a permission
from the khan to take a sheep “once in four days, wherever they could
find it.” Sometimes they had nothing to eat for three days together, and
only a little cosmos to drink, and more than once, having missed the
stations of the wandering tribes whom they had reckoned on meeting, even
the supply of cosmos was exhausted. About two months after his departure
from Karakorum, Rubruquis met Sartach, the great chief who had sheltered
him for some time on his way to the river Don. Some belongings of the
mission having been left in Sartach’s care, the envoy asked him to return
them, but was told they were in charge of Baatu, Rubruquis’ other friend
and protector. Sartach was on his way to join Mandchu-Khan, and was of
course surrounded by the two hundred houses and innumerable chests which
belonged to the establishment of a Tartar patriarch. If this was not
exactly civilization, it was companionship, and the envoy must have been
glad of a meeting which replenished his exhausted stores and suggested
domestic comfort and abundance. More rough travelling on horseback, more
experiences of hunger and cold (for the autumn was already coming on),
more fording of rivers, and the monk found himself at Baatu’s court. It
was the 16th of September--a year after he had left the chieftain to push
on to the court of the Grand-Khan. Here he was joyfully and courteously
received, and recovered nearly all his property; but as the Tartars had
concluded that the whole embassy must have perished long ago, they had
allowed some Nestorian priest, a wanderer under the protection now of
Sartach, now of Baatu and other khans, to appropriate various Psalters,
books, and ecclesiastical vestments. Three young men, Europeans, whom
Rubruquis had left behind, had nearly been reduced to bondage under the
same pretext, but they had not suffered personal ill-treatment. The kind
offices of some influential Armenians had staved off the evil day, and
the timely arrival of the long-missing envoy secured them their freedom.
Rubruquis now joined Baatu’s court, which was journeying westward to a
town called Sarai, on the eastern bank of the Volga; but the progress
of the encumbered Tartars was so slow that he left them after a month’s
companionship, and pushed on with his party, till he reached Sarai on
the feast of All Saints. After this the country was almost an unbroken
desert; but our traveller once more fell in with one of his Tartar
friends, a son of Sartach, who was out upon a hawking expedition, and
gave him a guard to protect him from various fierce Mahometan tribes that
infested the neighborhood.

Here ended his travels in Tartary proper; but his hardships were far
from ended yet. Through Armenia and the territories of Turkish and
Koordish princes he journeyed slowly and uncomfortably, in dread of the
violence of his own guides and guards, as well as of the insults of the
populations whose country he traversed. He says these delays “arose in
part from the difficulty of procuring horses, but chiefly because the
guide chose to stop, often for three days together, in one place, for his
own business; and, though much dissatisfied, I durst not complain, as he
might have slain me and those with me, or sold us all for slaves, and
there was none to hinder it.”

Journeying across Asia Minor and over Mount Taurus, he took ship at last
for Cyprus. Here he learnt that S. Louis, who had been in the Holy Land
at the time of his departure, had gone back to France. He would very much
have wished to deliver his letters and presents of silk pelisses and
furs to the king in person; but this was not granted him. The provincial
of his order, whom he met at Cyprus, desired him to write his account
and send his gifts to the king; and as in those days there was creeping
in among the monks a habit of restless wandering, his superior, who was,
it seems, a reformer and strict disciplinarian, tried the obedience
and humility of the famous traveller by sending him to his convent at
Acre, whence, by the king’s order, he had started. Rubruquis stood the
test, but could not forbear imploring the king, by writing, to use his
influence with the provincial to allow him a short stay in France and
one audience of his royal master. Little is known of the great traveller
and pioneer after this; and whether he ever got leave to see the king
is doubtful. He fell back into obscurity, and it is presumed that Marco
Polo did not even know of his previous travels over the same ground as
the Polos explored. No record of his embassy remained but the Latin
letter addressed to S. Louis, and even in France his fame was unknown
for many centuries. It was not till after the invention of printing that
his adventures became fairly known to the literary world, although Roger
Bacon, one of his own order, had given a spirited abstract of his travels
in one of his works. This, too, was in Latin, and after a time became
a sealed book to the vulgar; so that it was not at least till the year
1600 that the old traveller’s name was again known. Hakluyt’s _Collection
of Voyages and Travels_ contains an English translation of Rubruquis’
letter, and twenty-five years later Purchas reproduced it _in toto_ from
a copy found in a college library at Cambridge. Bergeron, a French
priest, put it into French, not from the original, but from Purchas’
English version. Since then Rubruquis has taken his place among the few
famous voyagers of olden times; but from the vagueness of his language,
the lack of geographical science in his day, and perhaps also the
mistakes of careless copyists, it is not easy to trace his course upon
the map. One fact, however, he ascertained and insisted upon, which a
geographical society, had it existed in his time, would have been glad to
register, together with an honorable mention of the discoverer--_i.e._,
the nature of the great lake called the Caspian Sea. The old Greeks had
correctly called it an _inland_ sea, but an idea had since prevailed that
it possessed some communication with the Northern Ocean. Rubruquis proved
the contrary, but no attention was paid to his single assertion, and
books of geography, compiled at home from ancient maps and MSS., without
a reference, however distant, to the _facts_ recorded by adventurous
men who had seen foreign shores with their eyes, calmly continued to
propagate the old error.


A PARAPHRASE, FROM THE GREEK.

Οὐκ ἔθανες, Πρώτη, κ. τ. λ.--_Greek Anthology._

              Protê, thou didst not die,
              But thou didst fly,
    When we saw thee no more, to a sunnier clime;
              In the isles of the blest,
              In the golden west,
    Where thy spirit let loose springs joyous and light
              O’er the verdurous floor,
              That is strewn evermore
    With blossoms that fade not, nor droop from their prime.
              Thou hast made thee a home
              Where no sorrow shall come,
    No cloud overshadow thy noon of delight;
              Cold or heat shall not vex thee,
              Nor sickness perplex thee,
    Nor hunger, nor thirst; no touch of regret
              For the things thou hast cherished,
              The forms that have perished,
    For lover or kindred, thy fancy shall fret;
              But thy joy hath no stain,
              Thy remembrance no pain,
    And the heights that we guess at thy sunshine makes plain.


THE LAW OF GOD AND THE REGULATIONS OF SOCIETY.

SUMMARY CONSIDERATIONS ON LAW.

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE COMTE DE BREDA.

    “There are laws for the society of ants and of bees; how could
    any one suppose that there are none for human society, and that
    it is left to the chance of inventing them?”--_De Bonald._


I.--THE MODERN STATE.

Never before was liberty so much talked about; never before was the very
idea of it so utterly lost. Tyrants have been destroyed, it is said. This
is a false assertion it may be (or rather, is it not certain?) that it
has become more difficult for a sovereign to govern tyrannically, but
tyranny is not dead--quite the contrary.

All unlimited power is, of its own nature, tyrannical. Now, it is such
a power that the modern state desires to wield. The state is held up
to us as the supreme arbiter of good and evil; and, if we believe its
defenders, it cannot err, its laws being in every case, and at all times,
binding.

People have banished God from the government of human society; but they
have made to themselves a new god, despotic and blind, without hearing
and without voice, whose power knows how to reach its slaves as well
in the temple as in the public places, as well in the palace as in the
humblest cot.

What is there, indeed, more divine than not to do wrong? God
alone, speaking to the human conscience, either directly or by his
representatives, is the infallible judge of good and evil. No human power
whatsoever can declare all that emanates from it to be necessarily right
without usurping the place of God, and declaring itself the sovereign
master of the soul as well as of the body. The last refuge of the slaves
of antiquity--the human conscience--would no longer exist for the people
of modern times, if it were true that every law is binding from the
mere fact of its promulgation. Hence the modern state, but lately so
boastful, has begun to waver and to doubt its own powers. It encounters
two principal obstacles, as unlike in their form as in their origin.

On one hand it beholds Catholics, sustained by their knowledge of law,
its origin and its essence, resisting passively, and preparing themselves
to submit to persecutions without even shrinking. On the other it
meets, in these our days, the most formidable insurrections. There are
multitudes, blind as the state representatives--but excusable, inasmuch
as their rebellion is against an authority which owes its sway only to
caprice or theory--who reply thus to power: “We are as good as you; you
have no right over us other than that of brute force; we will endeavor to
oppose you with a strength equal to yours; and when we shall have gained
the victory, we will make new laws and new constitutions, wherein all
that you call lawful shall be called unlawful, and all that you consider
crime shall be deemed virtue.”

If it were true that law could spring only from the human will, these
madmen would be reasonable in the extreme. Thus the state is powerless
against them. It drags on an uncertain existence, constantly threatened
with the most terrible social wars, and enjoying a momentary peace only
on condition of never laying down arms. Modern armies are standing ones;
the modern police have become veritable armies, and they sleep neither
day nor night. At this price do our states exist, trade, grow rich, and
become satisfied with themselves.

These constant commotions are not alone the vengeance of the living
God disowned and outraged; they are also the inevitable consequence of
that extremity of pride and folly which has induced human assemblies to
believe that it belongs to them to decide finally between right and wrong.

In truth, “if God is not the author of law, there is no law really
binding.” We may, for the love of God, obey existing powers, even though
they be illegitimate; but this submission has its limits. It must cease
the moment that the human law prescribes anything contrary to the law
of God. As for people without faith, we would in vain seek for a motive
powerful enough to induce them to submit to anything displeasing to them.


II.--MODERN LIBERTY.

The people of our generation consider themselves more free, more
unrestrained, than those who have gone before them. It is not to our
generation, however, that the glory accrues of having first thrown
off the yoke. Our moderns themselves acknowledge that they have had
predecessors, and they agree with us in declaring that “the new spirit”
made its appearance in the world about the XVIth century.[46]

In truth, the only yoke which has been cast off since then is that of
God, which seemed too heavy. All at once thought pronounced itself freed
from the shackles of ecclesiastical authority; but, at the outset, it
was far from intended to deny the idea of a divine right superior to all
human right.

Despite the historical falsehoods which have found utterance in our day,
it was chiefly princes who propagated Protestantism; and, most often,
they attained their end only by violence. When successful, they added to
their temporal title a religious one; they made themselves bishops or
popes, and thus became all the more powerful over their subjects. There
was no longer any refuge from the abuse of power of the rulers of this
world; for it was the interest of these despots to call themselves the
representatives of God. By means of this title they secularized dioceses,
convents, the goods of the church, and even the ministers of their new
religion. This term was then used to express in polite language an idea
of spoliation and of hypocritical and uncurbed tyranny.

The moderns have gone farther: they have attempted to secularize law
itself. This time, again, the word hides a thought which, if it were
openly expressed, would shock; the law has become atheistical, and not
all the opposition which the harshness of this statement has aroused can
prevent it from still expressing a truth. The inexorable logic of facts
leads directly from the Reformation to the Revolution. Princes themselves
sowed the seeds of revolt which will yet despoil them of their power and
their thrones; while as for the people, they have gained nothing. They
are constantly tyrannized over; but their real masters are unknown, and
their only resource against the encroachments or the abuse of power is an
appeal to arms.

It is not, then, true that liberty finds greater space in the modern
world than in the ancient Christian world. To prove this, I need but a
single fact which has direct relation with my subject.

While Europe was still enveloped in “the darkness of the Middle Ages,”
Catholic theologians freely taught, from all their chairs, that “an
unjust law is no law”--“Lex injusta non est lex.” Now, are there, at the
present day, many pulpits from which this principle, the safeguard of all
liberty and of all independence, the protector of all rights, and the
defence of the helpless, might be proclaimed with impunity? Do we not
see the prohibitions, the lawsuits, the _appels comme d’abus_ which the
boldness of such a maxim would call forth?

Human governments have changed in form, but their tyranny has not ceased
to grow; and the free men of the olden society have become the slaves in
a new order of things--they have even reached a point at which they know
not even in what liberty consists.


III.--DIVINE ORIGIN OF LAW.

I know, and I hear beforehand, the response which the doctors of modern
rights will here give me “Yes,” say they, “it is very true that the
Catholic Church has always claimed the right of judging laws and of
refusing obedience to such as displeased her; but in this is precisely
the worst abuse. That which would domineer over human reason, the
sovereign of the world, is tyranny _par excellence_; this, in truth, is
the special mark of Catholicity, and it is this which has ever made it
the religion of the ignorant and the cowardly.”

Is, then, the maxim I have just recalled the invention of Catholic
theologians? Is it true that the teachers of the ultramontane doctrine
alone have contended that the intrinsic worth of a law must be sought
beyond and above them, beyond and above the human power which proclaims
it? Not only has this elementary principle not been devised by our
theologians, but even the pagan philosophers themselves had reached it.
Cicero but summed up the teaching universally received by philosophers
worthy of the name, when he said that the science of law should not be
sought in the edicts of the pretor, nor even in the laws of the twelve
tables; and that the most profound philosophy alone could aid in judging
laws and teaching us their value.[47]

This is not to degrade reason, which this same Cicero has defined, or
rather described, in admirable language. He found therein something
grand, something sublime; he declared that it is more fit to command than
to obey; that it values little what is merely human; that it is gifted
with a peculiar elevation which nothing daunts, which yields to no one,
and which is unconquerable.[48]

But remark, it is only with regard to human powers and allurements that
reason shows itself so exalted and haughty. It requires something greater
than man to make it submit; and it _obeys_ only God or his delegates.
“Stranger,” said Plato to Clinias the Cretan, “whom do you consider the
first author of your laws? _Is it a god? Is it a man?_”

“Stranger,” replied Clinias, “it is a god; we could not rightly accord
this title to any other.”[49]

So, also, tradition tells us that Minos went, every ninth day, to consult
Jupiter, his father, whose replies he committed to writing. Lycurgus
wished to have his laws confirmed by the Delphian Apollo, and this god
replied that he would dictate them himself. At Rome the nymph Egeria
played the same _rôle_ with Numa. Everywhere is felt the necessity
of seeking above man the title in virtue of which he may command his
fellow-men.

If we turn now from the fabulous traditions of the ancient world, we
still find an absolute truth proclaimed by its sages; one that affirms
the existence of an eternal law--_quiddam æternum_--which was called the
natural law, and which serves as a criterion whereby to judge the worth
of the laws promulgated by man.

Cicero declares it absurd to consider right everything set down in the
constitutions or the laws.[50] And he is careful to add that neither is
public opinion any more competent to determine the right.[51]

The sovereign law, therefore--that which no human law may violate without
the penalty of becoming void--has God himself for its author.

The laws of states may be unjust and abominable, and, by consequence,
bind no one. There is, on the other hand, a natural law, the source and
measure of other laws, originating before all ages, before any law had
been written or any city built.[52]

This doctrine, to support which I have designedly cited only pagan
authors, is also that of Catholic theologians; for example, S. Thomas and
Suarez. But the philosophical school of the last century has so perverted
the meaning of the term _nature--law of nature_, that certain Catholic
authors (M. de Bonald, for instance) have scrupled to use the consecrated
term. It is necessary, then, to explain its true sense.


IV.--NATURAL LAW ACCORDING TO PAGAN PHILOSOPHERS.

The nature of a being is that which constitutes its fitness to attain its
end. The idea, therefore, which a person has of the nature of man, by
consequence determines that which he will have of his end, and hence of
the rule which should govern his actions.

The materialists, for example, who deny the immortality of the soul, and
whose horizon is bounded by the limits of the present life, are able
to teach only a purely epicurean or utilitarian morality. They cannot
consistently plead a motive higher than an immediate, or at least a
proximate, well-being; for, what is more uncertain than the duration of
our life? In the strikingly anti-philosophic language of the XVIIIth
century, _the state of nature_ was a hypothetical state, at once innocent
and barbarous, anterior to all society. It is to society that this theory
attributes the disorders of man and the loss of certain primitive and
inalienable rights which the sect of pseudo-philosophers boasted of
having regained, and by the conquest whereof the corrupted and doting
France of 1789 was prostrated.

The philosophers of antiquity, on the contrary, notwithstanding their
numerous errors, and despite the polytheism which they exteriorly
professed, had arrived at so profound a knowledge of man and his nature
that the fathers and doctors of the church have often spoken of the
discoveries of their intellect as a kind of _natural revelation_ made to
them by God.[53]

We have already heard Cicero say that the natural law is eternal, and
superior to all human laws. I shall continue to quote him, because of
his clearness, and because he admirably sums up the teaching of the
philosophers who preceded him.[54]

The sound philosophy which should guide us--according to him, the science
of law--teaches us that it is far more sublime to submit to the divine
mind, to the all-powerful God, than to the emperors and mighty ones of
this earth; for it is a kind of partnership between God and man. Right
reason (_ratio recta_) is the same for the one and the other; and law
being nothing else than right reason, it may be said that one same law
links us with the gods. Now, the common law is also the common right, and
when people have a common right they belong, in some manner, to the same
country. We must, then, consider this world as a country common to the
gods and to men. Man is, in truth, like to God. And for what end has God
created and gifted man like to himself? That he may arrive at justice.

Human society is bound by one same right, and law is the same for all.
This law is the just motive (the right reason, _ratio recta_) of all
precepts and prohibitions; he who is ignorant of it, whether written
or not, knows not justice. If uprightness consisted in submission to
the written laws and constitutions of nations, and if, as some pretend,
utility could be the measure of good, he who expected to profit thereby
would be justified in neglecting or violating the laws.

This remark is peculiarly applicable to the present time. It is precisely
utility and the increase of wealth or of comforts--in a word, material
interests--which the greater number of modern legislators have had
chiefly in view; the result is that society scarcely has the right to
feel indignant against those who may deem it to their advantage to
disturb it. Religion, say they, has nothing in common with politics; the
state, inasmuch as it is a state, need not trouble itself about God; the
things of this world should be regulated with regard to this world, and
without reference to the supernatural. Suppose it so; but then, in virtue
of what authority will you impose your laws? There is no human power
able to bend or to conquer one human will which does not acknowledge
it.[55]

The basis of right is the natural love of our fellow-beings which nature
has planted within us. Nature also commands us to honor God. It is not
fear which renders worship necessary; it is the bond which exists between
God and man. If popular or royal decrees could determine right, a whim
of the multitude might render lawful theft, adultery, or forgery. If it
be true that a proclamation dictated by fools can change the order of
nature, why may not evil become, one day, good? But the sages teach that
the human mind did not invent law; it has its birth-place in the bosom
of God, and is co-eternal with him; it is nothing else than the unerring
reason of Jupiter himself; it is reflected in the mind of the wise man;
it can never be repealed.

This “right reason which comes to us from the gods” (_recta et a numine
deorum tracta ratio_) is what is usually termed the _natural_ law; and
the beautiful language of Cicero recalls this magnificent verse of the
IVth Psalm: “Quis ostendit nobis bona? Signatum est super nos lumen
vultus tui, Domine.”


V.--INFLUENCE OF PANTHEISM ON MODERN LAW.

Pagan teaching, how elevated soever it may be, is always incomplete; and
this is evident even from the words of Cicero.

Since law comes from God, it is very clear that it will be known more
or less correctly according as our idea of God is more or less correct.
This it is that gives so great a superiority, first, to the law of Moses,
before the coming of Jesus Christ, and to all Christian legislation
since.

The Jews had not merely a vague knowledge of the precepts of the divine
law. This law, in its principal provisions, had been directly revealed to
them. Christians have something better still, since the Eternal Word was
made man, and the Word is precisely “the true light which enlighteneth
every man coming into this world.”[56] The philosophers of antiquity saw
this light from afar off; we have _beheld_ that of which they merely
affirmed the existence; the Jews contemplated it as through a veil, and
awaited its coming. IT was made flesh; it brought us life; “it shone in
the darkness, but the darkness did not comprehend it.”[57]

It is not the fault of the Word or of his manifestation, says S. Thomas
on this subject, if there are minds who see not this light. There is
here, not darkness, but closed eyes.[58]

It is God himself, therefore, whom man refuses to acknowledge when he
rejects the fundamental law, which alone deserves the name of law. Human
pride and insolence go beyond forgetfulness or simple negation when they
have the audacity to put a human law in the place of and above the divine
law; which last crime is nothing less than the deification of man. This
philosophic consequence of the secularization of the law was inevitable,
and is openly displayed in modern doctrines. Atheists, properly so
called, are rare; but the present generation is infected with Pantheism.
Now, Pantheism proclaims, without disguise and without shame, the
divinity of man.

Let us add that this error is the only foundation upon which man may
logically rest to defend modern rights. It produces, with regard to
constitutions and laws, two principal effects, which it suffices but to
indicate, that every honest mind may at once recognize their existence
and their lamentable consequences.

Pantheism, firstly, destroys individualities, or, as the Germans
call them, _subjectivities_; it sweeps them away, and causes them to
disappear in the Great Whole. Do we not likewise see personality, simple
or associated--that is to say, individual liberty, associations, and
corporations--little by little reduced to annihilation by the modern idea
of the state? Does not modern theory make also of the state another grand
whole, beside which nothing private can exist?

To reach this result, they represent the state as expressing the
aggregate of all the particular wills, and they seek, in a pretended
“general will,” the supreme and infallible source of law. But even were
this will as general as theory desires, it would not be the less human,
or, by consequence, the less subject to error. Whence comes it, then,
that they make it the sovereign arbiter of good and evil, of truth and
falsehood, of justice and injustice? The Pantheists reply that “God is in
man and in the world; that he is one and the same thing with the world;
that he is identical with the nature of things, and consequently subject
to change.” The general will, the expression of the universal conscience,
is then a manifestation of the divine will; and this would allow it to
change without ever erring.

This answers all, in truth; but it may lead us too far. If, as says
Hegel, God is subjective--that is to say, if He is in man, or, more
exactly still, if He is man himself and the substance of nature--neither
right, nor law, nor justice could remain objective. In other words, if
man is God, there is no longer any possible distinction between good and
evil. And this conclusion has been drawn by the learned German socialist,
Lassalle. He denies the notion of an immutable right; he is unwilling
that we should any longer speak of the family, property, justice, etc.,
in absolute terms. According to him, these are but abstract and unreal
generalities. There have been, on all these subjects, Greek, Roman,
German, etc., ideas; but these are only historical recollections. Ideas
change, some even disappear; and if, some day, the universal conscience
should decide that the idea of proprietorship has had its day, then
would commence a new era in history, during which there could be no
longer either property or proprietors without incurring the guilt of
injustice.[59] From the stand-point of Pantheism, this reasoning is
irrefutable; and, on the other hand, we have just seen that Pantheism
alone could justify the modern theory of the general will, the supreme
arbiter of law.


VI.--HAS THE GENERAL WILL RULED SINCE 1789?

I have just quoted a socialist whose works, though little known in
France, are of extreme importance. Ferdinand Lassalle, a Jew by birth,
by nationality a Prussian, is possessed of extensive knowledge, critical
genius of the highest order, and unsparing logic. We have seen him draw
the theoretical consequences of Pantheism applied to law; and it will
not be without interest to know how he judges the practical results
of the modern theory of rights, as shown in the French Revolution.
The socialists have a special authority for speaking of “immortal
principles”; for they admit them without hesitation, and their teaching
proved that they comprehend them wonderfully.

The _Declaration of the Rights of Man_ is the most authentic summing
up of these famous principles; and it is therein that the modern
theory of law will be found most clearly stated. “Law,” says Art.
6, “is the expression of the general will. Every citizen has the
right of co-operating in its formation, either personally or by his
representatives.”

It would seem, from this solemn proclamation, that since then, or at
least in the first fervor of this “glorious” revolution, the majority
of the “sovereign people” should have been called to “form the laws.”
This has been said; it has even been supported at the mouth of the
cannon--for, as has been wittily remarked by M. de Maistre, “the masters
of these poor people have had recourse even to artillery while deriding
them. They said to them: ‘You think you do not will this law; but, be
assured, you do will it. If you dare to refuse it, we will pour upon you
a shower of shot, to punish you for not willing what you do will.’ And it
was done.”[60]

What then took place, and how did it happen that the general will,
which had undertaken to make fundamental and irrevocable laws, should
have accepted, in the first five years of its freedom, three different
constitutions and a _régime_ like that of the Reign of Terror?

Lassalle replies that it is not at all the people who made the
revolution, and that the general will was not even asked to manifest
itself. He recalls the famous pamphlet of Sieyès, and corrects its
title. It is not true, says he, that the _Tiers État_ was then nothing;
the increase of personal property has, since then, brought about a
_révolution économique_, thanks to which the _tiers état_ was, in truth,
all. But legally it was nothing, which was not much to its liking; for
the former ranks of society still existed by right, although their real
strength was not in keeping with their legal condition. The work of the
French Revolution was, therefore, to give to the _tiers état_ a legal
position suitable to its actual importance.

Now, the _tiers_, first and foremost, assumed itself to be the equivalent
of the entire people. “It considered that its cause was the cause
of humanity.” Thus the attraction was real and powerful. The voices
raised to protest were unable to make themselves heard. Our author
cites, on this subject, a curious instance of clear-sightedness. An
anti-revolutionary journal, _The Friend of the King_, exclaimed, “Who
shall say whether or not the despotism of the _bourgeoisie_ shall not
succeed the pretended aristocracy of the nobility?”

It is this, indeed, which has come to pass, continues Lassalle; the
_tiers état_ has become, in its turn, the privileged class. The proof is
that the wealth of the citizen became immediately the legal condition of
power in the state.

Since 1791, in the constitution of Sept. 3 we find (chap. i., sects. 1
and 2) a distinction established between active citizens and passive
citizens. The former are those who pay a certain quota of direct
contribution; and they alone possess the right of voting. Moreover,
all hired laborers were declared not active; and this excluded workmen
from the right of voting. It matters little that the tax was small; the
principle was laid down requiring some amount of fortune in order to
exercise a political right. “The wealth of the citizen had become the
condition necessary for obtaining power in the state, as nobility or
landed property had been in the Middle Ages.”

The principle of the vote-tax held sway until the recent introduction of
universal suffrage.

Our socialist, proceeding directly to the question of taxes, proves
that the _bourgeoisie moderne_, without inventing indirect taxation,
has nevertheless made it the basis of an entire system, and has settled
upon it all the expenses of state. Now, indirect taxes are such as are
levied beforehand upon all necessaries, as salt, corn, beer, meat, fuel,
or, still more, upon what we need for our protection--the expenses of
the administration of justice, stamped paper, etc. Generally, in making
a purchase, the buyer pays the tax, without perceiving that it is that
which increases the price. Now, it is clear that because an individual
is twenty, fifty, or a hundred times richer, it does not follow that he
will, on that account, consume twenty, fifty, or a hundred times more
salt, bread, meat, etc., than a workman or a person of humble condition.
Thus it happens that the great body of indirect taxes is paid by the
poorest classes (from the single fact that they are the most numerous).
Thus is it brought about, in a hidden way, that the _tiers état_ pay
relatively less taxes than the _quatrième état_.

Concerning the instruction of adults, Lassalle says that, instead of
being left to the clergy as heretofore, it now in fact belongs to
the daily press. But securities, stamps, and advertisements give to
journalism another privilege of capital.[61]

This sketch suffices; and I deem it needless to add that I am far from
concluding with the socialists. I am so much the more free to disagree
with them as I do not by any means admit the “immortal principles,” but
it seems to me to follow evidently from the preceding observations that
it is not true, in fact, that the general will has made the laws since
1789.


VII.--DOES UNIVERSAL SUFFRAGE EXPRESS THE GENERAL WILL?

Has the introduction of universal suffrage modified, in any great degree,
this state of things? Is it any more certain since 1848, than before,
that the nation is governed by the general will? We may content ourselves
here by appealing to the testimony of honest men. If the general will
were truly the master of all the powers in France, our country, which
to-day, so it is said, has only the government that it desires, would
be a model of union and concord; there could be in the opposition party
only an exceedingly small minority (otherwise the term general would be
unjustifiable), and we would follow peacefully the ways most pleasing to
us.

This would not be saying--mark it well!--that those ways are good. That
is another question, to which we will return; but now we are dealing with
the question, Are our laws to-day formed or not formed by the general
will, according to the formula which I have quoted from the _Declaration
of the Rights of Man_?

Notwithstanding the evidence for the negative, I think it well here to
analyze hastily that which M. Taine has just given in a little pamphlet
containing many truths.[62] M. Taine, being a free-thinker and a man of
the times, cannot be suspected of taking an ultramontane or clerical view
of the case.

M. Taine is far from demanding the abolition of universal suffrage. He
believes it in conformity with justice; for he does not admit that his
money can be demanded or he himself sent to the frontier without his
own consent, either expressed or tacit. His only wish is that the right
of suffrage be not illusory, and that the electoral law be adapted “to
the French of 1791, to the peasant, the workman, etc.,” be he “stupid,
ignorant, or ill-informed.” From this M. Taine proves at the outset that
the ballot-roll is a humbug; and I believe that no person of sense will
contest the point. He immediately enters upon a statistical examination
of the composition of the elective world in France; and he arrives at
the following result: “Of twenty voters, ten are peasants, four workmen,
three demi-bourgeois, three educated men, comfortable or rich. Now, the
electoral law, as all law, should have regard to the majority, to the
first fourteen.” It behooves us, then, to know who these fourteen are
who are called to frame the law; that is to say, to decide, by their
representatives it is true, but sovereignly, on good and evil, justice
and injustice, and, necessarily, the fate of the country.

M. Taine, in this connection, makes some new calculations which may be
thus summed up: The rural population embraces seventy out of one hundred
of the entire population, hence fourteen voters out of twenty. Now, in
France, there are thirty-nine illiterate out of every hundred males,
almost all belonging to the classes which M. Taine numbers among the
rural population; which enables him to find that seven out of every
fourteen rural voters cannot even read. I may observe, in passing, that
a peasant who cannot read, but who knows his catechism, may be of a much
sounder morality than M. Taine himself; but I willingly proclaim that the
seven electors in question could and should have a mediocre political
intelligence.

This agreeable writer recounts, in a spicy way, a number of anecdotes
which prove “the ignorance and credulity” of the rural populations on
similar matters; and he thence concludes that the peasants “are still
subjects, but under a nameless master.” This is precisely what I said
at the beginning, not only of peasants, but of all modern people in
general. Be there a king on the throne or not, somebody decrees this,
somebody decrees that; and the subject depends, in a hundred ways, on
this abstract and undetermined somebody--“Through the collector, through
the mayor, through the sub-inspector of forests, through the commissary
of police, through the field-keeper, through the clerks of justice, for
making a door, for felling a tree, building a shed, opening a stall,
transporting a cask of wine, etc., etc.”

All this expresses well and depicts admirably the ways of modern liberty;
and I cannot refrain from citing this last sketch, equally amusing and
true: “The mayor knows that in town, in an elegant apartment, is a worthy
gentleman, attired in broidered gown, who receives him two or three times
a year, speaks to him with authority and condescension, and often puts to
him embarrassing questions. But when this gentleman goes away, another
takes his place quite similar and in the same garb, and the mayor, on
his return home, says with satisfaction: ‘Monsieur the prefect always
preserves his good will towards me, although he has been changed many
times.’”

The _plébiscite_, the appeal to the people, the invitation to vote on the
form of government, addressed to this kind of electors--is it not all
a cunning trick? M. Taine thinks so, and many others with him; but he
supposes that this same elector will be, at least, capable of “choosing
the particular man in whom he has most confidence.” It is with him,
says he, in the choice of one who shall make the laws, as in the choice
of the physician or the lawyer whom one may prefer. Although it is not
my intention to discuss here the opinions of this author, I beg him to
remark that his comparison is strikingly faulty; we cannot choose whom
we please for our physician or for our lawyer. The former is obliged to
go through a course of studies in order to merit his diploma; the latter
must fulfil the conditions necessary to be admitted to the bar. To frame
the laws is another thing; not the slightest preparation is exacted from
those eligible to this duty. Apparently it is not considered worth the
trouble.

The ballot-roll and _plébiscite_ being disposed of, M. Taine returns
to figures, to study what transpires when the electors are called upon
to choose a deputy by district. This gives, says he, one deputy for
twenty thousand voters spread over a surface of one thousand kilometres
square, etc. Of the twenty thousand voters, how many will have a definite
opinion of the candidate presented to them? Scarcely one in ten beyond
the outskirts of the town; scarcely one in four or five in the whole
district. There remains the resource of advice; but “the spirit of
equality is all-powerful, and the hierarchy is wanting.”

We touch here the most sorrowful wound of our social state; and this term
even, is it not misapplied?--for we have no longer any order, or, by
consequence, any social state. “As a general rule,” continues M. Taine,
“the country people receive counsel only from their equals.” Therefore
it is easy to employ evil means. These evil means may be summed up,
according to the same author, in the abuse of governmental influence,
and in a corruption whose form varies, but which makes the affair of an
election an affair of money.

There should be, and I have alluded to it in passing, many exceptions
made with regard to what M. Taine says concerning the rural population.
He believes them manifestly less able to vote than the city populations,
while I am of quite the contrary opinion; but it still remains true that
direct universal suffrage, such as we have, does not allow a person
to choose from a knowledge of the case, and that, in reality, the
general will has not, up to the present day, been able to find its true
expression.

This is all that I need prove for the present.


VIII.--IS THE GENERAL WILL COMPETENT TO MAKE LAWS?

This is a still higher question, and one which we must now approach.
Admitting that the general will could make itself known, is it an
authority competent to make laws?

But before starting let us lay down a first principle which, quite
elementary as it is, seems to be as much forgotten as the others: if
the natural law exist not anteriorly to enjoin respect for human laws,
human power would have no other ground of existence, no other support
than force. Without a divine lawgiver, there is, in truth, no moral
obligation.[63] The hypothesis of a previous agreement among the members
of society would not resolve the difficulty; for an agreement would not
be able to bind any one, at least if there were no higher authority to
secure it.[64]

Whatever may be the immediate origin of law--be it promulgated by
a sovereign, enacted by an assembly, or directly willed by the
multitude--it would still be unable to rule, if we do not suppose a
law anterior and, as Cicero says, eternal, which, in the first place,
prescribes obedience to subjects, and, in the second, fidelity to
reciprocal engagements, promises, and oaths. This superior law being the
natural law, it is always, and in every case, impossible to suppress or
to elude it.

Meanwhile, what is understood by the general will? Is it the unanimity
of wills? No one, so far as I know, has ever exacted this condition.
The question is, then, taking things at their best, of the will of the
majority. People grant this, and often give to our modern governments
the name of governments of the majority. They deduce then from this
principle, that in a population of thirty millions of men, for example,
it is lawful that the will of the twenty millions should rule over that
of the remaining ten millions. If the constitution of a kingdom, says
Burke, is an arithmetical problem, the calculation is just; but if the
minority refuse to submit, the majority will be able to govern only by
the aid of _la lanterne_.[65]

Scaffolds, shootings, exile, prison--such are, in truth, the institutions
which have chiefly flourished since the famous _Declaration of the Rights
of Man_.

In the eyes of a man who knows how to reason, continues the English
orator, this opinion is ridiculous.

It could not be justified, unless it were well proved that the majority
of men are enlightened, virtuous, wise, self-sacrificing, and incapable
of preferring their own interest to that of others. No one has ever dared
to say that legislators should make laws for the sake of making them, and
without troubling themselves concerning the welfare of those for whom the
laws are made. Now, the laws being made for all, the majority, if it had
the qualities necessary for legislating, should concern itself still more
about the minority than about itself.

The Comte de la Marck[66] relates that when Mirabeau became too much
excited concerning the rights and privileges of man, it happened
sometimes that he amused himself by curtailing his accounts. He cut off
first women, children, the ignorant, the vicious, etc. Once, the nation
being thus reduced to the little portion whose moral qualities it became
necessary to estimate, “I began,” says he, “to deduct those who lack
reason, those who have false notions, those who value their own interests
above everything, those who lack education and knowledge matured by
reflection; and I then asked him if the men who merit to be spoken of
with dignity and respect would not find themselves reduced to a number
infinitely small. Now, according to my principle, I maintained that the
government should act _for_ the people, and not _by_ them--that is to
say, not by the opinion of the multitude; and I proved, by historical
extracts and by examples which we had unfortunately under our eyes, that
reason and good sense fly from men in proportion as they are gathered
together in greater numbers.”

Mirabeau contented himself with replying that one must flatter the people
in order to govern them, which amounts to saying that one must cheat them.

For the rest, this same Mirabeau acknowledged that equality, in the
revolutionary sense, is absurd, and the passion which some have for it
he called a violent paroxysm. It is he who best characterized the true
result of the destruction of all social order. He called it “vanity’s
upsetting.” He could not have spoken better; and the vanity which
goes so low could have no other result than that which we behold--the
premeditated absence or suppression of all true superiority.

This episode on equality is not a digression, for the system of
majorities supposes it. Now, it is absolutely anti-natural. According to
the beautiful idea of Aristotle:[67] there is in man himself a soul and
a body; the one predominating and made to command, the other to obey; the
equality or the shifting of power between these two elements would be
equally fatal to them. It is the same between man and the other animals,
between tame animals and wild. The harmony of sex is analogous, and we
even find some traces of this principle in inanimate objects; as, for
example, in the harmony of sounds. Therefore S. Augustine defines order
thus: “Such a disposition of things similar and dissimilar as shall give
to each what is proper to it”--_Ordo est parium dispariumque rerum sua
cuique tribuens dispositio_;[68] and S. Thomas hence concludes that order
supposes inequality: _Nomen ordinis inæqualitatem importat_.[69]

But the “immortal principles” have changed all that, according to
Sganarelle; so their work, in its final analysis, results in a disorder
without name.

The external disorder is visible and pretty generally acknowledged; but
the moral disorder passes unperceived. By means of equality on the one
hand, and of the secularization of the law on the other, they arrive at
this frightful result: for example, that regicide and parricide are, in
justice, but ordinary crimes; if, moreover, regicide profits the people,
it is worthy of eulogy. Sacrilege is nothing more than a superstitious
fiction. In fine, _respect_ being no longer possible nor even reasonable,
according to the prediction of Burke,[70] “the laws have no other
guardian than terror, … and in perspective, from our point of view, we
see but scaffolds,” or courts-martial, which amount to the same thing.


IX.--CONSEQUENCES OF THE SECULARIZATION OF LAW.

How often do we not hear it said that almost all our misfortunes, and,
above all, our inability to repair our losses, come from the little
respect we have for the law! This statement, which has become almost
trite, indicates most frequently a strange wandering. After having
destroyed respect for persons, is it not absurd to claim it for their
works? But they have done more: they have denied the mission of a
legislator. The secularization of the law--that is to say, the denial of
a divine sanction applied to law--has no other meaning. Legislators being
no longer the mandataries of God, or not wishing to be such, now speak
only in virtue of their own lights, and have no real commission. By what
title, then, would you have us respect them? Every one is at liberty to
prefer his own lights and to believe that he would have done better.

I hear the reply: “It is to the interest of all that order should reign,
were it but materially, and the law is the principal means of maintaining
order.” You may hence conclude that it would be more advantageous to see
the laws obeyed; but a motive of interest is not a motive of respect, and
there is a certain class of individuals who may gain by the disorder. No,
you will have the right to claim respect for the law only when you shall
have rendered the law truly respectable; and to do this you must prove
that you have the mission to make the law, even were you the _élite_ of
our statesmen and doctors of the law, and much more if you are but a
collection of the most uncultivated tax-payers in the world.

Knowledge is something; it is something also to represent real and
considerable interests; and I do not deny the relative importance of
the elements of which legislative bodies are composed. But nothing of
all this can supply the place of a commission; and you will have that
only when you shall have consented, as legislators, to acknowledge the
existence of God, to submit yourselves to his laws, and to conform your
own thereto.

People have but a very inadequate idea of the disastrous consequences
which, one day or other, may ensue from the secularization of law. Until
now the only danger of which they have dreamed is that with which extreme
revolution menaces us.

This is a danger so imminent, so undisguised, that every one sees it; and
some have ended by understanding that without a return to God society is
destined to fall. Nay, more, the Assembly now sitting at Versailles has
made an act of faith by ordering public prayers; and this first step has
caused hope to revive in the hearts of men of good-will. But it is not,
perhaps, inopportune to draw the attention of serious men to another
phase of the question.

What would happen if modern law should go so far as to enjoin a crime
upon Christians? The hypothesis is not purely imaginary; and although,
happily, thanks to Heaven, it has not yet come to pass, there is a whole
party which threatens to reach this extreme. In other countries there has
been something like a beginning of its realization. I would like to speak
of the school law and the avowed project of imposing a compulsory and lay
education. We know what is meant by _lay_ in such a case; and experience
proves that the state schools are often entrusted to men whose avowed
intention is to bring up the children in infidelity. What would happen if
such a law were passed, which supposes that everywhere, at the same time,
parents would be compelled to put their children in imminent danger of
losing their faith? The Catholic Church is very explicit in her doctrine
on the obligation of obeying even a bad government; she orders that
useless, unjust, and even culpable laws be borne with, so long as this
can be done without exposing one’s self to commit a sin. Neither plunder
nor the danger of death excuses revolt in her eyes. But in this case do
we understand to what we would be reduced? To resist passively, and to
allow one’s self to be punished by fines, by prison, by torture, or by
death, would not remedy the evil; the soul of the child remains without
defence, and the father is responsible for it. This kind of persecution
is, then, more serious in its consequences, and may lead to deeper
troubles, than even the direct persecution, which might consist, for
example, in exacting apostasy from adults. In this last case the martyr
bears all, and the first Christians have shown us the way; but here the
torments of the parents cannot save the children, and the parents cannot
abandon them; whatever becomes of the body, the soul must be guarded
until death.

It belongs not to me to decide; for in this case, as in all those of a
similar kind, the line of conduct to be followed ought to be traced by
the only competent authority; but the problem is worth proposing, and by
it alone it is already easy to throw great light on the abysses to which
the atheism of the law is leading the people by rapid strides.


X.--CHRISTIAN DEFINITION OF NATURAL LAW.

It remains to explain in a few words the great principles which should
form the basis of law, and which were never completely ignored until
these days of aberration and wretchedness. I could not expect to give
here, in these few pages, a course of natural law, nor even to trace its
outline; but there are some perfectly incontestable truths which it is
very necessary to recall since people have forgotten them. When one has
no personal authority, he feels a certain timidity in broaching so grave
a subject, and in speaking of it as if he aspired to enlighten his kind;
and meanwhile error is insinuated, preached, disseminated, commanded,
with a skill so infernal and a success so great that ignorance of truth
is almost unbounded. Of such elementary rules we often find influential
persons, and sometimes persons of real merit, totally ignorant. In other
days they would have known them on leaving school, or even from their
catechism.

Let us go back, then, to the definition of the word nature, and it will
serve as a starting-point from which to treat of what the laws destined
to govern man should be.

The nature of a being is that which renders it capable of attaining its
end. This is true of a plant or an animal as well as of man; but there
are two kinds of ends subordinate one to the other. The end for which God
created the world could be no other than God himself.[71] The Creator
could only propose to himself an end worthy of himself, and, he alone
being perfect, he could not find outside himself an end proportioned to
his greatness. God is, then, the last end of all creatures. But there
are particular ends; and it is in their subordination that the order of
the world consists. The primary ends are, in a certain sense, but a means
for arriving at the last end.

But God being unable to add anything to his infinite perfection, the end
which he proposed to himself could not be to render himself more perfect;
hence he could seek only an exterior glory, which consists in manifesting
himself to his creatures. For this it was necessary that some of these
creatures should be capable of knowing him. These reasonable creatures
are superior to the others and are their primary end; therefore it is
that theologians call man a microcosm, a compendium of the universe, and
king of the world.

Man is placed in creation to admire it, and by means of it to render
homage to God; for, in his quality of a creature gifted with reason,
he knows his end, which is God, and the essential characteristic of
his nature is the ability to attain this end. He is, moreover, endowed
with an admirable prerogative--liberty, or free-will; that is to say,
he is called on to will this end; and God, in his infinite bounty, will
recompense him for having willed his own good. But man has need of an
effort to will good; for his primitive nature has been corrupted by the
original fall. He has, therefore, an inclination to evil, against which
he must incessantly struggle; and the greatest number of political and
social errors have their source in ignorance or forgetfulness of this
perversion of human nature.

This granted, the natural law comprises the obligations imposed on man in
order that he may reach his end, together with the prohibition of all
that could turn him away from it. This law obliges all men, even those
who have no knowledge of the positive divine law--that is to say, the
revealed law.

Behold how Gerson has defined it:

“The natural law is a sign imprinted upon the heart of every man enjoying
the right use of reason, and which makes known to him the divine will, in
virtue of which the human creature is required to do certain things and
to avoid certain others, in order to reach his end.” Among the precepts
which God has engraved upon the hearts of all men is found, in the first
rank, that which obliges them to refer themselves to God as to their last
end.

From this it follows that every law which tends to hinder or prevent the
progress of men toward God is a law against nature, and consequently null
(_lex injusta non est lex_); for no human law can change or abrogate the
natural law.


XI.--CONTINUATION: THE END OF SOCIETY ACCORDING TO THE NATURAL LAW.

The considerations of the preceding chapter have reference to man
considered abstractly from society. But man cannot exist alone. For life
and subsistence, during his early childhood, he has need of his kind; so
that, from the first moment of his existence, he forms part of a domestic
society--the family.

The family being certainly of divine institution, and the duties which
it imposes being of the number of those which the natural law commands,
we find therein the first elements of all society: authority, hierarchy,
consequently inequality, mutual love, and protection--in a word, varied
and reciprocal duties. But the family suffices not for man’s social
cravings. Man naturally longs after his like; he possesses the marvellous
gift of speech for communication with his fellows; he bears engraven on
his heart the first precept of his duty towards them: “Do unto others
that which you would have others do unto you; and do not unto them that
which you would not that they do to you.” The existence of society is,
therefore, still a law of nature.

Once formed, society itself has its duties; it has its proper end, which
not only should not be opposed to the end of man considered singly, but
should moreover contribute to facilitate the attainment of that end. The
end of man being God, and this end being attainable only by virtue, the
principal end of society will necessarily be to aid men in the practice
of virtue; and, that I may not be accused of depending exclusively on
theology, I will adduce what Aristotle has said on this subject: “The
most perfect state is evidently that in which each citizen, whoever he
may be, may, by favor of the laws, best practise virtue and be most
secure of happiness.”[72] And what is happiness, according to Aristotle?
“We consider it a point perfectly established that happiness is always
in proportion to wisdom; … [for] the soul, speaking absolutely and even
relatively to us, is more precious than wealth and the body.… Following
the laws of nature, all exterior goods are desirable only insomuch as
they serve the soul, and wise men should not desire them except for this
end; whereas the soul should never be placed in comparison with them.”[73]

We are assuredly far off from this pagan, and he goes still further
even than the foregoing; for he lays down as incontestable a principle
which is the formal condemnation of the secularization of the law. “The
elements of happiness,” says he, “are the same for the individual and
for the city.”[74] We have just seen what he understands by happiness;
but he adds, in order that he may be the better comprehended, that if
the felicity of the individual consisted in wealth, it would be the same
for the city. According to Aristotle, therefore, the moral law obliges
society as it does the individual. Now, it is precisely this which the
partisans of atheistical or merely secular law deny.


XII.--CHRISTIAN LAW.

I have designedly quoted the ancient philosophers, because certain
diseased minds who shrink from the authority of the sacred books accept
more willingly that of the learned; but I believe that from what precedes
one could easily infer the true rule of the relations between church and
state. I will not undertake it now; nevertheless, as I address myself,
by preference, to those who profess the same faith as myself, I will
take the liberty to point out to them some inevitable corollaries of the
principles I have just recalled.

The natural law, properly so called, has been confirmed and completed
by revelation. Although the precepts whose observance is indispensable
to man to reach his end are engraven in the depths of his heart, the
blindness and the evil propensities which are the consequences of his
fall render him but too forgetful of his duties. Besides, God, having
resolved to save man, chose to himself a privileged people, that from it
he might cause the Messias to be born; and for the accomplishment of his
merciful designs he guided this people and made it the guardian of his
law, even to the day on which the promises were fulfilled.

To this end God charged Moses with the promulgation of a positive
divine law which contained moral precepts--precepts relating to the
ceremonies of the ancient worship--and political precepts; that is to
say, precepts relating to the civil government of the Jewish people. The
last two classes of precepts no longer oblige; but those which concern
morals--that is to say, those of the Decalogue--retain all their force,
because they are the precepts of the natural law.

But it is no longer by virtue of the promulgation of Moses that we are
bound by the moral obligations contained in the old law. He who is our
Judge, our Legislator, our King,[75] has come himself to give us a more
perfect law: “Mandatum novum do vobis” (Joan. 13). According to the
expression of Suarez, Jesus Christ has made known more perfectly the
natural law in completing it by new precepts. Jesus Christ has done
still more: he has founded a new kingdom--the church, the mystical body,
of which he is the head. He has, therefore, appointed interpreters and
guardians of his law, who have the mission to proclaim it to those who
know it not; to pardon in his name those who, having violated it, confess
and repent; and, finally, to distribute the numberless succors of divine
grace--all which have for their object to help us to observe the law
as perfectly as possible, and consequently to enable us ourselves to
approach perfection. The new precepts added by Christ to those of the
natural law are those which enjoin upon us the use of the sacraments and
which determine their form; these articles of the new law--if we may be
allowed so to term them--are all as obligatory as those of the natural
law, because they have God himself for their author. Behold how S. Thomas
sums up the whole of the new law, or the law of grace, which Christ came
to bring us: “It comprises,” says he, “the precepts of the natural law,
the articles of faith, and the sacraments of grace.”

One of the most remarkable characteristics of the Christian law is that
it was not written. Jesus Christ _spoke_ his commandments, and, _his
word being divine_, it engraved them upon the hearts of his apostles and
disciples;[76] but the Incarnate Word had nothing written during the
time he spent upon earth. The first Gospel appeared at least eight years
after the death of Jesus Christ. If to this observation we add the common
belief of theologians, according to which it was only from the coming of
the Holy Ghost--that is to say, from the day of Pentecost and after the
Ascension--that the law of Christ became obligatory, we arrive at this
conclusion: that the means of oral teaching was expressly chosen by the
Word for the transmission of his law and his will.

Nothing throws greater light upon the sovereign importance of the church
and its hierarchy; nothing manifests better the extreme necessity of
a permanent infallibility residing somewhere in the mystical body of
Christ. The Council of the Vatican, conformably to the tradition of
all Christian ages, has _defined_ that “the Roman Pontiff enjoys the
plenitude of that infallibility with which it was necessary for the
church to be provided in defining doctrine touching faith or morals.”

These last words show that the Pope is the unfailing interpreter of
the natural law, and the judge, from whom there is no appeal of its
violations.

The decisions given by the Sovereign Pontiff upon human laws are not
recognized at the present day by the powers of the earth. But neither
is God recognized; and thus it is that, little by little violence has
overrun the world and law has vanished. Europe is returning to a worse
than primitive barbarism; and Catholics are no longer alone in saying it.

At the epoch at which the bishops were gathered together at Rome for the
last council, a publicist of great merit, an Englishman and a Protestant,
speaking in the name of his co-religionists, addressed an appeal to the
Pope entreating him to labor for the re-establishment of the rights of
the people.

The rights of the people, or the law of nature, said Mr. Urquhart,
is the Ten Commandments applied to society. After having cited Lord
Mansfield, who says that this right “is considered to form part of the
English law,” and that “_the acts_ of the government cannot alter it,”
Mr. Urquhart fears not to add “that it is against their governments that
nations should protect this right.” And why did this Protestant appeal
to Rome? Because, in sight of the unjust wars which ravage Europe, he
hoped that the Ecumenical Council “would lay down a rule enabling
Catholics to distinguish the just from the unjust; so that the Pope might
afterwards exercise juridical power over communities, nations, and their
sovereigns.”[77]

The rule exists; for the natural or divine law engraven by God from the
beginning upon the hearts of all men, and more expressly revealed in the
Decalogue, was the subject of the teaching of Christ. The juridical power
and the tribunal from which there is no appeal equally exist; but the
voice of the judge is no longer listened to by those who govern human
society. But it is not this which is important, and Mr. Urquhart is
right--it is the nations which should invoke against their new tyrants
the only efficacious protection; it is the people who should first bend
before the beneficent authority of the infallible master of the moral
law; there would then be no further need of the consent of governments.


XIII.--CONCLUSION.

I said, in beginning the last paragraph, that it was addressed to
Catholics by right of corollary from the preceding considerations. It is
certain, indeed, that if all Catholics were truly instructed and well
convinced of the truths that I have endeavored to set forth as briefly
and clearly as I could, a great step in the right path would already have
been taken.

But there is a much-used, widely-spread, and very convenient objection
which many excellent men fail not to proffer in such a case. “It is
true,” say they, “that if human discussions and quarrels could be
referred to the highest moral authority on earth, it would afford great
advantages; but this is not _practicable_. Times have changed, and it is
impossible to hope that this authority can ever recover the influence it
would require in order to act efficaciously.”

If good men adhere to the fatal habit they have acquired of renouncing
beforehand all effort, for fear it will not be successful, nothing can
be done; and there remains to us nothing but to veil our faces while
awaiting the destruction of our country and of all organized society. But
even were we reduced to despair, we never have the right of renouncing
our convictions nor of ceasing to act personally according to the
prescriptions of our faith. Before concerning ourselves about the doings
of others, and without needing to count on success, we must begin by
conforming ourselves to the teachings of truth, which is by its nature
unchangeable; for there is no progress or civilization which can alter
one iota of the divine laws.

Moreover, he is very bold who would dare to predict what Europe will or
will not be several years hence. Either it is condemned--and then, for
his own peace of mind, a man should allow himself to be guided by his
conscience with the full certainty of not doing wrong--or God wills to
save Europe still another time; and this can never be, save by truth.

With regard to practical means, of which they make so much at the present
day, I see no one who proposes them inspiring any confidence. Every one
hesitates, gropes, and most often acknowledges that he can only invent.
The present hour is favorable to good, in this sense: that the greater
number of _practical_ errors no longer exercise the same seduction as at
the beginning of the century.

Evil presses us on all sides, and, according to the expression of one
of our most distinguished publicists, “1789 has failed.”[78] After 1789
there is no middle way between social war and the return to good. We meet
at every step upright minds who break their idols; there are too many who
know not yet with what to replace them, but it is still much to have seen
one’s error.

Furthermore, there are untiring seekers, some of whom have found the
whole truth, and others who find but the fragments; all help to prepare
the way for the reconstruction of the social edifice. He to whom I have
dedicated this work[79] will pardon me, I hope, if I quote from him. I
do not believe that there is another example of an equal influence so
rapidly exercised by a book so serious, so grave in matter, so little
attractive to the frivolous reader, as that which he has written upon
_Social Reform_. To rediscover social truth by the method of observation
and analysis was already a phenomenon which I consider unique of its
kind; to cause it to be adopted by so great a number of minds biassed
and filled with hostile prejudices, and most frequently badly prepared
by their previous studies, is a fact still more astonishing. Thus, as I
said in my dedicatory epistle, it is impossible for me not to see herein
one of the most consoling signs of our age. The scientific processes of
M. Le Play were, perhaps, the only ones which would find favor with a
generation so dialectical and so enamored with the exact sciences as ours.

Notwithstanding the sorrows which oppress us, we must not despair; and,
above all, we must not trouble ourselves too much concerning the errors
of what people agree to call public opinion.

The errors regarding the general will reproduce themselves, under another
form, in the uneasiness which this self-styled queen of the world instils
into the minds of men of good-will. If we consider closely what the
elements of opinion are, we very quickly perceive that, in general, it
merits the name of public only because it proclaims itself very loudly
and makes itself known in all the public squares. In reality, a party
much less considerable than we suppose announces to the world, and
imagines, most frequently in good faith, that it alone is enlightened.
Its boldness inspires awe, and by degrees those who compose it succeed
in persuading the multitude, and in persuading themselves that they
represent the only _opinion_ worthy of note. And who are these?
Financiers and journalists who carry on business in common; loud-voiced
lawyers; professors much tainted themselves; officers occupying
a position, and others wishing to obtain one from them; the idle
pleasure-seeking men and women. Is it, then, true that these represent
the nation?

Eager for their own interest or for that of others, these pretended
echoes of public opinion are wont to say “The people believe, the people
wish, the people will never consent, it does not suit the people, etc.
What a pity! The people are nothing in revolutions in which they are
but passive instruments. France no longer ardently desires anything
except repose. At first sight this proposition would seem true--the
previous consent of the French is necessary for the re-establishment
of the monarchy. Nothing is more false. The multitude never obtains
what it wills; it always accepts, it never chooses. We may even notice
an _affectation_ of Providence (if I may be allowed the expression),
inasmuch as the efforts of the people to attain an object are the very
means which it makes use of to withdraw them from it.

“In the French Revolution the people were constantly chained, outraged,
ruined, torn by factions; and the factions, in their turn, the sport of
one another, constantly drifted (notwithstanding all their efforts), only
to be dashed against the rock which awaited them.… In the establishment
and the overthrow of sovereignties … the mass of the people enter only as
the wood and the cord employed by a machinist. Their chiefs even are such
only to strangers; in reality, they are led as they lead the people. When
the proper moment shall arrive, the Supreme Ruler of empires will chase
away these noisy insects. Then we shall be astonished at the profound
nothingness of these men.

“Do people imagine that the political world goes on by chance, and
that it is not organized, directed, animated, by the same wisdom which
shines in the physical world? Great malefactors who overthrow the state
necessarily produce melancholy, internal dismemberments … but when man
labors to re-establish order, he associates himself with the Author of
order, he is favored by nature--that is to say, by the aggregate of
secondary causes which are the instruments of the Divinity. His action
has something divine; it is at once gentle and powerful; it forces
nothing and nothing resists it.”[80]

These beautiful words are as true to-day as in 1797.


DURATION.

II

All change implies succession. Hence the duration of contingent beings,
inasmuch as they are subject to actual change, involves succession. The
duration of the changes brought about by purely spiritual operations
transcends our experience; for we are not pure spirits. Hence we have
no means of measuring such changes by their intrinsic measure. But the
duration of the changes which occur in the material world through local
movements lies within the range of our apprehensive faculty, and can be
measured by us; for we find in nature many movements which, by their
constant recurrence and their uniformity, are calculated to serve as
terms of comparison for measuring the length of successive duration.

_Definitions of time._--The duration of local movement, which we measure
by a given standard, is called “time.” And therefore time may be properly
and adequately defined as the duration of local movement: _Duratio
motus_. From this definition it immediately follows that where there is
no movement there can be no time. Accordingly, there was no time before
creation, as there was no movement. It follows also that the duration of
created things, inasmuch as it expresses the permanence of those things
in their own being, is not time; for it is of the essence of time to be
successive, and there is no succession where there is no change, and
no change without movement. Hence, when we say that contingent beings
exist in time, we do not refer to their essence or substance as such,
but to their successive modes of being, by which their duration acquires
its accidental successivity. Were the whole world reduced to perfect
stillness by impeding or suspending the actions and movements of all
creatures, time would at the same instant cease to flow; for time is not
the duration of things, but the duration of movement.

Time may be considered either as a _relation_ or as a _quantity_.
In fact, intervals of successive duration are, like distances, real
relations; but when we think of the greater or less extent of space
which can be measured with a given velocity between two correlated terms
of time, these same intervals exhibit themselves under the form of
continuous quantities.

Time, as a relation, is defined by S. Thomas and by all the ancients
as _Ratio prioris et posterioris motus_--that is, as the link between
the “before” and the “after” of any movement; and, as a quantity, it
is defined as _Numerus motus_--that is, as a number arising from the
mensuration of the movement. This movement is always local, as we have
already intimated; for we cannot measure successive duration by any other
kind of movement. Hence it is that the duration which is predicated of
spiritual substances and of their operations differs in kind from our
time. For, since such substances are not subjected to local movements,
their duration cannot be measured in terms of space and velocity, as our
time, but only in terms of intellectual movements, which have nothing
common with the periodical revolutions from which we desume the measure
of our days, years, and centuries. When we say that angels have existed
for centuries, we measure the duration of their existence by a measure
which is altogether extrinsic to them; and in the same manner we measure
the duration of our own intellectual operations by a measure extrinsic
to them--that is, by comparing it with the duration of some movement
occurring in our bodies or in the surrounding world.

Since time is the duration of movement, it is plain that when we perceive
movement we immediately perceive time; and since movement implies a
continuous change, it is plain also that the greater the number of
changes we can distinctly perceive in a given succession, the better
we realize the flowing of time. It is for this reason that time seems
longer in sickness or in a sleepless night than in good health and
in a pleasurable occupation; for gladness and amusement distract our
minds, and do not allow us to reflect enough on what is going on around
us; whilst anything which affects us painfully calls our attention to
ourselves and to our sensations, and thus causes us to reflect on a
great number of movements to which in other circumstances we would pay
no attention at all. It is for this reason, also, that when we are fast
asleep we have no perception of the flowing of time. The moment one falls
asleep he ceases to perceive the succession of changes, both interior
and exterior, from the consideration of which time should be estimated;
hence, when he awakes, he instinctively unites the present _now_ with
that in which he fell asleep, as if there had been no intermediate time.
Thus, in the same manner as there is no time without movement, there is
no actual perception of time without the actual perception of movement.

_Measure of time._--We have said that time, as a quantity, is measured
by movement. The sense of this proposition is that a body moving with
uniform velocity describes spaces proportional to the times employed;
and therefore, if we assume as a unit of measure the time employed in
describing a certain unit of space with a given velocity, the duration
of the movement will contain as many units of time as there are units of
space measured by that velocity. Thus, if the revolution of the earth
around its axis is taken as the unit of movement, and its duration, or
the day, as the unit of time, the number of days will increase at the
same rate as the number of revolutions. Speaking in general, if the time
employed in describing uniformly a space _v_ be taken as a unit of time,
and _t_ be the time employed in describing uniformly a space _s_ with the
same constant velocity, we have the proportion--

    _s_:_v_::_t_:1.

The unit of time is necessarily arbitrary or conventional. For there is
no natural unit of measure in continuous quantities whose divisibility
has no end, as we have explained in a preceding article.

The space _v_ uniformly described in the unit of time represents the
velocity of the movement; and therefore the duration of the movement
comprises as many units of time as there are units in the ratio of the
space to the constant velocity with which it is measured. In other
terms, time is the ratio of the space described to the velocity with
which it is described.

We often hear it said that as time is measured by movement, so also
movement is measured by time. But this needs explanation. When we say
that time is measured by movement, we mean that time is represented by
the ratio of the space to the velocity with which it is described, or
by the ratio of the material extension to the formal extending of the
movement; for the proportion above deduced gives

    _t_ = _s_/_v_,

where _s_ represents the length of the movement in space (which length
is its material constituent) and _v_ represents its intensity (which is
its formal constituent). On the other hand, when we say that movement
is measured by time, we either mean that the ratio of the space to the
velocity is represented by the time employed in the movement, and thus
we merely interchange the members of our equation, by which no new
conclusion can be reached; or we mean that the length and the velocity of
the movement are measured by time. But this cannot be; for our equation
gives for the length of the movement

    _s_ = _vt_;

and this shows that time alone cannot measure the length of the space
described. On the other hand, the same equation gives for the velocity

    _v_ = _s_/_t_;

and this shows that time is not the measure of velocity, as the one
diminishes when the other increases.

This suffices to show that the phrase “movement is measured by time”
must be interpreted in a very limited sense, as simply meaning that
between movement and time there is a necessary connection, and that, all
other things remaining equal, the length of the movement is proportional
to the length of the time employed. Yet this does not mean that the
length of the movement depends entirely on the time employed, for the
same length may be described in different times; but it means that the
time employed depends on the material and formal extent of the movement,
as above explained; for, according as we take different velocities,
different lengths will be described in equal time, and equal lengths in
different times. It is not the time that extends the movement, but it is
the movement that by its extension extends its own time.

The true measure of movement is its velocity; for the measure of any
given quantity is a unit of the same kind, and velocity is the unit of
movement. Time, as measured by us, is a number which arises from the
mensuration of the movement by its velocity; and therefore time results
from the movement as already measured. This shows again that time is not
the measure of the _extent_ of the movement. We have seen, also, that
time is not the measure of the _intensity_ of the movement. It follows,
therefore, that the quantity of movement is not measured by time.

Time, being the ratio of two quantities mathematically homogeneous, is
represented by an _abstract_ number. Yet the same time may be expressed
by different numbers, according as we measure it by different units, as
days, hours, minutes, etc. These numbers, however, are only virtually
discrete, as time cannot be discontinued.

Balmes from the equation

    _v_ = _s_/_t_

deduces the consequence that “the velocity is essentially a relation; for
it cannot be otherwise expressed than by the ratio of the space to the
time.”[81] We think that this conclusion is faulty. Space and time are
not homogeneous quantities; hence the mathematical ratio of space to time
is not an abstract but a concrete number, and therefore it represents an
absolute quantity. Space divided by time is a length divided into equal
parts; hence the quotient--viz., the velocity--represents the length
of the movement made in the unit of time. And since Balmes admits that
the length of the movement is a quantity having a determinate value, we
do not see how he can escape the consequence that velocity, too, is a
quantity of the same kind, and not a mere relation. “In the expression
of velocity,” says Balmes, “two terms enter--space and time. Viewing the
former in the real order, abstraction made of that of phenomena, we more
easily come to regard it as something fixed; and we comprehend it in a
given case without any relation. A foot is at all times a foot, and a
yard a yard. These are quantities existing in reality, and if we refer
them to other quantities it is only to make sure that they are so, not
because their reality depends upon the relation. A cubic foot of water is
not a cubic foot because the measure so says, but, on the contrary, the
measure so says because there is a cubic foot. The measure itself is also
an absolute quantity; and in general all extensions are absolute, for
otherwise we should be obliged to seek measure of measure, and so on to
infinity” (loc. cit.) This passage shows that a length described in space
is, according to Balmes, an absolute quantity. And since the mathematical
value of velocity represents a length described in space, as we have just
proved, it follows that velocity has an absolute value.

But leaving aside all mathematical considerations, we may show that
velocity has an absolute value by reference to metaphysical data.
What is velocity but the development in extension of the intensity of
the momentum impressed on a material point? Now, the intensity of the
momentum is an absolute quantity, equal to the quantity of the action
by which it is produced. Hence it is evident that, as the action has an
absolute value, greater or less, according to circumstances, so also the
momentum impressed has an absolute value; and consequently the velocity
also, which is nothing else than the momentum itself as developing its
intensity into extension, has an absolute value, and is an absolute
quantity.

Balmes thought the contrary, for the following reason: “If the
denominator, in the expression of velocity, were a quantity of the
same kind as space--that is, having determinate values, existing and
conceivable by themselves alone--the velocity, although still a relation
might also have determinate values, not indeed wholly absolute, but only
in the supposition that the two terms _s_ and _t_, having fixed values,
are compared.… But from the difficulties which we have, on the one hand,
seen presented to the consideration of time as an absolute thing, and
from the fact that, on the other hand, no solid proof can be adduced to
show such a property to have any foundation, it follows that we know not
how to consider velocity as absolute, even in the sense above explained”
(loc. cit.)

This reason proves the contrary of what the author intends to establish.
In fact, if the denominator were of the same kind as the numerator,
the quotient would be an abstract number, as we know from mathematics;
and such a number would exhibit nothing more than the relation of the
two homogeneous terms--that is, how many times the one is contained in
the other. It is precisely because the denominator is not of the same
kind as the numerator that the quotient must be of the same kind as the
numerator. And since the numerator represents space, which, according to
Balmes, is an absolute quantity, it follows that the quotient--that is,
the number by which we express the velocity--exhibits a quantity of the
same nature: a conclusion in which all mathematicians agree. When a man
walks a mile, with the velocity of one yard per second, he measures the
whole mile yard by yard, with his velocity. If the velocity were not a
quantity of the same kind with the space measured, how could it measure
it?

True it is that velocity, when considered in its metaphysical aspect,
is not a length of space, but the intensity of the act by which
matter is carried through such a length. Yet, since Balmes argues
here from a mathematical equation, we must surmise or presume that he
considers velocity as a length measured in space in the unit of time,
as mathematicians consider it; for he cannot argue from mathematical
expressions with logical consistency, if he puts upon them construction
of an unmathematical character. After all, it remains true that the
velocity or intensity of the movement is always to be measured by the
extension of the movement in the unit of time; and thus it is necessary
to admit that velocity exhibits an absolute intensive quantity measured
by the extension which it evolves.

We therefore “know how to consider velocity as absolute,” though its
mathematical expression is drawn from a relation of space to time. The
measure of any quantity is always found by comparing the quantity with
some unit of measure; hence all quantity, inasmuch as measured, exhibits
itself under a relative form as _ratio mensurati ad suam mensuram_; and
it is only under such a form that it can be expressed in numbers. But
this relativity does not constitute the nature of quantity, because it
presupposes it, and has the whole reason of its being in the process of
mensuration.

We have insisted on this point because the confusion of the absolute
value of velocity with its relative mathematical expression would lead
us into a labyrinth of difficulties with regard to time. Balmes, having
overlooked the distinction between the mathematical expression and the
metaphysical character of velocity, comes to the striking consequence
that “if the whole machine of the universe, not excluding the operations
of our soul, were accelerated or retarded, an impossibility would be
realized; for the relation of the terms would have to be changed without
undergoing any change. If the velocity be only the relation of space to
time, and time only the relation of spaces traversed, it is the same
thing to change them all in the same proportion, and not to change them
at all. It is to leave every thing as it is” (loc. cit.) The author is
quite mistaken. The very equation

    _t_ = _s_/_v_,

on which he grounds his argument, suffices to show that if the velocity
increases, the time employed in measuring the space _s_ diminishes; and
if the velocity diminishes, the time increases. This being the case, it
is evident that an acceleration of the movements in the whole machine of
the universe would be a _real_ acceleration, since the same movements
would be performed in less time; and a retardation would be a _real_
retardation, since the same movements would require more time. We are
therefore far from realizing an impossibility when we admit that, in the
hypothesis of the author, time would vary in the inverse ratio of the
velocity of the universal movement.

_Division of time._--Philosophers divide time into _real_ and
_imaginary_. We have already explained this division when speaking of
flowing duration. The reality of time evidently depends on the reality
of movement; hence any time to which no real movement corresponds is
imaginary. Thus if you dream that you are running, the time of your
running is imaginary, because your running, too, is imaginary. In such
a case the real time corresponds to your real movements--say, to your
breathing, pulse, etc.--while the dream continues.

Imaginary time is often called also _ideal_ time, but this last epithet
is not correct; for, as time is the duration of local movement, it is
in the nature of time to be an object of the imagination. And for this
reason the duration of the intellectual movements and operations of pure
spirits is called time only by analogy, as we have above stated. However,
we are wont to think of such a duration as if it were homogeneous with
our own time; for we cannot measure it except by reference to the
duration of the movements we witness in the material world.

Time is also divided into _past_, _present_, and _future_. The past
corresponds to a movement already made, the future to a movement which
will be made, and the present to a movement which is actually going
on. But some will ask: Is there really any present time? Does not the
_now_, to which the present is confined, exclude all _before_ and all
_after_, and therefore all succession, without which it is impossible to
conceive time? We concede that the _now_, as such--that is, considered
in its absolute reality--is not time, just as a point is not a line;
for, as the point has no length, so the _now_ has no extension. Yet, as
a point in motion describes a line, so also the _now_, by its flowing
from _before_ to _after_, extends time. Hence, although the _now_, as
such, is not time, its flowing from _before_ to _after_ is time. If,
then, we consider the present as the link of the immediate past with the
immediate future--that is, if we consider the _now_ not statically, but
dynamically--we shall see at once that its actual flowing from _before_
to _after_ implies succession, and constitutes an infinitesimal interval
of time.

This may also be shown by reference to the nature of uniform local
movement. When a material point describes a line with uniform velocity,
its movement being continuous, its duration is continuous; and therefore
every flowing instant of its duration is continuous, as no discontinuous
parts can ever be reached in the division of continuum. Hence every
flowing instant has still the nature of time. This conclusion is
mathematically evident from the equation

    _t_ = _s_/_v_,

for, _v_ being supposed constant, we cannot assume _t_ = 0 unless we also
assume _s_ = 0. But this latter assumption would imply rest instead of
movement, and therefore it is out of the question. Accordingly, at no
instant of the movement can we assume _t_ = 0; or, which is the same,
every flowing instant partakes the nature of time.

The same conclusion can be established, even more evidently, by the
consideration of accelerated or retarded movements. When a stone is
thrown upwards, the velocity of its ascent suffers a _continuous_
diminution till at last it becomes = 0; and at the very instant it
becomes = 0 an opposite velocity begins to urge the stone down, and
increases continually so long as the stone does not reach the ground
or any other obstacle. Now, a continuous increase or decrease of the
velocity means that there are not two consecutive moments of time in
which the stone moves at exactly the same rate; and hence nothing but
an instant corresponds to each successive degree of velocity. But
since the duration of the movement is made up of nothing but such
instants, it is clear that the succession of such instants constitutes
time; and consequently, as time is continuous, those instants, though
infinitesimal, are themselves continuous; and thus every flowing instant
is really time.

From this it is plain, first, that although the _now_, as such, is not
time, yet its actual flowing is time.

Secondly, it follows that infinitesimals of time, as employed in
dynamics, are not mathematical figments, but realities, for time flows
only through infinitesimal instants; and therefore to deny the reality of
such infinitesimals would be to deny the reality of time.

Thirdly, we gather that the absolute _now_ differs from an actual
infinitesimal of time; because the former, as such, is only a term of
time, whereas the latter is the flowing of that term from its immediate
_before_ to its immediate _after_. Hence an infinitesimal of time is
infinitely less than any designable duration. In fact, its _before_ and
its _after_ are so immediately connected with the same absolute _now_
that there is no room for any designable length of duration between them.

Fourthly, whilst the absolute _now_ is no quantity, the infinitesimal of
time is a real quantity; for it implies real succession. This quantity,
however, is nascent, or _in fieri_ only; for the _now_, which alone is
intercepted between the immediate _before_ and the immediate _after_, has
no formal extension.

Fifthly, the infinitesimal of time corresponds to a movement by which
an infinitesimal of space is described. And thus infinitesimals of
space, as considered in dynamics, are real quantities. To deny that such
infinitesimals are real quantities would be the same, in fact, as to
deny the real extension of local movement; for this movement flows and
acquires its extension through such infinitesimals only. And the same is
true of the infinitesimal actions by which the rate of local movement
is continually modified. These latter infinitesimals are evidently real
quantities, though infinitely less than any designable quantity. They
have an infinitesimal intensity, and they cause an infinitesimal change
in the rate of the movement in an infinitesimal of time.

_Evolution of time._--The preceding considerations lead us to understand
how it is that in any interval of time there is but one absolute _now_
always the same _secundum rem_, but changing, and therefore manifold
_secundum rationem_. S. Thomas, in his opuscule _De Instantibus_, c. ii.,
explains this truth in the following words: “As a point to the line,
so is the _now_ to the time. If we imagine a point at rest, we shall
not be able to find in it the causality of any line; but if we imagine
that point to be in movement, then, although it has no dimensions, and
consequently no divisibility in itself, it will nevertheless, from the
nature of its movement, mark out a divisible line.… The point, however,
does in no way belong to the essence of the line; for one and the
same real term, absolutely indivisible, cannot be at the same time in
different parts of the same permanent continuum.… Hence the mathematical
point which by its movement draws a line is neither the line nor any
part of the line; but, remaining one and the same in itself, it acquires
different modes of being. These different modes of being, which must
be traced to its movement, are really in the line, whilst the point,
as such, has no place in it. In the same manner, an instant, which is
the measure of a thing movable, and adheres to it permanently, is one
and the same as to its absolute reality so long as the substance of the
thing remains unimpaired, for the instant is the inseparable measure
of its being; but the same instant becomes manifold inasmuch as it is
diversified by its modes of being; and it is this its diversity that
constitutes the essence of time.”[82]

From this explanation we may infer that, as each point, or primitive
element, of matter has its own _now_, one in its absolute reality,
but manifold in its mode of being, there are in nature as many _nows_
describing distinct lines of time as there are material points in
movement. Accordingly, there are as many particular times as there are
elements moving in space. The proposition that in time there is only
_unum instans in re_ is, therefore, to be limited to the particular
time of one and the same subject of motion. S. Thomas did not think of
this limitation, because he believed, according to the old astronomical
theory, that the movement of the _primum mobile_--that is, of the supreme
sphere--was the natural measure of time; and for this reason he thought
that, as the first movement was one, time also was one, and constituted
the common measure of all simultaneous movements.[83] But the truth is
that there must be as many distinct particular times as there are things
actually moving. This is a manifest consequence of the doctrine which
assimilates a flowing _now_ to a point describing a line. For as every
point in movement describes a distinct line in space, so also must the
absolute _now_ of every distinct being describe by its flowing a distinct
line of time.

The general time, which we regard as _one_ successive duration, is the
duration of the movement from the beginning of the world to our day,
conceived in the abstract--that is, without reference to the particular
beings concerned in the movement. Time, when thus conceived, is a mere
abstraction; whereas the particular times of particular movements are
concrete in their continuous extension, notwithstanding their being
represented by abstract numbers. If we knew of any special body created
and put in movement before any other body, we might regard it as _primum
mobile_, and take its movement, if uniform, as the natural measure or
standard of general time; but as we know of no such particular body, and
as we have reason to believe that the creation of all matter was made
in one and the same moment, we are led to admit an exceedingly great
multitude of _prima mobilia_, every one of which was from the beginning
of time the subject of duration. It is clear that we cannot reduce their
distinct durations to one general duration, except by making abstraction
of all particular subjects, and considering movement in the abstract.

Nevertheless, as we inhabit the earth, we usually restrict our
consideration of time to those periodical intervals of duration which
correspond to the periodical movements we witness in, or from, our
planet; and thus we take the duration of the diurnal or of the orbital
movement of the earth as our standard for the measure of time. If other
planets are inhabited by rational beings, it is obvious that their
time will be measured by other standards, as their diurnal and orbital
movements differ from those of our earth.

To the doctrine that time is evolved by the flowing of a single instant,
S. Thomas adds an important remark to the effect that the _now_ of
contingent things should not be confounded with the _now_ of eternity. He
proposes to himself the following objection: “To stand and to move are
not essential differences, but only different manners of being. But the
_now_ of eternity is standing, and the _now_ of time is moving. The one,
therefore, seems to differ from the other in nothing but in the manner
of being. Hence the _now_ of time would be substantially the same as the
_now_ of eternity, which is absurd.”[84]

S. Thomas replies: “This cannot be true, according to our doctrine; for
we have seen that eternity and time differ essentially. Moreover, when
of two things the one depends on the other as an effect from a cause,
the two things essentially differ; but the _now_ of eternity (which does
not really differ from eternity itself) is the cause of time and of the
_now_ of time; therefore the _now_ of time and the _now_ of eternity are
essentially different. Furthermore, the _now_ of time unites the past
with the future, which the _now_ of eternity does not do; for in eternity
there is no past and no future, because eternity is all together. Nor
has the objection any force. That to stand and to move do not constitute
an essential difference is true of those things which are liable both
to stand and to move; but that which always stands without possibility
of moving differs essentially from that which always moves without the
possibility of standing. And this is the case with the _now_ of eternity
on the one hand, and the _now_ of time on the other.”[85]

_Beginning of time._--Here the question arises whether time must have had
a beginning. Those who believe that the world could have been created _ab
æterno_ will answer that time could have existed without a beginning. But
we are convinced that the world could not be created _ab æterno_; and
therefore we maintain that time must have begun.

Our argument is drawn from the contingency of all things created.

The duration of a contingent being cannot be without a beginning; for
the contingent being itself must have had a beginning. In fact, as that
cannot be annihilated which has never been in existence, so that cannot
be educed from nothing which has never been nothing. It is therefore
necessary to admit that every creature had a beginning of its existence,
and consequently of its duration also; for nothing endures but inasmuch
as it exists.

Nor can this argument be evaded by saying that a contingent being
may have _initium naturæ_, without having _initium temporis_. This
distinction, though suggested and employed by S. Thomas, has no
foundation, because the beginning of the created nature is the beginning
also of its duration; and he who concedes that there must be an _initium
naturæ_ cannot consistently deny the _initium temporis_. In fact, no
contingent being can be said to have been created, if there was no
instant in which it was created; in other terms, every creature must be
traced to the _now_ of its creation. But the _now_ of its creation is
the beginning of its duration no less than of its existence. Surely,
whatever has a first _now_ has a beginning of duration; but every
creature has its first _now_--viz., the _now_ of its creation; therefore
every creature has a beginning of duration. That the _now_ of creation is
the first _now_ is self-evident; for the _now_ of creation is that point
of duration in which the passage is made from not being to being; and
therefore it marks the beginning of the existence of the created being.
And since we cannot say that the duration of the created being preceded
its existence, we are bound to conclude that the _now_ of its creation is
the beginning of its duration as well as of its existence.

Some will object that we assume what is to be proved--viz., the very
_now_ of creation. For, if the world had been created _ab æterno_, no
_now_ of creation could be pointed out. To this we answer that the
_now_ of creation, whether we can point it out determinately or not,
must always be admitted. To suppress it, is to suppress creation. For,
if we assume that a thing had no _now_ of creation, we are compelled
to deny that such a thing has ever been created. In other terms, if
anything has no beginning of duration, it was always in act, it never
lacked actual existence, and it never passed from non-existence to actual
existence--that is, it is no creature at all; for to be a creature is
to have passed from non-existence to actual existence. And thus we must
conclude that to create is to make a beginning of time.

The impossibility of a world created _ab æterno_ has also been argued
from the impossibility of an infinite ascending series. The force of this
proof does not, however, lie in the absurdity of an infinite series--for
such an absurdity, as S. Thomas remarks, has never been demonstrated--but
it lies in the necessity of granting a beginning to every term of the
series itself; for, if every term of the series has a beginning, the
whole series must have a beginning. S. Thomas, as we have just stated,
teaches that an infinite ascending series is not to be judged impossible,
“even if it were a series of efficient causes,” provided it depend on
an extrinsic cause: _In infinitum procedere in causis agentibus non
reputatur impossibile._[86] This doctrine is universally rejected,
and was fiercely attacked even in the time of the holy doctor; but he
persisted in maintaining it against all, and wrote a special treatise
to defend it _contra murmurantes_. The reason why S. Thomas embraced
this doctrine seems to have been that the creation of the world in the
beginning of time was an article of faith; and the saint believed that
articles of faith are proved only by authority, and not by natural
reason. He was therefore obliged to maintain that the beginning of time
could not be demonstrated by reason alone. “The newness of the world,”
says he, “cannot be demonstrated from the consideration of the world
itself, because the principle of demonstration is the quiddity of things.
Now, things, when considered as to their quiddity or species, do not
involve the _hic et nunc_; and for this reason the universals are said to
be everywhere and in all time. Hence it cannot be demonstrated that man
or any other thing did not always exist.”[87]

To this argument we respectfully reply that, when the necessary
conditions of a contingent fact are to be demonstrated, the principle
of demonstration is not the abstract quiddity, or intelligible essence,
of the things, but the contingency of their actual existence. But it is
evident that whatever exists contingently has been educed out of nothing.
It is therefore necessary to conclude that all contingent things have had
a first moment of existence and of duration.

The Angelic Doctor refers also to a similitude by which some philosophers
mentioned by S. Augustine undertook to explain the creation _ab æterno_.
If a foot had been _ab æterno_ pressed on the dust, the impression made
by it would be _ab æterno_. In the same manner the world might have been
_ab æterno_: for God, its maker, is eternal.[88] But we humbly reply
that the impression of the foot on the dust cannot be _ab æterno_ if it
is contingent. For, if it is contingent, it has necessarily a beginning
of its existence, and therefore of its duration also, as we have already
shown. Whatever is made has a beginning of duration. Hence the fathers
of the church, to prove that the divine Word was not made, thought it
sufficient to point out the fact that he was _ab æterno_ like his Father.

S. Thomas, after stating his conclusion that the temporal beginning of
the world is not demonstrable, but simply credible, remarks as follows:
“And this should be kept in mind, lest, by presuming to demonstrate
what is matter of faith by insufficient proofs, we be laughed at by the
infidels, who may think that on the strength of such proofs we believe
our articles of faith.”[89] This advice is good. But we need not tell
our readers that what we hold as of faith we hold on divine authority,
irrespective of our philosophical reasons.

_Perpetuity of time._--That time may go on without end is an evident
truth. But will it go on for ever, or will it cease at last? To this
question we answer that time will for ever continue. As long as there
will be movement there will be time. There will ever be movement;
therefore there will ever be time. The major of this syllogism needs no
explanation; for time is nothing but the duration of movement. The minor
is quite certain. For not only the rational creatures, but the earth
itself and other corporeal things, will last for ever, as is the common
doctrine of philosophers, who hold that God will never destroy what he
has created. These material things will therefore continue to celebrate
God’s glory for ever--that is, will continue to exert their motive power
and to bring about divers movements; for such is their nature, and such
their manner of chanting the praises of their Creator. Moreover, we know
by faith that we shall rise from death and live for ever, and that the
glorious bodies of the saints will possess, besides other privileges, the
gift of agility, which would evidently be of no use if there were to be
no local movement and no succession of time. Hence it follows that time
will last for ever.

And let no one say that the Sacred Scriptures teach the contrary. For
wherever the Sacred Scriptures mention _the end of time_, they speak, not
absolutely and universally, but only with reference to certain particular
periods or epochs of time characterized by some special events or
manifestation of divine Providence. Thus we read in the Apocalypse that
“there will be time no more”--_Tempus non erit amplius_--and yet we find
that after the end of that time there will be a thousand years; which
shows that the phrase “there will be time no more” refers to the time
of mercy and conversion. Thus also we read in Daniel that “time has its
end”--_Quoniam habet tempus finem suum_--but we see by the context that
he speaks there of the Antichristian epoch, which of course must have an
end. And the like is to be said of other similar passages.

The most we can admit in regard to the cessation of time is that, owing
to the great catastrophe and the wonderful changes which the consummation
of the present epoch shall bring about, the diurnal and the annual
revolutions, which serve now as measures of time, may be so modified as
to give rise to a new order of things, in which time shall be measured by
a different standard. This seems to be the opinion of many interpreters
of the Sacred Scriptures; though some of them speak as if after the
consummation of the present things there were to be time no more, but
only eternity. This manner of speaking, however, is no proof against
the continuance of time; for the word “eternity,” when applied to the
duration of creatures, means nothing else than sempiternity--that is,
time without end, according to the scriptural phrase: _Annos æternos in
mente habui_. We learn from S. Thomas that the word “eternity” is used
in three different senses: First, we call eternity the measure of the
duration of a thing which is always invariably the same, which acquires
nothing from the future, and loses nothing from the past. And this
is the most proper meaning of the word “eternity.” Secondly, we call
eternity the measure of the duration of a thing which has a fixed and
perpetual being, which, however, is subject to accidental changes in its
operations. Eternity, when thus interpreted, means what we should call
_ævum_ properly; for the _ævum_ is the measure of those things whose
being lasts for ever, but which admit of succession in their operations,
as is the case with pure intelligences. Thirdly, we call eternity the
measure of a successive duration, which has _before_ and _after_ without
beginning and without end, or simply without end, though it have a
beginning; and in this sense the world has been said to be eternal,
although it is really temporal. This is the most improper meaning of the
word “eternity”; for the true concept of eternity excludes _before_ and
_after_.[90] Thus far S. Thomas.

We may be allowed to remark on this passage that, according to the
principles which we have established in our articles on _Substantial
Generations_,[91] not only the pure intelligences, but all primitive
and elementary substances are substantially incorruptible, and have
a fixed and permanent being. Hence the distinction made by the holy
doctor between _ævum_ and endless time ceases to have a foundation, and
the whole difference between the endless duration of spiritual and of
material changes will be reduced to this: that the movements of spiritual
substances are intellectual, whereas those of the material elements are
local.

_The phrase “before creation.”_--We often hear of such expressions
as these: “Before creation there was God alone,” “Before creation
there was no time,” etc.; and since such expressions seem to involve
a contradiction in terms, we think it will not be superfluous to give
their rational explanation. Of course, if the words “before creation”
be understood absolutely--that is, excluding any creation either made
or imagined--those words will be contradictory. For the preposition
_before_ is relative, and implies succession; and it is contradictory
to suppose succession without anything capable of succession. When no
creature existed there could be nothing flowing from _before_ to _after_,
because there was no movement, there being nothing movable.

Nor can it be said that the _now_ of divine eternity gives us a
sufficient ground for imagining any _before_ and _after_ without
referring to something exterior to God himself. The _now_ of eternity
has in itself neither _before_ nor _after_; and when we say that it is
equivalent to all imaginable time, we do not affirm that it implies
succession, but only acknowledge that it is the supreme reason of the
possibility of succession in created things. Hence, when we use the
phrase “Before creation” in an absolute sense, we in fact take away all
real _before_ and all real _after_; and thus the words “Before creation,”
taken absolutely, involve a contradiction. They affirm explicitly what
they implicitly deny.

The truth is that, when we use the phrase in question, we express what
is in our imagination, and not in our intellect. We imagine that before
time there was eternity because we cannot picture to ourselves eternity,
except by the phantasm of infinite time. It is for this reason that in
speaking of eternity we use the terms by which we are accustomed to
express the relations of time. The words “Before creation” are therefore
to be understood of a time which was possible in connection with some
possible anterior creation, but which has never existed. This amounts to
saying that the _before_ which we conceive has no existence except in our
imagination.

S. Thomas proposes to himself the question whether, when we say that
God was before the world, the term “before” is to be interpreted of a
priority of nature or of a priority of duration. It might seem, says
he, that neither interpretation is admissible. For if God is before the
world only by priority of nature, then it follows that, since God is _ab
æterno_, the world too is _ab æterno_. If, on the contrary, God is before
the world by priority of duration, then, since priority and posteriority
of duration constitute time, it follows that there was time before the
creation of the world; which is impossible.[92]

In answer to this difficulty the holy doctor says that God is before
the world by priority of duration, but that the preposition “before”
designates here the priority, not of time, but of eternity. Or else we
must answer, he adds, that the word “before” designates a priority, not
of real, but of imaginary, time, just as the word “above” in the phrase
“above the heavens there is nothing” designates an imaginary space which
we may conceive by thinking of some imaginary dimensions superadded to
the dimensions of the heavens.[93]

It strikes us that the first of these two answers does not really solve
the difficulty. For the priority of eternity cannot mean but a priority
of nature and of pre-eminence, by which God’s permanent duration
infinitely _excels_, rather than _precedes_, all duration of creatures.
In accordance with this, the objector might still urge on his conclusion
that, if God does not precede the world, the world is _ab æterno_ like
God himself. The second answer agrees with what we ourselves have
hitherto said. But as regards the objection proposed, it leaves the
difficulty entire. For, if God was before the world by a priority, not of
real, but of imaginary time, that “before” is imaginary, and not real.
And the consequence will be that God was not really “before” the world,
but we imagine him to have been so.

We must own that with our imperfect language, mostly fashioned by
imagination, it is not easy to give a clear and popular solution of the
objection. Perhaps the most summary manner of dealing with it would be to
deny the inference in the first horn of the dilemma--viz., that if God is
before the world by priority of nature only, then the world will be _ab
æterno_ as much as God himself. This inference, we say, is to be denied;
for it involves the false supposition that a thing is _ab æterno_ if
there is no time before it; whereas that only is _ab æterno_ which has no
beginning of duration.

Thus there is no need of saying that God _precedes_ the world in
duration; for it suffices to admit that he was before the world by
priority of nature and of causality. The duration of eternity has no
“before” and no “after,” though we depict it to ourselves as extending
into indefinite time. Even the verb _was_ should not be predicated
of God; for God, strictly speaking, neither was, nor will be, but
permanently _is_. Hence it seems to us that it would be a contradiction
to affirm that God was _before_ the world by the duration of his
eternity, while we acknowledge that in his eternity there is no “before.”
But enough about this question.

_The duration of rest._--Supposing that a body, or an element of matter,
is perfectly at rest, it may be asked how the duration of this rest can
be ascertained and measured. Shall we answer that it is measured by time?
But if so, our reader will immediately conclude that time is not merely
the duration of movement, as we have defined it, but also the duration of
rest. On the other hand, how can we deny that rest is measured by time,
when we often speak of the rest of a few minutes or of a few hours?

We might evade the question by answering that nothing in creation lies
in absolute rest, but everything is acting and acted upon without
interruption, so that its movement is never suspended. But we answer
directly that, if there were absolute rest anywhere in the world, the
duration of that rest should be measured by the duration of exterior
movements. In fact, rest has no _before_ and _after_ in itself, because
it is immovable, but only outside of itself. It cannot therefore have
an intrinsic measure of its duration, but it must borrow it from the
_before_ and _after_ of exterior movement. In other words, the thing
which is in perfect rest draws no line of time; it has only a statical
_now_ which is a mere term of duration; and if everything in the world
were in absolute rest, time would cease altogether. Hence what we call
the duration of rest is simply the duration of a movement exterior to the
thing which is at rest.

This will be easily understood by considering that between a flowing and
a standing _now_ there is the same relation as between a moving and a
standing point.

Now, to change the relation of distance between two points in space, it
suffices that one of them move while the other stands still. This change
of distance is measured by the movement of the first point; and thus the
point which is at rest undergoes, without moving, a continuous change in
its relation to the moving point. In a similar manner, two _nows_ being
given, the one flowing and the other standing, the time extended by the
flowing of the first measures the change of its relation to the second,
and consequently, also, the change of the relation of the second to the
first. This shows that the time by which we measure the duration of rest
is nothing but the duration of the movement extrinsic to the thing at
rest.

But, as we have said, nothing in creation is in absolute rest; and
therefore what we consider as resting has really some movement
imperceptible to our senses--as, _v.g._, molecular vibrations--by which
the duration of its supposed rest is intrinsically measured. In God’s
eternity alone there is perfect immobility; but its duration cannot be
measured by time, even as an extrinsic measure, because the standing
duration of eternity has nothing common with the flowing duration of
creatures. As local movement cannot measure divine immensity, so flowing
duration cannot measure divine eternity; because, as the _ubi_ of a
creature never changes its relation to God’s immensity, so the _quando_
of a creature never changes its relation to God’s eternity.

_Continuity of time._--We will conclude with a few remarks on the
continuity of time. That time is essentially continuous is evident;
but the question has been proposed: What if God were to annihilate all
existing creatures, and to make a new creation? Would the instant of
annihilation be immediately followed by the instant of the new creation,
or could there be an interval of time between them?

The right answer to this question is that between the annihilation and
the new creation there would be no time: because there cannot be time
without succession, and no succession without creatures. Yet, it would
not follow that the instant of the annihilation should be immediately
united with the instant of the new creation; in other words, the duration
of the new world would not be a continuation of the duration of the world
annihilated. The reason of this is that there cannot be a continuation of
time, unless the same _now_ continues to flow. For when one flowing _now_
ceases to be, and another begins, the line of time drawn by the first
comes to an end, and another line, altogether distinct, begins, and this
latter cannot be a continuation of the former. If the English mail, for
instance, reaches New York at a given instant, and the French mail at the
same instant starts from Paris, no one will say that the movement of the
French mail is a continuation of the movement of the English mail. Hence
the duration of the movement of the one is not the continuation of that
of the other.

Moreover, from what we have seen about the distinct lines of time
described by distinct subjects of flowing duration, it is plain that
even the durations of simultaneous movements are always distinct from
one another, as belonging to distinct subjects; and accordingly, when
one of the said movements ceases, the continuation of the others cannot
be looked upon as its continuation. Hence, if the present world were
annihilated, its duration would cease altogether; and the duration of
a newly-created world would draw a new line of time quite distinct
from that of the present world, though between the end of the one and
the beginning of the other there would be no time. “The two worlds
in question,” as Balmes remarks, “would have no mutual relation;
consequently there would be neither distance nor immediateness between
them.”[94]

Time is _formally_ continuous. Formal continuity we call that of which
all the constituent elements have their own formal and distinct existence
in nature. In time such elements are those flowing instants which
unite the immediate past with the immediate future. This continuity is
essentially successive. It is owing to its successivity that time, as
well as movement, can be, and is, formally continuous. For no formal
continuum can be simultaneous, as we have shown where we refuted the
hypothesis of continuous matter.[95] But let this suffice about time.


AN INCIDENT OF THE REIGN OF TERROR.

The close of the XVIIIth century found the good people of these United
States in a most amiable mood. The consciousness of all they had
achieved, by sustaining their Declaration of Independence in the face of
overwhelming difficulties, produced a glow of national self-complacency
that has thrown its glamour over the first page of our public annals,
which--as history counts her pages by centuries--we are only now
preparing to turn. Not until we were drawing near its close was the
light of that agreeable illusion obscured by the shadow of a question
whether the “glorious Fourth” was not like to prove, after all, a most
_in_glorious failure.

Self-complacency is never an elevating sentiment, and seldom sustained
by the merits upon the assumed possession of which it is based. But our
people had many substantial virtues, sufficient to atone abundantly for
their indulgence in a pleasant foible. Among these was the principle of
gratitude, to which none but truly noble natures are subject. That they
possessed it was proved by their promptness in hastening to relieve and
comfort the French refugees whom the Reign of Terror had driven to our
shores when it was devastating that fair realm across the Atlantic which
had been the first to extend assistance and sympathy to us in the hour of
need.

We have vivid recollections of sitting for hours--patchwork in hand--at
the feet of a dear relative in the pleasant home of our childhood,
listening to thrilling tales of those times, many of them connected with
the French emigrants--of the cordial hospitality with which all the
homes of her native city of Hartford, Conn., were thrown open to receive
these interesting exiles; of the shifts the inhabitants devised and the
discomforts they endured in order to provide comfortable shelter and
sustenance for so many from means already impoverished by the drain of
the conflict through which we ourselves had but just passed.

Now, this dear relative was the possessor of a small gold locket of
antique fashion and exquisite workmanship, which was an object of
unceasing admiration to our childish fancy. In form it was an oblong
octagon. The border was a graceful tiny pattern in mosaic-gold inlaid
with amethyst and pearl. In the centre were two miniatures painted on
glass with marvellous distinctness and accuracy: the one a likeness
of that most unfortunate queen, Marie Antoinette, the other of her
beloved sister-in-law, the amiable Princess Elizabeth. A heavy pebble
crystal, perfectly transparent, covered the pictures without in the least
obscuring their delicate tints. In the back of the locket was an open
space, within which, our relative said, was once laid, upon the ground
of dark satin that still remained, a knot formed by two small locks of
glossy, silken hair, one a light rose-tinged auburn, the other flaxen
with a golden sheen. A glass covered these also.

After much persuasion our relative related to us the following


STORY OF THE LOCKET.

My father was an officer in the Continental army, and, soon after the
war of our Revolution closed, returned to his former home in the city
of Hartford, Conn., where he accepted an office of high municipal
trust. He was moved by the generous impulses of his nature to a life
of active benevolence; and when, in 1792-3, the Revolution in France
drove thousands of her citizens to take refuge in our republic, none
were more zealous and untiring than he in seeking out and providing for
the unfortunate strangers. Every apartment in our spacious house was
soon filled. Rooms were prepared in the carriage-house and barns for my
brothers and the domestics of the household, while my sisters and myself
took possession of a small room in the attic which had been a repository
for the spare bedding, now called into use.

Among our guests was one lady who was distinguished by having a spacious
room set apart for her sole use, and who seldom left it or mingled with
her companions in misfortune and exile. Upon the rare occasions when
she did appear briefly in their circle, it was striking to observe the
ceremonious deference, amounting almost to veneration, with which she
was received. Where or how my father found her I never knew; but his
manner towards her was so profoundly respectful as to impress us all
with feelings akin to fear in her presence. Yet these impressions were
produced by the demeanor of others only; for on her own part there was
not the slightest self-assertion or assumption of stateliness. Simple and
unobtrusive as a child in her manners, she was indescribably affable to
all; but her countenance wore an expression which, when once seen, could
never be forgotten. More forcibly and clearly than words did it convey
the story that some overwhelming deluge of calamity had swept from her
life every vestige of earthly hope and joy. By no outward token did she
parade her griefs. Her dress, plain, even severe, in its perfect neatness
and simplicity, displayed no mourning-badge, but her very smile was an
intimate revelation of sorrow.

She was known by the title of “Madame,” though some of our guests would
now and then add, when speaking of her in an undertone--not lost upon a
small listener like myself--“la Comtesse.” Her waiting-maid, Celeste, was
entirely devoted to her, and always served her slight and simple meals to
her in her own room.

Soon after her arrival I was sent on some errand to madame’s apartment,
and her agitation upon seeing me was a thing to be remembered for a
lifetime. She drew me to her bosom, caressing me with many tears,
suppressed sobs, and rapid exclamations in her own language. I learned
afterwards from Celeste that I was of the same age and bore a striking
resemblance in form and face to her daughter, who had been torn from
her in the storm and turmoil of their escape. They had been rescued
by a faithful servant, and hurried off, more dead than alive, in the
fright, confusion, and uproar of a terrible outbreak in Paris, and had
discovered, when too late, that her daughter had been separated from
them and was missing. Their deliverer promised to make every possible
effort to find the child, but Celeste had little hope; for she had heard
from the servant of another lady, who escaped later--but had never told
her mistress--that one of the women who daily watched the carts which
conveyed the victims to the guillotine had averred that she was sure she
saw the child among their number.

From the first I was a welcome visitor in the lady’s room. She
encouraged me to pass all the time with her which could be spared from
household duties; for in those days every child was required to perform
a portion of these. The schools in Hartford were, for the most part,
closed during that period, that the buildings might be devoted to the
accommodation of the strangers, who requited the kindness by teaching
the children of each household where they were entertained, daily. I was
the chosen pupil of madame. She soon imparted sufficient knowledge of
the French to give her instructions in her own language. Never was child
blest with a more gentle and painstaking teacher! To a thorough course
in the simple branches of study she added many delicate accomplishments
then unknown in our country, and the most patient training in all matters
connected with dress and deportment. After lessons she would hold long
conversations with me, more profitable than the lessons themselves,
awakening interest by suggestions and inquiries tending to form habits
of thinking, as well as of acquiring knowledge. Then such wonderful
fairy tales as she would relate! I used to listen perfectly entranced.
Never have I heard in English any fairy lore that would compare with it.
Translations we may have, but the fairy charm of the original is lost.

At that time the spirit of infidelity and atheism which laid the train
for the horrors of the French Revolution prevailed widely in our own
country. When too young to comprehend their import, I had often listened
to warm discussions between my father, who was strongly tinctured with
those opinions--while in politics he was an ultra-democrat--and my
maternal grandfather, a High-Churchman and Tory. The latter always
insisted--and it was all I understood of their conversations--that
it was impossible for a government founded upon popular unbelief and
insubordination to stand. He was utterly hopeless for ours, not because
it was democratic in form, but because the people no longer reverenced
authority, had ceased to be imbued with the first principle of loyalty
to God as Supreme Ruler, and to the “powers that be” as his appointed
instruments. These subjects were themes of constant debate, and were
treated with a warmth that commanded even the notice of children.

Some of our guests affected a gay and careless indifference to the claims
of God and man that amounted to a rejection of both; others vehemently
denounced all religion as a figment of priest-craft; while still another
class met such questions with the solemnity arising from a conviction of
the tremendous temporal and eternal interests which they involved.

It was refreshing to steal away from these evening debates in the
drawing-room to the peaceful atmosphere of madame’s apartment. I
frequently found her saying her beads, of which I knew nothing, only that
they were exceedingly beautiful to the sight, and composed of very costly
materials. I used to enter her room very quietly, and take my accustomed
seat in silence, until her devotions were closed. Of her religion I
knew no more than the name; but its evident influence upon every action
of her life left an indelible impression upon my mind that it was a
power above and beyond any of the prevailing forms around us. She never
spoke expressly of her religion to me, but the purely Christian tone
of her instructions upon all the duties of life, social and domestic,
exemplified by her own conduct, proved abundantly that it was more than
a mere sentiment or a name. I was too young at that time to reason upon
these things, but, as I have said, they left an indelible impression,
and, as life advanced, furnished food for many reveries which at length
ripened into serious thought.

How the weary months must have dragged along for those exiled
unfortunates! Yet the cheerfulness, even gayety, with which they endured
their misfortunes and the torturing suspense of their position, was a
matter of constant marvel to their New England friends. They watched the
arrival of every ship from France with intense anxiety, and a renewal of
grief and mourning was sure to follow the tidings it brought. Yet the
polite amenities and courtesies of their daily life, which seemed a part
of their nature, were never for a moment abated, and in the wildest storm
of grief even the women never lost that exquisite sense of propriety
which distinguishes their nation.

And so the time wore on until a certain memorable night in September,
1794. My father’s residence was situated upon an elevated street which
commanded a wide view of the city and its environs. How well I remember
standing with my sisters by the window of our attic dormitory, looking
out upon the quiet city sleeping under the calm light of the harvest
moon, on that never-to-be-forgotten night! The contemplation of the
scene was too pleasant to be easily relinquished, and it was late before
we could turn away from its fascinations to our rest. We were scarcely
lost in sleep when we were awakened suddenly by a thrilling shout in
the street, accompanied by the wild huzzahs of an excited multitude. We
hastened to the lower rooms, where we found the strangers gathered around
the open windows, from which they were waving handkerchiefs, hats, and
scarfs, and mingling their shouts with those of the throng outside.

In the street the city crier moved along in advance of the crowd, mounted
on a tall white horse, and waving an immense banner. At every crossing
he would pause and shout through a speaking-trumpet, “Rejoice! rejoice!
Robespierre, the tyrant, has fallen! has fallen!” Then followed the
jubilant cheers of the rapidly-increasing crowd. And so they passed on
through every street in the city.

I sought madame’s apartment, and found her kneeling in the same reverent
attitude of humble devotion with which I had so long been familiar.
Strange to say, my first thought upon hearing the news so joyful to
others was one of dismal apprehension, and my first emotion one of
ineffable sadness! Quick as thought came the painful assurance to my
heart that this was the signal for my final separation from the loving
friend, the gentle teacher, to whom I had become inexpressibly attached.
As she arose and extended her arms towards me, I threw myself into them,
and, hiding my face in her bosom, gave way to a burst of uncontrollable
grief. Words were not necessary to explain its cause. Understanding it
at a glance, she caressed and soothed me with assurances of her undying
love, and that she could never forget or cease to pray for the child
whom heaven had appointed to be her dearest consolation under her great
afflictions.

My apprehensions proved well founded. The same ship which brought tidings
of the tyrant’s fall brought letters also to madame from faithful
friends, urging her immediate return to France.

My father accompanied her to Boston, in order to make needful preparation
for her departure on the next outward-bound vessel. I was thrown into
such an agony of grief at the thought of parting with her that madame
begged I might be permitted to go with them, urging that the change of
scene and a visit to relatives in Boston might divert my thoughts and
soothe the bitter anguish of my young heart. He consented, and, when we
reached the city, he left us at the house of his sister, where I found
my cousins all engaged preparing for an examination and exhibition which
was to take place the next day to close the term of the school they were
attending, on the same street and near by.

They insisted that I should go with them, and madame dressed me in a
white muslin with a blue sash. She then hung the locket you so much
admire, suspended from a delicate gold chain, around my neck, and I set
off with my cousins.

We found the girls grouped together in great glee, awaiting the opening
exercises. In the centre of the group was a fair and graceful girl, near
my own age and size, with a large basket containing bouquets of flowers
arranged with admirable taste, which the girls were purchasing for
themselves and to decorate the school-room.

My cousins replied to my questions about the young stranger: “Oh! we call
her the little flower girl. She lives with a farmer just out of the city.
The family are very fond of her, and he gives her a little place in the
garden to cultivate flowers, and lets her come with him on market days to
sell them for herself in the city. She heard of what was going on here,
and thought this would be a good market for her bouquets; and so it has
been, for she has sold them all.”

For some reason I could not turn my eyes from the child. There seemed to
be a mutual fascination which drew us together, and I observed she was
looking intently and with much emotion at the locket I wore. I asked her
why she was so much interested in it. She answered with a slight French
accent: “My mamma had such a locket, and all the ladies of the queen’s
household wore them.”

“And where is your mamma?” I inquired.

“Alas! I do not know if she is living. I lost her in a great crowd in the
streets of Paris, and was so frightened at the horrors around me that I
remember nothing until I found myself on board the ship which brought
me here. How I came there I never knew. The kind-hearted farmer with
whom I live was on the wharf when we landed, and, in great pity for my
bewildering loneliness and grief, took me to his home, where I have since
received every attention and sympathy.”

Almost sinking under agitation, I turned to my cousins, who had been too
much occupied with their own affairs to notice us, and faintly gasped:
“She is, she must be, the daughter for whom madame mourns!”

At the bare suggestion all else was forgotten! There was an impetuous
huddling of our electrified companions around the bewildered little
stranger, and a petition that the school exercises might be delayed
until they could escort her to my aunt and learn whether my conjecture
was true. So great was their excitement that it was useless to deny the
request, and we led our heroine off with hasty steps.

On the way we decided that my aunt should break the matter gently to
madame, and introduce the child to her in her room.

There was no need of an introduction! The moment their eyes met the
exclamations “Antoinette!” “Mamma!” burst from their lips, and my aunt
left them locked in a close embrace. The scene was too sacred for
intrusion!

The news flew with the speed of the wind, and there were great rejoicings
far and near over the timely discovery brought about by means of the
locket, which madame bestowed upon me (after removing the knot of
hair, too precious, as a relic of her lamented queen and the Princess
Elizabeth, to be relinquished) in memory of this joyful event, and as a
souvenir of the beloved friend and teacher with whom I had passed so many
happy and profitable hours.

Soon after the reunion of the mother and child they sailed for France,
and I returned with my father to a home which was now bereft of a charm
that could never be replaced or restored. But my sympathy with their joy
was too sincere to be chilled by selfish regrets.

During my father’s stay in Boston he made some final arrangements
connected with a large territory of wild lands which he had received from
the government in partial requital of his services in the army.

To that distant wilderness he removed his family immediately after our
return. The absence of mail communication with such remote districts,
in those days, was doubtless the reason why we never received further
tidings from one who had placed us among the favored few that “have
entertained angels unawares.”

In the loneliness of my forest home, and through a long life marked by
many changes and sorrows, I have cherished grateful memories of the early
lessons I received from her lips, and they have proved, through their
influence upon my religious and moral being, a legacy far more precious
than a thousand caskets of gold and precious stones.


THE CHARITIES OF ROME.

The present sacrilegious invaders of Rome have done much to change the
religious aspect of the city, and obliterate every trace of the influence
of the popes upon the charities once so liberally thrown open to the
people of every clime and color. In the true spirit of modern “progress,”
philanthropy has usurped the place of charity, and the state, taking
possession of institutions founded and hitherto directed in many points
by the church, banishes her as far from them as possible. It may be
interesting to pass in review some of those magnificent charities which
sprang up and flourished so long under pontifical protection, but which
have lately either been violently suppressed or are fast disappearing
under the difficulties of the political situation. We will write of these
charities as they existed in 1869, which was the last year during the
whole of which the papal government had control of them. In that year
an English Protestant writer, long resident in Rome, was obliged by the
clearness of facts to tell his readers that “few cities in Europe are so
distinguished for their institutions of public charity as Rome, and in
none are the hospitals more magnificently lodged or endowed with more
princely liberality. The annual endowments of these establishments are no
less than 258,390 scudi, derived from lands and houses, from grants, and
from the papal treasury.”

When S. Peter entered Rome for the first time, and looked upon the
miserable condition of those to whom the favors of fortune were denied,
he recalled to mind the words addressed to his forefathers about to enter
into the promised land: “There shall be no poor nor beggar among you:
that the Lord thy God may bless thee in the land which he giveth thee to
possess” (Deut. xv. 4), and saw before him one of the greatest obstacles
to be overcome--involving a change of what was second nature to the
Romans (hardness of heart), they being, as S. Paul wrote (Rom. i. 31),
“without affection, without mercy”--but knowing that it was also said
in the same holy text “Poor will not be wanting in the land: therefore
I command thee to open thy hand to thy needy and poor brother,” and
having heard the blessed Lord Jesus say of the new dispensation, “The
poor ye have always with you,” he understood that God’s object was not
to forbid mendicity, but to leave no room for it. Therefore to the rich
and powerful, when brought by grace to his apostolic feet, he enjoined:
“Deal thy bread to the hungry, and bring the needy and the harborless
into thy house” (Isaias lviii. 7). The faith of the Roman Christians was
illustrious throughout the world, and so was their charity. From the
days of S. Peter it had been customary to take up collections on Sundays
in all the congregations of the city for the relief of the confessors
condemned to labor in the public mines and other works, or languishing
in prison, or wandering in exile; and Eusebius has preserved in his
_Ecclesiastical History_ (lib. iv. cap. 23) the testimony of Dionysius,
Bishop of Corinth (161-192), in favor of the long-established charitable
institutions of the Romans, and in praise, at the same time, of the piety
of his contemporary, Pope S. Soter, who not only retained these customs
of his people, but surpassed them in sending money to the Christians
of other parts of the world, and in receiving, as though they were his
own children, all faithful pilgrims to Rome. In the year 236 Pope S.
Fabian gave charge of the poor of Rome to seven deacons each of whom
superintended two of the fourteen civil divisions or regions, whence
they were called regionary deacons. A memorial of their occupation still
remains in the dalmatic, or deacon’s vestment, the wide sleeves of which
served originally for pockets; and Pope Innocent III., in his treatise
on the Mass, remarks that this kind of dress is attributed to deacons
because, in the first institution of their order, the distribution of
alms was assigned to them. A council of the IVth century, held under
Pope Sylvester, decreed that one-fourth part of the church revenues
should be set apart for the poor. S. Jerome attests in one of his letters
that a noble matron named Fabiola erected a hospital in the year 400;
and about the same time S. Gallicanus, a man of consular dignity, who
had also been honored with a triumph, becoming a Christian, founded a
similar institution at the mouth of the Tiber for the accommodation of
pilgrims and of the sick. He waited upon them in person. In 1869 Rome had
a population of about 220,000 inhabitants, and, although the climate is
not unhealthy, it is hardly one of the most salubrious in the world. The
low land upon which a great part of the modern city is built; the turbid
Tiber, which, passing through it in a winding course, is apt to overflow
its banks; the open position of the city, which is exposed, according to
the season, either to the sultry African wind or to the piercing blasts
from the neighboring mountains; and the large floating population, which
is everywhere a likely subject of disease, combine to make it desirable
that Rome should be well provided with institutions of succor and relief.
While under papal rule, she was not wanting in this respect, but was even
abundantly and excellently supplied.

Man, being composed of spirit and matter, having consequently a soul
and a body to look after, has wants of two kinds, corresponding to the
twofold claims of his nature. We should therefore divide the charities
man is capable of receiving into two classes. He received them in
Rome with a generous hand. The first class comprehended relief to
the indigent, the sick, the destitute, the insane, the convalescent;
possessed hospitals and asylums, brought aid into private families,
opened nocturnal retreats, offered work to the honest needy, gave
marriage portions to the nubile, shielded widows, protected orphans,
advanced money on the easiest terms. These were charities of subsistence.
The second class embraced poor schools and other establishments for
gratuitous education in trades, arts, and sciences, conservatories for
the exposed, hospices for the reformed, and made provision for the legal
defence of the weak. These were called charities of education.

There were two institutions in Rome that assisted the poor before they
had fallen into misery or become destitute. These were the _Monte di
Pietà_ and the savings-bank. The first was a bank of loan and deposit.
The idea of such an institution was suggested by a pious and shrewd
Franciscan, named Barnabas of Terni, who was painfully struck, during a
mission he was giving in Perugia in the year 1462, by the enormous usury
(a crime then practised almost exclusively by Jews) which the poor were
forced to pay for any advance of money they might need. This practical
friar prevailed upon several wealthy persons to mass sums of money into
one fund, out of which to lend to the poor at a reasonable (and in some
cases merely nominal) rate of interest. Hence the distinctive name of
Monte di Pietà, which means literally mountain of mercy. The Roman
_Monte_ was the third institution of the sort that was opened. This was
in the year 1539. It was to lend money up to a certain amount without
taking interest; above this amount for a very small interest. It was to
take articles on pawn, and give the appraised value, less one-third. Over
$100,000 used, under the papal government, to be annually loaned out
on pawns or otherwise without one cent of interest. This establishment
occupied a superb public building, and was under the control of the
Minister of Finance. Honest visitors were freely admitted into every part
of it; and we have heard many (even hard-fisted) English and Americans
express themselves surprised, if not satisfied, with this reasonable and
conscientious manner of saving the poor from the gripe of usurers and
pawn-brokers, while imposing enough restraint to discourage improvidence.
No hope was held out of indiscriminate relief. Looking at the _Monte_
in an antiquarian light, it was a perfect museum of modern life, and
to go through it was as good as visiting a hundred consolidated old
curiosity-shops. Its administration employed, including a detachment of
the Swiss Guard, one hundred persons. The capital, which consisted of
every kind of property that at various periods and from many benefactors
had come to it, was about three million dollars. The most orthodox
political economists acknowledge that institutions of this sort were
devised only as a lesser evil; and consequently the Roman government
was glad to see the business of the _Monte_ fall away considerably
after the opening of the savings-bank in 1836. This was a charitable
institution, because it was governed gratuitously by an administration
of eleven honest and intelligent men, among whom were some of the first
nobility, who thus gave a portion of their time and talents to the
poor. The cashier, Prince Borghese, gave, besides his services, a part
of his magnificent palace to be turned into offices for the business
transactions of the bank.

The Apostolic Almonry in the Vatican next claimed our attention in the
quiet days of the Pope. From the earliest period the vicars of Christ
have made it a practice to visit in person the poor, and distribute
alms with their own hands, in love and imitation of Him who “went about
doing good.” As the wealth of the church in Rome increased, it was found
necessary for the better ordering of things to have some administrative
assistance in the distribution of these private charities. S. Conon
I., in the VIIth century, employed the arch-priest Paschal to dispense
the bounty of the privy purse; and in the year 1271 Blessed Gregory
X. created the perpetual office of grand almoner in the papal court.
This officer is always an archbishop _in partibus_, and lives under
the same roof as the Holy Father, in order to be ready at all times to
receive his commands. Besides the many standing largitions issued from
the Grand Almonry, there were occasional ones, such as the largess of
$300 which was distributed in the great court-yard of Belvidere on each
anniversary of the Pope’s coronation. This sum was doubled the first
year. On each of the following civil or religious festivals, Christmas,
Easter, and Coronation day, $165 were divided among a certain number of
the best-behaved prisoners confined in Rome. About $650 a month were paid
out either at the word of the sovereign or on his order; while a sum of
$2,000 was annually divided among one hundred poor families. Besides
this, the Grand Almonry supported a number of free schools, dispensed
food and medicines, and performed many acts of more secret charity. A
memorial of the earlier personal distribution of alms by the popes is
retained in the _Succinctorium_, which they wear in solemn pontificals.
It is an ornament of silk of the color of the feast, fringed with gold,
and suspended down the left side from the girdle. On Good Friday the
succinctory is not worn, in execration of the evil use Judas Iscariot
made of the purse when he betrayed our Lord for thirty pieces of silver.

Another of the great charities of Rome was the Commission of Subsidies
established by Pope Leo XII., in 1826, to give assistance and employment
to poor but honest people, willing to help themselves if they could find
the opportunity. The whole tendency of Roman charities under the popes
was to frown upon sloth and vagrancy, and encourage self-reliance and
mutual support; for S. Paul wrote to the Thessalonians (2, iii. 10): “If
any man will not work, neither let him eat.” The commission received
a yearly subsidy from government of $88,500. In each of the fourteen
rioni or wards of the city a physician, surgeon, pharmacist, and midwife
rendered gratuitous services under its control. It was by the judicious
employment of such men, thrown on the hands of the commission, that
within the last thirty years so much was done in making excavations in
and about Rome in search of antiquities and in studying its ancient
topography. We have sometimes heard English and American sight-seers make
brutal remarks about “those dirty, lazy Romans,” as they would stop a
moment to look at some party of these poor fellows taking their work so
easily in the Forum, on the Palatine, or elsewhere; but we should rather
applaud the paternal government that refrained from calling poverty a
crime or driving the poor and weak to their work like galley-slaves; and
while contributing a generous support, gave them enough to do to save
their self-respect.

No such thing as work-houses, in the English sense, have ever been
maintained where Catholic influences have predominated; and for this we
may thank God.

Another category of Roman charities comprised the confraternities. These
associations for purposes of piety and mutual help convey in their name
the idea of brotherliness and union. There were no fewer than ninety-one
confraternities in Rome under the popes. The oldest and most famous of
these was the Annunciation, which was founded in 1460 by the Dominican
Cardinal John Torquemada, in Santa Maria-in-Minerva, the head church of
his order in Rome.[96] Its particular object was to give portions to
poor but virtuous young females, that they might either marry or enter a
religious house if they had a vocation. On the 25th of March, Lady-day,
the pope, cardinals, and prelates, with the rest of the court, used to
assist at Mass in that church, and preside at the distribution of dowers
which followed immediately. The girls were always dressed in plain
white; such as had signified their choice of the heavenly Spouse being
distinguished by a wreath on the head. On this occasion the pontiff gave
one hundred golden scudi, and each cardinal present gave one, to the
funds of the confraternity. There were fourteen other confraternities
that had the same object, although carried out with less solemnity. In
this way $42,000 used to be expended annually.

The Confraternity of the Twelve Apostles made it a special point to find
out and relieve in a delicate manner those who, having known better days,
were fallen into reduced circumstances. The Confraternity of Prayer and
Death buried the dead; and if an accident in or about Rome was reported
in which life was lost, a party was detailed to go and bring the body
in decently for Christian burial. Sometimes a poor herdsman on the
Campagna had been gored by an ox, or some fellow had been swept away and
drowned in the Tiber, or perhaps a reaper been prostrated by the heat;
at whatever hour of the day or night, and at all seasons, a band of this
confraternity went out, and returned carrying the unfortunate person on
a stretcher upon their shoulders. It must be remarked in this connection
that the members of the confraternity always observed the laws concerning
deaths of this kind, not interfering with, but merely placing themselves
at the disposal of, the officers of justice, to give a body burial at
their own expense and in consecrated ground. The Confraternity of Pity
for Prisoners was founded in 1575 by Father John Tallier, a French
Jesuit. It provided religious instruction for prisoners, distributed
objects of piety among them, looked after their families if destitute,
and assisted them to pay their debts and fines if they had any. The
Confraternity of S. John Baptist was composed exclusively of Florentines
and the descendants of Florentines. Its object was to comfort and assist
to the last, criminals condemned to death. As decapitation was the mode
of judicial punishment, S. John Baptist, who was slain by Herod, was
their patron, and his head on a charger the arms of the confraternity.
Although there were so many confraternities and other pious associations
in Rome, connected by their object with institutions of every kind,
sanitary, corrective, etc., they were very careful never to interfere
with the regulations of such establishments; and consequently, by minding
their own business, they were not in the way of the officials, but, on
the contrary, were looked upon as valuable assistants. The Society of S.
Vincent of Paul was started in Rome in 1842 by the late venerable Father
de Ravignan, S.J. It counted twenty-eight conferences and one thousand
active members, clergy and laymen, titled folks and trades-people all
working harmoniously together. About $2,100 was annually dispensed by the
society. The Congregation of Ladies was founded in 1853 by Monsignor--now
Cardinal--Borromeo to give work, especially needle-work, to young women
out of employment. A great many ecclesiastical vestments were thus made
under the direction of the ladies, and either sent as presents to poor
missions, or sold, for what they would bring, at the annual fair held for
the purpose of disposing of them.

There were seven public hospitals in Rome, under the immediate direction
of a general board of administration composed of twelve members, of whom
three belonged to the clergy and the rest to the laity. The oldest,
largest, and best-appointed institution of this kind was Santo Spirito,
situated in the Leonine quarter of the city, on the border of the Tiber.
Its site has been occupied by a charitable institution ever since A.D.
728; the earliest building having been founded there for his countrymen
by Ina, King of Wessex. For this reason the whole pile of buildings is
called Santo Spirito _in Saxia_--_i.e._, in the quarter of the (West)
Saxons. There are three distinct establishments under the administration
of Santo Spirito--viz., the hospital itself, the Foundling Hospital,
and the Lunatic Asylum. The first was founded by Pope Innocent III.
in 1198, the Saxons having abandoned this locality for a more central
position--the present S. Thomas-of-the-English. It has received since
then many additions, until it has assumed the enormous proportions that
we now admire. Every improvement was made to keep pace with the advance
of hygienic knowledge. This hospital was for men only. It had 1,616
beds and an annual average of 14,000 patients. The wards were twelve
in number, in which the cleanliness was refreshing, the ventilation
excellent, and the water-supply pure and abundant. The principal parts
of the exterior, and some of the interior parts of the building, were
by distinguished architects; while some of the wards had their ceilings
and upper walls painted in fresco with scenes from Sacred Scripture,
such as the sufferings of Job and the miraculous cures made by our Lord.
Not only the eye but the ear too of the poor patients was pleased; for
three times a week they were entertained with organ music from a lofty
choir erected at one end of the largest wards. The spiritual care of
the sick was perfect; it was impossible for any one to die without the
rites of the church. In the centre of every ward there was a fixed
altar, upon which Mass was said daily. The Confraternity of Santo
Spirito, composed of clergy and laymen, assisted the regular ministers of
religion in attendance day and night. These volunteers brought flowers
to the patients, read to them, prepared them for confession and other
sacraments, and disposed them to die a good death, besides performing for
them the most menial services.

We remember to have read a letter addressed to the New York _Post_ by
an eminent Protestant clergyman of New York, in which, after describing
this institution (then under papal rule), he said that he could not
speak too highly of the excellent attendance the patients received from
the kind-hearted religious who were stationed there, and added that if
ever he had to come to a hospital, he hoped it would be Santo Spirito.
The Foundling Hospital was opened by Pope Innocent III.; and the Lunatic
Asylum, for both sexes, was founded in 1548 by three Spaniards, a priest
and two laymen. It was called the House of Our Lady of Mercy. A fine
garden on the Janiculum Hill was attached to it for the recreation of
the patients. We do not know how it is conducted since it has changed
hands, but formerly it was managed on the system of kindness towards
even the fiercest madmen, using only so much restraint as was positively
necessary. It was then under the care of religious. The Hospital of the
Santissimo Salvatore, near St. John of Lateran, was founded in 1236 by
a Cardinal Colonna. It was for women only. Another Cardinal Colonna
founded the Hospital of S. James, for incurables, in 1339. Our Lady
of Consolation was a fine hospital near the Forum for the maimed and
wounded; while San Gallicano, on the other side of the river, was for
fevers and skin-diseases. San Rocco was a small lying-in hospital, with
accommodation for 26 women. It was founded at the beginning of the XVIIth
century by a Cardinal Salviati. The most delicate precautions were always
used there to save any sense of honor that might still cling to a victim
of frailty. Guilt could at least blush unnoticed. The Santissima Trinità
was founded by S. Philip Neri for convalescents of both sexes and for
poor pilgrims. It could lodge 488 patients, had beds for 500 pilgrims,
and table-room for 900. In the great refectory of this building the
members of the confraternity came on every Holy Thursday evening to wash
the feet of the pilgrims and wait on them at table. Of course the two
sexes were in different parts of the building, and each was attended by
its own. We remember the delightful ardor with which the late Cardinal
Barnabo on such occasions would turn up his sleeves, twitch his apron,
and, going down on his knees, give some poor man’s feet a better washing
than they had had before in a year. There was much raising of soap-suds
in that wooden tub, and a real, earnest kiss on one foot when the
washing was over. The Hospital of S. John Calabyta was so called from a
Spaniard, the founder of the Brothers of Charity (commonly called the
_Benfratelli_), who attended it. It was opened in 1581, on the island of
the Tiber; and by a coincidence then perhaps unknown, but since fully
brought to light, it stood on the very site of an _asclepium_ which the
priests of Esculapius kept near their god’s temple two thousand years
ago. The Hospital of Santa Galla was founded in 1650 by the princely
Odescalchi family. It gave a night asylum to homeless men. There were
224 beds, distributed through nine dormitories. Another night refuge,
called S. Aloysius, was founded about the year 1730 by Father Galluzzi,
a Florentine Jesuit. It is for women. We can get some idea of the great
charity such refuges are when we know that during the year ending
December, 1869, no less than 135,000 persons sought a resting-place at
night in the station-houses of New York. Besides these public hospitals,
almost every Catholic country had a private national one. One of
the picturesque and not least of the Roman charities used to be the
daily distribution of food at the gates of monasteries, convents, and
nunneries, the portals of palaces, and the doors of seminaries, colleges,
and boarding-schools.

With all this liberality, there was still some room for hand-alms. There
used to be beggars in Rome; assassins have taken their place. Under the
papal government a limit was put to beggary, and we have never seen the
_sturdy_ beggar who figures so maliciously in some Protestant books about
Rome. Beggary may become an evil; it is not a crime. We confess to liking
beggars if they are not too numerous and importunate. Few scenes have
seemed to us more venerable, picturesque, and Christian than the double
row of beggars, with their sores and crippled limbs, their sticks and
battered hats and outstretched hands, imploring _per è amore di Dio_, as
we pass between them to the church or cemetery or other holy place on
feast-day afternoons in Rome.

The Hospice of San Michele was founded in 1686 by a Cardinal Odescalchi.
In this asylum nearly 800 persons used to be received. They were divided
into four classes--old men, old women, boys, and girls. The institution
had an annual endowment of $52,000; but some years ago the aged of
both sexes were removed elsewhere, and their part of the building was
converted into a house of correction for women and juvenile offenders.
The hospice, in its strict sense, now consists of a House of Industry for
children of both sexes, and a gratuitous school of the industrial and
fine arts. The carping author of Murray’s _Hand-book_ (1869), although
he acknowledges that this school of arts has produced some eminent
men, says that “the education of the boys might be turned, perhaps, to
more practically useful objects!” As if, forsooth, it were a lesser
charity, in the great home of the arts that Rome is, to help a poor
lad of talent to become an architect, for instance, than to make him a
tailor! The orphan asylum of Saint Mary of the Angels was near the Baths
of Diocletian. The boys numbered 450, under the care of male religious,
and the girls 500, under that of female religious. The institution
received annually $38,000 from the Commission of Subsidies. In the
same quarter of the city is the Deaf and Dumb Asylum. It was opened in
1794 by Father Silvestri, who had been sent to Paris by Pope Pius VI.
to receive instruction from the celebrated Abbé de l’Epée in the art
of teaching this class of unfortunates. Visitors to the house are made
welcome, and are often invited to test the knowledge of the pupils by
asking them questions on the blackboard. The first time we called there
was in 1862, and, having asked one of the boys, taken at hazard, who
was the first President of the United States, we were a little surprised
(having thought to puzzle him) to have the correct answer at once. The
House of Converts was an establishment where persons who wished to become
Catholics were received for a time and instructed in the faith. It was
founded in 1600 by a priest of the Oratory. Other interesting hospices
were the Widows’ Home and the House for Aged Priests, where the veterans
of the Roman clergy could end their days in honorable comfort. A peculiar
class of Roman charities were the conservatories. They were twenty-three
in number. Some of them were for penance, others for change of life,
and others again to shield unprotected virtue. The Infant Asylum was a
flourishing institution directed by female religious. Even fashion was
made to do something for it, since a noble lady years ago suggested that
the members of good society in Rome should dispense with their mutual New
Year visits on condition of giving three pauls (a small sum of money) to
the asylum, and having their names published in the official journal.

The Society for the Propagation of the Faith was established at Rome in
1834. No city of the size and population of Rome was better supplied with
free schools of every description. The night-schools were first opened in
1819. In connection with studies we should mention the liberal presents
of books, vestments, and liturgical articles made to young missionaries
by the Propaganda, and the books on learned subjects, which, being
printed at government expense, were sold at a reduced price to students
of every nation on showing a certificate from one of their professors.

It is written (Matthew iv. 4), “Man liveth not by bread alone”; and
consequently Rome multiplied those pious houses of retreat in which
the soul could rest for a time from the cares of life. There were five
such establishments in the city. Another great Roman charity was the
missions preached by the Jesuits and Franciscans in and around the city,
thus bringing the truths of the Gospel constantly before the people. We
have given but a brief sketch of our subject. It has been treated in
a complete manner by Cardinal Morichini in a new and revised edition
of his interesting work entitled _Degl’ Istituti di Pubblica Carità ed
istruzione primaria e delle prigioni in Roma_.


SONG.

                     I.

    When in the long and lonely night
      That brings no slumber to mine eyes,
    Through dark returns the vision bright,
      The face and form that day denies,
    And, like a solitary star
      Revealed above a stormy sea,
    Thy spirit soothes me from afar,
      I mourn thee not, nor weep for thee.

                    II.

    And when I watch the dawn afar
      Awake her sleeping sister night,
    And overhead the dying star
      Return into her parent light,
    And in the breaking day discern
      The glimmer of eternity,
    The goal, the peace, for which I yearn,
      I mourn thee not, nor weep for thee.

                    III.

    And when the melancholy eve
      Brings back the hour akin to tears,
    And through the twilight I perceive
      The settled, strong, abiding spheres,
    And gently on my heart opprest
      Like dew descending silently,
    There falls a portion of thy rest,
      I mourn thee not, nor weep for thee.

                    IV.

    But when once more the stir of life
      Makes all these busy highways loud,
    And fretted by the jarring strife,
      The noisy humors of the crowd,
    The subtle, sweet suggestions born
      Of silence fail, and memory
    Consoles no more, I mourn, I mourn
      That thou art not, and weep for thee.


PROGRESS _VERSUS_ GROOVES.

“How do you like your new minister, Mrs. B.?”

“Very much indeed! He is progressive--is not fixed in any of the old
grooves. His mind does not run in those ancient ruts that forbid advance
and baffle modern thought.”

How strangely this colloquy between a Methodist and Congregationalist
fell upon the Catholic ear of their mutual friend! Comment, however,
was discreetly forborne. That friend had learned in the very infancy
of a Catholic life, beginning at the mature age of thirty-five by the
register, the futility of controversy, and that the pearls of truth
are too precious to be carelessly thrown away. Strangely enough these
expressions affected one whose habits of thought and conduct had been
silently forming in accordance with that life for twenty-five years!

“Old grooves” indeed! Lucifer found them utterly irreconcilable with his
“advanced ideas” in heaven. Confessedly, the success of his progressive
enterprise was not encouraging; but the battle and its results
established his unquestionable claim as captain and leader of the sons
and daughters of progress for all time.

“Modern thought!” So far as we can discover, the best it has done for its
disciples is to prove to them beyond a doubt that their dear grandpapa of
eld was an ape, and that they, when they shake off this mortal coil, will
be gathered to their ancestors in common with their brethren, the modern
monkeys!

We, who believe the authentic history of the past, can see in this
boasted new railroad, upon which the freight of modern science and
advanced civilization is borne, a pathway as old as the time when our
dear, credulous old grandmamma received a morning call in Eden from
the oldest brother of these scientific gentlemen, who convinced her in
the course of their pleasant chat that poor deluded Adam and herself
were fastened in the most irrational rut--a perfect outrage upon common
sense--and that a very slight repast upon “advanced ideas” would lift
them out of it, emancipate thought, and make them as “gods knowing good
and evil.”

We all know how well they succeeded in their first step on the highway
of progress. They lost a beautiful garden, it is true, of limited
dimensions, but they gained a world of boundless space, and a freedom
of thought and action which was first successfully and completely
illustrated by their first-born son when he murmured, “Why?” and killed
his brother, who was evidently attached to grooves.

They left the heritage thus gained to a large proportion of their
descendants. A minority of them, it is true, prefer to “seek out the old
paths” of obedience to the commands of God, “and walk therein”--to shun
the “broad road” along which modern civilization is rolling its countless
throngs, and to “enter in at the strait gate” which leadeth to life
eternal, to the great disgust of the disciples of modern thought, who
spare no effort to prove their exceeding liberality by persecuting such
with derision, calumny, chains, imprisonment, and death!

Thank God this is all they can do! Rage they never so furiously, He that
sitteth in the heavens laughs them to scorn. He will defend and preserve
his anointed against all the combined hosts of Bismarcks, kaisers, and
robber princes, who illustrate the liberal ideas that govern the march of
modern civilization.


TRACES OF AN INDIAN LEGEND.

It has been said of our energetic republic that it had no infancy; that
it sprang into a vigorous and complete existence at a bound. However
true this may be with respect to its material structure in the hands of
the remarkable men who first planted colonies on American soil, there is
another view of the picture which presents widely different features.

To the eye of the Christian philosopher the religious and moral aspects
of our country to this day afford subjects for anything but satisfactory
reflection.

The pioneers of civilization along the northeastern borders of our
territory were--whatever their professions to the contrary may have
been--worshippers of material prosperity. The worship of God and the
claims of religion were indeed important and proper in their place for
a portion of the seventh part of each week, but the moment they came in
conflict with Mammon there was little question which should yield. It was
not to be expected that the saints whom the Lord had specially chosen,
and unto whom “He had given the earth,” should be diverted from their
pursuit of the great “main chance” by precepts which were applicable
only to ordinary and less favored mortals.

Whatever progress the church has yet achieved in this region is the
result of appalling labors and sacrifices. The foundation was laid in
sufferings, fatigues, and perils, from the contemplation of which the
self-indulgent Christians of our day would shrink aghast; laid long
before the so-called Pilgrim fathers landed at Plymouth, while the
savage still roamed through the unbroken forests of New England, and
disputed dominion with wild beasts hardly more dangerous than himself
to the messengers of the Gospel of peace. Amid the wonderful beauty and
variety of the panorama which her mountains, lakes, and valleys unfold to
the tourists and pleasure-seekers of to-day, there is scarcely a scene
that has not been traversed in weariness, in hunger, and cold by those
dauntless servants of God who first proclaimed the tidings of salvation
to the wild children of the forest.

Futile, and even foolish, as the toils of these early fathers may appear
to the materialist and utilitarian of this day, because of their tardy
and apparently inadequate fruits, the designs of Heaven have not been
frustrated, and its light reveals a very different history. We read
therein how He who causes “the weak and foolish things of this world
to confound the wise” and to proclaim his praise, sent his ministering
angels to hover over the pathway moistened with the tears and blood of
his servants, to note each footprint through the dreary wilderness, to
gather the incense of each prayer, and to mark each pain and peril of
their sacrificial march for record in the archives of eternity, as an
earnest for future good to those regions, and as enduring testimony
before the high court of heaven to their fitness for the crown--far
surpassing in glory all earthly crowns--which they won by their burning
zeal and unwavering patience.

Nor were their efforts in the field of their earthly labors so vain as
some of our modern historians would have us suppose. Prayer and exertion
in the service of God are never fruitless. If it is true--as the great
Champlain was wont to say--“that one soul gained for heaven was of more
value than the conquest of an empire for France,” they gained from the
roving tribes of the desert many sincere and steadfast adherents to
the faith--whose names are recorded in the book of life--and scattered
benedictions along their painful pathway which have shed their beneficent
influences over the scenes they traversed down to the present day. We
hope to illustrate and sustain this assertion in the following sketch,
drawn from our memory, of traditions--preserved among the Indians of St.
Regis--to which we listened many years ago.

Scattered along the southern shores of the St. Lawrence, from the foot
of Lake Ontario to the village of St. Regis--while St. Lawrence County,
N.Y., was yet for the most part covered with primitive forests--were
many encampments of these Indians. That whole region abounded in game
and furnished favorite hunting-grounds, to which they claimed a right
in connection with their special reservation in the more immediate
neighborhood of St. Regis. At each of these encampments an aged Indian
was sure to be found, who, without the title of chief, was a kind of
patriarch among his younger brethren, exercised great influence in their
affairs, and was treated with profound respect by them. He was their
umpire in all disputes, their adviser in doubtful matters, and the
“leader of prayer” in his lodge--always the largest and most commodious
of the wigwams, and the one in which they assembled for their devotions.

One of the oldest of these sages--called “Captain Simon”--must have
been much more than a hundred years of age, judging from the dates of
events of which he retained a distinct remembrance as an eye-witness,
and which occurred in the course of the French and Indian wars, over a
century previous to the time when we listened to his recital. His head
was an inexhaustible store-house of traditions and legends, many of them
relating to the discovery and settlement of Canada and the labors of the
first missionaries. He was very fond of young people, and, gathering the
children of the white settlers around him, he would hold them spell-bound
for hours while he related stories of those early days in his peculiarly
impressive and figurative language. He claimed that his grandfather was
one of the party who accompanied Champlain on his first voyage through
the lake which bears his name, and that he afterwards acted as guide and
interpreter to the first priest who visited the valley of Lake Champlain.
When he heard that we were from Vermont, he asked for a piece of chalk,
and, marking on the floor an outline of the lake and the course of the
Richelieu River, he proceeded to narrate the voyage of Champlain and his
party in the summer of 1609.

Embosomed within the placid waters of Lake Champlain, near its northern
extremity, is a lovely island, of which Vermonters boast as the “Gem
of the Lake,” so remarkable is it for beauty and fertility. Here the
party landed, and Champlain, erecting a cross, claimed the lake--to
which he gave his own name--its islands and shores, for France and for
Christianity. Half a century later one La Motte built a fort upon this
island, which he named St. Anne, giving the island his own name; and it
is called the Isle La Motte to this day.

Champlain explored the lake as far as Crown Point, where they encountered
and defeated a band of Iroquois Indians; but not deeming it wise to
adventure further at that time so near such powerful foes, they returned
down the lake without delay. This encounter was the first act of that
savage drama which so long desolated New France, and threatened it with
entire destruction.

Six years later, in the summer of 1615, another party landed on the Isle
La Motte. It was made up of a missionary of the Recollect Order and his
escort of Indians in two bark canoes. The grandfather of our narrator
was one of these. They remained a day or two on the island, and the
missionary offered the Christian sacrifice for the first time within the
territory now embraced by the State of Vermont.[97]

The object of his journey was to visit scattered bands of hunters who
were encamped along the eastern shore of the lake and its vicinity, at
different points in the valley of Lake Champlain.

Leaving the Isle La Motte, they steered for the mouth of the Missisque
River, which they navigated up to the first falls, where the village
of Swanton now stands. Here they found a flourishing encampment, and
remained some days for the purpose of instructing the Indians in the
truths of Christianity. The missionary found that some dim reports of the
Christian teachers had preceded him, and prepared the way for his work,
the success of which encouraged and consoled him.

From that place they proceeded on foot for some miles to the base of
a line of hills, sketched by the narrator, and corresponding to those
east of St. Alban’s. Here they also remained several days, the reverend
father toiling early and late in the duties of his vocation. He was now
surrounded by a crowd of eager listeners; for not only did his former
audience accompany him, but a goodly number from the surrounding hills
and from Bellamaqueau and Maquam Bays--distant three and five miles
respectively--flocked to hear his instructions and to be taught “The
Prayer” revealed to them by the Great Spirit through his servant.

Here they brought to him also the beautiful Indian maiden, of whom
her race cherish the legend that her declining health led her people
to bring her to these hills, hoping the change from the low lands and
damp atmosphere of her home to the bracing mountain air might prove
beneficial. Instead of finding relief, she only declined the more
rapidly, so that she was soon unable to be carried back. She, too, had
heard whispers of holy men who had come to teach her race the path of
heaven, and wistfully she had sighed daily, as she repeated the yearning
aspiration: “Oh! if the Great Spirit would but let me see and listen to
his messenger, I could die in peace!”

The Indians, to this day, tell with what joy she listened to his words;
how eagerly she prayed that she might receive the regenerating waters;
how, when they were poured upon her head, her countenance became bright
with the light of heaven; and how her departure soon after was full of
joy and peace. Her burial-place was made on one of those eastern hills.
It was the first Christian burial for one of her race in Vermont, and her
people thought her intercessions would not fail to bring down blessings
upon all that region.

Pursuing their journey by the trail of those who had preceded them
through the dense wilderness--for our aborigines were skilled in tracing
lines of communication between their different camps with extreme
directness by aid of their close observations of nature--the party
arrived at another camp on the bank of a river discovered by Champlain,
and named by him the Lamoille.

At this place an Indian youth came to the missionary in great distress.
His young squaw was lying at the point of death, and the medicine men
and women could do nothing more for her. Would not “The Prayer” restore
her? Oh! if it would give her back to him, he, with all his family, would
gratefully embrace it! The reverend father went to her, and, when he
found she desired it, baptized her and her new-born infant in preparation
for the death which seemed inevitable. Contrary to all expectation, she
recovered. Her husband and his family, together with her father’s family,
afterwards became joyful believers.

After some days the Indians of that place accompanied the party in
canoes to the lake and along its shores to the mouth of the Winooski
River, which they ascended as far as the first falls. Here they remained
many days, during which time the missionary visited the present site of
Burlington, and held two missions there--one at a camp on the summit of
a hill overlooking the valley of the Winooski as it approaches the lake,
and one near the lake shore.

If Vermonters who are familiar with the magnificent scenery which
surrounds the “queen city” of their State never visit the place without
being filled with new admiration at the infinite variety and beauty
of the pictures it unfolds from every changing point of view, we may
imagine how strangers must be impressed who gaze upon them for the first
time. Not less picturesque, and if possible even more striking, were its
features when, crowned by luxuriant native forests and fanned by gentle
breezes from the lake, it reposed within the embrace of that glorious
amphitheatre of hills, in the undisturbed tranquillity of nature. It was
not strange that the natives were drawn by its unparalleled attractions
to congregate there in such numbers as to require from their reverend
visitor a longer time than he gave to any other place in this series of
missions.

In the course of three months the party had traversed the eastern border
of the lake to the last encampment near its southern extremity. This was
merely a summer camp, as the vicinity of the Iroquois made it unsafe to
remain there longer than through that portion of the season when the
Mohawks and their confederates were too busy with their own pursuits
among the hills of the Adirondacks to give much heed to their neighbors.
At the close of the mission this camp was broken up for that season, and
its occupants joined the reverend father and his party in canoes as far
as the mouth of the Winooski River, whence men were sent to convey them
to the starting-point at Swanton, where their own canoes were left.

On their way thither they lingered for some days on Grand Isle, then,
as now, a vision of loveliness to all admirers of the beautiful, and a
favorite annual resort of the natives for the period during which they
were safe from the attacks of their merciless foes.

At every mission thus opened the missionary promised to return himself,
or send one of his associates, to renew his instructions and minister to
the spiritual wants of his converts. This promise was fulfilled as far as
the limited number of laborers in this vineyard permitted. The brave and
untiring sons of Loyola afterwards entered the field, and proved worthy
successors of the zealous Recollects who first announced the Gospel
message in those wilds.

Our Indian narrator, when he had finished his recital of missionary
labors in this and other regions, would always add with marked emphasis:
“And it is firmly believed by our people, among all their tribes, that
upon every spot where the Christian sacrifice was first offered a
Catholic church will one day be placed.”

There seemed to his Protestant listeners but slight probability of this
prediction ever being fulfilled in Vermont--settled for the most part
by the straitest sect of the Puritans--as there was not then, or until
twenty years from that time, a Catholic priest or church in the State.
Yet at this writing--and the fact has presented itself before us with
startling effect while tracing these imperfect reminiscences--there is at
every point indicated in his narrative a fine church, and in many places
flourishing Catholic schools.

The labors of an eminent servant of God--to whom Vermont cannot be too
grateful--have been particularly blessed on the Isle La Motte, where the
banner of the cross was first unfurled within her territory. A beautiful
church has been erected there with a thriving congregation and school.

Much as remains to be accomplished in this field, when we reflect upon
all that has been done since the first quarter of this XIXth century,
we can see great cause for encouragement and gratitude to Almighty God,
who has not withheld his blessing from the work of his servants of the
earliest and the latest times. “Going on their way, they went and wept,
scattering the seed,” the fruits of which we are now gathering into
sheaves with great joy.


FINDING A LOST CHURCH.

The present age is pre-eminently one of discovery. In spite of the wise
man’s saying, “Nothing under the sun is new,” mankind, wiser in its
own conceit than the wise man, insists upon the newness of its every
production. In Rome a different spirit prevails. While the new is not
entirely neglected, the great delight of many Romans is to find something
old--the older the better. They live so much in the past that they follow
with an eager interest the various steps taken to enlighten them on the
lives and deeds of the men of old, their ancestors on the soil and in the
faith which they profess.

Foremost in the pursuit and discovery of Christian antiquities stands the
Commendatore de Rossi. It has been said that poets are born, not made: De
Rossi’s ability as a Christian archæologist seems to be more the gift of
nature than the result of study. With unwearied industry, with profound
knowledge, with an almost unerring judgment, he finds out and illustrates
the remains of Christian antiquity scattered around Rome--not on the
surface, but in the deeps of the earth. The latest and one of the most
important discoveries he has made forms the subject of the present paper.

Tor Marancia is a name not much known out of Rome, yet it designates
a place which was of some importance in its day. The traveller who
contemplates the works of ancient art collected in the Vatican Museum
cannot fail to be interested in two very beautiful black and white
mosaics which form the floor of the gallery known as the Braccio
Nuovo. Mythological fables and Homeric legends are represented in
these pavements, and they come from Tor Marancia. In the Gallery of
the Candelabra, and in the library of the same museum, a collection of
frescos, busts, statues, and mosaics of excellent workmanship and of
great interest, likewise discovered at Tor Marancia, are exhibited. All
these objects were found at that place in the course of excavations made
there in the reign of Pope Pius VI. In ancient times a villa stood at Tor
Marancia, of which these formed the decorations.

At this spot also is found the entrance to a very extensive catacomb
which contains three floors, and diverges in long, winding ways under
the soil of the Campagna. The catacomb has been called by the name of
S. Domitilla, on evidence found during the excavations made there. This
lady was a member of the Flavian family, which gave three occupants to
the imperial throne--Vespasian, Titus, and Domitian. It is a well-known
fact that those early Christians who were blessed with wealth were in
the habit of interring the bodies of their brethren, of saints, and of
martyrs within the enclosure of their villas. Such villas were situated
outside the limits of the city; and hence we find the entrance to every
catacomb beyond the city walls, with the solitary exception of the
catacomb or grottos of the Vatican, and the entrances to all of them are
found in sites ascertained to have been the property of Christians. It
might be easy to multiply instances of this, taking the facts from the
_Acts of the Martyrs,_ wherein the places of sepulture are indicated, and
the names of those who bestowed the last rites upon the dead recorded.

Domitilla, or Flavia Domitilla, as she is sometimes termed, was a niece
of the consul Flavius Clemens, who was cousin of the Emperor Domitian.
She was a Christian, having been baptized by S. Peter; and, after a life
spent in charitable works, amongst which was the burial of the martyrs
“in a catacomb near the Ardeatine Way,” the same of which we write, she
also suffered martyrdom. Her two servants, Nereus and Achilleus, were put
to death previously, and their bodies were placed in this catacomb by
Domitilla.

In 1854, while De Rossi was pursuing his researches in the catacomb
of S. Domitilla, he came upon the foundations of a building which
pierced the second floor of the subterranean cemetery. This was a most
unusual occurrence, and the eminent archæologist eagerly followed up
his discovery. He found a marble slab which recorded the giving up of a
space for burial “Ex indulgentia Flaviæ Domitillæ”--a confirmation of the
proprietorship of the place.

De Rossi naturally concluded that the building thus incorporated in
the Christian cemetery was of great importance. The _loculi_, or
resting-places of the dead, were very large, which indicates great
antiquity; the inscriptions likewise were of a very early date; and
_sarcophagi_ adorned with lions’ heads, marble columns overturned, and
other signs, led the discoverer to the conclusion that he had come upon
the foundations of a church constructed within this cemetery. In the
course of his excavations he had penetrated into the open air, and found
himself in a hollow depression formed by the falling in of the surface.
Amongst other objects discovered were four marble slabs containing
epitaphs furnished with consular dates of the years 335, 380, 399, and
406; and also a form of contract by which the right of burial in the
edifice was sold. The proprietor of the land above the cemetery opposed
the continuance of the excavations, and the discoverer, obliged to
withdraw, covered up the materials already found with earth, and turned
his attention to other recently-discovered objects in another place.

Twenty years after, in 1874, Monsignor de Merode purchased the land
overlying the catacomb and church, and the excavations were again
undertaken under most favorable circumstances. In vain did the Commission
of Sacred Archæology, under De Rossi’s guidance, seek for the four marble
columns and the two beautiful _sarcophagi_ that had been seen there
twenty years before. The proprietor is supposed to have carried them
away. But they found instead the floor of the church or basilica, with
its three naves, the bases of the four columns, the apse, the place where
the altar stood, and the space occupied by the episcopal chair behind
the altar. The basilica is as large as that of San Lorenzo beyond the
walls. The left aisle is sixty feet long by thirteen broad; the central
nave is twenty-four feet broad; and the right aisle, which is not yet
entirely unearthed, is considered to be of the same breadth as the first
mentioned; the greatest depth of the apse is fifteen feet. “The church,”
says De Rossi, “is of gigantic proportions for an edifice constructed in
the bowels of the earth and at the deep level of the second floor of a
subterranean cemetery.”

Here, then, was a basilica or church discovered in the midst of a
catacomb. That the latter belonged to Flavia Domitilla was well known;
and yet another proof, which illustrates archæological difficulties and
the method of overcoming them, was found here. It was a broken slab of
marble containing a portion of an inscription:

                                ......RVM
                                .....ORVM
                                   (*)

and having the image of an anchor at the point(*). It was concluded
that the anchor was placed at an equal distance from both ends of the
inscription, and the discoverer, with the knowledge he already has of the
place, supplied the letters which he considered wanting to the completion
of the inscription, and thus produced the words,

                                SEPVLCRVM
                                FLAVIORVM
                                    *

(sepulchre of the Flavii). This reading is very probably the right one,
and its probability is greatly strengthened by the position of the
anchor, since the full inscription, as here shown, leaves that sign still
in the centre.

But to find the name borne by these ruins when the building of which
they are the sole remnants was fresh and new presented a task to their
discoverer. It was necessary to seek in ancient works--pontifical books
and codices--for some account of a basilica on the Ardeatine Way.
In the life of S. Gregory the Great it is related that this pontiff
delivered one of his homilies “in the cemetery of S. Domitilla on the
Ardeatine Way, at the Church of S. Petronilla.” The pontifical books and
codices, although they differ in details--some saying in the cemetery
of Domitilla, and others in that of Nereus and Archilleus, which is
the same place under another name--agree in the principal fact. On the
small remnant of plaster remaining on the wall of the apse an unskilled
hand had traced a _graffito_, or drawing scratched on the plaster with
a pointed instrument, somewhat resembling those found on the walls of
Pompeii. This _graffito_ represents a bishop, vested in episcopal robes,
seated in a chair, in the act of delivering a discourse. This rude
sketch of a bishop so occupied, taken in conjunction with the fact that
S. Gregory did here deliver one of his homilies, is a link in the chain
of evidence which identifies the ruin with the ancient basilica of S.
Petronilla.

But a still more convincing testimony was forthcoming. A large fragment
of marble, containing a portion of what appeared to have been a long
inscription, was found in the apse. There were but few complete words in
this fragment, and these were chiefly the termination of lines in what
seemed to have been a metrical composition. Odd words, selected at random
from a poem, standing alone, devoid of preceding or succeeding words,
might not seem to furnish very rich materials even to an archæologist.
These wandering words were, however, recognized to be the terminal words
of a poem or eulogium written by Pope Damasus in honor of the martyrs
Nereus and Achilleus. Now the connection between this metrical eulogium
and the basilica was to be sought for. In the Einsiedeln Codex the place
where this poem was to be seen is stated to have been the sepulchre of
SS. Nereus and Achilleus, on the Appian Way, at S. Petronilla. The poem,
or rather this fragment of it, being found at this sepulchre, it was
natural to conclude that the church was that of S. Petronilla. The Appian
Way is the great high-road from which the Ardeatine Way branches off near
this spot.

Again, the basilica of S. Petronilla was frequented by pilgrims from
many nations in the VIIth century. Among these were Gauls, Germans, and
Britons. In their itineraries of the martyrs’ sepulchres in Rome, and in
the collection of the metrical epigraphs written at these places, it is
proved that the original name of this church was that of S. Petronilla.
“Near the Ardeatine Way is the Church of S. Petronilla,” say these old
documents, and they likewise inform us that S. Nereus and S. Achilleus
and S. Petronilla herself are buried there: “Juxta viam Ardeatinam
ecclesia est S. Petronillæ; ibi quoque S. Nereus et S. Achilleus sunt et
ipsa Petronilla sepulti.”

A second fragment of the slab containing the metrical composition
of Pope Damasus has since been found, and this goes to confirm the
testimony furnished by the former fragment. In the following copy of
the inscription the capital letters on the right-hand side are those
on the fragment first discovered; those on the left belong to the
recently-discovered portion:

    “NEREUS ET ACHILLEUS MARTYRES.

    “Militiæ nomen dederant sævumQ gerebant
    Officium pariter spectantes jussA TYRanni
    Præceptis pulsante metu serviRE PARati
    Mira fides rerum subito posueRE FVRORem
    COnversi fugiunt ducis impia castrA RELINQVVNT
    PROiiciunt clypeos faleras telAQ. CRVENTA
    CONFEssi gaudent Christi portaRE TRIVMFOS
    CREDITe per Damasum possit quid GLORIA
    CHRISTI.”

The date of the church was likewise ascertained. It is known that Pope
Damasus, the great preserver of the martyrs’ graves, would never allow
the Christian cemeteries to be disturbed for the purpose of building
a church therein; and although he himself strongly desired that his
remains should repose in one of these sacred places by the side of his
predecessors, he abandoned this desire rather than remove the sacred
ashes of the dead. It may naturally be concluded, then, that this church
was built after his day--he died in 384--as were the churches of S.
Agnes, S. Lawrence, and S. Alexander, all of which are beyond the city
walls and built in catacombs. The catacombs under the Church of S.
Petronilla showed an inscription bearing the date of 390, and in the
church itself a monumental slab with the date of 395 has been found. It
is thus almost certain that between the highest date found _under_, and
the lowest date found _in_, the church--that is, between the years 390
and 395--the basilica of S. Petronilla was constructed.

For about three centuries and a half this church was well frequented.
We have records of gifts sent to it, precious vestments, etc., by Pope
Gregory III., who reigned from 715 to 741. But in 755 the Longobards
came down upon Rome; they desecrated the churches and cemeteries around
the city, and then began the siege of Rome. After peace was made, the
pontiff of the period, Paul I., transferred the relics and remains of
the saints to safer custody, and the Church of S. Petronilla became
deserted. From unmistakable signs it seems that this desertion was
conducted in a most regular manner, and that it was closed and despoiled
of its precious objects. The door which entered the left aisle was found
walled up; the altar, the seats of the choir, the episcopal chair, and
the ambons or marble pulpits ware all removed and transported elsewhere.
The floor of the church, so far below the level of the surrounding
soil, formed a resting-place for the water which drained through the
neighboring lands after rains had fallen, and this undoubtedly formed
the strongest reason for the abandonment of S. Petronilla. Nothing was
left in it but _sarcophagi_ and sepulchres, the pavements with their
marble epitaphs--so valuable to-day in revealing history--some columns
with their beautifully-carved capitals, which time or an earthquake has
overturned and hidden within the dark bosom of the earth for more than a
thousand years.

The hundred pilgrims who came from America, with a hundred new-found
friends, assembled on the 14th of June, 1874, to pray in that disentombed
old church. They had come from a world unknown and undreamt of by the
pilgrims who had formerly knelt within these walls; and as they looked
around on the wide and desolate Campagna, and on the monument of Cecilia
Metella shining in the distance white and perfect, in spite of the
nineteen centuries that have passed away since it received its inmate,
and at the blue, changeless sky overhead, and then turned their eyes upon
the church, decorated that morning with festoons of green branches and
gay flowers, the same as it may have been on other festive occasions a
thousand years ago, they may have felt that time has effected almost as
little change in the works of man as in those of nature, and that all
things in Rome partake of Rome’s eternity.


NEW PUBLICATIONS.

    LE CULTE CATHOLIQUE OU EXPOSITION DE LA FOI DE L’EGLISE
    ROMAINE SUR LE CULTE DU AUX SAINTS ET A LEURS RELIQUES, A
    LA BIENHEUREUSE VIERGE MARIE, AUX IMAGES, etc., en réponse
    aux objections du Protestantisme, suivie d’une dissertation
    historique et critique sur le celibat du clergé. Par l’Abbé
    Louis-Nazaire Bégin, Docteur en Théologie, Professor à la
    Faculté de Théologie de l’Université Laval. Quebec: Typographie
    d’Augustin Cote et Cie. 1875.

_Le Culte Catholique_ is another valuable addition to controversial
literature, by the author of _The Bible and the Rule of Faith_.

It is true that the days of controversy seem to be drawing to a close.
The Greek schism still holds itself aloof in sullen isolation; but the
controversy is exhausted, and all that is left of a church has become the
mere unfruitful appanage of a northern despotism.

As to Protestantism, it never had any positive existence as a confession.
Three hundred years have exhausted its theological pretensions. As a
religion it has ceased to exist, and it lies buried beneath the weight of
its own negations. The only formidable enemies of the church now are the
disowners both of Christ and God, and they seek her destruction because
they know that she alone offers an insuperable obstacle to the universal
atheism which they hope to bring about.

Under such circumstances works like Dr. Bégin’s are chiefly useful for
the information of Catholics, and for the support they render to their
faith.

_Le Culte Catholique_ is, the writer tells us, “an exposition of the
faith of the Roman Church in the matters of the worship of the saints and
of their relics, of the blessed Virgin Mary, of images, etc., in reply
to the objections of Protestantism, followed by a historical and critical
dissertation on the celibacy of the clergy.” On these trite subjects
little that is new can be said. But the work before us is a terse and
lucid summary of Catholic teaching on the above points.

It is the object of the society of Freemasons to effect the universal
deification, the rejection, that is, of the belief in any existence
higher than the human being, and in any superiority of one man over
another. For this they find it convenient to support the foolish
Protestant objection to a splendid ritual and costly churches, on the
ground that “God is a spirit, and they that worship him must worship him
in spirit and in truth.” Dr. Bégin quotes the following telling passage
from a contemporary writer in answer to this frivolous objection:

“I know the old tirades about the temple of nature. No doubt the starry
vault of heaven is a sublime dome; but no worship exists which is
celebrated in the open air. A special place of meeting is required for
collective adoration, because our religious sociability urges us to
gather together for prayer, as it were to make a common stock of our joys
and griefs. Besides, should the time come when we shall have nothing
but the cupola of heaven to shelter our religious assemblies, it would
require a considerable amount of courage to betake ourselves thither,
especially in winter. And the philosophers who find our cathedrals
so damp would not be the most intrepid against the inclemency of the
sanctuary of nature. Thus do great errors touch on the ridiculous.
Reasoning begins their refutation; a smile ends it.”

The second chapter is an admirable exposition of the special worship
(_hyperdulia_) paid to the Blessed Virgin Mary, in the course of which
he shows triumphantly that the definition of her Immaculate Conception
was no new doctrine, but a mere definite and dogmatic statement of a
doctrine which had been all along held implicitly in the church. The
following simile, illustrative of this argument, appears to us to be
worth quoting: “Modern science, which is daily making such extraordinary
progress, discovers, ever and anon, fresh stars, which seem to float
in the most distant depths of space, which become more bright as they
are more attentively observed, and which end by becoming stars of
continually-increasing splendor. These stars are not of recent date;
they are not new; they are only perceived. Something analogous takes
place in the heavens of the church on the subject of certain truths of
our faith. Their light reveals itself and develops by degrees. Sometimes
the shock of controversy illuminates them. Then comes a definition to
invest them with fresh splendor. But in receiving this supplement of
light, destined to make them better understood by the faithful, they lose
nothing of their proper nature; their essence is not in the slightest
degree changed; only our minds appropriate them with more facility.”

    FLOWERS FROM THE GARDEN OF THE VISITATION; or, Lives of Several
    Religious of that Order. Translated from the French. Baltimore:
    Kelly, Piet & Co. 1875.

To those who have attempted to form an adequate conception of the
charitable and ascetic spirit, the simple record of these saintly lives
must have a wonderful fascination. To those, even, who are wholly
absorbed in a life of pleasure it will at least possess the merit of a
new sensation, if they can forget the silent reproof which such examples
convey.

It affords matter of encouragement in these days of combined luxury
and destitution to look over the history of those--many of whom were
delicately reared--who left all for God, content to do whatsoever he
appointed them to do, and to submit to extraordinary mortifications for
his sake. The work embraces six brief biographies of Visitation Nuns
eminent for their self-sacrificing labors for the moral and intellectual
education of their charges, and in other good and charitable offices.
Their names, even, may be quite new to English-speaking readers, but that
fact is all the more in keeping with their hidden lives. We have said
enough to indicate the general character of the volume.

    JOHN DORRIEN: A novel. By Julia Kavanagh. New York: D. Appleton
    & Co. 1875.

The writer succeeds, in the very opening chapter, in so portraying
the character of a child as to make it a living breathing reality
to the reader. The story of his humble life in childhood and his
struggles and trials in later years is told without any attempt at
fine writing--indeed, all the characters are simply and well drawn,
and retain their individuality to the end. The heroine, neglected in
childhood, and without any guide in matters of faith, is easily persuaded
by a suitor that religion is contrary to reason; and thus, left to her
own unaided judgment, and notwithstanding her innate love of truth,
soon finds herself entangled in a web of deceit and hypocrisy. She only
escapes the unhappiness which such a course entails by forsaking it.

The moral of the tale (if that is not an obsolete term) is what
the reader would naturally infer--the necessity of early religious
instruction, and the advantage, even in this life, of a belief in
revealed truth. We are glad to note the absence of the faults which
disfigure much of the imaginative literature of the day, not excepting,
we are sorry to say, that which emanates from the writer’s own sex. We
see no attempt to give false views of life, or to undermine the moral and
religious principles of the reader; on the contrary, there is reason to
infer much that is positively good, though not so definitely stated as we
should have liked.

    THE BIBLE AND THE RULE OF FAITH. By the Abbé Louis-Nazaire
    Bégin, Doctor of Theology, Theological Professor in the
    University of Laval. Translated from the French by G. M. Ward
    [Mrs. Pennée].

Protestantism is well-nigh defunct. It is in its last throes. It has not
sufficient vitality left to care for its own doctrines, such as they
are. As a religion it has almost ceased to exist. Disobedience to the
faith has been succeeded by indifference; indifference by the hatred of
Christ. Its rickety old doctrines, whose folly has been exposed over and
over again thousands of times, have quietly tumbled out of existence.
Protestants themselves have almost forgotten them, and certainly do not
care enough about them to defend them. Paganism has returned--paganism in
its last stage of sceptical development. We have to contend now for the
divinity of Christ and the existence of a God. The Bible and the rule of
faith are up amongst the lumber.

Yet it may be--as the writer of this work asserts; we much doubt
it, however--that there are still “many poor souls in the bosom of
Protestantism a prey to the anguish of doubt.” To such the Abbé Bégin’s
treatise on the rule of faith may be of the utmost service. The argument
is extremely terse and lucid. In short, were the minds of Protestant
fanatics open to reason, it could not fail to convince them of the
unreasoning folly of their notions about the Bible being the one only
rule of faith.

The first part of this work treats of the rule of faith in general, and
proves, amongst other things, that such a rule must be sure, efficient,
and perpetual to put an end to controversies.

The second part exhibits the logical impossibility of the Protestant rule
of faith, remote and proximate. That is to say, that it is impossible for
the unexplained text of the Bible to be a sure, efficient, and perpetual
rule of faith, and for an immediate inspiration of its meaning to
individuals by the Holy Ghost to be its means of explanation.

The third part proves very exhaustively that the Catholic rule of faith
is the only possible sure, efficient, and perpetual one; namely, Holy
Scripture, the remote rule, and the teaching church, the proximate one.

To any souls “in the bosom of Protestism” who are “a prey to the anguish
of doubt,” if indeed there be such, we cordially recommend this treatise.
Its tone is kind and gentle, its reasoning irresistible, and, with
the blessing of God, is able to put an end to all their doubts on the
fundamental question as to the true rule of faith.

    PERSONAL REMINISCENCES. By Cornelia Knight and Thomas Raikes.
    New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1875.

This is another of the pleasant “Bric-à-Brac series,” edited by Richard
Henry Stoddard. Miss Knight was that nondescript kind of being known as
a “lady companion” to the Princess Charlotte of Wales. Her position gave
her peculiar facilities for enjoying the privilege, so dear to certain
hearts, of a peep behind the scenes of a royal household. Never having
been married, she had plenty of time for jotting down her notes and
observations on men, women, and things. Many of the men and women she met
were famous in their way and in their time. As might be expected, there
is much nonsense in her observations, mingled with pleasant glimpses of a
kind of life that has now passed away. Mr. Raikes’ journal is similar in
character to that of Miss Knight, with the advantage or disadvantage, as
may be considered, of having been written by a man.



THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XXII., No. 129.--DECEMBER, 1875.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by Rev. I. T.
HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.


MR. GLADSTONE AND MARYLAND TOLERATION.

It was supposed that Mr. Gladstone had been so triumphantly refuted, as
a polemic, that he would take a prudent refuge in silence. At a moment
when neighboring nations were rent with religious dissensions, and when
England needed repose from, rather than fuel added to, her internal
agitations, a statesman and ex-premier of the British Empire assumes the
_rôle_ of a religious agitator and accuser, and startles, as well as
offends, the public sense of appropriateness by his useless and baseless
indictment against the Catholic Church, to which England owes all that
is glorious in her constitution and in her history; against English
Catholics in particular, his fellow-subjects, who of all others, by their
loyalty and Christian faith and virtues, can preserve the liberties
and the institutions of their country, now threatened alike by infidel
corruption, Protestant indifference, and communistic malice; and against
that saintly and illustrious pontiff whose hand is only raised to bless,
whose lips breathe unfaltering prayer, and whose voice and pen have never
ceased to announce and defend the eternal truths of religion, to uphold
morality, and to refute the crying errors and evils of our times. The
unanswerable refutations which Mr. Gladstone’s attacks elicited from
Cardinal Manning, Bishops Ullathorne and Vaughan, Drs. Newman and Capel,
and Canon Neville, not to speak of the Italian work of Mgr. Nardi and the
rebukes administered by the periodical press, had, it was believed, even
by impartial Protestants, effectually driven this new champion of the old
No-popery party in England from the field of polemics. But, like all new
recruits, the ex-premier seems incapable of realizing defeat, or perhaps
is anxious, at least, to retire with the honors of war.

Not content with the serial publication of his three tracts, he has just
now republished them in one volume, with a _Preface_, under the title
of _Rome and the Newest Fashions in Religion_--a title as unbecoming
the gravity of his subjects as it is unsupported by the contents of
the work. The preface to the republication not only reiterates his
accusations on all points, but the author, not satisfied with his new
part as theologian, essays the _rôle_ of historical critic, and thus
gives prominence to a historical question of deep interest and of
especial importance to the Catholics of this country.

The same _animus_ which inspired Mr. Gladstone’s attacks against the
church, against his Catholic fellow-countrymen, and against the most
august and venerable personage in Christendom, has also induced him to
deny to the Catholic founders of Maryland the honorable renown, accorded
to them heretofore by historians with singular unanimity, of having, when
in power, practised religious toleration towards all Christian sects, and
secured freedom of conscience, not only by their unwavering action and
practice, but also by giving it the stability and sanctions of statute
law. This is certainly the only phase in this celebrated controversy upon
which it remains for Mr. Gladstone to be answered.

His Eminence Cardinal Manning, in _The Vatican Decrees in their bearing
on Civil Allegiance_, at page 88 (New York edition), writes:

    “For the same reasons I deplore the haste, I must say the
    passion, which carried away so large a mind to affirm or to
    imply that the church of this day would, if she could, use
    torture, and force, and coercion in matters of religious
    belief.… In the year 1830 the Catholics of Belgium were in
    a vast majority, but they did not use their political power
    to constrain the faith or conscience of any man. The ‘Four
    Liberties’ of Belgium were the work of Catholics. This is the
    most recent example of what Catholics would do if they were in
    possession of power. But there is one more ancient and more
    homely for us Englishmen. It is found at a date when the old
    traditions of the Catholic Church were still vigorous in the
    minds of men.… If the modern spirit had any share in producing
    the constitution of Belgium, it certainly had no share in
    producing the constitution of Maryland. Lord Baltimore, who
    had been Secretary of State under James I., in 1633 emigrated
    to the American plantations, where, through Lord Stafford’s
    influence, he had obtained a grant of land.… They named their
    new country Maryland, and there they settled. The oath of the
    governor was in these terms: ‘I will not, by myself or any
    other, directly or indirectly, molest any person professing to
    believe in Jesus Christ, for or in respect of religion.’ Lord
    Baltimore invited the Puritans of Massachusetts--who, like
    himself, had renounced their country for conscience’ sake--to
    come into Maryland. In 1649, when active persecution had sprung
    up again in England, the Council of Maryland, on the 21st
    of April, passed this statute; ‘And whereas the forcing of
    the conscience in matters of religion hath frequently fallen
    out to be of dangerous consequence in the commonwealth where
    it has been practised, and for the more quiet and peaceable
    government of the province, and the better to preserve mutual
    love and amity among the inhabitants, no person within the
    province professing to believe in Jesus Christ shall be
    anyways troubled, molested, or discountenanced for his or her
    religion, or in the free exercise thereof.’ The Episcopalians
    and Protestants fled from Virginia into Maryland. Such was the
    commonwealth founded by a Catholic upon the broad moral law I
    have here laid down--that faith is an act of the will, and that
    to force men to profess what they do not believe is contrary to
    the law of God, and that to generate faith by force is morally
    impossible.”

Mr. Gladstone, in his _Vaticanism_, page 96, replies to the above as
follows:

    “It appears to me that Archbishop Manning has completely
    misapprehended the history of the settlement of Maryland and
    the establishment of toleration there for all believers in the
    Holy Trinity. It was a wise measure, for which the two Lords
    Baltimore, father and son, deserve the highest honor. But the
    measure was really defensive; and its main and very legitimate
    purpose plainly was to secure the free exercise of the Roman
    Catholic religion. Immigration into the colony was by the
    charter free; and only by this and other popular provisions
    could the territory have been extricated from the grasp of its
    neighbors in Virginia, who claimed it as their own. It was
    apprehended that the Puritans would flood it, as they did; and
    it seemed certain that but for this excellent provision the
    handful of Roman Catholic founders would have been unable to
    hold their ground. The facts are given in Bancroft’s _History
    of the United States_, vol. i., chap. vii.”

Again, in his _Preface_ to _Rome and the Newest Fashions in Religion_,
page viii., Mr. Gladstone writes:

    “It has long been customary to quote the case of Maryland in
    proof that, more than two centuries ago, the Roman Catholic
    Church, where power was in its hands, could use it for the
    purposes of toleration. Archbishop Manning has repeated the
    boast, and with very large exaggeration.

    “I have already shown from Bancroft’s _History_ that in the
    case of Maryland there was no question of a merciful use of
    power towards others, but simply of a wise and defensive
    prudence with respect to themselves--that is to say, so far as
    the tolerant legislation of the colony was the work of Roman
    Catholics. But it does not appear to have been their work.
    By the fourth article of the charter we find that no church
    could be consecrated there except according to the laws of the
    church at home. The tenth article guaranteed to the colonists
    generally ‘all privileges, franchises, and liberties of this
    our kingdom of England.’ It was in 1649 that the Maryland
    Act of Toleration was passed, which, however, prescribed the
    punishment of death for any one who denied the Trinity. Of the
    small legislative body which passed it, two-thirds appear to
    have been Protestant, the recorded numbers being sixteen and
    eight respectively. The colony was open to the immigration of
    Puritans and all Protestants, and any permanent and successful
    oppression by a handful of Roman Catholics was altogether
    impossible. But the colonial act seems to have been an echo
    of the order of the House of Commons at home, on the 27th of
    October, 1645, that the inhabitants of the Summer Islands, and
    such others as shall join themselves to them, ‘shall without
    any molestation or trouble have and enjoy the liberty of their
    consciences in matters of God’s worship’; and of a British
    ordinance of 1647.

    “Upon the whole, then, the picture of Maryland legislation is
    a gratifying one; but the historic theory which assigns the
    credit of it to the Roman Church has little foundation in fact.”

Let us first test Mr. Gladstone’s accuracy and consistency as a
historical critic. He begins by alleging that the Maryland Toleration Act
was a measure of defensive prudence in the interests of the Catholics
themselves, and that “its main and very legitimate purpose plainly was to
secure the free exercise of the Roman Catholic religion.” He then asserts
that this act of toleration was not the work of the Catholics at all, but
of a Protestant majority in the legislature which passed it. We have,
then, here presented the extraordinary picture of an alleged Protestant
legislature passing a law which was really intended to protect Catholics
against Protestant ascendency and apprehended Protestant persecution, and
whose “main and very legitimate purpose was to secure the free exercise
of the Roman Catholic religion.” Surely, the Protestants of that day were
liberal and generous, especially as it was an age of persecution, when
not only were Catholics hunted down both in England and her Virginia
and New England colonies, but even Protestants of different sects were
relentlessly persecuting each other. And in what proper sense can _they_
be said to have been Protestants with whom it was “_a very legitimate
purpose_” to legislate in the express interests of Roman Catholics?

Mr. Gladstone also states that the Toleration Act was passed in the
apprehension of an influx of Puritans, and to protect the colony “from
the grasp of its neighbors in Virginia”; whereas his favorite author,
Mr. Bancroft, informs Mr. Gladstone that Lord Baltimore invited both
the Episcopalians of Virginia and the Puritans of New England into
his domains, offering a gift of lands as an inducement; and it is a
historical fact that numbers of them accepted the invitation.

Again, Mr. Gladstone, while apparently treating the Toleration Act as a
Catholic measure, animadverts with evident disapproval on that feature
in it which “prescribed the punishment of death for any one who denied
the Trinity,” and then immediately he claims that the legislature which
passed the act was a Protestant body--“two-thirds,” he writes, “appear
to have been Protestants”--thus imposing upon his Protestant friends the
odium of inflicting death for the exercise of conscience and religious
belief; and that, too, not upon Papists, as they were not included in the
punishment.

Mr. Gladstone, in _The Vatican Decrees in their bearing on Civil
Allegiance_ (page 83), expressing no doubt the common sentiments of
Protestants since the time of Luther and Henry VIII., uses these
irreverent words in regard to the Blessed Virgin Mary, that peerless and
immaculate Lady whom four-fifths of the Christian world venerate as the
Mother of God:

    “The sinlessness of the Virgin Mary and the personal
    infallibility of the Pope are the characteristic dogmas of
    modern Romanism.… Both rest on pious fiction and fraud; both
    present a refined idolatry by clothing a pure humble woman and
    a mortal sinful man with divine attributes. The dogma of the
    Immaculate Conception, which exempts the Virgin Mary from sin
    and guilt, perverts Christianism into Marianism.… The worship
    of a woman is virtually substituted for the worship of Christ.”

And yet with such sentiments, in which doubtless the Protestants of
Maryland in 1649 concurred, he attributes to, and claims for, those
Protestants who, he says, constituted two-thirds of the Maryland Colonial
Legislature in 1649, the passage of a law which enacted “that whosoever
shall use or utter any reproachful words or speeches concerning the
Blessed Virgin Mary, the Mother of our Saviour, … shall for the first
offence forfeit five pounds sterling, or, if not able to pay, be publicly
whipped and imprisoned during pleasure, etc.; for the second offence, ten
pounds, etc.; and for the third shall forfeit all his lands and goods,
and be banished from the province.”

The following anecdote, related by the Protestant Bozman,[98] is quite
pertinent to our subject and to our cause:

    “And in the time of the Long Parliament when the differences
    between the Lord Baltimore and Colonell Samuel Matthews, as
    agent for the colony of Virginia, were depending before a
    committee of that parliament for the navy, that clause in the
    sayd law, concerning the Virgin Mary, was at that committee
    objected as an exception against his lordship; whereupon a
    worthy member of the sayd committee stood up and sayd, that he
    wondered that any such exception should be taken against his
    lordship; for (says hee) doth not the Scripture say, that all
    generations shall call her blessed? (The author here cites in
    the margin, ‘Lu. i. 48.’) And the committee insisted no more on
    that exception.”

The authorities relied upon by Mr. Gladstone, besides Bancroft, whom
we shall presently refer to, are _Maryland Toleration_, by the Rev.
Ethan Allen, and _Maryland not a Catholic Colony_, by E. D. N. The
former is a pamphlet of sixty-four pages addressed by the author, a
Protestant minister, to his brethren in the ministry in 1855, is purely
a sectarian tract, hostile to every Catholic view and interest, and
partisan in spirit and in matter. The latter is a few pages of printed
matter, consisting of three newspaper articles published last year in
the _Daily Pioneer_ of St. Paul, Minnesota, and recently reprinted in
the _North-Western Chronicle_ of the same place, the editor of which
states that the author of the letters is the Rev. Edward D. Neill, also
a Protestant minister, and president of Macalester College. The letters
of “E. D. N.” were sharply and ably replied to by Mr. William Markoe,
formerly an Episcopal minister, now a member of the Catholic Church. The
letters of “E. D. N.” are more sectarian than historical, and cannot
be quoted in a controversy in which such names as Chalmers, Bancroft,
McSherry, Bozman, etc., figure. The attack of “E. D. N.” on the personal
character of Lord Baltimore is enough to condemn his effort.

But Mr. Gladstone’s principal author is Bancroft, from whose pages
he claims to have shown that “in the case of Maryland there was _no
question_ of a merciful use of power towards others, but _simply_ of
a wise and defensive prudence with respect to themselves.” Motives of
_self-interest_ are thus substituted for those of _benevolence_ and
_mercy_. If this were correctly stated, why does Mr. Gladstone state that
the Act of Toleration was a measure “for which the two Lords Baltimore,
father and son, deserve the highest honor”? But our task is now to
inquire how far his author sustains Mr. Gladstone in denying to the
Catholics of Maryland, who enacted religious toleration, all motives of
benevolence and mercy.

Mr. Bancroft, on the contrary, asserts that the “new government [of
Maryland] was erected on a _foundation_ as extraordinary as its results
were _benevolent_.”[99] In speaking of Lord Baltimore, the founder of
Maryland, its chief statesman and law-giver, he extols his _moderation_,
_sincerity of character_, and _disinterestedness_,[100] and proceeds to
say:

    “Calvert deserves to be ranked among the most wise and
    _benevolent_ law-givers of all ages. He was the first in the
    history of the Christian world to seek for religious security
    and peace by the practice of justice, and not by the exercise
    of power; to plan the establishment of popular institutions
    with the enjoyment of liberty of conscience; to advance the
    career of civilization by recognizing the rightful equality of
    all Christian sects. The asylum of Papists was the spot where,
    in a remote corner of the world, on the banks of rivers which,
    as yet, had hardly been explored, the _mild forbearance_ of a
    proprietary adopted religious freedom as the _basis_ of the
    state.”[101]

Referring to the act of taking possession of their new homes in Maryland
by the Catholic pilgrims, the same author says, thereby “religious
liberty obtained a home, its only home in the wide world, at the humble
village which bore the name of St. Mary’s.”[102] And speaking of the
progress of the colony, he further says: “Under the _mild_ institutions
and munificence of Baltimore the dreary wilderness soon bloomed with
swarming life and activity of prosperous settlements; the Roman
Catholics who were oppressed by the laws of England were sure to find a
peaceful asylum in the quiet harbors of the Chesapeake; and there, too,
Protestants were sheltered against Protestant intolerance.”[103] Such,
in fine, is the repeated language of an author whom Mr. Gladstone refers
to in proof of his assertion that toleration in Maryland was _simply_ a
measure of self-defence.

Chalmers bears the following testimony to the same point: “He” (Lord
Baltimore) “_laid the foundation_ of his province upon the broad _basis_
of security to property and of freedom of religion, granting, in absolute
fee, fifty acres of land to every emigrant; establishing Christianity
according to the old common law, of which it is a part, without allowing
pre-eminence to any particular sect. The wisdom of his choice soon
converted a dreary wilderness into a prosperous colony.”[104]

And Judge Story, with the history of the colony from its beginning and
the charter before him, adds the weight of judicial approval in the
following words: “It is certainly very honorable to the liberality and
public spirit of the proprietary that he should have introduced into his
_fundamental_ policy the doctrine of general toleration and equality
among Christian sects (for he does not appear to have gone further),
and have thus given the earliest example of a legislator inviting his
subjects to the free indulgence of religious opinion. This was anterior
to the settlement of Rhode Island, and therefore merits the enviable rank
of being the first recognition among the colonists of the glorious and
indefeasible rights of conscience.”[105]

But there is another view, clearly sustained by an important and certain
chain of facts, which has never occurred to the historical writers on
Maryland toleration, at least in this connection, though they give the
facts upon which the view is based, and which wholly destroys the theory
of Mr. Gladstone and his authorities. The latter may dispute in regard to
the merits and motives of the statute of 1649, but they do not touch the
real question. It is an incontestable fact that the religious toleration
which historians have so much extolled in the Catholic colonists and
founders of Maryland did not originate with, or derive its existence
from, that law of 1649, but, on the contrary, it existed long anterior
to, and independent of, it. This great feature in the Catholic government
of Maryland had been established by the Catholic lord-proprietary, his
lieutenant-governor, agents, and colonists, and faithfully practised for
fifteen years prior to the Toleration Act of 1649. From 1634 to 1649 it
had been enforced with unwavering firmness and protected with exalted
benevolence. This important fact is utterly ignored by Mr. Gladstone and
his authors, the Rev. Ethan Allen and the Rev. Edward D. Neill, but the
facts related by Bancroft, and indeed by all historians, prove it beyond
a question. Bancroft records that the very “_foundations_” of the colony
were laid upon the “_basis_” of religious toleration, and throughout the
eulogiums pronounced by him on the religious toleration of Maryland,
which we have quoted above, refers entirely to the period of the fifteen
years preceding the passage of the act of 1649. The Toleration Act was
nothing else than the declaration of the existing state of things and
of the long and cherished policy and practice of the colony--a formal
sanction and statutory enactment of the existing common law of the
province.

Before proceeding to demonstrate this fact, we will briefly examine
how far Mr. Bancroft sustains the theory or views of Mr. Gladstone in
regard to the act itself. After extolling the motives and conduct of the
Catholics of Maryland in establishing religious toleration, as we have
remarked above, during the fifteen years preceding the passage of the
act, Mr. Bancroft refers to that statute in terms of highest praise.
He barely hints at the possibility that a foresight, on the part of
the colonists, of impending dangers to themselves from threatened or
apprehended Protestant ascendency and persecution, might have entered
among the motives which induced them to pass that act; but he nowhere
asserts the fact, nor does he allege anything beyond conjecture for
the possibility of the motive. Indeed, his mode of expressing himself
indicates that, though he thought it possible, his own impression was
that such motive did not suggest in part even the passage of the act; for
he writes: “_As if_, with a foresight of impending danger and an earnest
desire to stay its approach, the Roman Catholics of Maryland, with the
earnest concurrence of their governor and of the proprietary, determined
to place upon their statute-book an act for _the religious freedom which
had ever been sacred on their soil_.” Compare this with the language
of Mr. Gladstone, who excludes every motive but that of self-interest,
and refers to Bancroft in support of his view, but does not quote his
language. Mr. Bancroft, on the other hand, after quoting from the
statute, exclaims, such was “its sublime tenor.”

Mr. Griffith does not agree with the suggestion that a sense of fear or
apprehension entered into the motives of the Maryland lawgivers, and
says: “That this liberty did not proceed from fear of others, on the one
hand, or licentious dispositions in the government, on the other, is
sufficiently evident from the penalties prescribed against blasphemy,
swearing, drunkenness, and Sabbath-breaking, by the preceding sections of
the act, and proviso, at the end, that such exercise of religion did not
molest or conspire against the proprietary or his government.”[106]

Let us now proceed to examine still further whether Maryland was a
Catholic colony, whether it was by Catholics that religious toleration
was established there, and whether it had its origin in the act of 1649
or in the long previous practice and persistent generosity and mercy of
the Catholic rulers of the province. It is true that while the territory
afterwards granted to Lord Baltimore was subject to the Virginia charter,
a settlement of Episcopalians was made on Kent Island; but they were very
few in numbers, always adhered to Virginia rather than to Maryland in
their sympathies, were so turbulent and disloyal that Governor Calvert
had to reduce them by force of arms, and no one has ever pretended that
they founded a State. We will show what relation they had in point of
numbers and political influence to the colony, and that they did not form
even the slightest element of power in the founding of the province.

Maryland was founded alone by the Catholic Lord Baltimore and his
colonists. Such is the voice of history. It is rather disingenuous in the
reverend authors of the pamphlets mentioned by Mr. Gladstone that upon so
flimsy a circumstance they assert that Maryland was not settled first by
Catholics. Their voices are drowned by the concurrent voice of tradition
and of history. It is only the reassertion of the pretensions of these
zealous sectarians by so respectable a person as Mr. Gladstone, and that,
too, in one of the most remarkable controversies of the age, that renders
a recurrence to the historical authorities and their results at all
desirable or necessary.

The colony of Maryland was conceived in the spirit of liberty. It was the
flight of English Catholics from Protestant persecution in their native
country. The state of the penal laws in England against Catholics at this
period is too well known. The zealous Protestant Bozman writes that they
“contained severities enough to keep them [the Catholics] in all due
subjection.”

It was at this hour of their extremest suffering that the Catholics
of England found a friend and leader in Sir George Calvert, who held
important trusts under the governments of James and Charles, and enjoyed
the confidence of his sovereigns and of his country. “In an age when
religious controversy still continued to be active, when increasing
divisions among Protestants were spreading a general alarm, his mind
sought relief from controversy in the bosom of the Roman Catholic Church,
and, preferring the avowal of his opinions to the emoluments of office,
he resigned his place and openly professed his conversion.”[107] Even
after this he was advanced to the peerage under the title of Lord
Baltimore--an Irish title--and was appointed one of the principal
secretaries under James I. His positions in the government gave him
not only an acquaintance with American colonization, but an official
connection with it. Of these he now availed himself to provide an asylum
abroad for his fellow-Catholics from the relentless persecution they
were suffering at home. His first effort was to found a Catholic colony
on the shores of Newfoundland. A settlement was begun. Avalon was the
name it received, and twice did Lord Baltimore cross the ocean to visit
his cherished cradle of liberty. Baffled by political difficulties,
the severity of the climate, and an ungenerous soil, he abandoned the
endeavor. That his motive all along was to found a place of refuge for
Catholics from persecution is certain from the time and circumstances
under which the enterprise was undertaken, as well as from the testimony
of historians. Oldmixon says: “This gentleman [Lord Baltimore], being
of the Romish religion, was uneasy at home, and had the same reason to
leave the kingdom as those gentlemen had who went to New England, to
enjoy the liberty of his conscience.”[108] Bozman writes that “by their
[the Puritans’] clamors for a vigorous execution of the laws against
Papists, it became now necessary for them [the Catholics] also to look
about for a place of refuge.”[109] The same writer also refers to a MS.
in the British Museum, written by Lord Baltimore himself, in which this
motive is mentioned. Driven from Avalon by the hardness of the climate,
he visited Virginia with the same view; but hence again he was driven
by religious bigotry and the presentation of an anti-popery oath from
a colony “from which the careful exclusion of Roman Catholics had been
originally avowed as a special object.” His mind, filled with the thought
of founding a place of refuge for Catholics, next turned to the country
beyond the Potomac, which had been embraced originally in the Virginia
charter, but which, upon the cancellation of that charter, had reverted
to the crown. He obtained a grant and charter from the king, so liberal
in its terms that, Griffith says, it became the model for future grants.
The name was changed from Crescentia to that of Maryland, in honor of the
Catholic queen of Charles; but the devout Catholics of the expedition, in
their piety, extended the term _Terra Mariæ_, the Land of Mary, into an
act of devotion and honor to Mary, the Queen of Heaven.

The first Lord Baltimore did not live to see his project carried into
effect; he died on the 25th of April, 1632, was succeeded by his son
Cecilius, second Lord Baltimore, who, as Bancroft says, was the heir of
his _intentions_ no less than of his fortunes; to him was issued the
charter negotiated by his father, bearing date the 15th of June, 1632.

Founded by a Catholic, designed as an asylum for persecuted Catholics,
is it to be supposed that Lord Baltimore and his brother, Governor
Leonard Calvert, who organized and led forth the pilgrims, would be so
inconsistent at this moment of their success as to lose sight of the
main object of the movement, and carry _Protestant_ colonists with whom
to found a _Catholic_ colony? If, as Rev. Edward D. Neill, author of
_Maryland not a Catholic Colony_, says, there were only twenty Catholic
gentlemen in the ship, and three hundred servants, mostly Protestants,
would it have been deemed necessary to carry two Catholic priests
and their assistants along to administer to the souls of so small a
number? In point of fact, the Protestants were so few that they brought
no minister with them, and it was several years before their entire
numbers justified their having either a minister or a place of worship.
The voyage on the _Ark_ and _Dove_ was more like a Catholic pilgrimage
than a secular expedition. The principal parts of the ship (the _Ark_),
says Father White in his _Narrative_, were committed to the protection
of God especially, and to his Most Holy Mother, and S. Ignatius, and
all the guardian angels of Maryland. The vessel was a floating chapel,
an ocean shrine of Catholic faith and devotion, consecrated by the
unbloody sacrifice, and resounding with Latin litanies; its safety from
many a threatened disaster was attributed to the intercession of the
Blessed Virgin and the saints, whose mediation was propitiated by votive
offerings promised and promptly rendered after their safe arrival at St.
Mary’s. The festivals of the saints were faithfully observed throughout
the voyage, the feast of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin was
selected for landing, and the solemn act of taking possession was
according to the Catholic form. Father White thus describes the scene:

    “On the day of the Annunciation of the Most Holy Virgin Mary
    (March 25), in the year 1634, we celebrated the Mass for the
    first time on this island [St. Clement’s]. This had never been
    done before in this part of the world. After we had completed
    the sacrifice, we took upon our shoulders a great cross which
    we had hewn out of a tree, and advancing in order to the
    appointed place, with the assistance of the governor and his
    associates, and the other Catholics, we erected a trophy to
    Christ the Saviour, humbly reciting on our bended knees the
    Litanies of the Sacred Cross with great emotion.”[110]

They founded a city, the capital of the colony, and called it St. Mary’s.
A Catholic chapel was subsequently erected there; and this too was
dedicated to S. Mary. The city has passed away, but the little chapel
still stands, preserved alike by Catholic and Protestant hands, as a
monument of the faith and zeal of the Catholic pilgrims of Maryland.
Mr. Griffith, the historian, uniting his voice to that of Bancroft and
other writers, speaking of the object which inspired the settlement
from its inception by Lord Baltimore in England, says: “Out of respect
for their religion they planted the cross, and, after fortifying
themselves, plainly and openly set about to obtain, by the fairest means
in their power, other property and homes, where they should escape the
persecutions of the religious and political reformers of their native
country at that time.”[111]

The church and parish of S. Mary were for many years the headquarters of
the Jesuit missions of Maryland. During the succeeding years prior to
1649 there was a steady influx of Catholics into the colony from England,
as is evident by the land records and other official documents, and by
the fact that the number of Catholic priests required for the settlement
increased from two in 1634 to four priests and one coadjutor prior to
1644. The Catholic strength was also increased by numerous conversions,
as is shown by Father White’s _Narrative_, in which, at page 56, he
relates that, “among the Protestants, nearly all who came over from
England, in this year 1638, and many others, have been converted to the
faith, together with four servants … and five mechanics whom we … have in
the meantime won to God.” So numerous were these conversions, and they
created so great a sensation in England, that measures were taken there
to check them.

That the colony was Catholic in its origin, and so continued until
after the year 1649, when the Toleration Act was passed, has never been
denied, according to our researches, except by Mr. Gladstone and the two
Protestant ministers whom he quotes. Bancroft, writing of the religious
toleration which prevailed in Maryland during this period, always speaks
of it as the work of Catholics. In referring to the original colonists
he adds, “most of them Roman Catholic gentlemen and their servants.”
Even so unfriendly a writer as Bozman says: “The most, if not all, of
them were Catholics.” Chancellor Kent speaks of the colony as “the
Catholic planters of Maryland,” and Judge Story says they were “chiefly
Roman Catholics.” Father White, in his _Narrative_, speaks of the few
Protestants on board the _Ark_ as individuals, and not as a class.
Bozman, alluding to the year 1639, and to “those in whose hands the
government of the province was,” says: “A majority of whom were, without
doubt, Catholics, as well as much the greater number of the colonists.”
Mr. Davis, a Protestant, who drew his information from the official
documents of the colony and State, gives unanswerable proofs of the fact
for which we are contending. We give a single passage from his work on
this point:

    “St. Mary’s was the home--the chosen home--of the disciples
    of the Roman Church. The fact has been generally received.
    It is sustained by the tradition of two hundred years and by
    volumes of unwritten testimony; by the records of the courts;
    by the proceedings of the privy council; by the trial of
    law-cases; by the wills and inventories; by the land-records
    and rent-rolls; and by the very names originally given to the
    towns and _hundreds_, to the creeks and rivulets, to the tracts
    and manors of the county. The state itself bears the name of
    a Roman Catholic queen. Of the six _hundreds_ of this small
    county, in 1650, five had the prefix of _St._ Sixty tracts and
    manors, most of them taken up at a very early period, bear the
    same Roman Catholic mark. The creeks and villages, to this
    day, attest the widespread prevalence of the same tastes,
    sentiments, and sympathies. Not long after the passage of the
    act relating to ‘religion,’ the Protestants, it is admitted,
    outgrew their Roman Catholic brethren, and in 1689 succeeded
    very easily in their attempt to overthrow the proprietary. But
    judging from the composition of the juries in 1655, we see no
    reason to believe that they then had a majority.”[112]

Mr. Gladstone seems to favor the view that religious toleration in
Maryland was derived from the charter. We are surprised at this, since
“E. D. N.” (Rev. Edward D. Neill), whose pamphlet has furnished the
substance of the entire passage we have quoted from Mr. Gladstone’s
_Preface_, says in his _Maryland not a Roman Catholic Colony_, “The
charter of Maryland granted to Lord Baltimore was not a charter
of religious liberty, but the very opposite.” McSherry, a Catholic
historian, says that “the ecclesiastical laws of England, so far as
related to the consecration and presentation of churches and chapels,
were extended to the colony, but the question of state religion was left
untouched, and therefore within the legislative power of the colonists
themselves.”[113] And Bozman, a Protestant historian, adopts the same
view of the charter, for he regards the “Act for Church Liberties” passed
in 1639, enacting that “Holy Church within this province shall have
all her rights and privileges,” as an attempt to exercise a control of
religion, and says: “We cannot but suppose that it was the intention of
the Catholic government to erect a hierarchy, with an ecclesiastical
jurisdiction, similar to the ancient Church of England before the
Reformation, and to invest it with all its rights, liberties, and
immunities.”[114] The same views are expressed by the same author at
pages 68 and 350 of his history. While civil liberty was guaranteed by
the charter to all within the province, we find no mention of religious
toleration in its provisions. Nor do we find that immigration was made
free by the charter, as alleged by Mr. Gladstone; the provision to which
he refers simply assures to the subjects of England, “transported or
to be transported into the province, all privileges, franchises, and
liberties of this our kingdom of England,” but the decision of the point
as to who should be transplanted or admitted to settle there was left
to the lord proprietary and the provincial legislature. The grant by
the king to Lord Baltimore of all the lands of the province in itself
gave him the full control over immigration, by enabling him to fix the
conditions to the grants of land to colonists, which would have kept out
all except such as the lord proprietary wished to enter.

We think we have shown that the Catholics were in the majority during
the whole period covered by our discussion, and that the charter
left them free to protect themselves from intrusion; that they were,
consequently, all-powerful to perpetuate their numerical preponderance
and control of the government. Why had they not the same motives for
practising intolerance as the Puritans? Their positions, respectively
and relatively, were the same in this particular, and the same reasons
apply to both. No, they were actuated by a different spirit, and guided
by different traditions. They possessed the power, and used it with mercy
and benevolence; not only permitting but inviting Christians of every
shade of opinion to settle in the province, but also offering grants
of land on easy terms, and protecting the settlers from molestation on
account of their religion. If they had not the power to proscribe, why
should Bancroft, Griffith, Chambers, Kent, Story, and nearly all writers
on the subject, have bestowed such encomiums on them for doing what they
could not have refrained from doing? Why extol the toleration enjoined
by Lord Baltimore and proclaimed by Governor Leonard Calvert, and the
subsequently enacted Toleration Act of 1649, if the liberty it enacts was
already secured by the charter of 1632?

It is not necessary for us to go further into this question, since in
either event the honor and credit of religious toleration in Maryland
is due to a Catholic source. If the charter secured it, our answer is
that the charter itself was the work of a Catholic, for Lord Baltimore
is the acknowledged author of that document. “The nature of the document
itself,” says Bancroft, “and concurrent opinion, leave no doubt that it
was penned by the first Lord Baltimore himself, although it was finally
issued for the benefit of his son.”[115] “It was prepared by Lord
Baltimore himself,” says McSherry, “but before it was finally executed
that truly great and good man died, and the patent was delivered to his
son, Cecilius, who succeeded as well to his noble designs as to his
titles and estates.”[116] It will be more than sufficient to add here
that both Mr. Bozman and the Rev. Ethan Allen concede that Lord Baltimore
was the author of the charter.

We propose now to show that the religious toleration which prevailed
in Maryland had its origin in the good-will, generosity, and mercy of
the Catholic lord proprietary and his Catholic government and colony of
Maryland; was practised from the very beginning of the settlement, and
that we are not indebted for it to the Toleration Act of 1649, except
perhaps as a measure by which its provisions were prolonged. Toleration
was the course adopted in organizing the Maryland colony, even in
England and before the landing of the pilgrims. Thus we find that some
Protestants were permitted to accompany the colonists and share equal
rights and protection with their Catholic associates. Father White speaks
of them on board the _Ark_ and _Dove_. The author of _Maryland not a
Catholic Colony_ refers to the fact that “Thomas Cornwallis and Jerome
Hawley, who went out as councillors of the colony, were adherents of the
Church of England,” as evidence in part that Maryland was “not a Catholic
colony.” We take the same fact to show that not only were Protestants
tolerated in the colony from its inception, but were liberally and
generously given a share in its government. The Rev. Ethan Allen relates
a succession of proofs of this fact, though not for that purpose, in
the following passage: “Witness the fact of so large a portion of the
first colonists being Protestants; his invitation to Capt. Fleet; his
invitation to the Puritan colonists of Massachusetts to come and reside
in the colony in 1643; his constituting Col. Stone his governor in
1648, who was a Protestant, and was to bring five hundred colonists;
his admitting the Puritans of Virginia in the same year; and in the
year following erecting a new county for Robert Brooke, a Puritan, and
his colonists.”[117] McSherry says, speaking of the act of possession
on landing in 1634: “Around the rough-hewn cross, on the island of St.
Clement’s, gathered the Catholic and the Protestant, hand in hand,
friends and brothers, equal in civil rights, and secure alike in the free
and full enjoyment of either creed. It was a day whose memory should make
the Maryland heart bound with pride and pleasure.”[118] The same author
says that the Toleration Act of 1649 was passed “to give _additional_
security to the safeguards which Lord Baltimore _had already provided_.”
Bancroft makes religious toleration commence from the first landing
“when the Catholics took possession,” and extend throughout the fourteen
years up to the passage of the act of 1649. He says that “the apologist
of Lord Baltimore could assert that his government, in conformity with
his strict and repeated injunctions, had _never_ given disturbance to any
person in Maryland for matter of religion.”[119] The Rev. Ethan Allen
relates that the Protestants in the colony were allowed to have their own
chapel and to conduct therein the Protestant service. He cites a case
in which a Catholic was severely punished for abusive language towards
some Protestant servants in respect to their religion, and remarks that
“the settling of the case was unquestionably creditable and honorable to
the Catholic governor and council.”[120] Mr. Davis, a Protestant, says:
“A freedom, however, of a wider sort springs forth at the _birth of the
colony--not demanded by that instrument_ [the charter], but permitted by
it--not graven upon the tables of stone, nor written upon the paper of
the statute-books, but conceived in the very bosom of the proprietary and
of the original pilgrims--not a formal or constructive kind, but a living
freedom, a freedom of the most practical sort. It is the freedom which
it remained for them, and for them alone, _either to grant or deny_--a
freedom embracing within its range, and protecting under its banner, all
those who were believers in Jesus Christ.”[121]

Again, the same author writes: “The records have been carefully searched.
No case of persecution occurred, during the administration of Gov.
Leonard Calvert, from the foundation of the settlement at St. Mary’s
to the year 1647.”[122] Langford, a writer contemporaneous with the
period of which we are treating, in his _Refutation of Babylon’s Fall_,
1655, confirms the result of Mr. Davis’ investigation of the records.
The Protestants of the colony themselves, in a _declaration_, of which
we will speak again, attribute the religious toleration they enjoyed
not solely to the Toleration Act, but also to “_several other strict
injunctions and declarations of his said lordship for that purpose
made and provided_.” Gov. Leonard Calvert also enjoined the same by a
proclamation, which is mentioned by numerous historians. A case arising
under this proclamation is given by Bozman and others in 1638, eleven
years before the passage of the Toleration Act. Capt. Cornwallis’
servants, who were Protestants, were lodged under the same roof with
William Lewis, a zealous Catholic, who was also placed in charge of the
servants. Entering one day the room where the servants were reading
aloud from a Protestant book--Mr. Smith’s _Sermons_--at the very moment
the Protestants were reading aloud a passage to the effect “that the
pope was Antichrist, and the Jesuits were anti-Christian ministers,”
supposing that the passage was read aloud especially for him to hear, he
ordered them with great warmth not to read that book, saying that “it
was a falsehood, and came from the devil, as all lies did; and that he
that writ it was an instrument of the devil, and he would prove it; and
that all Protestant ministers were ministers of the devil.” All the
parties were tried before the governor and his council; the case against
the servants was postponed for further testimony, but Mr. Lewis, the
Catholic, was condemned to pay a fine of five hundred pounds of tobacco
(then the currency of the colony), and to remain in the sheriff’s custody
until he found sufficient sureties in the future. Bozman thus remarks
upon this decision: “As these proceedings took place before the highest
tribunal of the province, composed of the three first officers in the
government, they amply develop the course of conduct with respect to
religion which those in whose hands the government of the province was
placed, had resolved to pursue.”[123] Not only did the Catholic lord
proprietary, in 1648, appoint Mr. Stone, a Protestant, to be the governor
of the province, but also he at the same time appointed a majority of the
privy councillors from the same faith.

We will close our testimony on this point with the official oath which
Lord Baltimore required the governor and the privy councillors to take;
it was substantially as follows:

    “I will not by myself nor any person, directly or indirectly,
    trouble, molest, or discountenance any person whatsoever in
    said province professing to believe in Jesus Christ, for or in
    respect to his or her religion, nor in his or her free exercise
    thereof.”

We cannot determine when this oath began to be used. Bancroft places it
between 1636 and 1639. Chalmers, Dr. Hawks, and others give the time
as between 1637 and 1657. It is certain that this oath was prescribed
prior to the passage of the Toleration Act; for Governor Stone and the
councillors took the oath in 1648, and there is reason to believe that it
was in use at a much earlier period.

Referring to the period anterior to the passage of the Toleration Act,
Bancroft says: “Maryland at that day was unsurpassed for happiness and
liberty. Conscience was without restraint.”[124] Mr. Davis, in reference
to this subject, writes: “The toleration which prevailed from the first,
and for fifteen years later, was formally ratified by the voice of the
people” (in 1649).

Mr. Gladstone’s view of the subject is evidently superficial; it relates
exclusively to the passage of the Toleration Act, and was conceived and
published without the knowledge of the fact, which we have demonstrated,
that the toleration for which the Catholics of Maryland have been so
much praised had been practised for fifteen years before the passage of
that act. Surely, there can be no rival claim set forth in behalf of
Protestants for the period we have mentioned. Mr. Gladstone sets up his
claim for the Protestants under that act. We cannot admit the justice or
truth of the pretension. Let us examine it. This law enacted that “no
one professing to believe in Jesus Christ shall be troubled, molested,
or discountenanced for his religion, or the free exercise thereof, nor
compelled to the belief or exercise of any other religion against his
consent.” Now here, too, the claim set up by Mr. Gladstone, and by the
authors of the pamphlets he quotes, is met by stern facts.

In the first place, the Toleration Act of 1649 was the work of a
Catholic. It was prepared in England by Lord Baltimore himself, and sent
over to the Assembly with other proposed laws for their action. This fact
is related by nearly all writers on Maryland history, including those
consulted by Mr. Gladstone, except the writer of _Maryland not a Roman
Catholic Colony_, who does not refer to the subject, except to claim that
it was but the echo of a previous and similar order of the English House
of Commons in 1645 and of a statute passed by it in 1647. The last-named
writer even intimates that the Rev. Thomas Harrison, the former pastor of
the Puritans at Providence, afterward Annapolis, in Maryland, suggested
the whole matter to Lord Baltimore. We might even admit this pretension
without impairing the Catholic claim. It does not destroy the credit
due to the Catholics of Maryland in passing the Toleration Act to show
that others, even Puritans, entertained in one or two instances similar
views and enacted similar measures. We know that the Puritans in England
were proscriptive, and that in New England they did not practise the
toleration of Maryland. Even if Lord Baltimore had the measure suggested
to him by the Puritan Harrison, the act itself, when adopted by him
and put in practice, is still his act and that of the Assembly which
passed it. It remains their free and voluntary performance. The merit
which attaches to the good deeds of men is not destroyed by having been
suggested by others. A Puritan might even share in the act without
appropriating the whole credit to himself. But whatever merit is claimed
for the Puritans in these measures--which we cannot perceive--is
lost by their subsequent conduct. They overturned the government of
Lord Baltimore in Maryland, and under their ascendency Catholics were
persecuted in the very home of liberty to which Catholics had invited the
Puritans. But of the existence of the English toleration acts mentioned
by the writer referred to and by Mr. Gladstone, we have been supplied
with no proof. That the Puritan Harrison suggested the measure to Lord
Baltimore is hinted at, not roundly asserted, certainly not sustained by
proof.

But public facts give the negative to these pretensions. The Toleration
Act of 1649 was the immediate echo of the actual toleration which, under
the injunctions of Lord Baltimore, the proclamation of Governor Calvert,
and the uniform practice of the colonists, had long become the common
law of the colony. Why seek, in the turbulent and confused proceedings
of the Long Parliament, a model or example for the Maryland law, when
such exemplar is supplied nearer home by the colony itself from its first
inception? To the people of Maryland, in 1649, the Toleration Act was
nothing new; it was readily and unanimously received; it produced no
change in the constitution of the province. Toleration was not the law
or the practice of that day, either in England or her colonies; the echo
was too remote and too readily drowned by the din of persecution and of
strife.

But the Maryland Toleration Act contains intrinsic evidence of a purely
Catholic origin. The clause enforcing the honor and respect due to “the
blessed Virgin Mary, the Mother of our Saviour,” which we have already
quoted, gives a Catholic flavor to the whole statute, and excludes the
theory of parliamentary or puritanical influence in originating the
measure. The claim thus set up is also against the concurrent voice of
history, which, with great accord, gives the authorship of the law to
Lord Baltimore, who, as he had enjoined and enforced its provisions on
the colony for fifteen years, needed no assistance in reducing them to
the form of a statute, which we are informed he did.

But who were the lawgivers of 1649, and what was their religion?

By the charter the law-making power was vested in Lord Baltimore and the
Assembly. It was for some years a matter of contest between them which
possessed the right to initiate laws. The lord proprietary, however,
finally conceded this privilege to the Assembly. It was not uncommon for
the Assembly to reject the laws first sent over by the lord proprietary,
and afterwards to bring them forward themselves and pass them. But in
1648, when Governor Stone was appointed, the Toleration Act was among
the measures sent by Lord Baltimore, for the action of the Assembly. The
government, then, consisted of Cecilius, Lord Baltimore, a Catholic,
without whose sanction no law could be enacted, and whose signature to
the measure in question was given the following year. The journal of the
Maryland legislature was lost or destroyed, but fortunately a fragment of
it is preserved, consisting of a report from the financial committee of
the Assembly, and the action of that body on the bill of charges. With
this document, and the aid of the historical facts recorded by Bozman and
other historians, we are enabled to ascertain the names of the members
of the Assembly in 1649.

Gov. Stone was lieutenant-governor and president of the council,
which was composed of Thomas Green, John Price, John Pile, and Robert
Vaughan, commissioned by the lord proprietary; and the remaining
councillors were Robert Clarke, surveyor-general, and Thomas Hatton,
secretary of the colony, _ex-officio_ members of the council. The
other members of the Assembly were the representatives of the freemen,
or burgesses, as follows: Cuthbert Fenwick, Philip Conner, William
Bretton, Richard Browne, George Manners, Richard Banks, John Maunsell,
Thomas Thornborough, and Walter Peake, nine in number. The governor,
councillors, and burgesses made sixteen in all; but as Messrs. Pile and
Hatton, one Catholic and one Protestant, were absent, the votes actually
cast were fourteen. On the memorable occasion in question the councillors
and burgesses sat in one “house,” and as such passed the Toleration Act.
Of the fourteen thus voting, Messrs. Green, Clarke, Fenwick, Bretton,
Manners, Maunsell, Peake, and Thornborough were Catholics, and Messrs.
Stone, Price, Vaughan, Conner, Banks, and Browne were Protestants. The
Catholics were eight to six Protestants.

But the Assembly was not the only law-making branch of the government.
The executive, or lord proprietary, was a co-ordinate branch, and
without his co-operation no law could pass. Now, the executive was
a Catholic, and a majority of the Assembly were Catholics; so that
we have it as a historical fact that in a government composed of two
co-ordinate branches, _both branches of the law-making power_ which
enacted the Toleration Act _were Catholic_. It is an important fact
that if all the Protestant members of the Assembly had voted against
the law, the Catholic majority could and would have passed it, and the
Catholic executive was only too ready to sanction his own measure. It
cannot, therefore, be said that the Catholics could not have passed the
law without the Protestant votes; for we have seen that both of the
co-ordinate branches of the government were in the hands of the Catholics.

Waiving, however, the division of the government into two co-ordinate
branches, by which method we have the entire government Catholic; and
regarding the lord proprietary merely as individual, computing the
lawgivers of 1649 simply numerically, we have the following result:

                 LAWGIVERS OF 1649.

    _Catholics._               _Protestants._

    Lord Baltimore.            Lt.-Gov. Stone.
    Mr. Green.                 Mr. Price.
    Mr. Clarke.                Mr. Vaughan.
    Mr. Fenwick.               Mr. Conner.
    Mr. Bretton.               Mr. Banks.
    Mr. Manners.               Mr. Browne--6.
    Mr. Maunsell.
    Mr. Peake.
    Mr. Thornborough--9.

As Catholics we would be quite content with this showing; but we are
indebted to several Protestant authors--more impartial than Messrs.
Gladstone, Allen, and Neill, who write solely in the interests of
sect--for a computation of the respective Catholic and Protestant votes
in the Assembly in 1649, which, leaving out Lord Baltimore, and making
the number of votes fourteen, gives, according to their just and strictly
legal computation, _eleven Catholic votes and three Protestant votes
for the Act of Toleration_. Mr. Davis, in his _Day-Star of American
Freedom_, and Mr. William Meade Addison, in his _Religious Toleration in
America_, both Protestant authors, take this view, and enforce it with
strong facts and cogent reasonings. We will quote a passage, however,
from only one of these works, the former, showing their views and the
method by which they arrive at the respective numbers _eleven_ and
_three_. Mr. Davis writes: “The privy councillors were all of them, as
well as the governor, the special representatives of the Roman Catholic
proprietary--under an express pledge, imposed by him shortly before
the meeting of the Assembly (as may be seen by the official oath), to
do nothing at variance with the religious freedom of any believer in
Christianity--and removable any moment at his pleasure. It would be
fairer, therefore, to place the governor and the four privy councillors
on the same side as the six Roman Catholic burgesses. Giving Mr.
Browne to the other side, _we have eleven Roman Catholic against three
Protestant votes_.”[125]

We think, however, that if the computation is to be made by numbers, Lord
Baltimore must be included, as the act received his executive approval,
and could never have become a law without it. Thus, according to the
views of Messrs. Davis and Addison, with this amendment by us, the
numbers would stand twelve Catholic against three Protestant votes. But
we prefer taking our own two several methods of computation, viz., by
co-ordinate branches of the government, showing--

    _Catholic._                       _Protestant._

    The executive, Lord Baltimore,    None.

    The Assembly, 2.

--and that estimated by numbers, counting Lord Baltimore as one, showing--

    Catholics, 9.       Protestants, 6.

This surely is a very different result from that announced by Mr.
Gladstone, following the author of _Maryland not a Roman Catholic
Colony_--viz., sixteen Protestant against eight Catholic votes. So far
the numbers given by Mr. Gladstone and the writer he follows are mere
assertion, unsupported by authority, either as to the composition of the
Assembly or the respective religious beliefs of the members. Mr. Davis,
however, gives in detail every member’s name, and refers to the proof by
which he arrives at their names and number; and the same testimony is
open, we presume, to the examination of all. In order that there may be
no lack of proof as to the religious faiths they professed, he gives a
personal sketch of each member of the Assembly in 1649, and proves from
their public acts, their deeds of conveyance, their land patents, their
last wills and testaments, the records of the courts, etc., that those
named by him as Catholics were incontestably of that faith.

The population of the colony in 1649 was also largely Catholic beyond
dispute. We have already shown that it was Catholic by a large majority
during the fifteen years preceding and up to that time. The above
computations, showing a majority of the legislature to be Catholic,
strongly indicates the complexion of the religious faith of their
constituents. Up to 1649 St. Mary’s, the Catholic county, was the only
county in the State, and Kent, the seat of the Protestant population, was
only a _hundred_ of St. Mary’s. Kent was not erected into a county until
the year the Toleration Act was passed. While St. Mary’s was populous
and Catholic, Kent was Protestant and thinly settled. There were six
_hundreds_ in St. Mary’s, all Catholic except perhaps one, and of that
one it is uncertain whether the majority was Catholic or Protestant. “But
the population of Kent,” says Davis, “was small. In 1639, if not many
years later, she was but a _hundred_ of St. Mary’s county.[126] In 1648
she paid a fifth part only of the tax, and did not hold in the Assembly
of that year a larger ratio of political power. That also was before the
return, we may suppose, of all the Roman Catholics who had been expelled
or exported from St. Mary’s by Capt. Ingle and the other enemies of the
proprietary. In 1649 she had but one delegate, while St. Mary’s was
represented by eight. And this year she paid but a sixth part of the tax,
and for many years after as well as before this Assembly there is no
evidence whatever of a division of the island (of Kent) or the county,
even into _hundreds_. Its population did not, in 1648, exceed the fifth,
nor in 1649 the sixth, part of the whole number of free white persons
in the province.”[127] After a thorough examination of the records, Mr.
Davis arrives at the conclusion that the Protestants constituted only
one-fourth of the population of Maryland at the time of the passage of
the Toleration Act, in 1649. His investigations must have been careful
and thorough, for he gives the sources of his information, refers to
_liber_ and _folio_, and cites copiously from the public records. He
thinks that for twenty years after the first settlement--to wit, about
the year 1654--the Catholics were in the majority. He concludes his
chapter on this subject with the following passage: “Looking, then, at
the question under both its aspects--regarding the faith either of the
delegates or of those whom they substantially represented--we cannot but
award the chief honor to the members of the Roman Church. To the Roman
Catholic freemen of Maryland is justly due the main credit arising from
the establishment, by a solemn legislative act, of religious freedom for
all believers in Christianity.”[128]

But, fortunately, we have another document at hand, signed in the most
solemn manner by those who certainly must have known the truth of the
case, as they were the contemporaries, witnesses of, and participators
in, the very events of which we are treating. This is what is usually
known as the Protestant _Declaration_, made the year after the passage of
the Toleration Act, and shortly after it was known that Lord Baltimore
had signed the act and made it the law of the land. This important
document is an outpouring of gratitude from the Protestants of the colony
to the Catholic proprietary for the religious toleration they enjoyed
under his government. It is signed by Gov. Stone, the privy councillors
Price, Vaughan, and Hatton--all of whom were members of the Assembly
that passed the Toleration Act--by all the Protestant burgesses in the
Assembly of 1650, and by a great number of the leading Protestants of the
colony. They address Lord Baltimore in these words:

    “We, the said lieutenant, council, burgesses, and other
    _Protestant_ inhabitants above mentioned, whose names are
    hereunto subscribed, do declare and certify to all persons whom
    it may concern that, according to an act of Assembly here,
    _and several other strict injunctions and declarations by his
    said lordship_, we do here enjoy all fitting and convenient
    freedom and liberty in the exercise of our religion, under his
    lordship’s government and interest; and that none of us are
    anyways troubled or molested, for or by reason thereof, within
    his lordship’s said province.”[129]

This important document is dated the 17th of April, 1650. It proves that
the religious toleration they enjoyed was not due alone to the act of
1649, but to the uniform policy of Lord Baltimore and his government;
and that even for the Toleration Act itself, which had recently become a
law by his signature, they were indebted to a Catholic. Comment on such
testimony is unnecessary.

Chancellor Kent, with the charter, the public policy of Lord Baltimore,
of his colonial officers and colonists, and the Toleration Act of 1649,
all submitted to his broad and profound judicial inquiry and judgment,
has rendered the following opinion and tribute to the Catholic lawgivers
of Maryland, to whom he attributes the merit of the generous policy we
are considering:

    “The legislature had already, in 1649, declared by law that
    no persons professing to believe in Jesus Christ should be
    molested in respect to their religion, or in the free exercise
    thereof, or compelled to the belief or exercise of any other
    religion against their consent. Thus, in the words of a learned
    and liberal historian (Grahame’s _History of the Rise and
    Progress of the United States_), the Catholic planters of
    Maryland won for their adopted country the distinguished praise
    of being the first of American States in which toleration was
    established by law, and while the Puritans were persecuting
    their Protestant brethren in New England, and Episcopalians
    retorting the same severity on the Puritans in Virginia, the
    Catholics, against whom the others were combined, formed
    in Maryland a sanctuary where all might worship and none
    might oppress, and where even Protestants sought refuge from
    Protestant intolerance.”[130]

Catholics have written comparatively little upon this subject. The
historians of Maryland have been chiefly Protestants. As long as
Protestants so unanimously accorded to the Catholic founders of Maryland
the chief credit of this great event, it was unnecessary for Catholics
to speak in their own behalf. It has remained for Mr. Gladstone and the
two sectarian ministers he follows to attempt to mar the harmony of that
grateful and honorable accord of the Protestant world, by which Catholic
Maryland received from the united voice of Protestant history the
enviable title of “_The Land of the Sanctuary_.”


ARE YOU MY WIFE?

BY THE AUTHOR OF “PARIS BEFORE THE WAR,” “NUMBER THIRTEEN,” “PIUS VI.,”
ETC.

CHAPTER XI.

A DINNER AT THE COURT, WITH AN EPISODE.

Crossing from the station to his brougham, Sir Simon saw Mr. Langrove
issuing from a cottage on the road. The vicar had been detained later
than he foresaw on a sick-call, and was hurrying home to dress for
dinner. It was raining sharply. Sir Simon hailed him:

“Shall I give you a lift, Langrove?”

“Thank you; I shall be very glad. I am rather late as it is.” And they
got into the brougham together.

“And how wags the world with you, my reverend friend? Souls being saved
in great numbers, eh?” inquired the baronet when they had exchanged their
friendly greetings.

“Humph! I am thankful not to have the counting of them,” was the reply,
with a shake of the head that boded ill for the sanctification of
Dullerton.

“That’s it, is it? Well, we are all going down the hill together; there
is some comfort in that. But how about Miss Bulpit? Don’t her port wine
and tracts snatch a few brands from the burning?”

“For the love of heaven don’t speak to me of her! Don’t, I beg of you!”
entreated the vicar, throwing up his hands deprecatingly, and moved from
the placid propriety that seemed a law of nature to him.

“Suppose I had good news to report of her?”

“How so?” cried Mr. Langrove with sudden vivacity. “She’s not going to
marry Sparks, is she?”

“Not just yet; but the next best thing to that. She is going to leave the
neighborhood.”

“You don’t mean it!”

“I do indeed. How is it you’ve not heard of it before? She’s been
pestering Anwyll these two years about some repairs or improvements she
wants done in her house--crotchets, I dare say, that would have to be
pulled to pieces for the next tenant. He has always politely referred
her to his agent, which means showing her to the door; but at last she
threatened to leave if he did not give in and do what she wants.”

“Oh! is that all?” exclaimed the vicar, crestfallen. “I might have waited
a little before I hallooed; we are not out of the woods yet. Anwyll is
sure to give in rather than let her go.”

“Nothing of the sort. He dislikes the old lady, and so does his mother,
and so particularly does your venerable _confrère_ of Rydal Rectory. I
met Anwyll this morning at the club, and he told me he had made up his
mind to let her go. It happens--luckily for you, I suspect--that he has a
tenant in view to take her place. Come, now, cheer up! Is not that good
news?”

“Most excellent!” said the vicar emphatically. “I wonder where she will
move to?”

“Perhaps I could tell you that too. She is in treaty with Charlton for
a dilapidated old hunting lodge of his in the middle of a fir-wood
the other side of Axmut Common, about twenty miles the other side of
Moorlands; it is as good as settled, I believe, and if so we are all safe
from her.”

“Well, you do surprise me!” exclaimed Mr. Langrove, his countenance
expanding into a breadth of satisfaction that was absolutely radiant.
“Who is the incumbent of Axmut, let me see?” he said, musing.

“There is as good as none; it is a lonely spot, with no church within
ten miles, I believe. I shrewdly suspect this was the main attraction;
for the life of him, Charlton says, he can’t see any other. It is a
tumble-down, fag-end-of-the-world-looking place as you would find in all
England. It must be the clear coast for ‘dealing with souls,’ as she
calls it, that baited her. There is a community of over a hundred poor
people, something of the gypsy sort, scattered over the common and in a
miserable little hamlet they call the village; so she may preach away to
her heart’s content, and no one to compete or interfere with her but the
blacksmith, who rants every Sunday under a wooden shed, or on a tub on
the common, according to the state of the weather.”

“Capital! That’s just the place for her!” was the vicar’s jubilant remark.

In spite of the pleasure that lit up his features, usually so mild and
inexpressive, Sir Simon, looking closely at the vicar, thought him worn
and aged. “You look tired, Langrove. You are overworked, or else Miss
Bulpit has been too much for you; which is it?” he said kindly.

“A little of both, perhaps,” the vicar laughed. “I have felt the recent
cold a good deal; the cold always pulls me down. I’ll be all right when
the spring comes round and hunts the rheumatism out of my bones,” he
added, moving his arm uncomfortably.

“You ought to do like the swallow--migrate to a warm climate before the
cold sets in,” observed Sir Simon; “nothing else dislodges rheumatism.”

“That’s just what Blink was saying to me this morning. He urged me very
strongly to go away for a couple of months now to get out of the way of
the east winds. He wants me to take a trip to the South of France.” Mr.
Langrove laughed gently as he said this.

“And why don’t you?”

“Because I can’t afford it.”

“Nonsense, nonsense! Take it first, and afford it afterwards. That’s my
maxim.”

“A very convenient maxim for you, but not so practicable for an incumbent
with a large family and a short income as for the landlord of Dullerton,”
said Mr. Langrove good-humoredly.

The baronet winced.

“Prudence and economy are all very well,” he replied, “but they may be
carried too far; your health is worth more to you than any amount of
money. If you want the change, you should take it and pay the price.”

“I suppose we might have most things, if we choose to take them on those
terms,” remarked the vicar. “‘Take it and pay the price!’ says the poet;
but some prices are too high for any value. Who would do my work while I
was off looking after my health? Is that Bourbonais hurrying up the hill?
He will get drenched; he has no umbrella.”

“Like him to go out a day like this without one,” said Sir Simon in an
accent of fond petulance. “How is he? How is Franceline? How does she
look?”

“Poorly enough. If she were my child, I should be very uneasy about her.”

“Ha! does Bourbonais seem uneasy? Do you see much of him?”

“No; not through my fault, nor indeed through his. We have each our
separate work, and these winter days are short. I met him this morning
coming out of Blink’s as I went in. I did not like his look; he had his
hat pulled over his eyes, and when I spoke to him he answered me as if he
hardly knew who I was or what he was saying.”

“And you did not ask if there was anything amiss?” said Sir Simon in a
tone of reproach.

“I did, but not him. I asked Blink.”

“Ha! what did he say?” And the baronet bent forward for the answer with
an eager look.

“Nothing very definite--you know his grandiloquent, vague talk--but
he said something about hereditary taint on the lungs; and I gathered
that he thought it was a mistake not having taken her to a warm climate
immediately after that accident to her chest; but whether the mistake was
his or the count’s I could not quite see. I imagine from what he said
that there was a money difficulty in the way, or he thought there was,
and did not, perhaps, urge the point as strongly as he otherwise would.”

Sir Simon fell back on the cushions, muttering some impatient exclamation.

“That was perhaps a case where the maxim of ‘take it first and afford it
afterwards’ would seem justifiable,” observed Mr. Langrove.

“Of course it was! But Bourbonais is such an unmanageable fellow in
those things. The strongest necessity will never extract one iota of a
sacrifice of principle from him; you might as well try to bend steel.”

“He has always given me the idea of a man of a very high sense of honor,
very scrupulous in doing what he considers his duty,” said Mr. Langrove.

“He is, he is,” assented the baronet warmly; “he is the very ideal and
epitome of honor and high principle. Not to save his life would he swerve
one inch from the straight road; but to save Franceline I fancied he
might have been less rigid.” He heaved a sigh, and they said no more
until the brougham let Sir Simon down at his own door, and then drove on
to take Mr. Langrove to the vicarage.

A well-known place never appears so attractive as when we look at it
for the last time. An indifferent acquaintance becomes pathetic when
seen through the softening medium of a last look. It is like breaking
off a fraction of our lives, snapping a link that can never be joined
again. A sea-side lodging, if it can claim one sweet or sad memory with
our passing sojourn there, wears a touching aspect when we come to say
“good-by,” with the certainty that we shall never see the place again.
But how if the spot has been the cradle of our childhood, the home of our
fathers for generations, where every stone is like a monument inscribed
with sacred and dear memories? Sir Simon was not a sentimental man; but
all the tenderness common to good, affectionate, cultivated natures
had its place in his heart. He had always loved the old home. He was
proud of it as one of the finest and most ancient houses of his class in
England; he admired its grand and noble proportions, its architectural
strength and beauty; and he had the reverence for it that every well-born
man feels for the place where his fathers were born, and where they have
lived and died. But never had the lordly Gothic mansion looked to him
so home-like as on this cold January evening when he entered it, in all
human probability, for the last time. It was brilliantly lighted up to
welcome him. The servants, men and women, were assembled in the hall to
meet him. It was one of those old-fashioned patriarchal customs that were
kept up at the Court, where so many other old customs survived, unhappily
less harmless than this. As Sir Simon passed through the two rows of
glad, respectful faces, he had a pleasant word for all, as if his heart
were free from care.

The hall was a sombre, cathedral-like apartment that needed floods
of light to dispel its oppressive solemnity. To-night it was filled
with a festal breadth of light; the great chandelier that hung from
the groined roof was in a blaze, while the bronze figures all around
supported clusters of lamps that gleamed like silver balls against the
dark wainscoting. The dining-room and library, which opened to the
right, stood open, and displayed a brilliant illumination of lamps and
wax-lights. Huge fires burned hospitably on all the hearths. The table
was ready spread; silver and crystal shone and sparkled on the snowy
damask; flowers scented the air as in a garden. Sir Simon glanced at it
all as he passed. Could it be that he was going to leave all this, never
to behold it again? It seemed impossible that it could be true.

As he stood once more in the midst of his household gods, those familiar
divinities whose gentle power he had never fully recognized until now,
it seemed to him that he was safe. There was an unaccountable sense
of security in their mere presence; they smiled on him, and seemed to
promise protection for their shrine and their votary.

The baronet went straight to his room, made a hasty toilet, and came down
to the library to await his guests.

He was in hopes that Raymond would have come before the others, and that
they might have a little talk together. But Raymond was behind them all.
Everybody was assembled, the dinner was waiting, and he had not yet
arrived.

It was a mere chance that he came at all. Nothing, in fact, but the
dread of awakening Franceline’s suspicions had withheld him from sending
an excuse at the last moment; but that dread, which so controlled his
life in every act, almost in every thought, compelling him to hide his
feelings under a mask of cheerfulness when his heart was breaking, drove
him out to join the merry-makers. It was all true what Mr. Langrove had
said. There had been a return of the spitting of blood that morning,
very slight, but enough to frighten Angélique and hurry her off with
her charge to the doctor. He had talked vaguely about debility--nervous
system unstrung--no vital mischief so far; the lungs were safe. The
old woman was soothed, and went home resolved to do what was to be
done without alarming her master or telling him what had occurred.
She counted, however, without Miss Merrywig. That pleasant old lady
happened from the distance to see them coming from the doctor’s house,
and, on meeting the count next morning, asked what report there was of
Franceline. Raymond went straight to Blink’s.

“I ask you as a man of honor to tell me the truth,” he said; “it is a
matter of life and death to me to know it.”

The medical man answered his question by another: “Tell me frankly, are
you in a position to take her immediately to a warm climate? I should
prefer Cairo; but if that is impossible, can you take her to the South of
France?”

Raymond’s heart stood still. Cairo! It had come to this, then.

“I can take her to Cairo,” he said, speaking deliberately after a
moment’s silence. “I will take her at once.”

He thought of Sir Simon’s blank check. He would make use of it. He would
save his child; at least he would keep her with him a few years longer.
“Why did you not tell me this sooner?” he asked in a tone of quick
resentment.

“I did not believe it to be essential. I thought from the first it would
have been desirable; but you may recollect, when I suggested taking her
even to the South of France, your daughter opposed the idea with great
warmth, and you were silent. I inferred that there was some insuperable
obstacle in the way, and that it would have been cruel as well as useless
to press the matter.”

“And you say it is not too late?”

“No. I give you my word, as far as I can see, it is not. The return of
the spitting of blood is a serious symptom, but the lungs as yet are
perfectly sound.” M. de la Bourbonais went home, and opened the drawer
where he kept the blank check; not with the idea of filling it up there
and then--he must consider many things first--but he wanted to see it, to
make sure it was not a dream. He examined it attentively, and replaced
it in the drawer. A gleam of satisfaction broke out on the worn, anxious
face. But it vanished quickly. His eye fell on Sir Simon’s letter of
the day before. He snatched it up and read it through again. A new and
horrible light was breaking on him. Sir Simon was a ruined man; he was
going to be turned out of house and home; he was a bankrupt. What was
his signature worth? So much waste paper. He could not have a sixpence
at his bankers’ or anywhere else; if he had, it was in the hands of the
creditors who were to seize his house and lands. “Why did he give it to
me? He must have known it was worth nothing!” thought Raymond, his eyes
wandering over the letter with a gaze of bewildered misery.

But Sir Simon had not known it. It was not the first time he had
overdrawn his account with his bankers; but they were an old-fashioned
firm, good Tories like himself. The Harnesses had banked with them from
time immemorial, and there existed between them and their clients of this
type a sort of adoption. If Sir Simon was in temporary want of ready
money, it was their pleasure as much as their business to accommodate
him; the family acres were broad and fat. Sir Simon was on friendly but
not on confidential terms with his bankers; they knew nothing of the
swarm of leeches that were fattening on those family acres, so there was
no fear in their minds as to the security of whatever accommodation
he might ask at their hands. When Sir Simon signed the check he felt
certain it would be honored for any amount that Raymond was likely to
fill it up for. But since then things had come to a crisis; his signature
was now worth nothing. Lady Rebecca, on whose timely departure from
this world of care he had counted so securely as the means of staving
off a catastrophe, had again disappointed him, and the evil hour so
long dreaded and so often postponed had come. Little as Raymond knew of
financial mysteries, he was too intelligent not to guess that a man on
the eve of being made a bankrupt could have no current account at his
bankers’. Dr. Blink’s decree was, then, the death-warrant of his child!
Raymond buried his face in his hands in an agony too deep for tears. But
the sound of Franceline’s step on the stairs roused him. For her sake he
must even now look cheerful; love is a tyrant that allows no quarter to
self. She came in and found her father busy, writing away as if absorbed
in his work. She knew his moods. Evidently he did not want her just now;
she would not disturb him, but drew her little stool to the chimney
corner and began to read. An hour passed. It was time for her father to
dress for dinner; but still the sound of the pen scratching the paper
went on diligently.

“Petit père, it is half-past six, do you know?” said the bright, silvery
voice, and Raymond started as if he had been stung.

“So late, is it? Then I must be off at once.” And he hurried away to
dress, and only looked in to kiss her as he ran down-stairs, and was off.

“Loiterer!” exclaimed Sir Simon, stretching out both hands and clasping
his friend’s cordially.

“I have kept you waiting, I fear. The fact is, I got writing and forgot
the hour,” said the count apologetically.

Dinner was announced immediately, and the company went into the
dining-room.

They were a snug number, seven in all; the only stranger amongst them
being a Mr. Plover, who happened to be staying at Moorlands. He was an
unprepossessing-looking man, sallow, keen-eyed, and with a mouth that
superficial observers would have called firm, but which a physiognomist
might have described as cruel. His hair was dyed, his teeth were false--a
shrunken, shrivelled-looking creature, whose original sap and verdure, if
he ever had any, had been parched up by the fire of tropical suns. He had
spent many years in India, and was now only just returned from Palestine.
What he had been doing there nobody particularly understood. He talked
of his studies in geology, but they seemed to have been chiefly confined
to the study of such stones as had a value in the general market; he had
a large collection of rubies, sapphires, and diamonds, some of which he
had shown to Mr. Charlton, and excited his wonder as to the length of
the purse that could afford to collect such costly souvenirs of foreign
lands simply as souvenirs. Mr. Plover had met his host accidentally
a week ago, and discovered that he and the father of the latter had
been school-fellows. The son was not in a position either to verify or
disprove the assertion, but Mr. Plover was so fresh in his affectionate
recollection of his old form-fellow that young Charlton’s heart warmed
to him, and he then and there invited him down to Moorlands. He could
not do otherwise than ask Sir Simon to include him in his invitation to
the Court this evening; but he did it reluctantly. He was rather ashamed
of his pompous, self-sufficient friend, whose transparent faith in the
power and value of money gave a dash of vulgarity to his manners, which
was heightened by contrast with the well-bred simplicity of the rest of
the company. He had not been ten minutes in the room when he informed
them that he meant to buy an estate if he could find an eligible one in
this neighborhood; if not, he would rent the first that was to be had on
a long lease. He wanted to be near his young friend Charlton. Sir Simon
was extremely civil to him--surprisingly so.

The other faces we know: Mr. Langrove, bland, serious, mildly exhilarated
just now, like a man suddenly relieved of a toothache--Miss Bulpit was
going from the parish; Mr. Charlton running his turquois ring through
his curly light hair, and agreeing with everybody all round; Lord
Roxham, well-bred and lively; Sir Ponsonby Anwyll, a pleasant sample
of the English squire, blond-visaged, good-tempered, burly-limbed, and
displaying a vast amount of shirt-front; M. de la Bourbonais, a distinct
foreign type, amidst these familiar English ones, the face furrowed with
deep lines of study, of care too, unmistakably, the forehead moulded to
noble thought, the eyes deep-set under strong projecting black brows,
their latent fire flashing out through the habitually gentle expression
when he grew animated. He was never a talkative man in society, and
to-night he was more silent than usual; but no one noticed this, not
even Sir Simon. He was too much absorbed in his own preoccupation.
Raymond sat opposite him as his _alter ego_, doing the honors of one side
of the hospitable round table.

The conversation turned at first on generalities and current events;
the presence of Mr. Plover, instead of fe