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Title: The Catholic World, Volume 7
Author: Various
Language: English
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 [Transcriber's note:  This text is derived from


               The Catholic World.

               A Monthly Magazine


         General Literature and Science.


                     Vol. VII.

              April To September, 1868.


                    New York:

          The Catholic Publication Society,

                126 Nassau Street.



John A. Gray & Green,


16 and 18 Jacob St., New York.



  A Heroine of Conjugal Love, 781.
  A New Face on an Old Question, 577.
  Anecdotical Memoirs of Emperor Nicholas I., 683.
  A Sister's Story, 707.
  Ancient Irish Church, 764.
  Abyssinia and King Theodore, 265.

  Baltimore, Second Plenary Council of, 618.
  Breton Legend of St. Christopher, 710.
  Bretons, Faith and Poetry of, 567.
  Bible and the Catholic Church, 657.
  Bishop Doyle, 44.
  Bound with Paul, 389.

  Catacombs, Children's Graves in, 401.
  Campion, Edmund, 289.
  Catholics in England, Condition and Prospects of, 487.
  Catholic Church and the Bible, 657.
  Catholic Sunday-School Union, 300.
  Children's Graves in the Catacombs, 401.
  Crisis, The Episcopalian, 37.
  Christopher, St., Breton Legend of, 710.
  Constantinople, Harem Life in, 407.
  Conscience, Plea for Liberty of, 433.
  Condition and Prospects of Catholics in England, 487.
  Confessional, Episcopalian, 372.
  Conscript, Story of a, 26.
  Colony of the Insane, Gheel, 824.
  Conjugal Love, Heroine of, 781.
  Council of Baltimore, Second Plenary, 618.
  Cowper, 347.
  Country Church, a Plan for, 135.
  Cousin, Victor, and the Church Review, 95.
  Cross, The, 21.
  Count Ladislas Zamoyski, 650.
  Church, Ancient Irish, 764.
  Church, Catholic, and the Bible, 657.
  Church Review, and Victor Cousin, 95.
  Churches, United, of England and Ireland, 200.
  Church, Early Irish, 336.

  Draper, Professor, Books of, 155.
  De Garaison, Notre Dame, 644.
  Doyle, Bishop, 44.
  Duties, Household, 700.

  Early Irish Church, 356.
  England and Ireland, United Churches of, 200.
  England, Catholics of, Condition and Prospects, 487.
  Episcopalian Crisis, 37.
  Episcopalian Confessional, 372.
  Education, Popular, 228.
  Edmund Campion, 289.
  European Prison Discipline, 772.
  Egypt, Harem Life in, 407.

  Face, New, on an Old Question, 577.
  Faith and Science, 338, 464.
  Flaminia, 795.
  Faith and Poetry of the Bretons, 567.
  Flight of Spiders, 414.
  Florence Athern's Trial, 213.

  Garaison, Notre Dame de, 644.
  Graves, Children's, in the Catacombs, 401.
  Gathering, Roman, 191.
  Glastonbury, Legend of, 517.
  Gheel, Colony of the Insane, 824.
  Girl, Italian, of our Day, 364, 343, 626.
  Glimpses of Tuscany--
    The Duomo, 479;
    The Boboli Gardens, 679.
  Good Works, Merit of, 125.

  Harem Life in Egypt and Constantinople, 407.
  Heroine of Conjugal Love, 781.
  History, How told in the Year 3000, 130.
  Holy Shepherdess of Pibrac, 753.
  Holy Week in Jerusalem, 77.
  How our History will be told in the Year 3000, 130.

  Insane, Colony of, at Gheel, 824.
  Italian Girl of our Day, 364, 543, 626.
  Irish Church, Early, 356.
  Irish Church, Ancient, 764.
  "Is it Honest?" 239.
  Ireland, Protestant Church of, 200.

  Jerusalem, Holy Week in, 77.
  John Sterling, 811.
  John Tauler, 422.

  King Theodore of Abyssinia, 265.
  Keeble, 347.

  La Fayette, Madame de, 781.
  Legend of Glastonbury, 317.
  Liberty of Conscience, Plea for, 433.
  Life of St. Paula, sketches of, 380, 508, 670.
  Life, Harem, in Egypt and Constantinople, 407.
  Life's Charity, 839.
  Last Gasp of the Anti-Catholic Faction, 850.

  Madame de La Fayette, 731.
  Magas; or, Long Ago, 39, 256.
  Miscellany, 139.
  Merit of Good Works, 125.
  Memoirs of Count Segur, 633.
  Monks of the West, i.

  New Face on an Old Question, 577.
  Newgate, 772.
  Newman's Poems, 609.
  Nellie Netterville, 82, 173, 307, 445, 589, 736.
  New York City, Sanitary and Moral Condition of, 553, 712
  Nicholas, Emperor, Memoirs of, 683.
  Notre Dame de Garaison, 644.

  O'Neil and O'Donnell in Exile, 11.

  Quietist Poetry, 347.

  Race, The Human, Unity of, 67.
  Rights of Catholic Women, 846.
  Roman Gathering, 191.


  St. Paula, Sketches of her Life, 380, 508, 670.
  St. Christopher, Breton Legend of, 710.
  Sayings of the Fathers of the Desert, 76, 227, 572.
  Sanitary and Moral Condition of New York City, 553, 712.
  Segur, Count, Memoirs of, 633.
  Shepherdess of Pibrac, 753.
  Sterling, John, 811.
  Science and Faith, 338, 464.
  Sketches of the Life of St. Paula, 380, 508, 670.
  Sister Simplicia, 115.
  Sister's Story, 707.
  Spiders, Flight of, 414.
  Story of a Conscript, 26.
  Story, a Sister's, 707.

  Tauler, John, 422.
  The Cross, 21.
  The Church Review and Victor Cousin, 95.
  The Episcopalian Crisis, 37.
  The Rights of Catholic Women, 846.
  The Second Plenary Council of Baltimore, 618.
  The Story of a Conscript, 26.
  Theodore, King of Abyssinia, 265.
  Tennyson in his Catholic Aspects, 145.

  Unity of the Human Race, 67.
  United Churches of England and Ireland, 200.

  Veneration of Saints and Holy Images, 721.

  Wordsworth, 347.
  Women, Catholic, Rights of 846.

  Zamoyski, Count Ladislas, 650.



  All-Souls' Day--1867, 236.

  Benediction, 444.

  Elegy of St. Prudentius, 761.

  Full of Grace, 129.

  Iona to Erin, 57.

  Love's Burden, 212.

  Morning at Spring Park, 174.
  My Angel, 363.

  One Fold, 336.

  Poland, 154.

  St. Columba, 823.
  Sonnet on "Le Récit d'une Soeur," 306.
  St. Mary Magdalen, 476.
  Sonnet, 617.

  Tears of Jesus, 113.
  To the Count de Montalembert, 516.

  Wild Flowers, 566.


         New Publications.

  Assemblée Générale des Catholiques en Belge, 431.
  Appleton's Annual Cyclopaedia for 1867, 574.
  Appleton's Short Trip to France, 717.

  Book of Moses, 142.

  Campbell's Works, 720.
  Catholic Sunday-School Library, 431.
  Catholic Crusoe, 719.
  Chandler's New Fourth Reader, 575.
  Chemical Change in the Eucharist, 285.
  Count Lucanor, 140,

  De Costa's Lake George, 718.
  Discussions in Theology, Skinner, 573.

  Elinor Johnson, 576.

  Folks and Fairies, 144.

  Great Day, 288.
  Gillet's Democracy, 719.

  Hints on the Formation of Religious Opinions, 573.
  Histoire de France, 719.
  House Painting, 720.

  Infant Bridal, by Aubrey de Vere, 143.
  Imitation of Christ, Spiritual Combat, etc., 575.
  Irish Homes and Irish Hearts, 576.

  Life of St. Catharine of Sienna, 142.
  Life in the West, 287.

  Memoirs and Letters of Jennie C. White--Del Bal, 858.
  Moses, Book of, 142.
  Mozart, 288.
  Margaret, a Story of Prairie Life, 576.

  Newman's Parochial Sermons, 716.
  Notes on the Rubrics of the Roman Missal, 574.
  Northcote's Celebrated Sanctuaries of the Madonna, 574.

  Ozanam's Civilization, 430.
  O'Kane's Notes on the Rubrics, 574,
  O'Shea's Juvenile Library, 719.
  On the Heights, 284.

  Palmer's Hints on the Formation of Religions Opinions, 573.
  Prayer the Key of Salvation, 143.
  Peter Claver, 142.
  Problems of the Age, 715.

  Queen's Daughter, 720.

  Red Cross, 575.
  Reforme en Italic, 143.
  Rossignoli's Choice of a State of Life, 576.
  Rhymes of the Poets, 718.

  St. Catharine of Sienna, Life of, 143.
  St. Colomba, Apostle of Caledonia, 281.
  Sanctuaries of the Madonna, 720.

  Tales from the Diary of a Sister, 288.
  The Catholic Crusoe, 719.
  The Queen's Daughter, 720.
  The Vickers and Purcell Controversy, 856.
  The Woman Blessed by all Generations, 860.




   Vol. VII., No. 37.--April, 1868.


    The Monks Of The West.[Footnote 1]

     By The Count De Montalembert.

    [Footnote 1: _The Monks of tie West, from St. Benedict to
    St. Bernard._ By the Count de Montalembert, Member of the
    French Academy. 5 vols. 8vo. For sale at the Catholic
    Publication House, 126 Nassau Street, New York.]

In the galaxy of illustrious men whom God has given to France in
this century, there is one whom history will place in the first
rank. We mean the author of the _Monks of the West_, the
Count de Montalembert. There has not been since the seventeenth
century till now such an assemblage of men of genius and lofty
character gathered round the standard of the church, combating
for her and leaving behind them works that will never die.
Attacked on all sides at once, the church has found magnanimous
soldiers to bear the brunt of the battle, and meet her enemies in
every quarter. Even though the victory has not yet been
completely won, with such defenders she cannot doubt of final
success and future triumph. How great are the names of
Montalembert, Lacordaire, Ravignan, Dupanloup, Ozanam, Augustin
Co-chin, the Prince de Broglie, de Falloux, Cauchy, and of so
many others! The natural sciences, history, political economy,
controversy, parliamentary debates, pulpit eloquence, have been
studied and honored by these men; superior in all those sciences
on account of the truth which they defend, and equal in talent to
their most renowned rivals.

The figure of the Count de Montalembert stands conspicuous in
that group of giant intellects by the universality of his eminent
gifts. A historian full of erudition, an incomparable orator, and
a writer combining the classic purity of the seventeenth century
with the energy and fire of the nineteenth, an indefatigable
polemic, a man of the world, yet an orthodox churchman, but above
all a practical and fervent Christian; this great defender of
Catholic truth has merited immortal praise from his
contemporaries and from posterity.

Among all the works of this energetic champion of the faith. The
_Monks of the West_ holds indisputably the first place.
It is the work of Montalembert's entire life. He has put into it
his Benedictine erudition, his passionate love for truth, the
charming and dramatic power of his style in the narration of
events, his inimitable talent for painting in words the portraits
of those famous characters whom he wishes to present to the eye
of the reader; and their traits remain ineffaceably stamped on
the mind. Especially does the soul of the true Christian breathe
on every page of the volumes. For more than forty years their
author bent piously over those austere forms of the Benedictine
monks of the early ages to ask them the secret of their lives, of
their virtues, of their influence on their country and their age.
He has studied them with that infallible instinct of faith which
had disclosed to him a hidden treasure in those old monastic
ruins, and in those dusty and unexplored monuments of their
contemporary literature; the treasure, namely, of the influence
of the church acting on the barbarians through the monks. This is
the leading idea of the whole work. It would be a mistake to
expect, under the title of _Monks of the West_, a history of
mere asceticism, or a species of continuation of the _Lives of
the Fathers of the Desert_. Writers no longer treat, as that
work does, the lives of the saints. Readers are not satisfied
with the simple account of the virtues practised or the number of
miracles performed by the canonized children of the church.
Modern men want to look into the depths of a saint's soul; to
know what kind of a human heart throbbed in his bosom, and how
far he participated in the thoughts and feelings of ordinary
human nature. The circumstances in which he lived and studied,
the opinions formed of him by his contemporaries, are weighed,
and the traces left by his sanctity or genius on the manners and
institutions of his country are closely considered.

The history of _The Monks of the West_ is nothing else than
a history of civilization through monastic causes. The third,
fourth, and fifth volumes just published contain a complete,
profound, exact, and beautiful account of the conversion of Great
Britain to Catholicity. No work could be more interesting, not
only to Englishmen, but to all who speak the English tongue.
Hence, but a few months after the French edition of these bulky
volumes, an English translation of them was given to the public,
and is now well known and becoming justly wide-spread in the
United States.

Irish and Anglo-Saxons, Americans by birth or by adoption,
Catholics and Protestants, there is not one of us who is not
interested in a work which tells us from whom, and how, we have
inherited our Christian faith. Even Germans will learn in the
perusal of these volumes their religious origin; for it was from
the British isles that the apostles of Germany went forth to
their labors. The English language is the most universally spoken
to-day; the sceptre of Britain rules an empire greater than that
of Alexander or of any of the Caesars. The latest statistics tell
us that there are one hundred and seventy-four millions of
British subjects or vassals. The two Indies, vast Australia, and
the islands of the Pacific Ocean belong mostly to the Anglo-Saxon
race, and feel its influence. But what are all those great
conquests compared to these once British colonies, now called
North America? Who can foresee the height to which may reach this
vigorous graft, cut from the old oak, invigorated by the virgin
soil of the new world, and which already spreads its shade over
immense latitudes, and which promises to be the largest and most
powerful country ever seen?
Is it not therefore useful and interesting to study the religious
origin of this extraordinary race? Is there an American in heart,
or by birth, who is not bound to know the history of those to
whom this privileged race owes its having received in so large a
measure the three fundamental bases of all grandeur and stability
in nations: the spirit of liberty, the family spirit, and the
spirit of religion?

The history of the conversion of England by the monks answers all
these questions. It comprises the apostleship of the Irish, and
of the Roman and Anglo-Saxon elements during the sixth and
seventh centuries. The Irish or Celtic portion of the history
centres in St. Columba, whose majestic form towers above his age,
illustrated by his virtues and influenced by his genius. The
Roman element is represented by the monk Augustine, the first
apostle of the Anglo-Saxons. Lastly, this race itself enters on
the missionary career, and sends out as its first apostle a great
man and a great saint, the monk Wilfrid, whose moral beauty of
character rivals that of St. Columba. Shortly after these, as it
were following in their shadow, walks the admirable and gentle
Venerable Bede, the first English historian, the learned
encyclopedist, alike the honor and glory of his countrymen, and
of the learned of all nations.

We cannot resist the pleasure of giving, though it be but very
incomplete and pale, a sketch of the great monk of Clonard, the
apostle of Caledonia, St. Columba.[Footnote 2] Sprung from the
noble race of O'Niall, which ruled Ireland during six centuries,
educated at Clonard, in one of those immense monasteries which
recalled the memory of the monastic cities of the Thebaid, he was
the chief founder, though hardly twenty-nine years old, of a
multitude of religious houses. More than thirty-seven in Ireland
claim him as their founder. He was a poet of great renown, and a
musician skilled in singing that national poetry of Erin, which
so intimately harmonizes with Catholic faith. He lived in
fraternal union with the other poets of his country, with those
famous bards, whom he was afterward to protect and save from
their enemies. Besides being a great traveller, like the most of
the Irish saints and monks whose memory has been preserved by
history, he had another passion for manuscripts. This passion had
results which decided his destiny. Having shut himself up at
night in a church, where he discovered the psalter of the Abbot
Finnian, Columba found means to make a clandestine copy of it.
Finnian complained of it as a theft. The case was brought to the
chief monarch of Ireland, who decided against Columba. The
copyist protested; anathematized the king, and raised against him
in revolt the north and west of Hibernia. Columba's party
conquered, and the recovered psalter, called the _Psalter of
Battles_, became the national relic of the clan O'Donnell.
This psalter still exists, to the great joy of the erudite
patriots of Ireland.

    [Footnote 2: The Catholic Publication Society will soon
    publish _The Life of St. Columba_, as given in the third
    volume of _The Monks of the West_.]

Nevertheless, as Christian blood had flowed for a comparative
trifle, and through the fault of a monk, a synod was convened and
Columba was excommunicated. He succeeded in having the sentence
cancelled; but he was commanded to gain to God, by his preaching,
as many souls as he had destroyed Christians in the battle of
Cooldrewny. To this injunction his confessor added the hardest of
penances for a soul so passionately attached, as was that of
Columba, to his country and his friends.
The penitent was compelled to exile himself from Ireland for
ever. Columba submitted. Twelve of his disciples refused to leave
him, and embarking with them on one of those large osier,
hide-covered boats which the Celtic peoples were accustomed to
use in navigation, he landed on an island called Oronsay. He
ascended a hill near the shore, and looking toward the south,
perceived that he could still see the Irish coast. He reëmbarked
immediately, and sailed in quest of a more distant isle, from
which his native land should be no longer visible. He at last
touched the small desert island of Iona, and chose for his abode
this unknown rock, which he has made a partaker of his own

We should read in M. de Montalembert's work the eloquent
description of the Hebrides, and of that sandy and sterile shore
of Iona, rendered glorious by so many virtues. "'We were now
treading,' wrote Dr. Johnson, the great moralist of the
eighteenth century, 'that illustrious island which was once the
luminary of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and
roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge and the
blessings of religion. To abstract the mind from all local
emotion would be impossible if it were endeavored, and would be
foolish if it were possible.'[Footnote 3] And he recited with
enthusiasm those verses from Goldsmith's _Traveller_:

  'Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state,
  With daring aims irregularly great.
  Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
  I see the lords of human kind pass by;
  Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band.
  By forms unfashioned, fresh from nature's hand.
  Fierce in their native hardiness of soul.
  True to imagined right, above control,
  While even the peasant boasts these rights to scan,
  And learns to venerate himself as man.' [Footnote 4]

    [Footnote 3: _Journey to the Western Islands of
    Scotland_. By Dr. Johnson,]

    [Footnote 4: _The Monks of the West_, vol. iv. book xi.
    ch. 3.]

Grace had accomplished its work. Arrived at Iona, Columba, one of
the most high-spirited and passionate of the Gaels of Hibernia,
became a most humble penitent, a pattern of mortification to the
monks, the most gentle of friends, and a most tender father.
Having no other cell than a log cabin for seventy-six years, he
slept in it on the bare ground, with a stone for his pillow. This
hut was his oratory and library, into which, after working all
day in the fields like the lowest of the brothers, he entered to
meditate on the Holy Scripture and multiply copies of the sacred
text. He is supposed to have transcribed with his own hand three
hundred copies of the gospels. Devoted to his expiatory mission,
he commenced by evangelizing the Dalriadian Scots, an Irish
colony formed between the Picts of the north and the Britons of
the south. This colony was on the western coast of Caledonia and
in the neighboring islands, at the north of the mouth of the
Clyde, in that tract of country afterward known by the name of
Argyle. But these colonists were his countrymen. Soon he was
called to lay hands on the head of their chief, thus inaugurating
not only a new royalty, but also a new rite, which afterward
became the most august solemnity in the life of Christian
nations. This consecration of the Scot Aidan as King, by Columba,
is the first authentic instance of the kind in the west. Later,
crossing the Grampian hills, at the foot of which the victorious
legions of Agricola stopped, and venturing in a frail skiff on
Loch-Ness and the river which flows from it, he confronted those
terrible Picts, the most depraved and ferocious of the
barbarians, disputing, through an interpreter, with the Druids,
thus attacked in their last retreat.
He returned often to these savages, so that he finished, before
his death, the conversion of the whole nation, dotting with
churches and sanctuaries their forests, defiles, inaccessible
mountains, their wild fens and their sparsely peopled isles. The
vestiges of fifty-three of those churches are still traceable in
modern Scotland, and even the most enlightened Protestant judges
of the Scottish bench attribute the very ancient division of
parishes in Scotland to the missionary monk of sacred Iona.

He never forgot, in the midst of his labors, his beloved Ireland.
He had for her all the tender passion of the exile; a passion
which let itself out in his songs, full of a charming melancholy.
"Better to die in pure Ireland, than to live for ever here in
Albania." [Footnote 5]

    [Footnote 5: Vol. iii. book xi. ch. 2.]

To this cry of despair succeed more plaintive notes breathing
resignation. In one of his elegies, he regrets not being able to
sail once more on the lakes and gulfs of his fatherland, nor to
listen to the song of the swans with his friend Comgall. He
mourns especially his having to leave Erin through his own fault,
on account of the blood shed in the battles which he had
provoked. He envies his friend Cormac, who can return to his dear
monastery of Durrow, to hearken there to the murmur of the winds
among the oaks, and drink in the song of the blackbird and the
cuckoo. As for him, Columba, everything in Ireland is dear to
him, _except the rulers that govern it!_ In another poem
still more characteristic, he exclaims: "Oh! what delight to
glide over the foam-crested waves of the sea, and see the
breakers roll on the sandy beaches of Ireland! Oh! how swiftly my
bark would bound over the waters, if its prow were turned toward
my grove of oaks in Ireland! But the noble sea must only bear me
for ever toward Albania, the gloomy land of the raven. My feet
repose in my skiff, but my sad heart ever bleeds.
From the deck of my boat I cast my eyes over the billows, and the
big tears stand in my moistened gray eyes, when I look toward
Erin; toward Erin, where the birds sing so melodiously, and where
the priests sing like the birds; where the young men are so
gentle, and the old so wise; the nobles so illustrious and
handsome, and the women so fair to wed. ... Young navigator,
carry with thee my woes, bear them to Comgall the immortal. Bear
with thee, noble youth, my prayer and my blessing: one half for
Ireland; that she may receive seven-fold blessings! and the other
half for Albania. Carry my benediction across the sea; carry it
toward the west. My heart is broken within my bosom; if sudden
death should befall me, it would be through my great love for the
Gaels." [Footnote 6]

    [Footnote 6: Vol. iii. book xi. ch. 2.]

An opportunity was afforded him of seeing once more this beloved
land of which he sang with such ardent enthusiasm. He had to
accompany the king of the Dalriadians, whom he had just
consecrated, to meet the supreme monarch of Ireland and other
Irish princes and chiefs assembled in parliament at Drumkeath.
There was question of recognizing the independence of the new
Scottish royalty, hitherto the vassal and tributary of Erin. But
as the exile had made a vow never again in this life to behold
the men and women of Erin, he appeared in the national assembly
with his eyes blindfolded, and his monk's cowl drawn over the
bandage. Columba was listened to as an oracle in the parliament
of Drumkeath. He not only obtained the complete emancipation of
the Dalriadian colony, but he also saved the order of the bards,
whose proscription had been demanded by the king of Ireland.
They were for ever won over to Christianity by the holy monk,
and, transformed into minstrels, continued for the future to be
the most efficacious propagators of the spirit of patriotism, the
indomitable prophets of national independence, and the faithful
champions of catholic faith.

Arrived at the term of his career, the servant of God spent
himself in vigils, fastings, and formidable macerations of the
flesh. He knew in advance and predicted with certainty the day
and the very hour when he should pass to a better life; and he
made all things ready for his departure. He went to take leave of
the monks who worked in the fields, in the only fertile portion
of the island of Iona, on the western coast. He wished to visit
and bless the granary of the community. He blessed the old white
horse which used to carry from the sheep-fold of the monastery
the milk which was consumed daily by the brothers. Having done
this, he was barely able to ascend an eminence from which the
whole island and monastery were visible, and from this elevated
position he extended his hands and pronounced on the sanctuary
which he had founded a prophetic benediction. "This little spot,
so low and so narrow, will be greatly honored, not only by the
kings and people of Scotland, but also by foreign chiefs and
barbarous nations; it will be even venerated by the saints of
other churches." He then descended to the monastery, entered his
cell, and applied himself to his work for the last time. He was
at that time busied in transcribing the psalter. At the
thirty-third psalm, and the verse, "_Inquirentes autem Dominum
non deficient omni bono,_" [Footnote 7] he ceased and said:
"Here I must finish; Baithan will write the rest." After this he
went to the church to assist at the vigils of Sunday; then
returning to his cell, he sat down on the cold stones which had
been his bed and pillow for over seventy years. There he
entrusted his solitary companion with a last message for the
community. This done, he never spoke more. But no sooner had the
midnight bell tolled for matins, than he ran faster than the
other monks to the church. His companion found him lying before
the altar, and raising his head, placed it on his knees. The
whole community soon arrived with lights. At the sight of their
father dying, all wept. The abbot opened his eyes once more,
looking around on all with a serene and joyous expression. Then,
assisted by his companion, Columba lifted as well as he could his
right hand, and silently blessed the whole choir of monks. His
hands fell powerless to his sides, and he breathed his last.

    [Footnote 7: "They that seek the Lord shall not be deprived
    of any good." Ps. xxxiii. 11.]

What a scene! Such were the life and death of this great man and
great saint. After having loved Ireland so much, he could repose
nowhere more appropriately than in her sacred soil. His body was
transported thither to the monastery of Down, and buried between
the mortal remains of St. Patrick and St. Bridget. Thus those
three names, for the future inseparable, became interwoven with
the history and traditions, and engraved in the worship and on
the memory, of the Irish people.

Such were the men to whom Ireland owed not only her
indestructible faith, but also her intellectual and moral
It is not sufficiently known that Ireland in the seventh century
was regarded by all Europe as the principal focus of science and

There, more than anywhere else, every monastery was a school, and
every school a studio of calligraphy, where the artists were not
confined to copying the Holy Scriptures alone; but where even the
Greek and Latin authors were reproduced, sometimes in Celtic
characters, with gloss and commentary in Irish, like that copy of
Horace which contemporary erudition has discovered in the library
of Berne. Besides, in all those monasteries, exact annals of
passing events were recorded; and these annals still constitute
the chief source of Irish history. We recognize in them a vast
and continual development of serious literary and religious
studies, far superior to anything found in any other European
nation. Certain arts even, such as architecture, carving,
metallurgy applied to the objects of public worship, were
cultivated with success; not to speak of music, a knowledge of
which was a common accomplishment not exclusively possessed by
the learned, but also by the common people. The classic
languages, not only the Latin, but even in an especial manner the
Greek, were spoken, written, and studied with a sort of passion,
which shows the sway which intellectual preoccupations held over
those ardent Celtic minds.

But whatever may have been the influence of Columba on the Picts
and Scots, neither he nor his successors could exercise any
direct or efficacious action on the Anglo-Saxons, who became
daily more redoubtable, and whose ferocious incursions menaced
not only the Caledonian clans, but also the Britons. Other
missionaries were therefore needed. Whence were they to come?
From that ever-burning centre of faith and charity from which the
light of Christianity had already been brought to the Irish by
Patrick; to the Bretons and Scots by Palladius, Ninian, and
Germain--from Rome!

  "Who then were the Anglo-Saxons, upon whom so many efforts were
  concentrated, and whose conquest is ranked, not without reason,
  among the most fruitful and most happy that the church has ever
  accomplished? Of all the Germanic tribes the most stubborn,
  intrepid, and independent, this people seem to have
  transplanted with themselves into the great island which owes
  to them its name, the genius of the Germanic race, in order
  that it might bear on this predestined soil its richest and
  most abundant fruits. The Saxons brought with them a language,
  a character, and institutions stamped with a strong and
  invincible originality. Language, character, institutions, have
  triumphed, in their essential features, over the vicissitudes
  of time and fortune--have outlived all ulterior conquests, as
  well as all foreign influences, and, plunging their vigorous
  roots into the primitive soil of Celtic Britain, still exist at
  the indestructible foundation of the social edifice of England.
  Keeping intact and untamable their old Germanic
  spirit, their old morals, their stern independence,
  they gave from that moment to
  the free and proud genius of their race a
  vigorous upward impulse which nothing has
  been able to bear down." [Footnote 8]

    [Footnote 8: Vol. iv. book xii. ch. 1.]

Every one knows how and by whom those Anglo-Saxons were
evangelized and converted; every one knows the scene of Gregory,
afterward pope, with the young slaves in the Roman forum, and the
dialogue related by Bede from the traditions of his Northumbrian
ancestors. Every one knows that, at the sight of those young
slaves, struck by the beauty of their countenances, the dazzling
whiteness of their complexion, the length of their flaxen locks,
a probable sign of their aristocratic extraction, Gregory
inquired about their country and their religion.
The merchant, answered him that they came from the island of
Britain, where all had the same fresh color, and that they were
pagans. Then, heaving a deep sigh, "what evil luck," he
exclaimed, "that the prince of darkness should possess beings
with an aspect so radiant, and that the grace of these
countenances should reflect a soul void of inward grace! But what
nation are they of?" "They are Angles?" "They are well named, for
these Angles have the faces of angels; and they must become the
brethren of the angels in heaven. From what province have they
been brought?" "From Deïra," (one of the two kingdoms of
Northumbria.) "Still good," answered he. "_De ira
eruti_--they shall be snatched from the ire of God, and called
to the mercy of Christ. And how name they the king of their
country?" "Alle or AElla." "So be it; he is right well named, for
they shall soon sing the Alleluia in his kingdom." [Footnote 9]

    [Footnote 9: Vol. iii book xii. ch. 1, p. 347.]

We will not follow the apostolate of the monk Augustine in his
pacific conquests, nor the touching solicitude of the Pope St.
Gregory for his dear favorites. Not because this history lacks
interest--we know none more attractive, or in which the glory of
the Roman Church shines forth more brilliantly--but it is better
known than that of the monk Columba, which has delayed us longer.
"We may simply remark that, unlike the churches of Italy, Gaul,
and Spain, in all of which the baptism of blood had either
preceded or accompanied the conversion of the inhabitants, in
England there were neither martyrs nor persecutors from the first
day of Augustine's preaching, during the entire existence of the
Anglo-Saxon Church. Placed in the presence of the pure,
resplendent light of Christianity, even before they understood or
accepted it, those fierce Saxons, so pitiless to their enemies,
displayed, in the presence of truth, a humanity and a docility
which we seek in vain among the learned and civilized citizens of
imperial Rome. Not a drop of blood spilled in the name of
religion stained the English ground. And this prodigy is
witnessed at a period when human gore flowed in torrents for any
or every pretext, no matter how trivial. What a contrast between
those times and later ages, when, in the very same island, so
many pyres were lighted, so many gibbets raised on which to
immolate the English who remained steadfast in the faith of
Gregory and Augustine!"

The second volume of _The Monks of the West_ comprises a
thorough and varied account of the conversion of the
Anglo-Saxons, not only by the missionaries sent from Rome, but
also by those of England herself The great figure of St. Wilfrid
looms up in this epoch. As we cannot analyze his noble and holy
life, we will resume, at least, some of his traits, as drawn by
the pen of M. de Montalembert.

"In Wilfrid began that great line of prelates, by turns apostolic
and political, eloquent and warlike, brave champions of Roman
unity and ecclesiastical independence, magnanimous
representatives of the rights of conscience, the liberties of the
soul, the spiritual powers of man, and the laws of God--a line to
which history presents no equal out of the Catholic Church of
England; a lineage of saints, heroes, confessors, and martyrs,
which produced St. Dunstan, St. Lanfranc, St. Anselm, St. Thomas
a Becket, Stephen Langton, St. Edmund, the exile of Pontigny, and
which ended in Reginald Pole." [Footnote 10]
. . .

    [Footnote 10: Vol. iv. ch. 4, p. 368.]


"In addition to all this, Wilfrid was the precursor of the great
prelates, the great monks, the princely abbots of the middle
ages, the heads and oracles of national councils, the ministers
and lieutenants, and often the equals and rivals of kings. When
duty called, no suffering alarmed, no privation deterred, and no
danger stopped his course. Four times in his life he made the
journey to Rome, then ten times more laborious and a hundred
times more dangerous than the voyage to Australia is now. But,
left to himself, he loved pomp, luxury, magnificence, and power.
He could be humble and mild when it was necessary; but it was
more congenial to him to confront kings, princes, nobles,
bishops, councils, and lay assemblies in harsh and inflexible
defence of his patrimony, his power, his authority, and his
cause." [Footnote 11]

    [Footnote 11: Ibidem, p. 369.]

"His influence is explained by the rare qualities, which more
than redeemed all his faults. His was, before all else, a great
soul, manly and resolute, ardent and enthusiastic, full of
unconquerable energy, able to wait or to act, but incapable of
discouragement or fear, born to live upon those heights which
attract at once the thunderbolt and the eyes of the crowd. His
eloquence, superior to anything yet known in England, his keen
and penetrating intelligence, his eager zeal for literary studies
and public education, his knowledge and love of those wonders of
architecture which dazzled the Christian nation, and to which his
voice attracted such crowds, his constancy in trial, his ardent
love of justice--all contributed to make of him one of those
personages who sway and move the spirits of their contemporaries,
and who master the attention and imagination even of those whom
they cannot convince. Something generous, ardent, and magnanimous
in his nature commended him always to the sympathy of lofty
hearts; and when adverse fortune and triumphant violence and
ingratitude came in, to put upon his life the seal of adversity,
nobly and piously borne, the rising tide of emotion and sympathy
carried all before it, sweeping away all traces of those errors
of conduct which might have seemed to us less attractive or
comprehensible." [Footnote 12]

    [Footnote 12: Ibidem, pp. 371-2.]

The fifth and last volume ends with an elaborate essay of great
interest on the Anglo-Saxon nunneries. It is certain that women
have taken an active part in the civilization of modern nations,
more particularly among the German tribes, whose purity of morals
astonished the old Romans of the empire. The Germanic races
considered woman as a person, not as a thing. No sooner was the
light of the gospel received among them than their women began to
distinguish themselves by the ardor of their faith and the
generosity of their devotion. If monasteries cover the land,
convents of women rival them in number, regularity, and religious
fervor. It was the kings and nobles of the Heptarchy who first
set the example of a cloistered life for men; it was also the
queens and princesses who founded the first convents and became
their earliest abbesses. Nothing is more interesting in the whole
book, and nowhere is the author more successful, than in his
portrayal of those primitive natures, still tinctured with
barbarism, passing through a complete transformation under the
law of light and charity; to see those nuns devote themselves to
as earnest a study of Greek and Latin as to that of the Holy
Scriptures; quote Virgil, compose verses during the intervals of
their religious duties and the singing of the office.
Another remarkable trait is their profound and obstinate
attachment to one or other of the parties who disputed the
possession of supreme power in those troubled times--an
attachment which is explained by the high rank of the abbesses
who governed those numerous communities. A single one of those
houses, the Abbey of Winbourne, contained five hundred nuns who
sang the office day and night. Nothing is better calculated to
give us a just appreciation of the manners of those times than
the faithful description of the interior life of those great
convents; the narration of their customs, of their lively faith,
their enthusiasm for science, of their works, their literary
correspondence, and of all the details of their existence.
Whatever may be the charm which the author has infused into the
rest of his book, that part of it, in our opinion, which excites
most the curiosity of the reader by the novelty of its incidents,
its charming legends, and which will be read with most avidity,
is the last chapter on the Anglo-Saxon nuns.

May this rapid sketch inspire our readers with the desire of
becoming better acquainted with this great and magnificent work!
In all ages, remarkable books have been scarce, and, by a sad
infirmity of the human mind, they have not always been properly
appreciated during the lifetime of their authors. Almost all have
been obliged to await the judgment of time and posterity to
consecrate their glory. Let this not be the fate of _The Monks
of the West_. Let us read and study this book. We shall find
in it the history of the conversion of England in the sixth and
seventh centuries; one of the most powerful arguments in support
of the great thesis--_that the world has been civilized by the
Catholic Church_. This point is the high aim, the noble
thought, the idea and soul of Montalembert's master-piece. By it
he has rendered an immense service to the Catholic cause, and on
this account he deserves the undying gratitude of all Christians.


         O'Neill And O'Donnell In Exile. [Footnote 13]

    [Footnote 13: _The Fate and Fortunes of Hugh O'Neill, Earl
    of Tyrone, and Rory O'Donnell, Earl of Tyrconnel: Their
    Flight from Ireland; Their Vicissitudes Abroad, and their
    Death in Exile._ By the Rev. C. Meehan, M.R.I.A. Dublin:
    James Duffy. New York: Catholic Publication House. Pp. 383.

The history of the Irish race presents certain features quite
exceptional, and without parallel either in the ancient or in the
modern world. For example, during these last two and a half
centuries that strange history has been dual or double--half of
it in Ireland and the other half in foreign lands. There were the
Irish in Ireland undergoing the emaciating process of
confiscations and plunder, writhing under their penal laws for
religion, with occasional gallant efforts at resistance, either
in support of a dynasty (the Stuarts) or by way of fierce
insurrection, as in 1798. And there were the Irish abroad in many
lands, refugees, exiles, emigrants, who were always plotting and
preparing a descent from France or from Spain to redeem their
countrymen from British oppression, or else giving their service
as military adventurers to any power at war with England, hoping
to deal their enemy somewhere, anywhere, a mortal blow.
But their thought was ever Ireland, _Ireland_. What country
on this earth has ever inspired its children with so deep, so
passionate, so enduring love?

These side-scenes in the drama of Irish life have duly repeated
themselves from generation to generation, down to the present
day. We see one of them in the United States this moment. Always,
alongside of the transactions in the island itself--the
confiscations, and ejectments, and famines, and packed
juries--there is a parallel series of transactions outside among
the exiles, all bearing reference to the "fate and fortunes" of
the Irish at home; all moved and inspired by that insatiable
craving to liberate the land of their fathers, and make good
their own footing among the green hills where they were born. Of
this collateral or episodical history, Fr. Meehan has selected
one of the most striking and touching scenes, has thoroughly
investigated it in all its aspects, and in this volume presented
us with a very complete _monograph_ of the outside life of
O'Neill and O'Donnell, with their followers, from the moment when
those chiefs suddenly dropped out of the large space they had so
long filled in Ireland proper, and became a part of the external
Irish world.

For this task, Fr. Meehan had unusual qualifications and
advantages. He had long lived in Rome, where the last years of
the illustrious chiefs were passed, and where, in the Church of
S. Pietro Montorio, their bones lie buried under a simple
inscription. More than thirty years ago, the sight of this
inscription (_D.O.M. Hic quiescunt Ugonis Principis O'Neill
ossa--_"Here rest the bones of Hugh the Prince O'Neill")
excited within his mind an ardent curiosity to explore the
mystery which has so long surrounded that sad flight of the
"earls," and their short, feverish life afterward. Since that day
the author never lost sight of his object. Though devoted to his
sacred duties, and occasionally occupied in illustrating some
other page of the history of his country, as in his excellent
narrative of the "Confederation of Kilkenny," (_see Library of
Ireland,_) yet he was always adding to his store of materials
for the illumination of this one dark passage in the fortunes of
those most illustrious of Irish exiles. At length we have the
result; and it leaves nothing to be desired. Yet we feel inclined
at the outset to reproach the learned author for entitling his
heroes Earl of Tyrone and Earl of Tyrconnel. Why has he done this
when O'Neill's own epitaph has no allusion to such a title,
which, indeed, was, in his eyes, a mark of disgrace and a badge
of servitude? He had, it is true, submitted to sink for a short
time formally from a high chief into an earl when he was in
England, and had an object to gain by pleasing and flattering
Queen Elizabeth; but in his own Ulster his name and title was The
O'Neill; "in comparison of which," says Camden, "the very title
of Caesar is contemptible in Ireland." [Footnote 14]

    [Footnote 14: Camden: Queen Elizabeth.]

Moreover, it was not until his long and desperate resistance was
at length subdued, not till most of his warriors lay dead amidst
the smoking ruins of Ulster, and he had made his submission to
Mountjoy at Mellifont Abbey, that he consented to wear with shame
the coronet of an earl before his own clansmen and kinsmen.
It was a condition of the queen's "pardon" that he should so
abase himself. When he quitted Ireland, however, he flung down
his coronet and golden chain, and never called himself Earl of
Tyrone again. Fr. Meehan himself tells us (p. 161) while
describing the honors paid to the chiefs upon the continent:

  "Wherever there was an Irish seminary or conventual
  establishment, alumni and superiors vied with each other in
  congratulating the _illustrious princes_, for such was the
  designation by which they were recognized in Belgium, Italy,
  and all over the continent."

But on this subject it may be remarked that the policy of the
British government in thus forcing the coronets of feudal
nobility upon the unwilling brows of Celtic chieftains, whether
in Scotland or in Ireland, has never yet been sufficiently
understood. It was an essential part of the invariable British
system of forcing its own form of social polity upon every part
of the three kingdoms, as each part fell successively under
English dominion. It was necessary, as Sir John Davies,
Attorney-General for Ireland under James the First, declares, to
abolish what he calls the "scambling possession" which Irish
chiefs and clansmen had in their lands, and compel them to hold
those lands by "English tenure;" in other words, that the chiefs
should become _landlords_ or proprietors of those districts
which had formed the tribe-lands of their clans, and that their
clansmen should become tenants subject to _rent_, which, in
the seventeenth century, had grown to be a commutation for all
feudal services. In short, the problem to be solved was to force
in the already corrupt and oppressive feudal polity (which had
long lost its true uses and significance) upon the free system of
clanship, the ancient and natural social arrangement of the Irish
and Scottish Gaël. Neither did that plan, of obliging chiefs to
become noblemen--and therefore both vassals and
landlords--originate with Elizabeth and James, nor with Sir John
Davies. King Henry the Eighth, a century earlier, offered to Con
O'Neill, the chief of that day, the dignity of earl, which Con
accepted as a delicate attention from a foreign monarch, but took
care to be a chief in Tyrone--no vassals, no tenants, no "English
tenure" _there_. The O'Brien of Thomond, however, upon that
earlier occasion, did lay down at King Henry's feet his dignity
of Chief _Dalcais_, and arose Earl of Thomond; his son was
made Baron of Inchiquin; and the MacGilla Phadruig consented to
become "Fitzpatrick" and Baron of Upper Ossory. For their
compliance, they were rewarded with the spoils of the suppressed
monasteries of their respective countries--places which their own
fathers had founded and endowed for pious uses.

The process in Scotland was nearly analogous, after the accession
of James to the throne of England. The Mac Callum More (Campbell)
was created Duke of Argyll, and invited to consider himself
proprietor of all Argyllshire--by English tenure--and landlord
of all the Campbells. Mac Kenzie was dubbed Earl of Cromarty on
the same terms; and so with the rest: but at home those Highland
nobles were never regarded as anything but chiefs; and it was
only by very slow degrees, and not perfectly until after 1745,
that the old clan spirit and usages disappeared. Thus, in forcing
conformity with English land-laws, and gradually bringing the
soil of the two islands into immediate dependence upon the
English sovereign, every step in advance is marked by some chief
submitting to be made earl or baron, and reducing his free
kinsmen to serfdom.
Those peerages, accordingly, are monuments of subjugation and
badges of dishonor. Hugh O'Neill certainly did not value his
title, flung it from him with impatience, quitted earldom and
country to get rid of it, and protested against it on his
tombstone. For these reasons, many readers of Fr. Meehan's book
will wish that the author had given to his heroes the titles by
which they themselves desired to be remembered.

Having thus vented our only censure, upon a matter rather
technical and formal, the more agreeable task remains, of making
our readers acquainted with all the merits and perfections of
this charming book. Fr. Meehan does not undertake to narrate the
earlier life and long and bloody wars against the best generals
of England, but takes up the story where the chief was
desperately maintaining himself, and still keeping his Red Hand
aloft in the woody fastness of Glanconkeine, on the side of
Slieve Gallen, and by the banks of Moyola water, awaiting the
return from Spain of his brother-chief, Hugh Roe O'Donnell, with
the promised succors from King Philip. But in those very same
days, that famous Hugh Roe had lain down to die in Spain, and
succor came none to the sorely pressed Prince of Ulster. His
great enemy, Elizabeth, too, was on her death-bed, almost ready
to breathe her last curse. But in her agonies she by no means
forgot O'Neill. Father Meehan says:

  "It is a curious and perhaps suggestive fact, that Queen
  Elizabeth, while gasping on her cushions at Richmond, and
  tortured by remembrances of her latest victim, Essex, often
  directed her thoughts to that Ulster fastness, where her great
  rebel, Tyrone, was still defying her, and disputing her title
  to supremacy on Irish soil. But of this, however, there can be
  no doubt; for in February, while she was gazing on the haggard
  features of death, and vainly striving to penetrate the opaque
  void of the future, she commanded Secretary Cecil to charge
  Mountjoy to entrap Tyrone into a submission on diminished
  title, such as Baron of Dungannon, and with lessened territory,
  or, if possible, to have his head before engaging the royal
  word. It was to accomplish any of these objects that Mountjoy
  marched to the frontier of the north; but finding it impossible
  to procure the assassination of 'the sacred person of O'Neill,
  who had so many eyes of jealousy about him,' he wrote to Cecil,
  from Drogheda, that nothing prevented Tyrone from making his
  submission but mistrust of his personal safety, and guarantee
  for maintenance commensurate to his princely rank. The granting
  of these conditions, Mountjoy concluded, would bring about the
  pacification of Ireland, and Tyrone, being converted into a
  good subject, would rid her majesty of the apprehension of
  another Spanish landing on the Irish shore. It is possible that
  this proposed solution of the Irish difficulty may have reached
  Richmond at a moment when Elizabeth was more intent on the
  talisman sent her by the old Welsh woman, or the arcane virtues
  of the card fastened to the seat of her chair, than on matters
  of statecraft; but be that as it may, the lords of her privy
  council empowered Mountjoy to treat with Tyrone, and bring
  about his submission with the least possible delay."

The author next carries us through the imposing scene of the
chief's submission and surrender at Mellifont Abbey, and gives a
vivid account of that illustrious religious house, and the lovely
vale of the Mattock in which it stands; of his gloomy resignation
to his hated earldom; of the organization of Ulster into shires
or counties, (never before heard of in those parts;) of the new
"earl's" journey to London, along with Rory O'Donnell, the other
"earl," and Lord Mountjoy, with a guard of horse:

  "Nor was this precaution unnecessary; for whenever the latter
  was recognized, in city or hamlet, the populace,
  notwithstanding their respect for Mountjoy, the hero of the
  hour, could not be restrained from stoning Tyrone, and flinging
  bitter insults at him. Indeed, throughout the whole journey,
  the Welsh and English women were unsparing of their invectives
  against the Irish chief. Nor are we to wonder at this; for
  there was not one among them but could name some friend or
  kinsman whose bones lay buried far away in some wild pass or
  glen of Ulster, where the object of their maledictions was more
  often victor than vanquished."


The new king, James the First, was very desirous to see O'Neill,
who had, after his victory at the Yellow Ford, sent an ambassador
to James at Holyrood, offering, if supplied with some money and
munitions, to march upon Dublin, and proclaim _him_ King of
Ireland; but the Scottish king had been too timid to close with
this offer. One may imagine with what mingled feelings O'Neill
once more revisited that London, and Greenwich Palace, where in
his younger days he had been a favored courtier, had talked on
affairs of state with Burleigh, and disported himself with Sir
Christopher Hatton, "the dancing chancellor." The author
describes his reception at court:

  "Nothing, indeed, could have been more gracious than the
  reception which the king gave those distinguished Irishmen; and
  so marked was the royal courtesy to both, that it stirred the
  bile of Sir John Harington, who speaks of it thus: 'I have
  lived to see that damnable rebel, Tyrone, brought to England
  honored and well-liked. 'Oh! what is there that does not prove
  the inconstancy of worldly matters? How I did labor after that
  knave's destruction! I adventured perils by sea and land, was
  near starving, eat horse-flesh in Munster, and all to quell
  that man, who now smileth in peace at those who did hazard
  their lives to destroy him. And now doth Tyrone dare us, old
  commanders, with his presence and protection!'"

Returning to Ireland, "restored in blood," O'Neill lived as he
best could, in his new and strange character of an earl, infested
by spies upon all his movements. "Notice is taken," says
Attorney-General Davies, "of every person that is able to do
either good or hurt. It is known not only how they live and what
they do, but it is foreseen what they purpose or intend to do;
insomuch, as Tyrone has been heard to complain that he had so
many eyes over him, that he could not drink a full carouse of
sack, but the state was advertised thereof a few hours
thereafter." [Footnote 15]

    [Footnote 15: Sir John Davies's Historical Tracts.]

The author has taken great pains to ascertain the real nature of
those dark intrigues against O'Neill and O'Donnell, which
resulted four or five years after in the timely escape of those
two "earls" from the toils of their enemies--the only measure
that could save them from the fate of Sir William Wallace and of
Shane O'Neill. O'Neill found himself embroiled in endless
law-suits; with Montgomery, Bishop of Derry; with Usher,
Archbishop of Armagh, who each claimed a large slice of his
estates; with the traitor O'Cahan, his own former Uriaght, or
sub-chief, who entered into the conspiracy against him, seduced
by the promises of Montgomery and the Lord-Deputy Chichester. The
truth was, that the "undertaking" English of the north coveted
his wide domains, and could not comprehend how a rebellious
O'Neill could possibly be allowed to possess broad lands in fee,
which they wanted for themselves. Fr. Meehan has cast more light
upon these wicked machinations than any previous writer had the
means and authorities for; and it now appears plain that the
chief agent of these base plots was Christopher St. Laurence, the
twenty-second baron of Howth, and one of the ancestors of the
noble house of that title, now gloriously flourishing amongst the
Irish nobility.
Fr. Meehan's researches have brought home to this noble caitiff
the famous anonymous letter dropped in the Castle-Yard of Dublin,
and also a detailed deposition, shamelessly setting forth his own
long-continued espionage, and on the faith of conversations with
several persons, charging Tyrone, Lord Mountgarrett, Sir Theobald
Burke, and others, with a plot to bring in the Spaniards, and to
take by surprise the Castle of Dublin. O'Neill knew nothing, at
the time, of the conspiracy against him; but had a very shrewd
suspicion that the Lord-Deputy Chichester and the northern
Anglican bishops were resolved to have his blood, in order to get
his estate confiscated. One of the McGuires, who was himself in
danger from these machinations, escaped to the continent. The
author says:

  "Meanwhile, Cuconnaught Maguire, growing weary of his
  impoverished condition, and longing to be rid of vexations he
  could no longer bear, contrived, about the middle of May, 1607,
  to make his escape from one of the northern ports to Ostend,
  whence he lost no time in proceeding to Brussels, where Lord
  Henry O'Neill was then quartered with his Irish regiment. The
  latter presented him at the court of the archdukes, who
  received him kindly, and evinced deep sympathy for their Irish
  coreligionists, and especially the northern earls, with whose
  wrongs they were thoroughly conversant, through Florence Conry,
  fathers Cusack and Stanihurst. Father Conry, it would appear,
  informed Maguire that King James would certainly arrest Tyrone,
  if he went to London; and Maguire, on hearing this, despatched
  a trusty messenger to the earls to put them on their guard, and
  then set about providing means for carrying them off the Irish
  shores. The influence of Lord Henry with the archdukes procured
  him a donation of 7000 crowns, [Footnote 16] with which he
  purchased, at Rouen, a vessel of fourscore tons, mounting
  sixteen cast pieces of ordnance, manned by marines in disguise,
  and freighted with a cargo of salt. From Rouen the vessel
  proceeded to Dunkirk, under command of one John Bath, a
  merchant of Drogheda, and lay there, waiting instructions from

    [Footnote 16: The archdukes were greatly indebted to O'Neill,
    who gave ample employment to the queen's troops in Ireland
    during the war in the Netherlands, and thus prevented the
    English from aiding, as they wished, the revolted provinces.]

This Bath, on his arrival in Ireland, at once sought both O'Neill
and O'Donnell, and informed them, on sure information procured by
Lord Henry O'Neill, Hugh's son, that they would both be certainly
arrested, and at the same time placed at their service McGuire's
ship, which he commanded. It needed great tact and coolness on
the part of O'Neill to conceal from the Lord-Deputy his intention
of departure. But at last--

  "At midnight, on that ever-memorable 14th of September, 1607,
  they spread all sail, and made for the open sea, intending,
  however, to land on the island of Aran, off the coast of
  Donegal, to provide themselves with more water and fuel.

  "Those who were now sailing away from their ancient patrimonies
  were, Hugh, Earl of Tyrone, with his countess, Catharina, and
  their three sons, Hugh, John, and Bernard. With them also went
  Art Oge, 'young Arthur,' son of Cormac, Tyrone's brother;
  Fadorcha, son of Con, the earl's nephew; Hugh Oge, son of
  Brian, brother of Tyrone, and many more of their faithful
  clansmen. Those accompanying Earl Rory were Cathbar, or Caffar,
  his brother; Nuala, his sister, wife of the traitor, Nial
  Garve; Hugh, the earl's son, wanting three weeks of being one
  year old; Rosa, daughter of Sir John O'Doherty, sister of Sir
  Cahir, and wife of Cathbar, with her son, Hugh, aged two years
  and three months; the son of his brother, Donel Oge; Naghtan,
  son of Calvagh, or Charles O'Donel, with many others of their
  trusted friends and followers. 'A distinguished crew,' observe
  the four masters, 'was this for one ship; for it is certain
  that the sea never carried, and that the winds never wafted,
  from the Irish shores, individuals more illustrious or noble in
  genealogy, or more renowned for deeds of valor, prowess, and
  high achievements.' Ah! with what tearful eyes and torn hearts
  did they gaze on the fast receding shores, from which they were
  forced to fly for the sake of all they held dearest! 'The
  entire number of souls on board this small vessel,' says
  O'Keenan, in his narrative, 'was ninety-nine, having little
  sea-store, and being otherwise miserably accommodated.' It was,
  indeed, the first great exodus of the Irish nobles and gentry,
  to be followed, alas! by many another, caused, in great
  measure, by a similar system of cruel and exceptional


There is a most interesting account of their stormy voyage in
that small vessel; but after much hardship and danger, they made
the port of Havre, and went up the River Seine to the ancient
city of Rouen. The English ambassador at the court of Henry the
Fourth of France, had the assurance to demand of the French
government to arrest the refugees, but received a short answer:
"Writing to Lord Shrewsbury, October 12th, 1607, Salisbury
alludes to O'Neill's voyage thus: 'He was shrewdly tossed at sea,
and met contrary winds for Spain. The English ambassador wishing
Henry to stay them, had for his answer, _France is free_.'"
(P. 123.)

From Normandy the party proceeded to Flanders, where they were
received by the archdukes with the highest distinction ever shown
to sovereign princes and their _suite_. At Brussels O'Neill
met his son, the Lord Henry, then commanding a regiment of Irish
for the archdukes, and also another young O'Neill, destined to do
great things in his generation, namely, Hugh's nephew, Owen Roe.
Our author thus introduces him:

  "Even at the risk of interrupting O'Keenan's narrative, we may
  observe that none of these Irish exiles could have foreseen
  that a little boy, with auburn ringlets, then in their company,
  would one day win renown by defending that same city of Arras
  against two of the ablest marshals of France. Nevertheless,
  such was the case; for, thirty-three years afterward, Owen Roe
  O'Neill, son of Art, and nephew to the Earl of Tyrone, with his
  regiment of Irish, maintained the place against Chatillon and
  Meillarie, till he had to make a most honorable capitulation."
  [Footnote 17]

    [Footnote 17: August, 1640. See Hericourt's Sieges d'Arras.]

And the same Owen Roe, still later, in the Irish wars of King
Charles's day, fought and won the bloody battle of Benburb
against the Scottish Presbyterian army, and trampled their blue
banner on the banks of that same Blackwater which had seen the
glorious victories of the Red Hand. From Brussels the fugitives
had an intention of proceeding to Spain, but were diverted from
that purpose by the archdukes, and they finally set out for Rome.
The narrative of their journey across the Alps is exceedingly
interesting; and on their arrival at Milan, they were welcomed
with high honors by the Spanish governor, the Conde de Fuentes,
and by the nobility of the province; but it need hardly be said
that, in all their movements, they were closely watched by
British spies; and every attention shown to them was the subject
of violent remonstrance on the part of English ambassadors.
Father Meehan gives us the letter of Lord Cornwallis, then
ambassador at Madrid, to the lords of the privy council,
expressing his loyal disgust at the splendid hospitalities of the
Governor of Milan:

  "'_To the lords of the privy council_.

  "'Having lately gathered, amongst the Irish here, that the
  fugitive earls have been in Milan, and _there much
  feasted_ by the Conde _de Fuentes_, I expostulated it
  with the secretary of state, who answered that they had not yet
  had any understanding of their being there; that the Conde de
  Fuentes was not a man disposed to such largess as to entertain
  strangers in any costly manner at his own charge; and that sure
  he was he could not expect any allowance from hence where there
  was intended no _receipt, countenance,_ or _comfort_
  to any of that condition. I sent sithence by Cottington, my
  secretary, concerning one _Mack Ogg_, lately come hither,
  as I have been advised, to solicit for these people; which was,
  that as I hoped they would have no participation with the
  principals, whose crimes had now been made so notorious in
  their own countries, being both, upon public trial, condemned,
  and he of _Tyrone_, as I heard, _of thirteen several
  murders_; so I likewise assured myself that, in their own
  wisdoms, they would not hold it fit his majesty here should
  give harbor or ear to any of their ministers, and especially to
  that of Mack Ogg, who could not be supposed but to have had a
  hand in their traitorous purposes; _having been the man and
  the means, in person,_ to withdraw them by sea out of their
  own countries, in such undutiful and suspicious manner. That
  myself was, in a matter of that nature, solicitous only in
  regard of my own earnest desire that nothing might escape this
  state whereby their intentions might be held different from
  their professions. That for these fugitives, being now out of
  their retreats, _weak in purse_, and _people condemned
  and contemned_ by those of their own nation, and such as
  could not but daily expect the heavy hand of God's justice for
  their so many unnatural and detestable crimes, both of late and
  heretofore committed, for _my own particular I made no more
  account of them than of so many fleas_; neither did the
  king, my master, otherwise esteem them than as men reprobated
  both of God and the world, for their _fa??norous actions_
  toward others, and inexcusable ingratitude to himself."

    [Transcriber's Note: The word "fa??norous" is illegible.]


The author gives a minute and graphic narrative of the journey of
the "earls" through Italy, and their entrance into the Eternal
City, where they were affectionately received by Pope Paul V.,
who assigned them a palace for their dwelling:

  "The time at which the Irish princes entered Rome was one of
  more than usual festivity; for, on the Thursday preceding
  Trinity Sunday, the pope solemnly canonized Sa Francesca
  Romana, in the basilica of St. Peter in the Vatican. Rome was
  then crowded by distinguished strangers from all parts of the
  known world, each vieing with the other to secure fitting
  places to witness the grand ceremonial. But of them all, none
  were so honored as O'Neill, O'Donel, their ladies and
  followers; for the pope gave orders that tribunes, especially
  reserved for them, should be erected right under the dome.
  This, indeed, was a signal mark of his Holiness's respect for
  his guests, greater than which he could not exhibit. Among the
  spectators were many English; and we can readily conceive how
  much they were piqued at seeing O'Neill [Footnote 18] and the
  earl thus honored by the supreme head of the church."

    [Footnote 18: Throughout his narrative, O'Keenan styles
    O'Neill according to his Gaelic title, and calls O'Donel
    _the earl_. O'Keenan was not sufficiently anglicized in
    accent or otherwise to respect the law which forbade the
    assumption of the old Irish designation peculiar to the
    Prince of Tyrone.]

And now began the long series of negotiations with the King of
Spain and the other Catholic powers, which were to enable the
"earls" to make a descent upon Ireland, reconquer their heritage,
and liberate their unfortunate people from the bondage and
oppression they were now enduring at the hands of King James's
"undertaking" planters. O'Neill had written a formal diplomatic
letter to King James, recounting the various plots and treasons
which had been practised against him by His Majesty's servants in
Ireland, demanding back his ancient inheritance, and announcing
that, in default of compliance, he would hold himself at liberty
to go back to Ireland, with a sufficient force to free his
country. This _ultimatum_ took no effect. The pope and the
King of Spain, though they treated him with high respect, and
awarded him a handsome pension, were slow to give the material
aid that was needed; and in the year 1608, his comrade Rory
(Rudraigh): O'Donnell, called Earl of Tyrconnell, died. Says
Father Meehan:

  "During his illness he was piously tended by Rosa, daughter of
  O'Dogherty, his brother's wife, the Princess O'Neill, and
  Florence Conry, who had performed the same kind offices for
  Hugh Roe O'Donel in Simancas. On the 27th July, 1608, he
  received the last sacraments, and on the morning following
  surrendered his soul to God. 'Sorrowful it was,' say the
  Donegal, annalists, 'to contemplate his early eclipse, for he
  was a generous and hospitable lord, to whom the patrimony of
  his ancestors seemed nothing for his feasting and spending.'"

Soon after died O'Neill's son Hugh, whom the English called Baron
of Dungannon. O'Donnell's brother Caffar (Cathbar) died about the
same time, and the old chieftain was now left nearly alone to
carry on his almost hopeless negotiations.
The Irish exiles in Spain, when they heard of the death of the
two O'Donnells and young O'Neill, wore mourning publicly, to the
utter disgust of Lord Cornwallis, the English ambassador. He
remonstrated with the King of Spain against suffering so indecent
an exhibition, but received no satisfaction in that quarter; and
he wrote thereon, says Father Meehan:

  "'The agent of the Irish fugitives in this city has presumed to
  walk its streets, followed by two pages, and four others of his
  countrymen, in black weeds--a sign that they are no unwelcome
  guests here.' This was bad enough; but the news he supplied in
  another letter was still worse, for he says: 'The Spanish court
  had become the staple of the fugitive ware, since it allows
  Tyrone a pension of six hundred crowns a month; Tyrconnel's
  brother's widow, one of two hundred crowns a month; and his
  brother's wife, one of the same sum.'"

If the British government could only have got hold of those
mourners in their "black weeds," within its own jurisdiction,
they would undoubtedly have been prosecuted and punished, like
the men who lately attended a funeral in Dublin. Nothing can be
more provoking to a government, sometimes, than public mourning
for its victims. Indeed, the Russian authorities in Warsaw have
been several times so exasperated by the sight of the citizens
all clothed in black, mourning for a crowd of innocent people,
cut down and ridden over by the cavalry in the streets, as to
feel compelled to issue instructions to the police to drag every
vestige of black apparel from every man, and every woman, and
child in the public thoroughfares, and to close up every shop or
store which should dare to keep any black fabric for sale. But in
cases where this kind of provocation is perpetrated in some
foreign country, and under the protection of its laws, then your
insulted government must only bear the affront as it best can.

The author next proceeds, with the aid of letters in the State
Paper Office, to narrate the various projects and speculations of
O'Neill and his friends, with a view to the invasion of their
native country; with all which projects and speculations the
British government was made fully acquainted by means of its
spies and diplomatic agents. England and Spain were just then at
peace, and one main hope of the exiles was that a breach might
take place between them. Our author says:

  "Withal, it would appear that England had not then a very firm
  reliance on the good faith of Spain. Indeed, Turnbull's
  despatches show this to have been the case; and as for O'Neill,
  there is every reason to suppose that he calculated on some
  such lucky rupture, and that Philip would then have an
  opportunity of retrieving the disaster of Kinsale, by sending a
  flotilla to the coast of Ulster, where the native population
  would rally to the standard of their attainted chieftain, and
  drive the new settlers back to England or Scotland--anywhere
  from off the face of his ancient patrimony. Yielding to these
  apprehensions, James instructed his minister at the court of
  the archdukes to redouble his vigilance, and make frequent
  reports of the movements of the Irish troops in their
  Highnesses' pay, and, above all, to certify to him the names of
  the Irish officers on whom the court of Spain bestowed special
  marks of its consideration. In fact, from the middle of 1614
  till the close of the following year, Turnbull's correspondence
  is wholly devoted to these points, so much so, that the English
  cabinet had not only intelligence of Tyrone's designs, but
  ample information concerning all those who were suspected of
  countenancing them. Nothing could surpass the minister's
  susceptibility on this subject; for if we were to believe
  himself, no Catholic functionary visited the court of Brussels
  without impressing on their Highnesses the expediency, as well
  as duty, of aiding the banished earl and his coreligionists in


At last, in January, 1615, O'Neill resolved to undertake the
enterprise himself, some Catholic noblemen in Italy and Belgium
engaging to furnish him with funds. He was to quit Rome by a
certain day; but, like all his other projects, this was speedily
communicated to Trumbull, who lost no time in making it known to
the English cabinet. He did not leave Rome as he intended; but
two months later:

  "The Belgian agent sent another dispatch to the king, informing
  him 'that O'Neill hath sent from Rome two of his instruments
  into Ireland, called Crone and Conor, with order to stir up
  factions and seditions in that kingdom, where, in Waterford
  alone, there are no less than thirty-six Jesuits.'"

Next we find the same vigilant English minister apprising his
government that O'Neill was about "to have some of his countrymen
employed at sea in ships of war, _as pirates_, with
commission to take all vessels," etc. In truth, it was for
England a genuine "Fenian" alarm, this constantly menacing
attitude of the veteran warrior of the Blackwater; a "Fenian"
alarm, alas! of two hundred and fifty years ago. And how many
there have been since! There was also the same eager impatience
for action, the same maddening thought that the work must be done
at once or Ireland was lost for ever. A certain physician, who
attended O'Neill in this year, 1615, writes to a friend in
London, giving him, as a sample of his patient's conversation and
manner, the following anecdote:

  "Though a man would think that he is an old man by sight--no,
  he is lusty and strong, and well able to travel; for a month
  ago, at evening, when his frere [Footnote 19] and his gentlemen
  were all with him, they were talking of England and Ireland,
  and he drew out his sword. 'His majesty,' said he, 'thinks that
  I am not strong. I would he that hates me most in England were
  with me to see whether I am strong or no.' Those that were by
  said, 'We would we were with forty thousand pounds of money in
  Ireland, to see what we should do.' Whereon Tyrone remarked,
  'If I be not in Ireland within these two years, _I will never
  desire more to look for it._'"

    [Footnote 19: F. Chamberlaine, O.S.F.]

So thought Sarsfield when he fled with the "Wild-geese" almost a
century later--if they could not return with a reenforcement of
French within one year, within two years, there was an end of
Ireland. So thought Wolfe Tone, after still another century, as
he was gnawing his own heart in Paris at the fatal delay, and
crying, "Hell! hell! If _that_ expedition did not sail at
that moment, Ireland was subdued and lost for ever and ever." It
is natural that the eager spirits of each generation of Irishmen
should be in haste to see the great work done in their own day.
But divine Providence is in no haste, and will not be hurried.
Beyond all doubt, there is a destiny and a work in store for this
Irish race, so wonderfully preserved through sore trials, and in
spite of repeated persistent efforts to extirpate it utterly. It
has a strong hold upon life, and a potent individual character.
It will neither perish from the face of the earth nor forget a
single tradition or aspiration, nor part with its ancient
religious faith. It not only does not _attorn_ to the
dominant English sentiment and character, but seems, on the
contrary, to become more antagonistic, and to cherish that

And it is very notable that this desperate mutual repulsion
between England and Ireland does not date from the "Reformation,"
nor does it altogether depend upon religious differences. It is
true that the acceptance of the new religion by England and its
rejection by the Irish furnished the former with a new pretext
and a convenient machinery for oppression and plunder. But two
centuries before this, Hugh O'Neill's time--and when the English
were as Catholic as the Irish--we find his ancestor, Donal
O'Neill, in his famous letter to Pope John XXII., describing the
relations of the two races in language which is still appropriate
at this day: "All hope of peace between us is completely
destroyed; for such is their pride, such is their excessive lust
of dominion, such our ardent desire to shake off this
insupportable yoke, and recover the inheritance which they have
so unjustly usurped, that as there never was, so there never will
be, any sincere coalition between them and us; nor is it possible
there should in this life; for we entertain a certain natural
enmity against each other, flowing from mutual malignity,
descending by inheritance from father to son, and spreading from
generation to generation."


The aged Prince of Ulster never saw his native land again. In the
following year, 1616, he became blind and, some weeks after,
having received the last rites of the church, he died at the
Salviati palace at Rome.

His history from first to last is a striking and remarkable one.
In the "religious" wars of the period, he was a conspicuous
figure; and Henry the Fourth of France called him the third
soldier of his age--he, Henry, being the first. But English
historians of the past and present century have made it a rule to
say nothing of him and of his great battles. They seem to desire
that the name of the Yellow Ford should be blotted out of
history. But once upon a time O'Neill occupied some attention in
England. Spenser and Bacon wrote anxious treatises to suggest the
best method of crushing him. Shakespeare delighted his audience
at the "Globe" theatre by triumphant anticipations of the return
of Lord Essex after destroying the abhorred O'Neill--

  "Were now the general of our gracious empress (As, in good
  time, he may) from Ireland coming, Bringing rebellion broached
  on his sword. How many would the peaceful city quit. To welcome

Camden, in his _Queen Elizabeth_, has given to the Irish war
at least its due rank in the events of the time; and Fynes
Moryson tells us that "the general voyce was of Tyrone amongst
the English after the defeat of Blackwater, as of Hannibal among
the Romans after the defeat of Cannae." Mr. Hume, though he tells
us nothing of O'Neill's splendid victories over the English, yet
incidentally mentions that "in the year 1599 the queen spent six
hundred thousand pounds in six months in the service of Ireland;
and Sir Robert Cecil affirmed that in ten years Ireland cost her
three million four hundred thousand pounds," which would be about
sixty millions of pounds sterling in money of the present day. So
well, however, has the memory of all this been suppressed, that
even an educated Englishman at this time, if you mentioned to him
the great battle of the Yellow Ford would not at all understand
to what event you were alluding; so that one is not at all
astonished to find that Mr. Motley, in his voluminous book
expressly devoted to the religious wars of Europe in those days,
and especially the reign of Elizabeth, not only ignores that
transaction altogether, but does not so much as know O'Neill's
name. When he does once undertake to name him, he calls him not
Hugh O'Neill, but "Shanes MacNeil." (_History of United
Netherlands_, vol. iv. p. 94.)


The Irish, however, still cherish his name and keep his memory
green. The peasantry yet tell that strange legend of a troop of
the great chiefs lancers all lying in tranced sleep in a cave
under the royal hill of Aileagh, each holding his horse's bridle
in his hand, and waiting for the spell to be removed that will
set them free to strike a blow for their country; and when a man
once penetrated into the cave, and saw the sleepers in their
ancient mail, one of them lifted his head and asked. _Is the
time come?_ To the educated and reflective Irish, also, that
cardinal epoch of Irish history, in which O'Neill was the chief
figure, has of late become a subject of more zealous study than
it ever was before; and these will heartily thank the
accomplished author of the present work for the clear light he
has thrown upon one strange and painful episode in his country's


         The Cross.

In all ages, and among all nations, important events have been
commemorated and transmitted to future generations by significant
symbols. These mute symbols have served to represent the great
leading ideas and characteristics of nations, communities,
societies, and schools of religion, philosophy, morals, and
politics. Entire histories have been treasured up for ages in
these simple and inanimate emblems. In thousands of instances
they have served to call to mind the stirring events of a
generation, the glories of a great nation, epochs in human
progress, or the rise and fall of false religions, false
philosophies, and false systems of all descriptions. Each symbol
comprises a language and a history of its own, which can be
comprehended at a glance by the most ignorant of those whom it
addresses. As the ideas which they represent pertain, for the
most part, to affairs of the highest magnitude, they have always
been regarded with respect and veneration.

When the legions of the Caesars were achieving the conquest of a
world, their emblem of nationality and glory, and their
inspiration in battle, was the Roman flag emblazoned with the
Roman eagles. In the midst of the fiercest contests, a simple
glance at the national symbol would fire the heart of the soldier
with patrotic ardor, and often turn the tide of battle in his
favor. As he looked upon his flag, the Roman soldier beheld the
greatness and glory of his country, with himself as a constituent
element of all this greatness, and his heart and hand were nerved
with Herculean strength to meet the foe. In the eagles which
floated amid the din of battle, he read the history of the
empire, with her conquests, her riches, her power, her grandeur,
and her Caesar; and he cheerfully gave his life for the ideas
thus evoked.

The Saracen, as he marched out to battle, beheld the crescent of
his prophet, and was willing to die for his cause. As the
crescent waves before him, his imagination pictures the prophet
beckoning him on to battle, to conquest, to proselytism, and to
the sensual joys of paradise, and his courage rises, his blood
boils, and his cimeter leaps from its scabbard. No danger, no
fatigue, no privation daunts or deters him so long as he beholds
the emblem of his religion and his race. He loves and venerates
the silent symbol for the associations it calls to mind.


Napoleon I., with his battalions, traversed the continent of
Europe, dictating terms to kings and emperors; and finally
marshalled his victorious forces around the pyramids of Egypt.
During this triumphal march, his most potent auxiliaries were the
eagles of France draped in their tri-colored plumage. At the
bridge of Lodi, when the French hosts shrank back appalled from
the carnage caused by the terrific fire of the Austrian, Napoleon
raised aloft the emblem of France before the eyes of his
panic-stricken veterans. In an instant every heart was nerved,
and amidst storms of balls and the shrieks of the wounded and
dying, the bridge was carried and the day was won. The eagles of
the first Caesars seemed to have alighted upon the tri-colored
flags of the modern Caesar. Whether in the midst of the deadly
snows of Russia, or of the burning sands of Egypt, or of the
towering summits of the Alps, the great talisman which led the
way and gave inspiration to the soldier, was the national symbol.
It spoke to them of home, of kindred, friends, and of the glory
of France; and they were willing to risk all for the ideas thus

How often has the tide of battle been turned in favor of England,
both on land and sea, by raising the symbol of England, and the
war-cry of St. George and the Dragon, in the thickest of the
fight! How often, in the midst of battle and slaughter, has the
drooping spirit of the Celt been roused to fierce enthusiasm and
determination by a sight of his loved national emblem, the

What true American can regard his own national symbol without
emotion, love, and veneration! Whether he beholds it unfurled
upon the battle-field, upon the ocean, or in a foreign land, he
reads in every star and every stripe a history of his native
land--of her struggles, her glories, and her future destiny.
Under its shadow the soldier is a braver man, the statesman a
better patriot, the citizen a truer loyalist, and the American
traveller in foreign lands more proud of his nationality.

We might cite instances _ad infinitum_; but we have adduced
a sufficient number for illustration. What is the signification
and the utility of these symbols? At the birth of nations, it has
always been the custom to devise some common symbol around which
the people could rally as a type of nationality. On all important
occasions, both in peace and in war, this common emblem is always
in the midst of the people, to remind them of the past, to
inspire them in the present, and to render them hopeful in the
future. It is associated with all their public events, their
victories, their defeats, their joys, their sorrows, their
glories, their progress, their power and greatness. Is it, then,
strange that it should be regarded with love, respect, and
veneration? Is it strange that a sight of their mute talisman in
the midst of battle should stir the soul of the soldier to its
very depths, or that the heart of the patriot should swell with
emotion and stern resolve when the honor or welfare of his
country is in danger, or that the citizen should have a higher
appreciation of the dignity and destiny of man, or that the
individual should always associate it with his love of country,
his pride of the past, his aspirations of the present, his hopes
of the future, in a word, with his nationality?
The man who has no love of father-land in his soul, who does not
love and respect the emblem of his country's glory, is fit only
for stratagems, conspiracies, and bloody tumults and disorders.
Such a man can only be regarded as an enemy of his race; and will
be frowned upon by the wise, the good, and the humane.

The emblems we have thus far alluded to refer to the worldly
affairs of men, to matters of state, of government, and national
prosperity. We now propose to refer briefly to the highest of all
symbols--the symbol of symbols--the emblem of emblems--to one
which relates to the temporal and eternal welfare of the entire
human race, the holy cross. What is its signification and
utility? What associations does it call to mind? It tells us of
the Incarnate God sent to earth to give mankind a new law, to set
them an example of a perfect life, to teach them those higher
virtues and graces which fit them for happiness here and
hereafter, and then to suffer and to die an ignominious death to
atone for the sins of man. It calls up all the dread
circumstances connected with the last days of our blessed Saviour
when on earth. It brings to mind his betrayal by Judas, his
arraignment before Pontius Pilate, his condemnation, his march to
the place of execution with the cross upon his blessed shoulders,
amidst the insults, the scoffs, the scourgings, the crowning with
thorns, and other indignities of a Jewish and pagan rabble. It
presents before us his ascent to the scaffold, his bloody
transfixion between two thieves, his dreadful agony, his bloody
sweat, his wounds, his slow and agonizing death. For whom, and
for what, has the omnipotent Redeemer suffered these ignominies,
these agonies, this cruel death? For all mankind, as an atonement
of their sins. With his almighty power he could have summoned
around him legions of destroying angels, who could have crushed
to powder his persecutors; or with his mighty breath he could
have consigned them to instant annihilation. But his love and
tenderness for man was infinite; and he mercifully refrained from
employing the power which he possessed to their injury. How vast
this condescension, this love, this devotion to mortals under
such provocations!

Since the date of the crucifixion, the cross, with the image of
our blessed Lord attached thereto, has been universally
recognized as the chief symbol of Christianity. In the days of
the apostles and their immediate successors it was their
ever-present memento, friend, solace, badge, and emblem of faith.
Recent discoveries in the catacombs of Rome have brought to light
the rude altars of the first Christians, always stamped with and
designated by the sign of the cross. When these early Christians
were hunted down like wild beasts, and driven by the sanguinary
pagans into the most secret recesses of the earth to escape
martyrdom, the holy cross ever accompanied them, ever symbolized
their faith, ever served as a beacon of light, and a
rallying-point for the persecuted followers of Jesus of Nazareth.

Whenever the missionaries of the church have abandoned country
and friends, taken their lives in their hands, and penetrated
into the remotest wilds of the savage, in order to "preach the
Gospel to every creature," the holy cross, with its divine
associations, has always led the way, beckoning them on in their
great life-work of love, mercy, and Christianity.
Often have these devoted men met the martyr's fate; but they have
died in holy triumph, with smiles and prayers on their lips, with
their eyes fixed on the sacred cross, and their souls on heaven.
If a nation's flag has been able to stir the soul of the soldier
to deeds of noble daring amid the excitement of battle, the cross
of Christ has been able, not less often, to fire the soul of the
lone missionary with holy love and zeal in the midst of the
savage wilderness. If, with flag in hand, the soldier has rushed
to the cannon's mouth, and laid down his life to win a battle, no
less frequently has the missionary, holding aloft the sacred
cross, rushed to the desert places of the earth, where barbarism,
pestilence, famine, cruelties, sufferings, and danger of
martyrdom encompass him on every side. The soldier fights his
battles under the eyes of his countrymen, cheered on by
applauding comrades, by martial music, and by hopes of speedy
preferment; but the Christian missionary fights alone, surrounded
by wild foes, far from home and friends, with no hope of temporal
reward, and where, if he is killed or dies a natural death, he
may be devoured by wild beasts, or remain uncoffined, unburied,
and unrecognized.

Statesmen, philosophers, warriors, and citizens of all ranks love
and respect their national symbols because they call to mind the
events and circumstances connected with their nationalities.
These sentiments are commended by the whole world. The true
Christian also loves and respects the symbol which calls up
before him the facts and incidents connected with the passion and
crucifixion of the Saviour. Let no one delude himself with the
absurd idea that it is the _material_ of the flag, or of the
cross, which calls forth these powerful emotions, and these high
resolutions. Let no one suppose that _idolatry_ can spring
from the contemplation and reverence of objects which place
before the mind's eye in the form of symbols the important events
of a nation, or the sufferings and death of a God. Let no one
question the motives or the propriety of his fellow man who bows
down in tears, in love, in gratitude and devotion before the
recognized emblems and mementos of great nations, and of godlike

The cross of Christ! How vast and solemn the associations
connected with it! How significant its mute appeals to the hearts
of mortals! How eloquent its reference to a Redeemer's love for
sinful man! How glorious its history, and how prolific of
heavenly aspirations!

The cross of Christ! How beautiful, how sublime, how
soul-inspiring the ideas which encompass thee as with a halo of
light and glory! In ages past and gone, in all the lands of
earth, as it has silently ministered to the souls and thoughts of
men, and carried them back to Calvary, what an infinity of
blessings it has conferred! As we gaze at the Lamb of God, nailed
to the cross, how sad and tender the memories which pass before
the mind! Every wound of the precious body, every expression of
the godlike features, calls up some act of divine love and mercy!
Silently, sadly, solemnly, the holy cross has borne its sacred
burden to all nations, through long ages of culture and light, of
darkness and ignorance, of civilization and barbarism--a pioneer
and potent agent in all good works--a talisman and solace for the
poor and oppressed, as well as for the rich and powerful, a
beacon of heavenly light, and a rallying-point for all


In the dark ages, when Christianity and barbarism struggled for
the mastery of Europe, the latter achieved a physical triumph;
but spiritually the cross of Christ prevailed, and the barbarian
conquerors became Christian converts. When nations, communities,
or individuals have been bowed down with calamities and sorrows,
rays of hope and comfort have always shone from the holy cross.
However poor, unfortunate, wicked, degraded, and despised an
individual may be, the cross of Christ still beams upon him with
compassion and mercy.

Languages may be oral or printed, or pictorial or symbolical. By
the two first, ideas are conveyed _seriatim_ and slowly; by
the last _en masse_, and instantaneously. Through the first
the mind gradually grasps historical events; through the last
they are presented like a living tableaux, complete in all their
details. In the latter category stands the holy cross. It speaks
a language to the Christian which appeals instantly to every
faculty of his mind and soul. It strikes those chords of memory
which take him back to Calvary, to the jeering rabble of Pilate,
to the mocking minions of Caiphas, to the spectacle of a
scourged, tortured, and crucified Redeemer.

Who can look upon this blessed emblem unmoved? Who can regard
this mute memento of the Son of God in behalf of fallen man
without sentiments of love, respect, and veneration? May God in
his mercy grant that every one may properly appreciate this great
emblem of Christianity--the symbol of symbols. The likeness of a
crucified Redeemer sanctifies and hallows it. Not only at the
name, but at the semblance of Jesus, let every knee bend in



      The Story of a Conscript.

      Translated From The French.


In the midst of such thoughts, day broke. Nothing was stirring
yet, and Zébédé said:

"What a chance for us, if the enemy should fear to attack us!"

The officers spoke of an armistice; but suddenly about nine
o'clock, our couriers came galloping in, crying that the enemy
was moving his whole line down upon us, and directly after we
heard cannon on our right, along the Elster. We were already
under arms, and set out across the fields toward the Partha to
return to Schoenfeld. The battle had begun.

On the hills overlooking the river, two or three divisions, with
batteries in the intervals, and cannon at the flanks, awaited the
enemy's approach; beyond, over the points of their bayonets, we
could see the Prussians, the Swedes, and the Russians, advancing
on all sides in deep, never-ending masses. Shortly after, we took
our place in line, between two hills, and then we saw five or six
thousand Prussians crossing the river, and all together shouting,
"_Vaterland! Vaterland!_" This caused a tremendous tumult,
like that of clouds of rooks flying north.

At the same instant the musketry opened from both sides of the
river. The valley through which the Partha flows was filled with
smoke; the Prussians were already upon us--we could see their
furious eyes and wild looks; they seemed like savage beasts
rushing down on us. Then but one shout of "_Vive
l'Empereur!_" smote the sky and we dashed forward. The shock
was terrible; thousands of bayonets crossed; we drove them back,
were ourselves driven back; muskets were clubbed; the opposing
ranks were confounded and mingled in one mass; the fallen were
trampled upon, while the thunder of artillery, the whistling of
bullets, and the thick white smoke enclosing all, made the valley
seem the pit of hell, peopled by contending demons.

Despair urged us, and the wish to revenge our deaths before
yielding up our lives. The pride of boasting that they once
defeated Napoleon incited the Prussians; for they are the
proudest of men, and their victories at Gross-Beeren and Katzbach
had made them fools. But the river swept away them and their
pride! Three times they crossed and rushed at us. We were indeed
forced back by the shock of their numbers, and how they shouted
then! They seemed to wish to devour us. Their officers, waving
their swords in the air, cried, "_Vorwärtz! Vorwärtz!_" and
all advanced like a wall with the greatest courage--that we
cannot deny. Our cannon opened huge gaps in their lines, still
they pressed on; but at the top of the hill we charged again, and
drove them to the river. We would have massacred them to a man,
were it not for one of their batteries before Mockern, which
enfiladed us and forced us to give up the pursuit.


This lasted until two o'clock; half our officers were killed or
wounded; the Colonel, Lorain, was among the first, and the
Commandant, Gémeau, the latter; all along the river side were
heaps of dead, or wounded men crawling away from the struggle.
Some, furious, would rise to their knees to fire a last shot or
deliver a final bayonet-thrust. The river was almost choked with
dead, but no one thought of the bodies as they swept by in the
current. The lines contending in the fight reached from
Schoenfeld to Grossdorf.

At length the Swedes and Prussians ceased their attacks, and
started farther up the river to turn our position, and masses of
Russians came to occupy the places they had left.

The Russians formed in two columns, and descended to the valley,
with shouldered arms, in admirable order. Twice they assailed us
with the greatest bravery, but without uttering wild beasts'
cries, like the Prussians. Their calvary attempted to carry the
old bridge above Schoenfeld, and the cannonade increased. On all
sides, as far as sight could reach, we saw only the enemy massing
their forces, and when we had repulsed one of their columns,
another of fresh men took its place. The fight had ever to be
fought over again.

Between two and three o'clock, we learned that the Swedes and the
Prussian cavalry had crossed the river above Grossdorf, and were
about to take us in the rear, a mode which pleased them much
better than fighting face to face. Marshal Ney immediately
changed front, throwing his right wing to the rear. Our division
still remained supported on Schoenfeld, but all the others
retired from the Partha, to stretch along the plain, and the
entire army formed but one line around Leipsic.

The Russians, behind the road to Mockern, prepared for a third
attack toward three o'clock; our officers were making new
dispositions to receive them; when a sort of shudder ran from one
end of our lines to the other, and in a few moments all knew that
the sixteen thousand Saxons and the Wurtemberg calvary, in our
very centre, had passed over to the enemy, and that on their way
they had the infamy to turn the forty guns they carried with
them, on their old brothers-in-arms of Durutte's division.

This treason, instead of discouraging us, so added to our fury,
that if we had been allowed, we would have crossed the river to
massacre them. They say that they were defending their country.
It is false! They had only to have left us on the Duben road; why
did they not go then! They might have done like the Bavarians and
quitted us before the battle; they might have remained
neutral--might have refused to serve; but they deserted us only
because fortune was against us. If they knew we were going to
win, they would have continued our very good friends, so that
they might have their share of the spoil or glory--as after Jena
and Friedland. This is what every one thought, and it is why
those Saxons are, and will ever remain, traitors; not only did
they abandon their friends in distress, but they murdered them,
to make a welcome with the enemy. God is just, and so great was
their new allies' scorn of them, that they divided half Saxony
between themselves after the battle. The French might well laugh
at Prussian, Austrian, and Russian gratitude.

From the time of this desertion until evening, it was a war of
vengeance that we carried on; the allies might crush us by
numbers, but they should pay dearly for their victory!


At nightfall, while two thousand pieces of artillery were
thundering together, we were attacked for the seventh time in
Schoenfeld. The Russians on one side and the Prussians on the
other poured in upon us. We defended every house. In every lane
the walls crumbled beneath the bullets, and roofs fell in on
every side. There were now no shouts as at the beginning of the
battle; all were cool and pale with rage. The officers had
collected scattered muskets and cartridge-boxes, and now loaded
and fired like the men. We defended the gardens, too, and the
cemetery, where we had bivouacked, until there were more dead
above than beneath the soil. Every inch of earth cost a life.

It was night when Marshal Ney brought up a reenforcement--whence
I knew not. It was what remained of Ricard's division and
Sonham's second. The _débris_ of our regiments united, and
hurled the Russians to the other side of the old bridge, which no
longer had a rail, that having been swept away by the shot. Six
twelve-pounders were posted on the bridge, and maintained a fire
for one hour longer. The remainder of the battalion, and of some
others in our rear, supported the guns; and I remember how their
flashes lit up the forms of men and horses, heaped beneath the
dark arches. The sight lasted only a moment, but it was a
horrible moment indeed.

At half-past seven, masses of cavalry advanced on our left, and
we saw them whirling about two large squares, which slowly
retired. Then we received orders to retreat. Not more than two or
three thousand men remained at Schoenfeld with the six pieces of
artillery. We reached Kohlgarten without being pursued, and were
to bivouac around Rendnitz. Zébédé was yet living, and unwounded;
and, as we marched on, listening to the cannonade, which
continued, despite the darkness, along the Elster, he said

"How is it that we are here, Joseph, when so many others that
stood by our side are dead? It seems as if we bore charmed lives,
and could not die."

I made no reply.

"Think you there was ever before such a battle?" he asked. "No,
it cannot be. It is impossible."

It was indeed a battle of giants. From six in the morning until
seven in the evening we had held our own against three hundred
and sixty thousand men, without, at night, having lost an inch;
and, nevertheless, we were but a hundred and thirty thousand. God
keep me from speaking ill of the Germans. They were fighting for
the independence of their country. But they might do better than
celebrate the anniversary of the battle of Leipsic every year.
There is not much to boast of in fighting an enemy three to one.

Approaching Rendnitz, we marched over heaps of dead. At every
step we encountered dismounted cannon, broken caissons, and trees
cut down by shot. There a division of the Young Guard and the
_grenadiers-à-cheval_, led by Napoleon himself, had repulsed
the Swedes who were advancing into the breach made by the
treachery of the Saxons. Two or three burning houses lit up the
scene. The _grenadiers-à-cheval_ were yet at Rendnitz, but
crowds of disbanded troops were passing up and down the street.
No rations had been distributed, and all were seeking something
to eat and drink.

As we defiled by a large house, we saw behind the wall of a court
two _cantinières_, who were giving the soldiers drink from
their wagons.
There were there chasseurs, cuirassiers, lancers, hussars,
infantry of the line and of the guard, all mingled together, with
torn uniforms, broken shakos, and plumeless helmets, and all
seemingly famished.

Two or three dragoons stood on the wall, near a pot of burning
pitch, their arms crossed on their long white cloaks, covered
from head to foot with blood.

Zébédé, without speaking, pushed me with his elbow, and we
entered the court, while the others pursued their way. It took us
full a quarter of an hour to reach one of the wagons. I held up a
crown of six livres, and the _cantinières_, kneeling behind
her cask, handed me a great glass of brandy and a piece of white
bread, at the same time taking my money. I drank, and passed the
glass to Zébédé, who emptied it. We had as much difficulty in
getting out of the crowd as in entering. Hard, famished faces and
cavernous eyes were on all sides of us. No one moved willingly.
Each thought only of himself, and cared not for his neighbor.
They had escaped a thousand deaths to-day only to dare a thousand
more to-morrow. Well might they mutter, "Every one for himself,
and God £or all."

As we went through the village street, Zébédé said, "You have


I broke it in two, and gave him half. We began to eat, at the
same time hastening on, and had taken our places in the ranks
before any one noticed our absence. The firing yet continued at a
distance. At midnight we arrived at the long promenades which
border the Pleisse, and halted under the old leafless lindens,
and stacked arms. A long line of fires flickered in the fog as
far as Randstadt; and, when the flames burnt high, they threw a
glare on groups of Polish lancers, lines of horses, cannon, and
wagons, while, at intervals beyond, sentinels stood like statues
in the mist. A heavy, hollow sound arose from the city, and
mingled with the rolling of our trains over the bridge at
Lindenau. It was the beginning of the retreat.


What occurred until daybreak I know not. Baggage, wounded, and
prisoners doubtless continued to crowd across the bridge. But
then a terrific shock woke us all. We started up, thinking the
enemy were on us, when two officers of hussars came galloping in
with the news that a powder-wagon had exploded by accident in the
grand avenue of Randstadt, at the river-side. The dark, red smoke
rolled to the sky, and slowly disappeared, while the old houses
continued to shake as if an earthquake were rolling by.

Quiet was soon restored. Some lay down again to sleep; but it was
growing lighter every minute; and, glancing toward the river, I
saw our troops extending until lost in distance along the five
bridges of the Elster and Pleisse, which follow one after the
other, and make, so to speak, but one. Thousands of men must
defile over this bridge, and, of necessity, take time in doing
so. And the idea struck every one that it would have been much
better to have thrown several bridges across the two rivers; for
at any instant the enemy might attack us, and then retreat would
become difficult indeed. But the emperor had forgotten to give
the order, and no one dared do anything without orders. Not a
marshal of France would have dared to take it upon himself to say
that two bridges were better than one. To such a point had the
terrible discipline of Napoleon reduced those old captains!
They obeyed like machines, and disturbed themselves about
nothing. Such was their fear of displeasing their master. As I
gazed at the thousands of artillerymen and baggage-guards
swarming over the bridge, and saw the tall bear-skin shakos of
the Old Guard, immovable on the hill of Lindenau, on the other
side of the river--as I thought they were fairly on the way to
France, how I longed to be in their place!

But I felt bitterly, indeed, when, about seven o'clock, three
wagons came to distribute provisions and ammunition among us, and
it became evident that we were to be the rear-guard. In spite of
my hunger, I felt like throwing my bread into the river. A few
moments after, two squadrons of Polish lancers appeared coming up
the bank, and behind them five or six generals, Poniatowski among
the number. He was a man of about fifty, tall, slight, and with a
melancholy expression. He passed without looking at us. General
Fournier, who now commanded our brigade, spurred from among his
staff, and cried:

"By file left!"

I never so felt my heart sink. I would have sold my life for two
farthings; but nevertheless, we had to move on, and turn our
backs to the bridge.

We soon arrived at a place called Hinterthor--an old gate on the
road to Caunewitz. To the right and left stretched ancient
ramparts, and behind rows of houses. We were posted in covered
roads, near this gate, which the sappers had strongly barricaded.
A few worm-eaten palisades served us for intrenchments, and, on
all the roads before us, the enemy were advancing. This time they
wore white coats and flat caps, with a raised piece in front, on
which we could see the two-headed eagle of the _kreutzers_.
Old Pinto, who recognized them at once, cried:

"Those fellows are the _Kaiserliks_! We have beaten them
fifty times since 1793; but if the father of Marie Louise had a
heart, they would be with us now instead of against us."

For some moments a cannonade had been going on at the other side
of the city, where Blücher was attacking the faubourg of Halle.
Soon after, the firing stretched along to the right; it was
Bernadotte attacking the faubourg of Kohlgartenthor, and at the
same time the first shells of the Austrians fell among us. They
formed their columns of attack on the Caunewitz road, and poured
down on us from all sides. Nevertheless, we held our own until
about ten o'clock, and then were forced back to the old ramparts,
through the breaches of which the Kaiserliks pursued us under the
cross-fire of the fourteenth and twenty-ninth of the line. The
poor Austrians were not inspired with the fury of the Prussians,
but nevertheless, showed a true courage; for, in half an hour,
they had won the ramparts, and although, from all the neighboring
windows, we kept up a deadly fire, we could not force them back.
Six months before, it would have horrified me to think of men
being thus slaughtered, but now I was as insensible as any old
soldier, and the death of one man or of a hundred would not cost
me a thought.

Until this time all had gone well, but how were we to get out of
the houses? The enemy held every avenue, and it seemed that we
would be caught like foxes in their holes, and I thought it not
unlikely that the Austrians, in revenge for the loss we had
inflicted upon them, might put us to the point of the bayonet.
Meditating thus, I ran back to a room, where a dozen of us yet
remained, and there I saw Sergeant Pinto leaning against the
wall, his arms hanging by his sides, and his face white as paper.
He had just received a bullet in the breast; but the old man's
warrior soul was still strong within him, as he cried:

"Defend yourselves, conscripts! Defend yourselves! Show the
Kaiserliks that a French soldier is yet worth four of them! Ah!
the villains!"

We heard the sound of blows on the door below thundering like
cannon-shots. We still kept up our fire, but hopelessly, when we
heard the clatter of hoofs without. The firing ceased, and we saw
through the smoke four squadrons of lancers dashing like a troop
of lions through the midst of the Austrians. All yielded before
them. The Kaiserliks fled, but the long, blue lancers, with their
red pennons, were swifter than they, and many a white coat was
pierced from behind. The lancers were Poles--the most terrible
warriors I have ever seen, and, to speak truth, our friends and
our brothers. _They_ never turned from us in our hour of
need; they gave us the last drop of their blood. And what have we
done for their unhappy country? When I think of our ingratitude,
my heart bleeds.

The Poles rescued us. Seeing them so proud and brave, we rushed
out, attacking the Austrians with the bayonet, and driving them
into the trenches. We were for the time victorious, but it was
time to beat a retreat, for the enemy were already filling
Leipsic; the gates of Halle and Grimma were forced, and that of
Peters-Thau delivered up by our friends the Badeners and our
other friends the Saxons. Soldiers, citizens, and students kept
up a fire from the windows on our retiring troops.

We had only time to re-form and take the road along the Pleisse;
the lancers awaited us there; we defiled behind them, and, as the
Austrians again pressed around us, they charged once more to
drive them back. What brave fellows and magnificent horsemen were
those Poles!

The division, reduced from fifteen to eight thousand men, retired
step by step before fifty thousand foes, and not without often
turning and replying to the Austrian fire.

We neared the bridge--with what joy, I need not say. But it was
no easy task to reach it, for infantry and horse crowded the
whole width of the avenue, and arrived from all the neighboring
roads, until the crowd formed an impenetrable mass, which
advanced slowly, with groans and smothered cries, which might be
heard at a distance of half a mile, despite the rattling of
musketry. Woe to those upon the other side of the bridge! they
were forced into the water and no one stretched a hand to save
them. In the middle, men and even horses were carried along with
the crowd; they had no need of making any exertion of their own.
But how were we to get there? The enemy were advancing nearer and
nearer every moment. It is true we had stationed a few cannon so
as to sweep the principal approaches, and some troops yet
remained in line to repulse their attacks; but they had guns to
sweep the bridge, and those who remained behind must receive
their whole fire. This accounted for the press on the bridge.

At two or three hundred paces from the crowd, the idea of rushing
forward and throwing myself into the midst entered my mind; but
Captain Vidal, Lieutenant Bretonville, and other old officers

"Shoot down the first man that leaves the ranks!"


It was horrible to be so near safety, and yet unable to escape.

This was between eleven and twelve o'clock. The fusilade grew
nearer on the right and left, and a few bullets began to whistle
over our heads. From the side of Halle we saw the Prussians rush
out pell-mell with our own soldiers. Terrible cries now arose
from the bridge. Cavalry, to make way for themselves, sabred the
infantry, who replied with the bayonet. It was a general _sauve
qui peut_. At every step of the crowd, some one fell from the
bridge, and, trying to regain his place, dragged five or six with
him into the water.

In the midst of this horrible confusion, this pandemonium of
shouts, cries, groans, musket-shots, and sabre-strokes, a crash
like a peal of thunder was heard, and the first arch of the
bridge rose upward into the air with all upon it. Hundreds of
wretches were torn to pieces, and hundreds of others crushed
beneath the falling ruins.

A sapper had blown up the arch!

At this sight, the cry of treason rang from mouth to mouth. "We
are lost--betrayed!" was now the cry on all sides. The tumult was
fearful. Some, in the rage of despair, turned upon the enemy like
wild beasts at bay, thinking only of vengeance; others broke
their arms, cursing heaven and earth for their misfortunes.
Mounted officers and generals dashed into the river to cross it
by swimming, and many soldiers followed them without taking time
to throw off their knapsacks. The thought that the last hope of
safety was gone, and nothing now remained but to be massacred,
made men mad. I had seen the Partha choked with dead bodies the
day before, but this scene was a thousand times more horrible;
drowning wretches dragging down those who happened to be near
them; shrieks and yells of rage, or for help; a broad river
concealed by a mass of heads and struggling arms.

Captain Vidal, who, by his coolness and steady eye, had hitherto
kept us to our duty, even Captain Vidal now appeared discouraged.
He thrust his sabre into the scabbard, and cried, with a strange

"The game is up! Let us be gone!"

I touched his arm; he looked sadly and kindly at me.

"What do you wish, my child?" he asked.

"Captain," said I, "I was four months in the hospital at Leipsic;
I have bathed in the Elster, and I know a ford."


"Ten minutes' march above the bridge."

He drew his sabre at once from its sheath, and shouted:

"Follow me, _mes enfants!_ and you, Bertha, lead."

The entire battalion, which did not now number more than two
hundred men, followed; a hundred others, who saw us start
confidently forward, joined us. I recognized the road which
Zunnier and I had traversed so often in July, when the ground was
covered with flowers. The enemy fired on us, but we did not
reply. I entered the water first; Captain Vidal next, then the
others, two abreast. It reached our shoulders, for the river was
swollen by the autumn rains; but we crossed, notwithstanding,
without the loss of a man. We pressed onward across the fields,
and soon reached the little wooden bridge at Schleissig, and
thence turned to Lindenau.

We marched silently, turning from time to time to gaze on the
other side of the Elster, where the battle still raged in the
streets of Leipsic.
The furious shouts, and the deep boom of cannon still reached our
ears; and it was only when, about two o'clock, we overtook the
long column which stretched, till lost in distance, on the road
to Erfurt, that the sounds of conflict were lost in the roll of
wagons and artillery trains.


Hitherto I have described the grandeur of war--battles glorious
to France, notwithstanding our mistakes and misfortunes. When we
were fighting all Europe alone, always one against two, and often
one to three; when we finally succumbed, not through the courage
of our foes, but borne down by treason and the weight of numbers,
we had no reason to blush for our defeat, and the victors have
little reason to exult in it. It is not numbers that makes the
glory of a people or an army--it is virtue and bravery.

But now I must relate the horrors of retreat. It is said that
confidence gives strength, and this is especially true of the
French. While they advanced in full hope of victory, they were
united; the will of their chiefs was their only law; they knew
that they could succeed only by strict observance of discipline.
But when driven back, no one had confidence save in himself, and
commands were forgotten. Then these men--once so brave and so
proud, who marched so gayly to the fight--scattered to right and
left; sometimes fleeing alone, sometimes in groups. Then those
who, a little while before trembled at their approach, grew bold;
they came on, first timidly, but, meeting no resistance, became
insolent. Then they would swoop down and carry off three or four
laggards at a time, as I have seen crows swoop upon a fallen
horse, which they did not dare approach while he could yet remain
on his feet.

I have seen miserable Cossacks--very beggars, with nothing but
old rags hanging around them; an old cap of tattered skin over
their ears; unshorn beards, covered with vermin; mounted on old
worn-out horses, without saddles, and with only a piece of rope
by way of stirrups, an old rusty pistol all their fire-arms, and
a nail at the end of a pole for a lance; I have seen these
wretches, who resembled sallow and decrepit Jews more than
soldiers, stop ten, fifteen, twenty of our men, and lead them off
like sheep.

And the tall, lank peasants, who, a few months before, trembled
if we only looked at them--I have seen them arrogantly repulse
old soldiers--cuirassiers, artillerymen, dragoons who had fought
through the Spanish war, men who could have crushed them with a
blow of their fist; I have seen these peasants insist that they
had no bread to sell, while the odor of the oven arose on all
sides of us; that they had no wine, no beer, when we heard
glasses clinking to right and left. And no one dared punish them;
no one dared take what he wanted from the wretches who laughed to
see us in such straits, for each one was retreating on his own
account; we had no leaders, no discipline, and they could easily
out-number us.

And to hunger, misery, weariness, and fever, the horrors of an
approaching winter were added. The rain never ceased falling from
the gray sky, and the winds pierced us to the bones. How could
poor beardless conscripts, mere shadows, fleshless and worn out,
endure all this? They perished by thousands; their bodies covered
the roads. The terrible _typhus_ pursued us.
Some said it was a plague, engendered by the dead not being
buried deep enough; others, that it was the consequence of
sufferings that required more than human strength to bear. I know
not how this may be, but the villages of Alsace and Lorraine, to
which we brought it, will long remember their sufferings; of a
hundred attacked by it, not more than ten or twelve, at the most,

At length, on the evening of the nineteenth, we bivouacked at
Lutzen, where our regiments re-formed as best they might. The
next day we skirmished with the Westphalians, and at Erfurt we
received new shoes and uniforms. Five or six disbanded companies
joined our battalion--nearly all conscripts. Our new coats and
shoes were miles too large for us; but they were warm. The
Cossacks reconnoitred us from a distance. Our hussars would drive
them off; but they returned the moment pursuit was relaxed. Many
of our men went pillaging in the night, and were absent at
roll-call, and the sentries received orders to shoot all who
attempted to leave their bivouacs.

I had had the fever ever since we left Leipsic; it increased day
by day, and I became so weak that I could scarcely rise in the
mornings to follow the march. Zébédé looked sadly at me, and
sometimes said:

"Courage, Joseph! We will soon be at home!"

These words reanimated me; I felt my face flush.

"Yes, yes!" I said; "we will soon be home; I must see home once

The tears forced themselves to my eyes. Zébédé carried my
knapsack when I was tired, and continued:

"Lean on my arm. We are getting nearer every day, now, Joseph. A
few dozen leagues are nothing."

My heart beat more bravely, but my strength was gone. I could no
longer carry my musket; it was heavy as lead. I could not eat; my
knees trembled beneath me; still I did not despair, but kept
murmuring to myself: "This is nothing. When you see the spire of
Phalsbourg, your fever will leave you. You will have good air,
and Catharine will nurse you. All will yet be well!"

Others, no worse than I, fell by the roadside, but still I toiled
on; when, near Folde, we learned that fifty thousand Bavarians
were posted in the forests through which we were to pass, for the
purpose of cutting off our retreat. This was my finishing stroke,
for I knew I could no longer load, fire, or defend myself with
the bayonet. I felt that all my sufferings to get so far toward
home were useless. Nevertheless, I made an effort when we were
ordered to march, and tried to rise.

"Come, come, Joseph!" said Zébédé; "courage!"

But I could not move, and lay sobbing like a child.

"Come! stand up!" he said.

"I cannot. O God! I cannot!"

I clutched his arm. Tears streamed down his face. He tried to
lift me, but he was too weak. I held fast to him, crying:

"Zébédé, do not abandon me!"

Captain Vidal approached, and gazed sadly on me:

"Cheer up, my lad," said he; "the ambulances will be along in
half an hour."

But I knew what that meant, and I drew Zébédé closer to me. He
embraced me, and I whispered in his ear:

"Kiss Catharine for me--for my last farewell. Tell her that I
died thinking of God's holy mother and of her."

"Yes, yes!" he sobbed. "My poor Joseph!"


I could cling to him no longer. He placed me on the ground, and
ran away without turning his head. The column departed, and I
gazed at it as one who sees his last hope fading from his eyes.
The last of the battalion disappeared over the ridge of a hill. I
closed my eyes. An hour passed, or perhaps a longer time, when
the boom of cannon startled me, and I saw a division of the guard
pass at a quick step with artillery and wagons. Seeing some sick
in the wagons, I cried wistfully:

"Take me! Take me!"

But no one listened; still they kept on, while the thunder of
artillery grew louder and louder. More than ten thousand men,
calvary and infantry, passed me, but I had no longer strength to
call out to them.

At last the long line ended; I saw knapsacks and shakos disappear
behind the hill, and I lay down to sleep for ever, when once more
I was aroused by the rolling of five or six pieces of artillery
along the road. The cannoneers sat sabre in hand, and behind came
the caissons. I hoped no more from these than from the others,
when suddenly I perceived a tall, lean, red-bearded veteran
mounted beside one of the pieces, and bearing the cross upon his
breast. It was my old friend Zunnier, my old comrade of Leipsic.
He was passing without seeing me, when I cried, with all the
strength that remained to me:

"Christian! Christian!"

He heard me in spite of the noise of the guns; stopped, and
turned round.

"Christian!" I cried, "take pity on me!"

He saw me lying at the foot of a tree, and came to me with a pale
face and staring eyes:

"What! Is it you, my poor Joseph?" cried he, springing from his

He lifted me in his arms as if I were an infant, and shouted to
the men who were driving the last wagon:


Then embracing me, he placed me in it, my head upon a knapsack. I
saw too that he wrapped great cavalry cloak around my feet, as he

"Forward! Forward! It is growing warm yonder!"

I remember no more, but I have a faint impression of hearing
again the sound of heavy guns and rattle of musketry, mingled
with shouts and commands. Branches of tall pines seemed to pass
between me and the sky through the night; but all this might have
been a dream. But that day, behind Solmunster, in the woods of
Hanau, we had a battle with the Bavarians, and routed them.


On the fifteenth of January, 1814, two months and a half after
the battle of Hanau, I awoke in a good bed, and at the end of a
little, well-warmed room; and gazing at the rafters over my head,
then at the little windows, where the frost had spread its silver
sheen, I exclaimed, "It is winter!" At the same time I heard the
crash of artillery and the crackling of a fire, and turning over
on my bed in a few moments, I saw seated at its side a pale young
woman, with her arms folded, and I recognized--Catharine! I
recognized, too, the room where I had spent so many Sundays
before going to the wars. But the thunder of the cannon made me
think I was dreaming. I gazed for a long while at Catharine, who
seemed more beautiful than ever, and the question rose, "Where is
Aunt Grédel? am I at home once more? God grant that this be not a

At last I took courage and called softly:


"Catharine!" And she, turning her head, cried:

"Joseph! Do you know me?"

"Yes," I replied, holding out my hand.

She approached, trembling and sobbing, when again and again the
cannon thundered.

"What are those shots I hear?" I cried.

"The guns of Phalsbourg," she answered. "The city is besieged."

"Phalsbourg besieged! The enemy in France!"

I could speak no more. Thus had so much suffering, so many tears,
so many thousands of lives gone for nothing--ay, worse than
nothing, for the foe was at our homes. For an hour I could think
of nothing else; and even now, old and gray-haired as I am, the
thought fills me with bitterness; Yes, we old men have seen the
German, the Russian, the Swede, the Spaniard, the Englishman,
masters of France, garrisoning our cities, taking whatever suited
them from our fortresses, insulting our soldiers, changing our
flag, and dividing among themselves, not only our conquests since
1804, but even those of the republic. These were the fruits of
ten years of glory!

But let us not speak of these things. They will tell us that
after Lutzen and Bautzen, the enemy offered to leave us Belgium,
part of Holland, all the left bank of the Rhine as far as Bâle,
with Savoy and the kingdom of Italy; and that the emperor refused
to accept these conditions, brilliant as they were, because he
placed the satisfaction of his own pride before the happiness of

But to return to my story. For two weeks after the battle of
Hanau, thousands of wagons, filled with wounded, crowded the road
from Strasbourg to Nancy, and passed through Phalsbourg. Not one
in the sad _cortége_ escaped the eyes of Aunt Grédel and
Catharine, and thousands of fathers and mothers sought among them
for their children. The third day Catharine found me among a heap
of other wretches, with sunken cheeks and glaring eyes--dying of

She knew me at once, but Aunt Grédel gazed long before she cried,
"Yes! it is he! It is Joseph!"

They took me home. Why should I describe my long illness, my
shrieks for water, my almost miraculous escape from what seemed
certain death? Let it suffice the kind reader to know that, six
months after, Catharine and I were married; that Monsieur Goulden
gave me half his business, and that we lived together as happy as

The wars were ended, but the Bourbons had been taught nothing by
their misfortunes, and the emperor only awaited the moment of
vengeance. But here let us rest. If people of sense tell me that
I have done well in relating my campaign of 1813--that my story
may show youth the vanity of military glory, and prove that no
man can gain happiness save by peace, liberty, and labor--then I
will take up my pen once more, and give you the story of



    The Episcopalian Crisis.

In medical science, a _crisis_ is the change in a disease
which indicates its event, the recovery or death of the patient,
and is, therefore, the critical moment. Webster also defines
crisis to be "the decisive state of things, or the point of time
when an affair is arrived at its height, and must soon terminate,
or suffer a material change." No attentive observer of the
religious movements which are going on around us can fail to see
that the Episcopalians are, at this moment, in an interesting
condition. On the one hand, the ritualists are pushing ceremonial
and doctrine much further than even the elasticity of
Protestantism will permit, while, on the other, the
low-churchmen, alarmed at the demonstrations of their opponents,
are renewing the battle-cries of the Reformation, lest the labors
of Luther and Henry VIII, should be frustrated in their
communion. There will soon be the clashing of arms and the
interchange of active hostilities. As Catholics, we cannot but
take a deep interest in the result, and we hope that all the
combatants will, before going into battle, understand the cause
for which they are fighting, and then faithfully fight to victory
or death. An honest man should always stand by his colors, or at
least openly renounce them. The object of this article is, to
give a diagnosis of the present state of Episcopalianism, and, as
far as our abilities and kind intentions go, to prescribe a
remedy for the patient.

In the first place, we find that there is a feverish excitement
about the trial of the Rev. Mr. Tyng, who, in violation of a
canon, has had the hardihood to preach in a church of another
denomination than his own. The canon under which he is arraigned
seems to present a case against the reverend gentleman, and from
the complexion of the court appointed to try him he has little
chance of escaping conviction. But we imagine that even his
condemnation will be nominal, and appear more as the assertion of
a power than the exercise of it. The low-churchmen are quite
excited by the discussion of the points involved in the trial. A
writer in _The Episcopalian_ considers the affair as the
most important in the annals of American ecclesiastical history.
Whatever the verdict of the court may be, it is of little account
compared to the angry feelings and bitter divisions among
brethren which will flow from it, and become more or less
permanent. Certainly, there is more bitterness among the
different sections of Episcopalians, than there is between them
and other Protestants. Low-churchmen love their Protestant
brethren, with the one exception of high-churchmen, whom they
regard with a natural antipathy. High-churchmen love none but
themselves, not the sects whom they eschew, nor the Catholic
Church, which eschews them. The trial of Rev. Mr. Tyng is not the
cause of the angry feelings which are now manifested, but merely
the occasion for bringing them out. They exist before any
occasion, and are found in the very heart of the Episcopal
Church. If the Rev. Dr. Dix had preached in a Methodist place of
worship, it is quite possible that no one would have made
objection; but Mr. Tyng, being on the other side of the house,
cannot have the same liberty.
The truth is, that all rules have a wide interpretation, and are
to be explained by custom, and here the defendant in the exciting
trial has the advantage. Even if he should be condemned, he will
be likely to have nearly all the popular sympathy, and so will
become the greater man, as a kind of martyr for his principles.

The occasion, however, has brought out a bold manifesto from the
high-churchmen, which is to be understood as their platform,
around which they seek to rally their friends. Sixty-four
clergymen have joined together to form what they call "The
American Church Union," to which they invite all Episcopalians
who sympathize with them. They declare that the evils of the time
are fearful, "the young are growing up without education, the
community is familiarized with scenes of lewdness, the marriage
contract is made contemptible, the ordinances of the Gospel of
Christ are disused, and the public worship of God is neglected."
While thus the torrent of iniquity rages around them, they find
that an evil has arisen within the Episcopal fold, which
threatens the subversion of their whole system. It is nothing
less than the denial of the necessity of ordination of ministers
by bishops. "The right is claimed of preaching anywhere, at
pleasure; ministers of non-Episcopal communities are invited to
preach in our churches; and the intention is announced of
breaking down every barrier between our church and the religious
bodies around her." To counteract this destructive movement, they
associate themselves together, in a union offensive and
defensive. They promise to uphold the laws, the canons, and to
follow the "godly admonitions of the bishops," while they seek
"to maintain unimpaired principles which they have received from
their fathers, Seabury, White, Griswold, Hobart, Doane, and

While we confess that our sympathies are with the signers of this
pastoral, we frankly avow that it is somewhat vague and, to our
minds, inconsistent. No doctrine whatever is clearly stated,
except that of the necessity of episcopal ordination. The creeds
are referred to, and the (undisputed?) general councils; but no
explanation of their teaching is given. And then, he will be a
_wise_ man who can follow, at the same time, in the steps of
the fathers whom they name. Seabury, Hobart, and Doane were
high-churchmen in various degrees of altitude; but White and
Griswold were quite on the other side of the fence; while Dr.
Wainwright was generally thought to have been on both sides at
the same time. To us, therefore, he seems the best and most
gentlemanly model for the rising generation of churchmen who
would be "all things to all men." Then, again, he who would
follow the godly admonitions of the bishops must be able to go to
the four points of the compass at the same time. Fancy an
adventurer who would obey the admonitions of Bishops McIlvaine
and Potter, or, at the same time, follow the counsels of Doctors
Coxe and Clark. The convulsions of Mazeppa would be nothing to
the agonies of his mind. No physician could prescribe a remedy
for such a patient. "No man can serve two masters; either he will
hate the one and love the other, or cleave to the one and despise
the other." Why, therefore, in this enlightened day, write
contradictions and talk nonsense?
Some time ago, twenty-eight bishops made a solemn declaration
against ritualism; "and," says the _Protestant Churchman_,
"one of the gentlemen who has signed this address of the American
Union not only soundly lectured, but held up to scorn and
derision" these prelates, and especially the Boanerges of Western
New York, who, smelling Romanism from afar, vaults like a beaked
bird upon his prey. "O shame!" says the writer we have quoted,
"where is thy blush?"

While thus the armies of the high-churchmen have begun to array
themselves for battle, the bugle sounds loudly from the opposing
camp, and the evangelicals are gathering together in earnest. A
church union is being formed among them, and a writer in the
_Episcopalian_ thus speaks the designs of his party: "Let
this evangelical church union be extended to every diocese and
parish in the land where its principles are approved. The
sacramental system is not the Gospel system, but its direct
antipodes, in which the sacraments are degraded from their true
position of sacred _emblems_, and made to serve as
pack-horses to carry lazy sinners to heaven. I hear hundreds of
ministers and thousands of laymen exclaim, 'Oh! that we had the
power to rescue the church from the hands of those who are
corrupting it!' These will be rejoiced to learn that nothing is
more simple and feasible. How? I reply by saying, what even
high-churchmen will hardly dare to deny, that the church of the
Reformation was eminently an evangelical church, and that the
evangelical portion of the present Episcopal Church constitutes
absolutely all of the real successors of the English Reformed
Church in this country. Ritualists and sacramentarians have no
more right in this communion than avowed Romanists." The
low-churchmen have the decided majority, and thus give letters
dimissory to their offending brethren. "God speed the Church
Union!" says a contributor to the _Protestant Churchman_;
"but let Mr. Hopkins and his friends beware lest they themselves
should be the very first upon whom this discipline shall fall.
Dr. _Guillotine_ experienced the beautiful operation of that
ingenious instrument of death invented by himself. This is a
precedent from which these gentlemen might learn a lesson."

The low-churchmen make a point that, while they prefer the
episcopal form as more scriptural and more conformed to the
primitive system, they do not unchurch other Christian
denominations, and that, in this respect, they follow the
teachings of the founders of the reformed English communion. They
also contend that the right of the church to amend or change its
laws and services is inalienable, and that the time has arrived
when some important changes should be made. Bishop Griswold,
whose "godly admonitions" the Church Union desires to follow,
thus expressed himself: "In the baptismal office are,
unfortunately, some few words which are well known to be more
injurious to the peace and growth of our church than any one
thing that can be named." "Allow me," says the Bishop of Chester,
"to omit or alter fifteen words, and I will reconcile fifteen
thousand dissenters to the church." It appears, also, that an
opinion was expressed by a late presiding bishop of the
Protestant Episcopal Church that the great body of Episcopalians
desire some change in the phraseology of their services, and that
the peace and prosperity of the church require it.

Here, then, the impartial observer can see how the ground lies.
The high-churchmen insist upon Episcopal ordination, and are
determined to resist all changes, while they are, many of them,
disposed to give a Catholic interpretation to the _articles_
and liturgy.
The low-churchmen oppose them on all these points, and insist
that a Protestant communion ought not to call itself Catholic, or
use words of doubtful meaning; and that the literal sense of the
articles which form their real confession of faith should be
imposed upon all Episcopalians. We have ventured to call this a
crisis because, if there be vitality in either party, there must
come a conflict from which one side must retire defeated, leaving
the field and the spoils of war to the victors. But as this is
not the first crisis which has occurred in the history of
Anglicanism, we opine that the battle will be fought with blank
cartridges, and that, after considerable smoke, it will be found
that nobody is hurt. Then from the unbloody field the combatants
will retire to war with words, and to be greater enemies than
ever. Individual soldiers will lay down their arms to sally in
the direction of Geneva or Rome; but the great Episcopal body
will quietly await another crisis. Yet this condition of a church
which claims (according to some of its members--the Pan-Anglican
Synod, for example) to be a _part_ of the Catholic Church,
is not healthy. In contradictories there cannot be accord, and
one is right and the other is certainly wrong. A careful
diagnosis of the malady of our patient leads us to the following
conclusions: No one is bound to impossibilities, and therefore,
before their own church, the low-churchmen are right on all
points of the controversy, while, before the Christian world,
their opponents are singularly isolated and unfortunate. The
Episcopal Church contains two opposing elements which must ever
war against each other, and, while there are inconsistencies in
both liturgy and articles, the low-churchmen stand upon the only
reasonable ground, and say with truth to their adversaries, that
they who would be sacramentarians ought to go where their system
properly belongs, and where all other things are in harmony with
it. Such, we are sure, will be the judgment of the impartial

1. The Episcopalians have a right to reform their services
whenever they choose, and are at perfect liberty to agitate the
question. By the constitution of their own church, they have the
power to alter, change, or modify both their liturgy and their
creeds. Did not the Church of England do this on several
occasions? Has not the American Episcopal Church done it also?
Did she not materially alter the prayer-book, leaving out, for
example, both the form of absolution, and also the Athanasian
Creed? That which has been done can surely be done again,
especially in a body which disclaims infallibility, and is,
therefore, sure of nothing, and is ever on all points open to
progress. Here it seems to us that the high-churchmen have no
ground on which to stand. They cannot assert that anything their
church teaches is the voice of God, because she expressly tells
them that she has no authority. They cannot hold any reasonable
theory of ecclesiastical pretensions, because, by doing so, they
would unchurch themselves. A church ought to know its own powers,
if it have any. They may have their own opinions, and press them
as such; but they have no right to lord it over the consciences
of their brethren who disagree with them, as if they (the actual
minority) were the church rather than their more numerous
opponents. Their fathers whose "godly admonitions" they seek to
follow, surely never meant to cast their "incomparable liturgy"
in an iron mould.
Besides, in sober common sense, all the extravagancies of the
low-churchmen are nothing compared to the doings of the extreme
ritualists, who have so metamorphosed the service that no
uninitiated Episcopalian could ever recognize it. Think of
changing every rubric, and engrafting upon the common prayer the
actual ceremonies and even the words of the Roman missal. We
understand that few of the signers of the union manifesto are
opposed to these advances of ritualism, and that many of them are
ready to hear confessions or celebrate Mass when a good occasion
is offered. With what face, then, can they find fault with their
brethren who exercise their liberty in another direction? And
inasmuch as there is a manifest inconsistency between various
parts of the prayer-book, it would be well for them and for truth
to have their code revised, that the world may know precisely
what they do mean.

2. On the vexed question of Episcopal ordination, we are
convinced that the high-churchmen are wrong, before their own
communion and before the world. The reformers under whose
inspirations the English Church was formed, never intended to
unchurch the religious bodies of the continent with whom they
were in sympathy. The words of the ordinal refer only to the rule
to be adopted in the Anglican body, and do not decide at all the
question of the validity of non-Episcopal orders. The
twenty-third of the thirty-nine articles is so expounded by
Burnet. He says that by common consent a company of Christians
may appoint one of their own members to minister to them in holy
things; for we are sure "that not only those who penned the
articles, but the body of this church for above half an age
after, did, notwithstanding irregularities, acknowledge the
foreign churches, so constituted, to be true churches as to all
the _essentials_ of a church. The article leaves the matter
open for such accidents as had happened, and such as might still
happen. Although their own church had been less forced to go out
of the beaten path than any other, yet they knew that all things
among themselves had not gone according to those rules that ought
to be sacred in regular times. Necessity has no law, and is a law
of itself."

The opinions of Cranmer, and of Barlow, the reported consecrator
of Archbishop Parker, were distinctly Erastian. At a conference
held at Windsor, 1547, Cranmer answers to the question, "Can a
bishop make a priest?" as follows: "A bishop may make a priest,
and so may princes and governors also, by the authority of God
committed to them." Barlow replies, "Bishops have no authority to
make priests without they be authorized by the Christian princes,
and that laymen have other whiles made priests."

To the question, "Whether in the New Testament be required any
consecration of a bishop or priest, or only appointing to the
office be sufficient?" Cranmer answers, "He that is appointed to
be a bishop or priest needeth no consecration by the Scriptures,
for election or appointing thereto is sufficient." Barlow also
expresses the same sentiment. (See Stillingfleet's
_Irenicum_, and Collier, vol. ii. appendix.)

The "judicious" Hooker undoubtedly maintains the true
Episcopalian belief, that ordination by bishops is preferable,
but not of absolute necessity to a church. A very able article in
this Magazine, published September, 1866, (Vol. III. No. 18,)
shows the truth of our view.
Passages are deduced from a work called _Vox Ecclesiae_,
which contain the high-church position, and admit that in case of
_necessity_ (which is left to the individual to determine)
"orthodox presbyters may ordain." As Archbishop Parker said,
"Extreme necessity in itself implieth dispensation from all
laws." The author of this article, to which we beg leave to refer
our readers, shows plainly that such a doctrine "overthrows the
very idea of apostolical succession, elevates human necessity
above divine law, and legitimates every form of error and

Before their own communion, therefore, the low-churchmen have
every advantage, as they are consistent with the principles of
the Reformation which brought their church into being. When
Protestants desert their own platform, on what ground can they
logically stand?

Secondly, before the Christian world the high-churchmen occupy a
very unfortunate position. They make assertions which unchurch
themselves, while they separate from their brethren, and aspire
to an ecclesiastical status which they have not, which the whole
world denies to them, and which they can never defend. If the
apostolical succession is necessary to the existence of a church,
then by the verdict of all who hold such a doctrine, they are no
church; for with all their pretensions, they have it not. It has
been shown over and over again, by arguments incontestable, that
the ordination of Archbishop Parker, if indeed it ever took
place, was wholly and entirely invalid. There is not satisfactory
evidence that any ceremony of consecration was observed; there is
no proof whatever that Barlow, the officiating prelate, was ever
ordained; and lastly, the form used (according to the theory of
the high-churchmen) was utterly inadequate to convey valid
orders. What need, then, to argue further with those who will not
see? If any Catholic bishop at this day should venture to
consecrate with the form which they tell us was used in Parker's
case, he would be subject to severe censure, and his act would be
considered totally null and valueless. One would naturally
suppose that the judgment of the Catholic Church on this question
would be held in respect. She has preserved the ancient rite, and
holds the absolute necessity of episcopal ordination; and while
she considers it a sacrilege to reiterate the sacrament of
orders, she reordains, without question and without condition,
every English minister who, coming into her fold, aspires to the
sacred priesthood. The same course has been adopted by what the
Pan-Angelican Synod calls the Eastern Orthodox Church, which no
more regards the Episcopalians as a church than she does the
Methodists or Presbyterians. Is any more evidence required by any
honest mind? If the opinion of the eastern churches is of any
weight, it has been more than once given. Dr. J. J. Overbeck, a
Russian priest, in a recent work on "Catholic Orthodoxy," treats
at some length of the English orders, which he pronounces to be
null. These are among his words:

  "1. The _Anglo-Catholic_ fathers, on the point of
  apostolical succession and its needfulness, held latitudinarian
  views, subversive of the whole fabric of the church.

  2. The boasted unity or concord of Anglicans even in essentials
  is a specious _illusion_.

  3. Anglo-Catholicism is _genuine Protestantism_ decked and
  disfigured by Catholic spoils."

  "As Parker's consecration was invalid, the apostolic line was
  broken off, irremediably broken off."


  "If Rome considered all ordinations by Parker and his
  successors, namely, the whole present English episcopate and
  clergy, to be invalid, null, and void, and consistently
  reordained all those converts who wished and were fit for
  orders; the Eastern Church can but imitate her proceedings, as
  both, in this point, follow the very same principles. ... The
  fact of the reordination is the final and conclusive verdict on
  the invalidity of Anglican ordinations. By this fact all
  further controversy is broken off and indisputably settled."

We fancy, then, the amusement which the pastoral of the late
Anglican Synod will produce in the Eastern churches, for whose
benefit it has been translated into the Greek language. We would
recommend to the great Patriarchs to send a commission of doctors
to the West, that they may see that _oneness of mind_ of
which the bishops so fervently speak. Then when they see it, we
would like to have them point it out to us, that we may see it
also, and rejoice with them.

It may perhaps appear to some of our readers that our sympathies
are with the low-churchmen and ultra-Protestants of the Episcopal
communion. This is, however, far from being the case. We admire
consistency and cannot accept logical contradictions. The
Protestant ground is something that our reason can comprehend,
though we believe it does away with all revelation and leads
directly to infidelity. But God has furnished us with no mental
powers by which to fathom a system which is neither one thing nor
the other, which wears a Catholic exterior over a Protestant
heart. Such will be the verdict of the world. How long
Anglicanism can last we know not. It has been a kind of half-way
house to the church, and it may occupy this position for a long
time. It seems to us that every honest high-churchman should
become a Catholic at once, when he will find what he wants, not
simply on paper but in life, not in imagination but in reality.
The movement called ritualism is an indication that the grace of
God is stirring up the dry bones; for Anglicanism in itself is
the most lifeless and unspiritual religion we know of. God grant
that the movement may bring forth its proper fruits. We only fear
that when it comes to "leaving all for Christ," to giving up
houses and lands, wives and children, position and preferment,
many will go back, (as we have seen with sorrow,) and be like the
young man in the gospel, who was, at one time, "not far from the
kingdom of heaven." Ritualism is only a yearning after the real
presence of the Incarnate God, for which the redeemed soul longs
even with anguish. "Tears were my meat, day and night, while they
said to me. _Where_ is thy God?" The true heart will find
its Lord only in that one body which is his fulness. Pray, then,
fellow-Catholics, pray for the sincere and true, that they may
have grace to forsake the land of shadows, and come where are the
bright beams of the morning; that ere the night of death overtake
them, they may, like the pure-minded Simeon, see the salvation of
God, and joyfully chant their "_Nunc dimittis_," "Lord, now
lettest thou thy servant depart in peace; for mine eyes have seen
thy salvation."



          Bishop Doyle. [Footnote 20]

  [Footnote 20: _The Life, Times, and Correspondence of the Rt.
  Rev. Dr. Doyle, Bishop of Kildare and Leighlin_. By W. J.
  Fitzpatrick, J. P. 3 vols. 8vo. Boston: P. Donohoe.]

"What can you teach?" "Any thing from A, B, C, to the third book
of Canon Law." "Pray, young man, can you teach and practise
humility?" "I trust I have, at least, the humility to feel that
the more I read the more I see how ignorant I have been, and how
little can, at best, be known." Such were the pithy replies to
the equally condensed questions put by the venerable Dean
Staunton, of Carlow College, to a young Augustinian friar who had
been proposed as candidate for a professorship in that rising
institution. The friar was Father James Doyle, then in his
twenty-seventh year. Erect in stature, austere in features, the
candid earnestness of his mind beaming through his expressive
countenance, which bore the evident traces of studious habits,
and the freedom of his unpretentious manners--all these
qualities, combined in his looks and declared by his language,
immediately enlisted the sympathetic esteem of the dean. Nor was
his youth an obstacle to his acceptance. His appointment to the
position followed, and the six years spent by him in the college
served as a fit preparation for the public career of this eminent
man, the narrative of whose life forms an essential part of the
history of his country for at least fifteen years.

From the valuable work to which reference is made in the note to
this article, we find much to admire in the noble character who
forms the subject of Mr. Fitzpatrick's literary effort. There
must have been placed at his disposal a rich and abundant store
of material from which the biography was compiled. The work
itself, in a literary point of view, is creditable to the
diligence of the author; but at present we shall content
ourselves with an attempt to gather from its comprehensive pages,
and place before our readers, some of the most remarkable events
that distinguished the life and were influenced by the action of
the eminent prelate.

Of respectable and honorably rebellious ancestors, he was born in
New Ross, County of Wexford, in 1786. In an appendix to the work
before us there is a chronological article showing the descent of
the Doyle family from some ancient, royal sept--a portion of
Irish history by no means uncommon--to which we would refer those
who should doubt his original nobility of blood. For us it will
suffice to know that some of his immediate relatives had fallen
for their country and its faith, and that even as far back as
1691, there were few more distinguished than the bold Rapparee
chieftain, "Brigadier Doyle," who was sent from Limerick, by
Sarsfield, to collect men and horses for the Jacobite army.


Anne Warren, the mother of the future bishop, was a Catholic, but
of Quaker extraction, and the father had died before the child's
birth, so that young Doyle was brought into the world under
circumstances, though not of indigence, still not of superfluity
in worldly goods. But nature richly endowed him; and what
treasures can be sought more desirable than the intrinsic power
of soul which no external change can diminish, and which retains
its richness, independent of the uncertainties of variable
fortune! Nor was his childhood other than obscure, if we may
apply the term to that state which, though humble, was
illustrated by the tender care and enlightened piety of a
Christian mother. His boyhood was not remarkable for those
extraordinary manifestations of genius said to be discovered in
the younger days of great men. No phenomena indicative of unusual
fortune or success in life attended his boyish acts, although
there is a tale of some careless fortune-teller having
prognosticated the high position and distinguished labors which
afterward rendered his name so memorable. At the age of eleven he
ran the risk of being shot for his curiosity in observing, at a
distance, a battle fought between the patriots of the rebellion
and the English forces. His school-days commenced at Rathnavogue,
where a Mr. Grace was conducting a seminary of learning to whose
seats both Catholics and Protestants had equal access. Hitherto
his mother had been his instructor, and there are no impressions
so important or so lasting as those imparted to the infant mind
by the solicitous teaching of a parent. Under her guidance, the
youthful aspirations which inclined his developing reason to the
ecclesiastical state of life, were fostered and encouraged, as
she early perceived that the tendency of his mental faculties
directed in the path of a holy vocation. In the year 1800, she
placed him under the care of an Augustinian friar named Crane,
who soon discovered the talents of the boy through his eagerness
for knowledge, and his intensely studious habits. She died in
1802, leaving him an orphan, but with the prospect of his soon
becoming a member of the Augustinian order, which he entered
three years afterward. Notwithstanding that he entertained a
strong repugnance to the eleemosynary practices of religious
communities of begging from door to door--and this aversion he
ever retained--he still selected a conventual life in preference
to the more public and active labors of a missionary priest. His
respect for the dignity of the priestly office was a
characteristic trait in his life as bishop, and his ideas on the
subject seem to have originated from that natural good taste with
which he had been gifted from his infancy.

The ordeal of the novitiate passed through with fidelity, he made
his vows as member of the order in 1806, in the small thatched
chapel at Grantstown. The marked abilities displayed at this
period induced his superiors to select him to be sent with some
others to the college of their order at Coimbra, in Portugal, a
well-conducted institution, and connected with the celebrated
university of that place. As he was afforded all the ample
opportunities held out to those attending the university
lectures--a privilege accorded only to a few--his mind was
immensely enriched, and what is of still greater importance, his
ideas were enabled to attain a sturdiness of growth and
liberality of expansion which ever afterward distinguished his
writings and speeches. In his subsequent examination before a
committee of both houses of parliament, he testified to the
numerous advantages which were then, as now, derived from a
continental education for the priesthood. In his days, indeed, it
was no longer, as it had been in 1780, felony in a foreign
priest, and high-treason in a native, to teach or practise the
doctrines of the Catholic religion in Ireland. Still, the penal
laws, although relaxed, had left their evil traces long after
their name had ceased to excite terror, even if it occasioned a
thrill of hatred in the breasts of those who had so long been
subjected to the clanking of their fetters.
It seems somewhat of an anomaly for Protestantism, which was
inaugurated under the plea of freeing and enlightening the human
mind, to sanction the enactment and enforce the execution of laws
directly calculated to crush religious freedom, and make it
criminal to educate the children of the conquered Catholics. It
is, however, but one of the innumerable inconsistencies with
which the histories of nations and of creeds regale us at

Whilst young Doyle was deeply engaged in drinking in from the
purest and deepest springs theologic lore, and treasuring up in
his capacious mind the classic and philosophic eloquence of
ancient times, the sound of war disturbed his retirement. A
French invasion overturned the independence of the country, and
so rapid was the advance of Junot that the vessel which bore away
in safety to Brazil the royal family was hastened in its
departure by some shots from the conquering army. The peninsular
war ensued, in which the Portuguese, aided by the English under
Wellington, drove out the irreligious soldiers of the empire. The
enthusiasm which inflamed the minds of the natives was taken up
by the young students, and among them Doyle shouldered his
musket, believing that the best way to prove one's fidelity to
truth and justice is to _act_ when action alone is

Mr. Fitzpatrick does not explain the short stay made by the
student in the college of Coimbra, as we find him in Ireland, in
1808, preparing for the reception of holy orders. He had
concluded a good course of study, and his natural abilities must
have rendered him fully competent to be admitted to the order of
priesthood, which he received in 1809, in the humble, thatched
chapel of his youthful days. But as there were then, to a greater
extent than at present, existing prejudices against religious
orders in Ireland, he was not only refused faculties, but even
the preparatory examination, by Dr. Ryan, Coadjutor Bishop of
Ferns. The young priest quietly remained in his convent until
called, upon the recommendation of some friends who admired his
talents, to the position of professor in Carlow College. Here he
rendered most important services. Within its walls he spent six
years most studiously occupied, both for his own advancement and
for the benefit of his pupils. The advantage of procuring
positions in seminaries or colleges for young priests of talent
and taste for prolonged study, is easily perceived when we
consider the necessity--more especially at the present day--of
fitting some for the higher duties of their order--the defence
and exposition of Catholic doctrines in a literary manner. Had
the talents of Dr. Doyle received no cultivation more than that
afforded by a superficial knowledge of theology in a rudimentary
course of three years, his life would have passed in obscurity,
and his eminent public services could never have been
successfully accomplished. The light of genius is, indeed, a gift
of nature, but the intensity of its brilliancy depends upon art
and culture. Besides this, his taste for literature excited the
enthusiasm, whilst it encouraged the efforts of the students. His
lectures on eloquence, which had, up to that time, been
considerably neglected among the Irish clergy, served as an
incentive to their ardor in pursuit of that noble science, at the
same time that it furnished his own mind with the inexhaustible
resources which he afterward wielded with such mighty effect.
We know of similar results having been attained by the late
eminent Cardinal Wiseman whilst rector of the English College at
Rome. The necessity of a learned clergy was scarcely ever felt as
much as at the present day, when men of abilities and cultivation
may be daily encountered, eager and earnest for the truth, but
not ready to admit it upon insufficient or superficial grounds.
This view, entertained by Dr. Doyle whilst in Carlow College, led
him to inculcate the same principles to those around him.

But the scene of his labors changes, and we now approach the
period of his life in which his publications procure for him that
general recognition of power and virtue, hitherto accorded him in
a humbler sphere of duty. By an unprecedented unanimity he was
elected, in 1819, to succeed Dr. Corcoran in the diocese of
Kildare and Leighlin. The selection was more remarkable, as in
those days there were feelings of strong dislike entertained
against members of religious communities, and the subject caused
no slight trouble at Rome. The wise regulations of the church for
the election of bishops were observed in Ireland then, as they
are now. Assembled together, the clergy received the Holy
Eucharist, prayed for light to direct their action, retired in
silence, strengthened and enlightened, to give their voice for
the most fitting subject; and the result showed in this case,
that, as they had the generosity to pass over the bounds of
prejudice, the Holy Ghost guided them in their deliberations. It
was not a little surprising that the choice had fallen upon an
Augustinian friar; but that the dignity should be conferred upon
one so young--he was only thirty-two years of age--and with
such universal satisfaction, went far to prove the high esteem in
which he must have been held. The custom of electing elderly
persons to the episcopal office is generally admitted to have
traditional usage in its favor, although we do not read of our
Lord having regarded age as a qualification in his apostles, and
St. John is believed to have been a mere youth. Innocent III.,
one of the most illustrious popes that ever reigned, was only
thirty-seven years of age when he ascended the chair of St.
Peter. And although the youthful appearance of the new bishop was
made the occasion of adverse criticism in some quarters, he
entered upon his office no less deeply impressed with the truth
of what St. Augustine said of the episcopate, "_Nomen sit
oneris, non honoris_," than if he were bowed down by age.

Mr. Fitzpatrick's work exposes to us many evils that had been
allowed to grow up in the diocese under the inactive government
of some of Bishop Doyle's predecessors. Incompetent persons are
found in every state of life, and many of the miseries by which
society is afflicted arise from faithlessness or incapacity in
incumbents of high positions. Energy and diligence were not
characteristic of those who had gone before him, and abuses that
had been tolerated by negligence, grew into evils which were
magnified by their proximity to the sanctuary. But Bishop Doyle
was one of those faithful ministers who felt the responsibilities
enjoined upon his office, "_quasi pro animabus reddituri
rationem_." Some customs common among the clergy were not much
in accordance with ecclesiastical propriety, and it is not easy
to eradicate what has been allowed to attain a long growth.
It is true that the penal times had but just ceased, and the
decadence in ecclesiastical discipline brought about by the
dreary night of persecution, was of such magnitude as not to be
quickly remedied. Still, the new bishop had brought with him into
the office a thorough knowledge of the laws of the church, and a
sense of the obligation of carrying these laws into execution
whenever possible. These were the two principal reasons to which
must be ascribed the successful issue of all his measures at
reform. He called the attention of his clergy to the decrees of
the twenty-fourth session of the Council of Trent, with regard to
the reformation of the church, and dwelt upon the penalties to
which he himself should be liable were he to neglect the
enforcement of those wise regulations.

For the decency of public worship, the ornaments and linens of
the altar, and everything connected with the sacred ceremonies of
religion, he had the most scrupulous regard. He instituted
regular visitations in his diocese, as he felt that he could not
be exempted from a sinful negligence in omitting to comply with
the decrees of Trent in this respect. In these visitations he
discovered the sad state to which ecclesiastical discipline had
fallen before his days. In one instance the vestments were found
to be in such an unbecoming state that he tore them asunder.
Returning next year to the same parish, he found the identical
old vestments sewn together and kept in a turf-basket. To prevent
a repetition, he consigned them to the flames, and as the parish
priest was by no means a poor man, the wretched taste displayed
by him was wholly unpardonable.

Hunting was not an unusual occupation with the clergy of those
days. Practices by no means tending to increase the respect of
the people for their pastors, had been allowed to accompany the
marriage and funeral services of country districts, and all these
claimed the diligent reformatory care of the active bishop. The
office of reformer--as the very sound has to some an odious
signification--is not the most envious one in the world, and it
acquires a peculiarly distasteful character from those whose
self-interested conduct may fall under its action. Hence the
young bishop was sometimes accused of rashness in his undertaking
to correct abuses of so long a standing, and the plea was set up
that good and wise men had tolerated them in the past. Nor was he
free from the receipt of letters of complaint, principally,
though not always, from old pastors who found great difficulty in
abandoning habits which their sense of right would not permit
them to justify. They remonstrated with him for carrying out laws
for the execution of which he was responsible. But he kindly
reasoned with them on the necessity which pressed him to be
faithful to his trust; and as he never urged his own feelings or
his own bias as the motive of his action, but always appealed to
the law of the church, he gradually effected the most beneficent
results. He never used harshness, even where it might appear, if
not necessary, at least justifiable, and never was he accused of
disregarding the reasonable explanations of the humblest of his
clergy. Law, not self; justice, not caprice, were the motives
that incited him; and, guided by such principles, he confided the
success of his efforts to God, and thus labored under the
inspiration of the church.

The sacrament of confirmation had been but rarely administered
before his time, and he frequently was affected to tears when,
instead of children to receive it, there were crowds of
gray-haired men and women.
The education of the young had been much neglected by many parish
priests, whose taste for agricultural pursuits led them to devote
more time to the cultivation of farms than to the instruction of
their people. One rural gentleman insisted that he could well
attend to his flocks of sheep without neglecting his spiritual
flock; but the bishop required that his time should be
exclusively devoted to his ministry. Many justified their
engagement with worldly occupations, or their inattention to
their duties, by pointing to the curate, and, loudly affirming
his energetic zeal, declared him fully competent to direct the
parish, whilst the old man should repose from his labors and
enjoy in ease the fruits of his past services in the vineyard of
the Lord. The persistent labors of the bishop at length produced
that good result ever to be expected from a faithful discharge of
duty. Visitations were regularly conducted throughout his
diocese, and the long-neglected canons of the church were
reestablished, to the great satisfaction of all good priests, as
well as with salutary consequences to the people.

Not less important in their results were the spiritual retreats
which he inaugurated amongst his clergy. The efficient means of
preserving and strengthening the spiritual life of the priesthood
had been long impossible in the times of persecution; but when
this obstacle was removed, his predecessors took no steps to
remedy the ill effects of their omission. One thousand priests
and almost every prelate in Ireland assembled at Carlow, in 1820,
to avail themselves of the advantages of silence and prayer under
the direction of the young bishop, who conducted the religious
exercises. He had been always known as an austere man to himself,
and most conscientiously attentive to even the minor duties of
his ecclesiastical state, and the brilliant manner in which he
guided his attentive hearers through this retreat deeply
impressed them. "These sermons," (he preached three times a day,)
writes Rev. Mr. Delany, "were of an extraordinarily impressive
character. We never heard anything to equal them before or since.
The duties of the ecclesiastical state were never so eloquently
or efficiently expounded. His frequent application and exposition
of the most intricate texts of Scripture amazed and delighted us;
We thought he was inspired. I saw the venerable Archbishop Troy
weep like a child, and raise his hands in thanksgiving. At the
conclusion of the retreat he wept again, and kissed his coadjutor
with more than a brother's affection."

Dr. O'Connell narrates that "for the ten days during which the
retreat lasted. Dr. Doyle knew no rest. His soul was on fire in
the sacred cause. He was determined to reform widely. His falcon
eye sparkled with zeal. The powers of his intellect were applied
to the good work with telling effect. At the close of one of his
most impassioned exhortations, he knelt down on a
_prie-dieu_ immediately before me. The vigorous workings of
his mind, and the intense earnestness of purpose within, affected
even the outward man. Big drops of perspiration stood upon his
neck, and his rochet was almost saturated." The fruits of these
labors were proportionate to their intensity, for the soil was
good, and needed but that cultivation, for want of which it had
long lain fallow. To reform the morals of the people, he knew
that the source of their moral teaching--the priesthood--must be
enlightened and elevated.
It seems that there can be nothing better calculated to effect a
cordial coöperation of ecclesiastical duties and responsibilities
than that a bishop should thus be willing and capable of teaching
his clergy in learning as well as in devotion; and of impressing,
by propriety of language and dignity of position, those sublime
truths that should be frequently proposed to their consideration.
Another great work undertaken by him was the revival of diocesan
conferences, which had long fallen into desuetude. He ordained
that they should be held regularly, and his own learning was a
safe guarantee of their practical utility. The many intricate
questions of moral theology, as well as local issues with which
the clergy of a well-conducted diocese should be conversant, were
usefully discussed in those assemblies with freedom and decorum.
The general non-observance of statutes and laws, arising
principally from the difficulties of the penal times, called for
more strenuous efforts than would have been otherwise needed. The
severity of penal laws against the practices of religion, or the
administration of the sacraments, diminished the number of
priests, who were obliged to hide themselves in the mountains,
and minister by stealth and under fear of death in solitary
places to the spiritual necessities of their flocks. This
accounts for the statute which was passed in a synod of Kildare
in 1614, allowing lay persons to administer the Blessed Eucharist
to each other in cases of necessity. But those times had passed,
and Dr. Doyle believed that what was then justifiably permitted
could be so no longer without sin on his part. Conscientious
fulfilment of duty alone directed him in these many salutary
reforms introduced by him for the welfare of his people; and we
dwell upon them with greater pleasure, as they evince the true
character of a bishop. These, and many other beneficent changes
introduced by Bishop Doyle, were but in accordance with the
improved condition in which the Catholics of his day found
themselves. After long and painful but finally triumphant
struggles to regain some of their lost freedom, they still felt
for a length of time the effects of that odious tyranny, by whose
means the proud, religious ascendency of a hostile sect had long
aimed at the complete subjection of the body and soul of the
Catholic population. It is pleasing to find that the first
relaxation of rigorous, repressive laws against the Catholic
Irish was owing to the influence exercised by the American
revolution upon English affairs. In 1778, Catholics were allowed
to hold property as well as their Protestant fellow-citizens;
and, although this was but a slight concession forced from the
justice of their rulers, the Irish people derived from it an
encouragement to persevere in asserting their further claims, so
often deceitfully promised and unjustly withheld. These claims of
his countrymen now assumed greater weight in the minds of
legislators, as they became more importunately urged upon their
notice by the powerful efforts of O'Connell. Bishop Doyle did not
hesitate to enter the arena, and throw the weight of his mighty
intellect and the no less important influence of his official
position, into the contest. A remarkably vigorous exposition of
the state of the question, and of the necessity of yielding to
the demands of justice, published in a letter signed J. K. L.,
inspired new hope into his friends, and drew upon him the hostile
attention of numerous opponents.

Polemics have, in our day, assumed a character quite different
from that which distinguished them in former times.
Much of the rancorous spirit, falsely called religious, which
disturbed society, and caused even domestic life sometimes to
bear an unchristian aspect, has passed away, and acerbity of
feeling which irritates, whilst it never convinces, is now less
frequently encountered than the milder tone of persuasive
argumentation. It may be that men were then more thoroughly in
earnest about religion than they are at present; but it would not
be easy to maintain that earnestness must be expressed in
language calculated to offend, and shown in acts intended to do
violence to brotherly love. It is more probable that, with the
progress of the age, men are learning more of the true spirit of
religion, and are leaving off much of that virulence which poor
human passion is likely to bring with it, even into the sanctuary
of divine faith. One thing is certain, that a change for the
better has come over the spirit which elicits religious
discussion at present; and the questions that excite our interest
and enlist our most serious consideration are agitated in a
milder manner than in the days of Bishop Doyle, when it was rare
that a religious dispute closed without abuse or vituperation,
and spiritual views were not unfrequently enforced by blows.

A discussion arose between the Bishop of Kildare and Magee, the
Protestant Archbishop of Dublin, and as both were able combatants
upon a field which afforded ample space for assault and defence,
the contest waged was long and fierce, drawing forth the wit and
sarcasm, the learning and eloquence undoubtedly possessed by both
disputants. Instead of cooling by time, it warmed as it advanced,
and increased in interest as it drew into its current many minor
warriors eager to join in the religious fray. A spirit of
domination which naturally arose from the relations between
Catholics and Protestants, determined Magee to assume a loftier
tone, with more pretentious, and, on that account, less tenable
grounds. These circumstances rendered the humiliation of his
defeat more irksome to his high position. The Marquis of
Wellesley must have been an impartial judge, and at the
conclusion of the politico-religious combat, he declared that
Magee "had evidently got the worst of it." Several other
opponents who successively assaulted "J. K. L.," were easily
disposed of by his mighty pen.

Influenced by his genius and eloquent writings, the movement led
by the great "Agitator" progressed toward its desired result. A
change was imperceptibly coming over the spirit of the times. To
retain a nation in bondage to a political or religious ascendency
not founded on the good-will of the subject, must, in the long
run, become impossible. As long as a people preserve unsubdued
their spirit of religious or national freedom, there is no power
on earth capable of frustrating their ultimate triumph. A great
writer observes that the war in which violence attempts to
oppress truth must be a strange and an arduous one. No matter how
doubtful may be the result for a time, no matter how obscure the
horizon of events, truth must in the end conquer, for it is
imperishable--it is eternal as God himself. Thus was it in the
struggle for emancipation in Ireland. The truth became at length
generally admitted, that no civil legislation, no state
authority, has a right to interfere with the sanctity of human
conscience; and that the power which attempts to violate the
natural gift of religious freedom transcends its limits, and is
guilty of a grievous crime against the established order of


Before Dr. Doyle's entrance upon the public duties of his
episcopal office, the efforts made for their emancipation by the
Catholics had produced but little effect. Petitions crowded to
the parliament, but they were hastily and sometimes scornfully
rejected. Religious equality had been promised as a reward for
the parliamentary union of both countries in 1800; but the
insidious policy of Pitt proved the promise fallacious, and when
the nation found itself cheated out of its legislative power,
without even this slight recompense of religious freedom, deep
was the indignation felt. In the movements preceding Dr. Doyle's
efforts for the recovery of their rights, the Catholics were
unaided by the "higher order" of their countrymen, "who
sensitively shrank from participating in any appeal for redress."
(Vol. I. p. 156.) The people were thus abandoned by those whom
they regarded as their natural leaders, and, with some
exceptions, "the Catholic clergy not only held aloof, but
deprecated any attempt to disturb the general apathy." (Ibid.)
But Dr. Doyle brought new energy to the combat, and, although the
victory which crowned the labors of the great "Liberator" in 1829
was principally due to his own herculean powers and indomitable
spirit, still the assistance rendered by the Bishop of Kildare
was highly appreciated by O'Connell himself. Here it may be
remarked that the Duke of Wellington is sometimes lauded for
yielding to the claims of the Catholics. It is just to accord
praise wherever merited; but, as the hostility of Wellington to
the demands of his countrymen had been for years the greatest
obstacle to their being satisfied, and as he yielded at last
evidently through fear of revolution in case of refusal, it would
appear that a reluctant concession, rendered when it could not be
safely withheld, is but a slight groundwork upon which to erect a
monument to his generosity.

It would be a long though not an ungrateful task, to trace the
toilsome progress of the bishop through his many labors for the
temporal and eternal welfare of his people. Throughout every page
of the work before us we may perceive the deep solicitude with
which he continually watched over their moral and social
improvement. Wide-spread disaffection at long misgovernment had
evinced itself in various species of secret societies--Ribbonmen,
White-boys, Peep-o'-day men, etc.--formed either for purposes
hostile to the actual state of society, or, more frequently,
perhaps, for self-defence against the powerful and extensive
organization of Orange-men. The Ribbonmen promised "to be true
to, and assist each other in all things lawful;" but if even
justifiable in their origin and object, they not unfrequently
were guilty of acts which soon aroused the opposition of the
clergy. Bishop Doyle found his diocese extensively overrun by
numerous parties of these societies; but, as the people loved
him, his disapprobation was very effectual in checking their
progress. As most of the discontent arose from the collection of
tithes from Catholics for the support of Protestant ministers, he
reprobated the laws that were thus the cause of evils which it
was their office to remove. He himself counselled his people to
observe a negative opposition to the collection of these tithes,
by refusing to pay them, but never to resist with violence a
forcible execution of the law. To force obedience to this law was
frequently a dangerous experiment. The legal claims of the parson
were sometimes satisfied at the expense of the lives of his
unwilling supporters.
However incompatible with his character it might appear, yet it
was no uncommon occurrence to witness the meek parson at the head
of a military force, leading an assault on some undefended cabin
or directing their manoeuvres in order to possess himself of a
cow, an only pig, or even a wretched bed and bedding of a
destitute family. Goaded to fury, the people would sometimes
resist the soldiers, and the sacrifice of human life was often
the only fruit of a tithe-collecting expedition. It may be
interesting to read the following verbatim copy of a bill
announcing the sale by auction of the valuable spoil secured in a
successful foray by an evangelical gentleman in the neighborhood
of Ballymore:

  "To be _soaled_ by Public Cout in the town of Ballymore on
  the 15 Inst one _Cowe_ the property of James Scully one
  new bed and one _gowne_ the property of John quinn seven
  hanks of _yearn_ the property of the widow Scott one
  _petty coate_ and one apron the property of the widow
  Gallagher seized under and by virtue of leasing warrant for
  tythe due the Rved. John Ugher. Dated this 12th day of May

In his celebrated examination before a committee of parliament in
1825, Dr. Doyle rendered ample testimony to the practical evils
of this system. Notwithstanding the merciless exposure to which
he subjected the entire tithe business, there was nothing done to
alleviate the misery or remedy the sufferings with which it is so
pregnant, and Ireland still labors under this, one of her most
harassing calamities--the cause of her discontent and the source
of her degradation. Not a little remarkable is the historical
fact, that before the time of the reformation the Irish nation
never consented to the system of tithes established in all other
countries by the law of the church. Before the invasion there was
no such thing known. After that lamentable period the English
conquerors attempted to establish it as in England, but "Giraldus
Cambrensis," says Doctor Doyle, "imputes it to the Irish as a
crime that they would not pay tithe, notwithstanding the laws
which enjoined such payment; and, now at the end of six hundred
years, they are found to persevere, with increased obstinacy, in
their struggles to cast off this most obnoxious impost."

A long letter addressed to his liberal friend. Sir H. Parnell, in
1831, is occupied in expounding his views on poor laws and church
property. His advocacy of laws to relieve the poor drew forth his
eloquent pleading in their behalf, whilst his extensive knowledge
of canon law made him familiar with the ancient legislations of
the church with respect to tithes. A short but characteristic
passage from this letter we cannot omit:


  "I am a churchman; but I am unacquainted with avarice, and I
  feel no worldly ambition. I am, perhaps, attached to my
  profession; but I love Christianity more than its worldly
  appendages. I am a Catholic from the fullest conviction; but
  few will accuse me of bigotry. I am an Irishman hating
  injustice, and abhorring, with my whole soul, the oppression of
  my country; but I desire to heal her sores, not to aggravate
  her sufferings. In decrying, as I do, the tithe-system, and the
  whole church establishment in Ireland, I am actuated by no
  dislike to the respectable body of men who, in the midst of
  fear and hatred, gather its spoils; on the contrary, I esteem
  those men, notwithstanding their past and perhaps still
  existing hostility to the religious and civil rights of their
  fellow-subjects and countrymen; I even lament the painful
  position in which they are placed. What I aspire to is the
  freedom of the people; what I most ardently desire is their
  union--which can never be effected till injustice, or the
  oppression of the many by the few, is taken away. And as to
  religion, what I wish is to see her freed from the slavery of
  the state and the bondage of mammon--to see her restored to
  that liberty with which Christ hath made her free--her
  ministers laboring and receiving their hire from those for whom
  they labor--that thus religion may be restored to her empire,
  which is not of this world, and men once more worship God in
  spirit and in truth."

In this one paragraph we have a compendious exposition of his
views and aims with regard to the civil and religious freedom of
his country.

When the disfranchisement of the forty-shilling free-holders--a
disastrous piece of legislation--was effected in 1831, Dr. Doyle
undisguisedly expressed his liberal views of individual right and
liberty. One position maintained by him is somewhat remarkable,
and we record it, as it accords with the opinion of our

  "It is the natural right of man," he writes--"a right
  interwoven with the essence of our constitution, and producing
  as its necessary effect the House of Commons--that a man who
  has life, liberty, and property, should have some share or
  influence in the disposal of them by law. Take the elective
  franchise from the Irish peasant, and you not only strip him of
  the present reality or appearance of this right, but you
  disable him and his posterity ever to acquire it. He is now
  poor and oppressed--you then make him vile and contemptible; he
  is now the image of a freeman--he will then be the very essence
  of a slave. ... Like the Helot of Athens, he may go to the
  forum and gaze at the election, and then return to hew his wood
  and fetch his water to the freeman--an inhabitant, but not a
  citizen, of the country which gave him birth."

Whilst thus battling with the injustice of the times, and
wielding with effect his powerful pen and eloquent
voice--expounding his views of human right, reproving insidious
politicians, reprobating the ungenerous legislation of the
government, and refuting the calumnies by which his religion was
assailed--he never lost sight of the humbler duties of his
pastoral office. From the turmoil and uncertain issues of public
discussion, he would revert with a sense of relief to the special
care of his own immediate flock. Great was the solicitude which
he so frequently expressed and always felt for the salvation of
his people. "Ah!" he would exclaim, "how awful to be made
responsible for even one soul! 'What then,' as St. Chrysostom
says, 'to be held answerable, not for one, but for the whole
population of an entire diocese!' '_Quid de illis sacerdotibus
dicendum, a quibus sunt omnium animae requirendae?_'" It will
tell, more than volumes, to know his character as bishop, the
exalted views he took of the value of a Christian soul. "And if
such," he proceeds to say, "be the value of one immortal soul
redeemed by the precious blood of an incarnate God, what must be
the value of thousands? And oh! what the responsibility of him
who has to answer not for one, but for multitudes--perhaps,
ultimately, for millions! How can he reasonably hope to enter
heaven, unless with his dying breath he can repeat with truth,
'Father, of those whom thou hast confided to my care, not one has
perished through my fault.'" In this spirit his efforts for the
education and moral improvement of his people were carried on to
a successful issue.
His wise restitution of the laws of the church to their proper
control over everything connected with his diocese, completely
removed the confusion which had long reigned. The statutes
decreed for the government of his clergy were rigorously
enforced. He placed upon a more intelligible basis the hitherto
unsettled relations of religious orders to regular diocesan
authority, and although a religious himself, he was never accused
of partiality toward such communities. In fact, he found it
necessary as it was difficult to induce them to undertake reforms
which he deemed very much needed in some points of discipline, in
order to render their services more efficient. He writes, (vol.
ii. p. 187,) "I have, from time to time, suggested to men of
various religious orders the necessity of some further
improvement, but in vain. They seem to me the bodies of men who
are profiting least by the lights of the age. I regret this
exceedingly," etc. In 1822, he wrote that "to suppress or
secularize half or most of the religious convents of men in
Portugal would be a good work." Thus his zeal for the cause of
truth and the benefit of the church led him, not only in this,
but in other instances, to express opinions which not many would
venture to publish. It is curious to notice his estimate of a
writer to whom but few would accord the same justice. In a letter
written to Mariana in 1830, he says, "You would like to know
something of Fleury. Well, he is the ablest historian the church
has produced; but he told truth sometimes without disguise, and
censured the views and conduct of many persons, who in return
gave him a bad name." As he loved, instead of fearing freedom of
thought, so, too, he boldly expressed his opinions; and with all
the power at his command endeavored to carry out his views. He
was no mere theorist, although he theorized extensively upon two
important subjects. One was upon the practicability of effecting
a union between the Anglican and Catholic churches, and the other
had reference to the formation of a patriarchate for Ireland. For
his action upon both of these questions, arising as they did from
the circumstances of his time, he has been made the object of
adverse, as well as favorable criticism. Of his theological
knowledge, and of the light which his own native genius threw
upon every topic he touched, there can be but one opinion, nor
will there be found any rash enough to doubt the honesty of his
intentions. This is sufficient to exonerate him from all
unbecoming charges in the minds of enlightened men, and it is
only the vicious and ignorant that stoop to the imputation of
evil motives. His view with regard to the union of the churches
appears to have been a doctrinal submission to the Catholic
Church, and a compromise in matters of discipline. The advantages
to be derived from having a patriarch in Ireland, were presented
by Dr. Doyle with his usual argumentative ability; and although
accused of having desired the office for himself, the charge is
an undoubted fabrication. Both of these projects fell through for
want of cooperation; but they show the extent to which his love
of truth, and love of peace, and love of increasing the power of
Christianity led him. Before concluding this notice of only a
small portion of his labors and of the events which attended his
career, we will transcribe the opinion formed of him by the Count
de Montalembert, who, in a tour through Ireland in 1832, visited
Dr. Doyle and Dr. Murray.
"They have inspired me," he writes, "with the greatest
veneration, not only for their piety and other apostolic virtues,
but for their eloquence and elegance of manners. Dr. Doyle is
well known to the Catholic world as one of the most solid pillars
of the true faith, and the three kingdoms will long remember his
appearance at the bar of the House of Lords, where, by his
eloquent exposition of Catholic doctrines, he confounded the
peers of England--the descendants of those men who signed the
great charter, but whose faith they have denied."

Wasted by his continual labors and incessant care for the welfare
of his people, he felt the gradual approach of the last great
combat to which all must ultimately yield. He might well exclaim
with Saint Paul, "I have fought the good fight. I have finished
my course. I have kept the faith, and now there is laid up for me
a crown of glory, which the Lord shall render to me, the just
Judge." "When exhausted nature apprised him that the last sad
struggle was approaching, he called for the viaticum. But
recollecting that his Master had expired on the hard bed of the
cross, and anxious to resemble him even in his end, he ordered
his mourning priests to lift him almost naked from his bed, and
stretch him upon the cold and rigid floor, and there, in
humiliation and penance and prayer, James of Kildare and Leighlin
accepted the last earthly embrace of his God." This was in 1834,
in the forty-eighth year of his age, and in the fifteenth of his

Mr. Fitzpatrick has rendered a valuable service to his country
and religion by writing the life of this eminent man. The next
thing to being a great man is to propose to our people the
example of great and good men, whom they should honor, and whose
memory should inspire those who come after them. Ireland has many
such men whose histories have not yet been written, and whose
lives would serve to raise in the souls of her sons a generous
emulation of their actions. An incident in the life of Dr. Doyle
will show that this was a principle with which he himself was
deeply impressed, and which he very emphatically expressed. A
foreign monk, dressed rather picturesquely, once approached him
with a very meek aspect, and said that he was a member of a
community from the continent just come to Ireland bearing the
relics of a man said to have been "beatified." At the same time
he offered to the bishop a considerable portion of the relics.
The bishop was somewhat ruffled in temper, and replied sternly:
"Sir, we need not the ashes of beatified foreigners while we see
the bones of our martyred forefathers whitening the soil around



           Iona to Erin!

      What Saint Columba Said To The Bird
      Blown Over From Ireland To Iona. [Footnote 21]

    [Footnote 21: This is a very ancient legend of the great
    founder of Iona, and very characteristic of his exalted
    patriotism and loving tenderness for all creatures, in which
    he was an antitype of the seraphic St. Francis.]


  Cling to my breast, my Irish bird,
    Poor storm-tost stranger, sore afraid!
  How sadly is thy beauty blurred--
  The wing whose hue was as the curd,
    Rough as the seagull's pinion made!


  Lay close thy head, my Irish bird.
    Upon this bosom, human still!
  Nor fear the heart that still has stirred
  To every tale of pity heard
    From every shape of earthly ill.


  For you and I are exiles both;
    Rest you, wanderer, rest you here!
  Soon fair winds shall waft you forth
  Back to our own beloved north--
    Would God, I could go with you, dear!


  Were I as you, then would they say,
    Hermits and all in choir who join,
 'Behold two doves upon their way;
  The pilgrims of the air are they,
    Birds from the Liffey or the Boyne!'


  But you will see what I am banned
    No more, for my youth's sins, to see--
  My Derry's oaks in council stand.
  By Roseapenna's silver strand--
    Or by Raphoe your flight may be.



  The shrines of Meath are fair and far,
    White-winged one! not too far for thee--
  Emania, shining like a star,
  (Bright brooch on Erin's breast you are!) [Footnote 22]
    That I am never more to see.

    [Footnote 22: It is said that Macha, the queen, traced out
    the site of the royal rath of Emania, near Armagh, with the
    pin of her golden brooch. _See Mrs. Ferguson's "Ireland
    before the Conquest,"_ for this and other interesting
    Celtic legends.]


  You'll see the homes of holy men
    Far west upon the shoreless main--
  In sheltered vale, on cloudy Ben,
  Where saints still pray, and scribes still pen
    The sacred page, despising gain!


  Above the crofts of virgin saints.
    There pause, my dove, and rest thy wing.
  But tell them not our sad complaints!
  For if they dreamt our spirit faints
    There would be fruitless sorrowing.


  Perch as you pass amid their trees,
    At noon or eve, my travelled dove.
  And blend with voices of their bees
  In croft, or school, or on their knees--
    They'll bind you with their hymns of love!


  Be thou to them, O dove! where'er
    The men or women saints are found.
  My hyssop flying through the air;
  My seven-fold benedictions bear--
    To them, and all on Irish ground.


  Thou wilt return, my Irish bird--
    I, Colum, do foretell it thee.
  Would thou couldst speak as thou hast heard
  To all I love--O happy bird!
    At home in Eri soon to be!



      Magas; or, Long Ago.

    A Tale Of The Early Times.

      Chapter VII.

Are there any souls who can read the gospels as they would a
common history of an heroic being? Whose frames do not thrill at
the sublime words the anointed Saviour uttered? Whose hearts do
not glow with an unearthly warmth at the touching incidents which
mark the divine footsteps? Who see in the miracles only a
temporary relief from natural ailments? Who feel in the
tremendous agony of the passion only the ordinary tide of human
emotion in contemplating suffering? Such as these will not
sympathize with Lotis, as she rose from the cleansing waters with
one sole aspiration in her heart; one firm, unchangeable purpose
in her will; one object of interest for her intellect; one single
love to fill every affection she was conscious of. Long ago she
had sought the truth, the light, the life, the way. She possessed
them now; it remained for her to form herself upon the model, to
think his thoughts, to act his deeds, to live in his sight, and
be crucified in him; and all because she felt that here on earth
it was the only life worth having, the only love worth loving.
The perversion of the world had become to her the necessary
result of its having forsaken God; and because it has forsaken
God, and cannot recognize truth, it will ever persecute good; and
they that live godly in Jesus Christ must necessarily suffer
persecution--the persecution to which a blessing is promised. Day
and night did Lotis meditate on the words of God; nor was it long
ere she desired to bring them into action. After the example of
the Christians of Jerusalem, she had placed her resources at the
feet of the Bishop of Athens, and now she placed her services
under his direction. But there was one thought that haunted her,
and often she uttered one word in his presence; that word was

"And what do you think can be done for Chione, my child?" asked
the good bishop one day.

"I do not know, father, (so let me call you, I beg;) I do not
know; but I understand her struggle now, which I did not when I
sat with her on the ruins; I see what she meant when she could
not give up Magas, or the applause of the world. She dreaded
slavery because she was not free in soul. Would I could win the
interior freedom for her by wearing the exterior chain. Father,
let me beg Chione's freedom, bodily freedom; hers is not a spirit
to be coerced into discipline. Surveillance only exasperates

"I believe it, my child, when it is not of her own choosing.
Remember, however, she obeys Magas."

"Because he flatters her, fosters her pride, and maintains her in
her station; besides, she loves him, and a woman easily obeys
where she loves."

"She has bound herself to follow Christ."

"But she does not feel free to do it. Perhaps, were exterior
freedom granted to her, she might follow what she knows to be
truth. I shall never forget her appearance in the ruins of Tiryns
when first I accosted her. Chione has not lost her faith."


"Faith without works is dead," [Footnote 23] said the bishop;
"for works are the expression of our love, of that divine charity
without which we are nothing. [Footnote 24] Though we speak with
the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, we become
as sounding brass or tinkling cymbals."

    [Footnote 23: James ii. 20.]

    [Footnote 24: I Cor. xiii. I, 2.]

"Chione knows this," said Lotis; "she feels it intensely; it is
this feeling which occasions the struggle which she says is
destroying her."

"Well, she shall have her freedom, my daughter, though I doubt
its effecting a good result. It is scarcely in the redemptive
order. Our Lord cured those only whose souls were turned to him.
[Footnote 25]

    [Footnote 25: "And he did not many mighty works there,
    because of their unbelief." Matt. xiii. 58.]

Men try to penetrate the secrets of matter, and call their
guesses science. The action of mind they observe not, or they
would see that it obeys laws as unfalteringly as the insensate
stone. A soul perfectly united to God is endowed with power that
seems supernatural to those who know not that 'soul' is of divine
origin, and even in its primal attributes towers above matter.
The action of such a soul on one open to its influences is
miraculous, as all action of grace is; but it was once Adam's
privilege by conferred gift at creation; it is now the
Christian's right, purchased for him by Christ. The apostles, as
you know, heal those whom their shadow falls upon, not of their
own power, but by virtue of the Holy Spirit that dwells in them;
but the power of God thus manifests itself only when the
recipient has at least some degree of recipient power, obtained
by grace also. Christ is silent before his unbelieving judges,
works no miracle for Herod; yet he cannot exist without grace
flowing from him; but grace falling on souls who will not receive
it, but hardens them the more. [Footnote 26] This is why an
apostate is ever harder to reconvert than one who has never
received the faith; this is why we are forbidden to cast our
pearls before swine; this is why I tremble for Chione. Remorse
was busy at her heart when you left her. If she listens to the
voice of God thus speaking within her, she may yet be a saint; if
she rejects the proffered voice, I _fear_, I fear the effect
of grace rejected in such a mind as hers; it will demonstrate
itself with no ordinary power."

    [Footnote 26: "And God hardened the heart of Pharao."
    Exodus x. 27.]

"At the words she heard at Ephesus she fainted away," said Lotis.

"Better," answered the bishop, "better had she thrown herself at
the feet of the apostle, and said simply, 'I repent me of my
sin.' Of what service to her was her remorse? It stopped her
eloquence, paralyzed her tongue. She could no longer mystify her
hearers by vain terms of an unintelligible philosophy of which
she held the key in her hand, though she would not use it. From
what you have told me, it was remorse, and not repentance, she

"Oh! that she might be saved, though it were as by fire,"
fervently ejaculated Lotis.

The bishop looked at her face beaming with heavenly charity, and
the spirit of prophecy awoke within him.

"Lotis," said he, "all Christians are more or less sureties for
one another, and must bear each other's burdens, even as our
Master became surety for each one of us, and bore our sins upon
the cross. It is a fearful burden Chione has to endure, more
especially for one of her disposition. 'Twill be, indeed, a
saving as if by fire, when salvation comes to her.
Say, would you be willing to help her bear her burden? If the
flames are kindled, and she shrinks from them, will you pass
through them in her place?"

"To save her? Yes! Indeed I would! Father, I love Chione."

"Then offer yourself to God for her, my daughter, and strengthen
yourself by prayer for the suffering you must look forward to.
Chione will be granted to expiatory love."


      Chapter VIII.

"Now, my Chione, we will go to Athens."

"No, not to Athens, Magas; anywhere rather than to Athens; I beg
of you not to take me to Athens."

"Why, what caprice is this? Where in all the world will you find
yourself likely to be appreciated so well as at Athens? What
audience more intelligent, more refined, more susceptible of
sublime emotions? I love Athens; you know I do, and you may judge
of the depth of my love for you, that, to ensure your freedom, I
have kept from it so long; but now, no one has a claim upon you
save myself; so we will go to Athens."

"I thought you had set your heart on going to Rome."

"That was only when I deemed Athens was out of the question. But
my--my Chione, you are free; we may go anywhere. My estates are
suffering from want of my presence; besides, I will settle some
of the revenues on you. You must come to Athens with me."

It was very unwillingly that Chione acceded; but what could she
do? Was she less a slave now than before? Sometimes she thought
she was more so; for had she gone to the Lady Damaris, resumed
the practice of her religion, which clung to her inner being,
although outwardly she gave no sign of faith, she knew she would
have been not only freed, but placed in a position to render her
independent of Magas. And why did she not do this now--why? Her
fame had preceded her to the city, and she resolved to prove
worthy of the reputation she had acquired. Poetry, art, mythic
types, and Christian dogmas, blended in euphonic union in the
discourses she delivered, while her impassioned verse thrilled
every heart; everywhere she was greeted as the modern Sappho,
everywhere honored as the tenth muse; and at last the
acclamations of her fellow-citizens called her to the very temple
of the muses in which we were first introduced to her, there to
receive the crown of music, eloquence, and poesy. How could she
refuse? How could she renounce the world? ...  The throng was
immense; not only the _élite_ of Athens were there, but
strangers came in crowds to hear the celebrated Leontium. The
small temple had been somewhat injudiciously chosen, since not
one half of the crowding throng could enter. The festival had
been proposed as a private tribute of friendship from the most
exalted citizens of Athens to their adorable muse; but Leontium
(as her public name ran) was no longer a private person; it was
found impossible to distance the crowds; and hastily a platform
was erected outside the building in the sacred grove, that the
public might be accommodated and have a chance of hearing their
favorite sing the glories of Athens.

We will not attempt to describe the preparatory exercises; the
beautiful intertwinings and graceful wreathings of the various
myths represented on that day, when all the energies of the city
seemed exhausted to impart glory to the classical allegories that
were about to disappear from among mankind for ever.
There was an elegance, a chastity about the performance never
witnessed before, and an influence was felt impending that
belonged not to the types before them. To the superior taste of
Magas and Chione some of this atmosphere of exaltation was
doubtless due; yet the audience felt as if something more than
this was around them; as if the divinities themselves were
present, and insisting on receiving the homage that for so many
ages had been presented as their right.

But now it was nearly over. The walls of Thebes had risen to the
lyre of Amphion, while the slow but untiring Hours had followed
to its soft music the glorious chariot of Apollo; and so artfully
was all contrived that the spectators could not discover by what
magic the stones were moved, or the figures representing the
hours supported as they moved on the mists away.

Hermes, instructing Cadmus in the art of letters; Minerva,
introducing the distaff into the household; and Ceres, teaching
man to sow the corn; all these had followed with appropriate
poetry and music, with many others of a similar description. And
then, as if to heighten the effect by contrast, came a hush, a
calm, a silence; the stage was covered with clouds; the incense
rendered every object indistinct; low, melancholy tones uttered
at intervals, kept expectation on the stretch; then suddenly a
blast of trumpets seemed to clear away the mists; and the clouds
receding, disclosed Aurora opening the gates of the morning to
the music of the spheres, who then passed slowly out of sight as
a far more lovely vision broke upon the spectators--Venus
Urania, borne by the graces into the company of the muses,
descending from the skies to greet the votaries who, garlanded
and wreathed, were waiting to receive her in a burst of celestial
song. The illusion was complete; the daughter of Coelus and of
Light was on her first appearance greeted with a tumult of
applause; and as in wavy, measured movements, encircled by the
graces, she floated down to earth, scattering her bright
inspirations in sparks of fire upon the muses who were kindling
into enthusiasm at her approach, the whole assembly caught the
melody as it rose from the inspired sisterhood:

  Beautiful daughter of Coelus and Light,
  Coming in glory to gladden our sight.
  Vision of loveliness! star of the day!
  Grateful and glad is the homage we pay.
  All girt by the graces, thou comest to earth;
  With joy and with music we welcome thy birth.
  Oh! stay, thou sweet goddess, to brighten our life,
  To banish our sorrows, to still every strife.
  O Venus Urania! we call upon thee,
  Inspirer of gladness, of ecstasy!

The singers were the multitude; the sound of the voices of the
muses, or those who personified them, was lost in the thrilling
greeting which that multitude gave to their favorite--Chione.

Dressed in a dazzling robe spangled with gold, crowned with rays
so artificially disposed that they seemed to emit light as she
was descending, Chione came forward as the Venus Urania of the

The throng hushed as she raised her arm to speak; among the
thousands there, scarce a sound was heard; the very breathing was
suppressed, for fear one tone of that eloquent voice should be
unheard. "My friends," she began.

Suddenly a low, piercing wail broke upon the throng, like the
moan of a distressed spirit, so unearthly was the sound. Again it
rang through the echoes, under ground, over head. Chione started,
and the throng was awed.
Then, in the fearful silence, these words were heard. Distinctly
they came forth, though uttered in a wild, unearthly cadence, as
if they were spoken by one of another world:

  Once for silver, now for gold,
  Is the Lord of glory sold!
    Woe, deep woe!
  Judas went to his own place;
  Nor shall time the sin efface.
  He must every joy forego!
    For ever, woe! [Footnote 27]

    [Footnote 27: It is on record that, at the first preaching of
    the Gospel, numerous signs, sounds, and words were uttered in
    the pagan temples, at the times of worship, to the confusion
    of the multitudes therein assembled. I leave the fact as I
    found it, to the construction of my readers, each one for

Every heart was chilled; Chione paled and trembled. Magas sprang
to her relief. "It is but a trick of your own devising; you are
paid back in your own coin. Compose yourself, it is nothing." The
crowd was too dense to allow a search to be made. There was a
long pause, but at length Chione was called upon to proceed. Her
theme was, "The Glory of Athens--of Athens, the Civilizer of the

The tremor which was still slightly apparent in the frame of the
Venus Urania when led forward by Magas, (now habited as Apollo,
that he might consistently bear a part in the scene, and watch
over any demonstration that should again affect the goddess he
worshipped with so intense a devotion,) gave an increased
interest to her appearance; the look of appeal she seemed to cast
over that mighty throng, as if to claim protection from some
invisible enemy of her peace, imparted an additional tenderness
to the sympathies of the audience. Chione regained her courage,
as she inhaled the moral atmosphere that surrounded her; she
forced back the unwelcome shades of thought that had been called
from their tombs, where she intended them to lie buried for ever.
She gazed around. The scene at the back of the stage had been
changed. The citadel of Athens had been introduced, and hovering
above it was Minerva, the tutelary divinity of the place. Chione
was evidently surprised; perhaps again she suspected an
interruption; but Magas whispered, "By my command," and she at
length made a gesture, as if to begin. There was, however, a
marked change in her inspiration; she was no longer the
commanding genius of the temple. It was evident to all that she
was under some irrepressible, some irresistible influence. Magas
looked anxious; his whole soul was bound up in Chione's success.
She was his pride, his glory, his Aspasia, his Sappho. Never yet
had he known her to fail; and he watched her words as if his very
life depended upon them. She commenced:

"Athenians, you have asked me to speak to you of the glory of our
city. Behold it! Wisdom is watching over its citadel. The
glorious Minerva, issuing from the head of the immortal father of
gods and men, presides over the welfare of Athens--has ever
presided over it! This is our crown, this our glory. The history
of this our Athens, is unlike the history of any other city in
the world; for it forms a chain of glory, a long-continued tissue
of renown. Her history is, a web of varied dyes, introducing
characters of every degree of virtue, talent, heroism, or

"Time was, Athenians, that this beautiful land, now covered with
fertile fields and richly ornamented villas; now the splendid
resort of intelligence, philosophy, and science--time was, that
Athens, the enlightened, the refined, the artistic; Athens, whose
works of beauty will supply all time with models; Athens, whose
pathways throughout the whole region round, even to the Piraeus,
are adorned with statues of her illustrious sons--the poets,
painters, warriors, and statesmen she has produced; Athens,
within whose citadel arises the Parthenon, which would itself be
the wonder of the world, were not that wonder exhausted on
beholding the gigantic statue of our tutelary-goddess which it
contains; time was, that Athens was a drear and sandy waste, the
resort of savages who knew not the use of fire--who were clothed
in skins, and lived on roots and acorns. [Footnote 28]
But Minerva looked with complacency on the spot she had selected
for the dwelling-place of her chosen people. She sent Theseus to
Attica, to clear the land from the pirates that infested it; to
enact laws, and teach the uncultured men to submit to righteous
rule. It was first the law of force, though not unmixed; for men
unused to government must be coerced until their powers of mind
expand; until they feel what lawful government can effect; until
they know that lawlessness is not true liberty. But not long was
Athens ruled by one. Athenae, Queen, who loves this citadel, had
other views. Her chosen city was to bear the glorious palm of an
enlightened freedom.

"A deed unparalleled in the annals of nations occurred. Codrus,
her king, inspired by that sublime divinity who hath care of
Athens, devoted himself to destruction, that the favored city of
Minerva might be saved. Codrus died! more sublime in his death
than the loftiest monarch ever was in life. Who does not bow
before the shade of Codrus? Who does not feel that, by his
patriotism, his disinterestedness, his heroism, he laid the
foundation of his country's greatness?

  His death--our life!

"Bear with me; I must pause a moment here."

Music filled up that pause; but music so solemn, so grand, that
the audience felt as if the spirit of the mighty dead were
hovering over them. Chione resumed:

"To so great a hero, it was impossible to find a worthy
successor! 'Man is not fit for irresponsible power. Too commonly
he uses it but to give the reign to his own passions, while he
represses in his subjects the development of those lofty
qualities of soul which distinguish man from the brutes that
scour our plains. No other king ever wielded the sceptre in
Athens; for Minerva intended that a people should be formed, and
not a single individual. She wished a body of men to rise to
greatness, not a crowned monarch to acquire renown by the
extirpation of millions.

"Athenae loved her children, and she gave them a law-giver whose
first act relieved the poor of their burdens; released them from
the oppression of the rich. Solon knew that the poor are the
sinews of a nation; he knew too, that there is a point in which
the crushing power of debt destroys the qualities that form the
man, the free-man so dear to wisdom; and Athens shook off this
oppression beneath his righteous sway. The laws of Solon shall be
honored as long as rectitude itself is honored, because they
recognize that principle of individual development which alone
can form a great people. Particular modes of bringing out this
principle may change, may pass into other modes; but the
principle itself is eternal, it is worthy of Solon, worthy of the
descendant of the immortal Codrus; it was a direct inspiration of
that wisdom which has so unweariedly watched over the formation
of the Athenian people.


"Such a principle was it to which we owe the sages and the heroes
that adorn our annals. What heart does not thrill on hearing the
name of Miltiades, of Themistocles, of Cimon, or Aristides? Who
does not glow with rapture at beholding the works of Phidias, of
Praxiteles, Apelles? Who can study with Anaxagoras, converse with
Socrates, or speculate with Plato and Aristotle, nor feel the
divine inspiration communicated to themselves? Who can read the
annals of Xenophon and Thucydides, without feeling proud that he
himself is a citizen of Athens; and which of us has not wept
tears of ecstatic emotion at beholding a tragedy of Euripides or
of Sophocles? What country in the world could ever boast of such
a galaxy of celebrated names?

"Tell me not that these men were not all of Athenian origin. What
if some few of them first saw the light in some other city than
that of Athens. Not the less to Athens do they owe their genius
and their fame; none the less from her did they receive their
inspiration, their culture, and development. The influence of
Athens is not limited to her own domain. Her great men live for
ever to kindle thoughts of greatness throughout the world. Many
far distant, both in time and space, will, to endless ages, love
to muse with Pericles on the banks of the Ilissus, while he is
planning those exquisite creations which have linked his name
with all that is sublime and beautiful in human art. Many will
rejoice with him as gently he sinks to rest, sustained by the
sublime consciousness that, during the whole of his long career,
he had never caused an Athenian to shed a tear.

"His career was for humanity, and in this he resembled Athens;
for unlike the vulgar glory that crowns the conqueror's arms, the
boast of Athens is that, although so many deeds of prowess attest
the heroic valor of her children, yet never, never did she enter
on an aggressive war for the mere sake of conquest, for the
vain-glorious motive of adding by injustice another territory to
her own. No, Athens has shed her benefits abroad; has made known
to the nations all the virtues of the earth. She has proved
herself capable of great acts, alike in war as in peace. Her
genius is godlike, it is diffusive. The very site Minerva chose
for her citadel betokens this destiny. Athens is compelled by
circumstance to seek by peaceful commerce the corn necessary for
her subsistence. The goddess gave her the honey of Hymettus, the
Pentelic marble, and the silver mines of Laurion, that her
eloquence might be sweet, her courage firm, and her commerce
gainful; but she denied her corn, that corn which is the
nutriment of the body, that, by fetching it from foreign lands,
she might, in doing so, communicate to the world those sublime
ideas which form the nobler nutriment of the soul.

"Thus is it that wisdom is the glory of Athens; it explains the
history of the past; it affords a key to our present position.

"The mighty genius of force now bestrides the nations; it keeps
down the surging emotions of half-savage men; itself, with its
stoical insensibility to beauty, with its gladiatorial
slaughters, betokening that it is hardly yet emerged from
barbarism. Is this constrained calm to effect no purpose in the
decrees of wisdom? Examine, and you will find that the glory of
Athens is still increasing, even under a supposed subjection.
[Footnote 29]

    [Footnote 29:  The Romans, out of reverence to letters, left
    to Athens a nominal freedom a long time after they had
    virtually subjugated her. It was not till the reign of
    Severus that her civilization was crushed. Chione is supposed
    to speak one hundred and fifty years before that period.]


"The nominal dependent refines and civilizes her conqueror. The
wisdom of Athens, which, confined within its own narrow domain,
could but have enlightened the inhabitants of a few cities, is
now spreading over the entire earth; the words of its sages are
instructing our haughty rulers; the myths of our poets are
civilizing Rome. This, then, is the glory of Athens; and such
glory must needs be eternal. Lands may change owners, and
physical force give a momentary, a seeming nobility to a
barbarian; but mind is immortal! the empire of ideas lasts for
ever. Thus is Athens the civilizer of the nations.

"Sons of Athens! heirs of the philosophic ages! children of the
poets! to you I need not explain how the beautiful devices which
surround us are types of a higher knowledge--how many a glorious
idea lies hidden under the name Minerva. The veiled Isis of
Egypt, upon whose statue was inscribed, 'I am all that has been,
all that shall be, and none among mortals has ever yet lifted my
veil,' was, as you know, but another form of our loved Deity.
Wisdom must preside at every institution designed to last. The
precepts of Anaxagoras, the reveries of the divine Plato, alike
instruct us in the eternity of ideas. Truth goes by different
names upon this earth; it is represented by the nations under
different myths, according to the conception men form of it. It
requires a high intellect to contemplate truth in the abstract;
to most minds it is simplified, endowed with power by being
personified; hence our worship. Isis in Egypt, in Athens becomes
Minerva; the veil, if not lifted, is at least rendered more
transparent; and it may be that the time of its lifting is at
hand. Portents of wondrous power are working in men's hearts; the
principle of development evolved in Athens is becoming spread
over the earth. Let us take courage. Athens is still at the head
of civilization; it remains with her children that she so

    "Three words are awakened within my breast, [Footnote 30]
     While dwelling on Athena's story;
   Three words are a key unlocking the rest,
     Illustrating Attica's glory.
   These words proceed from no outward cause,
   Within us they write their immortal laws.

    "Man was created all free, all free,
     Chains seen at his birth were never;
   Believe it, in spite of the enmity
     And folly of men put together.
   I fear not the slave who has broken his chain,
   'Tis the Godlike resuming his own again.

    "And Virtue is more than an empty call.
     It may guidance and practice be.
   Though man may stumble, and totter, and fall,
     He may strive for divinity.
   And what unto reason doth seem unreal.
   Full oft, to the child-like, doth Wisdom reveal.

    "For a God _doth_ exist; and a Holy Will
     Is there still, though the human will palters;
   Over time, over space, the high thought floateth still.
     All glowing with life that ne'er falters;
   While all things move round in unceasing change,
   That spirit breathes peace through the heavenly range.

     "Oh! guard well these words within every breast,
     For on them rests Attica's glory;
   Proclaim and observe them, with increasing zest,
     They're the keys of Athena's story.
   No man can e'er forfeit his inward worth.
   While wisdom within to these words giveth birth."

    [Footnote 30: The German student will here recognize that
    this song is an imitation, or rather a translation adapted to
    the subject of Schiller's "Drei Worte neun' ich Euch,
    inhaltschwer." The infidelity of Chione, like that of modern
    times, does not hesitate to avail itself of truths learned
    from Christianity, when such truths can adorn their unsound
    philosophy; in fact, the truth that is in it, saves their
    theory; error cannot stand of itself.]

Chione ceased. She had not shone as she was wont to do; she felt
conscious that in palliating paganism to please the audience, she
was paltering with her own conscience. When she proposed first to
speak her address, she had intended to give a synopsis of the
philosophy and poetry of Greece, and to avoid mythology; but the
words she had heard had embittered her spirit, rendered it
defiant; and half-angrily, half-sarcastically, had she uttered
the sentiments we have recorded. There was not, however, the
mesmeric sympathy between her and the assembled crowd that was
wont to produce electric bursts of enthusiasm, albeit they agreed
with the sentiments expressed. Her own enthusiasm had been
quelled before commencing; she could not then communicate what
she did not possess. But it had been previously arranged that she
was to be crowned; she had been invited there for that purpose;
therefore the figure representing Minerva ceased to hover in the
air, came forward, and, to very sweet music, placed the crown on
Chione's head.


  Beauty, crowned by Wisdom's hand,
  Reigns triumphant in the land.
    Her scented dower
    Is music linked to poesy,
    In tones of heavenly harmony,
  Attuned to earth's necessity by Eloquence,
      bright power!

The pause that succeeded was filled up with throwing of bouquets
and shouts of congratulation. When a lull came, and Chione was
about to give a parting salute to the spectators, these words
came distinctly to her ear, though in so low a tone that they
were inaudible to any but herself and those close to her:

  Earth's crown of glory is a crown of thorns;
  Such the Saviour's head adorns,
    Who died for thee.
  Crowned with thorns, for thee he bled.
  On the cross his life-blood shed.
    All for thee!

Chione became very pale; she attempted to come forward, but fell
back in the arms of her attendants; she had fainted.


      Translated From The French.

      The Unity Of The Human Race.

This is one of a series of popular discourses given at the
Imperial Asylum of Vincennes, France, by A. de Quatrefages,
member of the Institute, and Professor of Natural Science. After
some preliminary remarks to his audience, he proceeds to the
question, What is man? "It is not difficult to perceive that man
is neither a mineral nor a vegetable, neither a plant nor a
stone. But is he an animal? Not likely, when we reflect upon all
his attributes.

"None of you would like to be compared to those animals who feed
on grass, to the hog who wallows in the mire, nor to the dog, in
whom man has found the qualities of both friend and companion;
nor further, to the horse, though he were as celebrated as the
famous Gladiator.

"Man is not an animal. He is distinguished above the brute
creation by numerous and important attributes. We have only to
consider his intellectual capacity, the power of articulation,
which gives to every people a special language, the capacity to
write, which reproduces language; the aid of the fine arts, to
explain and materialize the conceptions of his imagination. He is
also distinguished above animals by two fundamental characters
which belong solely to him. Man is the only organized and living
being who has the abstract sentiment of both good and evil, the
only being in whom there exists a moral sense, the only one who
believes in a future state, and who recognizes the existence of
beings superior to himself, having influence upon him for good or
evil. It is this two-fold conviction which grasps and holds the
great truths which are called religion.


"At a later period I will return to these two questions of
morality and religion, not as a theologian, but as a naturalist.
At present I limit myself to this fact, that man, however savage
he may be, shows signs of morality and religion that are not
found in any animal. Consequently, man is a being apart,
separated from animals by two great distinctions which are his
own, and also by his incontestable superiority. There the
difference ceases. With regard to his body, man is nothing more
or less than an animal. Apart from some differences of form and
disposition, he is no more than equal to the superior animals
that surround us. If we take for comparison those that assimilate
to our general form, anatomy shows us that our organs are the
same as theirs; we find in them muscle for muscle, nerve for
nerve, that is found in man himself. Physiology, in turn, has
demonstrated that, in the body of man, the organs, the muscles,
the nerves, have the same animal functions.

"This fact is indisputable, taken from a purely scientific and
practical view. We cannot experiment upon man, but it is possible
to do so upon animals. Human physiology employs the means to
enlighten us upon our organic functions. Physicians have carried
to the sick-bed the result of their investigations upon animal
life. Anthropology also, we shall see, has derived useful lessons
from beings who are essentially our inferiors. Anthropology
should descend still lower than animals to enlighten us
thoroughly. Vegetables are not animals any more than animals are
men; but man, animals, and vegetables are linked together in the
same living organization. By this only, they are distinguished
from the minerals, which are neither the one nor the other, and
by certain general facts known to all.

"All organized beings have a limited duration, all are created
small and weak, all grow and become strong; during a part of
their existence, all decrease in energy and vitality, sometimes
also in size, then die. During life, all organized beings have
need of nourishment. Before dying, all produce, either by a seed
or by an egg, (I speak of species, not individuals,) which is
true of the species that seem to come directly from a shoot, a
layer, or a graft; all proceed from a grain, or an egg. Thus, all
these great phenomena, common to all living organized beings,
including man as well as plants, suppose a general law for their
government. Science confirms this conclusion every day, which is
not an invention of reasoning alone, but is regarded as an
_experienced fact_. Further explanations are not necessary
to show the magnificent result.

"How admirable, that man and the smallest insect, that the lord
of the soil and the smallest plant, are attached one to the
other, by the same links, and that the entire living creation
forms together a perfect harmony!

"In this communion, and in certain phenomena of this accordance
with certain laws, equally common, there results one consequence
upon which I would not too strongly insist. Whatever may be the
questions relating to man, that we have to examine whenever these
touch upon any one of the phenomena that are common to all living
organized beings, we must not only investigate animal life, but
also vegetable life, if we would wish to find the truth.


"When one of these questions is proposed, what can we truthfully
urge in reply? We must examine man under the general laws that
govern other living organized beings. If the investigation tends
to make man an exception to these general laws, we shall know it
is false. If you resolve the problem so as to include man in the
general laws, you may be sure that you are scientific and
correct. With these proofs, and these only, I proceed to the
second question of anthropologists. Are there several species of
men, or does there exist but one, comprising several races?

"Some explanations are necessary. Examine the designs before you,
and you will discover the principal varieties exhibited in the
human type. You have there individuals from all parts of the
world; you see that they differ considerably in color, some in
their hair, others in their size, or in their peculiar features.
It behooves us to ascertain if the differences that present
themselves in these human groups are those of _species_, or
if they merely indicate the existence of _races_ belonging
to the same species.

"In order to reply to this question, you must ascertain the true
significance of the words _species_ and _race_. The
result of the discussion depends upon these two words. Unhappily,
they are often confounded and badly defined, and we become
enveloped in mystery when we wish to consider them more closely.
Let us then form a precise idea before entering into otherwise
profitless details.

"None of you certainly confound the horse with the ass; though
the horse may be no larger than the dogs of Newfoundland, or
though the ass should attain the size of an ordinary horse--for
example, the large asses of Poitou. You will immediately say they
are different species. You will say the same if you place a dog
and a wolf side by side.

"We call by the one name of dogs the different types, such as the
spaniel, the greyhound, the lap-dog, the Newfoundland, the King
Charles; and we are right. However, if we were to judge by the
eyes only, and even after more minute observations, there is
between the dogs I have named greater differences of color,
proportion, and size, than between the horse and the ass. The
latter have certainly more similarity between them than the types
of dogs I have named.

"If I should place a black and a white water-spaniel side by
side, you would call them both spaniels, though of a different
color. When we examine vegetables, it is the same thing; a red
and a white rose are equally roses; pears that are sold two for a
penny, are the same species as those sold at twenty cents each.

"Without any doubt you have arrived at the exact conclusion of
the naturalists; like them, you have resolved the questions of
_species_ and _race_, which at first sight seemed, for
the reasons I have given, more or less confused.

"These examples fully prove that popular observation and common
sense are in many things fully as reliable as the investigations
of science. Were such deductions generalized into scientific
language, I feel sure there would be found few if any mistakes.

"These investigations prove that animals and vegetables vary
within certain limits. The dog remains but a dog, whatever may be
his general form, color, or his shape. The pear is but a pear,
whatever may be its flavor or the color of its skin. It is from
these facts that I am led to believe that variations can be
transmitted through generations. The union of two spaniels
produces spaniels, the union of two mastiffs produces mastiffs.
Thus, in a general manner, the result is, that beings of the same
species can cease to resemble each other absolutely; moreover,
take exteriorly different characters, without isolating or
forming different species; as I have said, the _dog remains a
dog_, whatever may be the modifications he presents. These are
precisely the groups formed by individuals which we have spoken
of as the remote primitive types of species that have formed
distinct secondary groups, which naturalists call _races_.

"You will understand, then, what is meant in speaking of the
races of beeves, horses, etc. We have domesticated but one kind
of beeves, which have generated the Breton race, the great beeves
of Uri, of such savage aspect, and also the gentle Durhams. We
have but one kind of domestic horse, and this has given us the
pony, as well as the enormous horses that are seen in the streets
of London, commonly used by the brewers; finally, the several
races of sheep, goats, etc., belong to one and the same species.
I place this assemblage of proof vividly before you to avoid
vagueness in your investigations, which would be attended with
serious mistakes. I will now cite examples from the vegetable
kingdom, which will be as familiar to you as the foregoing.

"Let us take the coffee-tree. Its history is quite interesting.
The coffee-tree was originally from Africa. It has from time
immemorial been cultivated in Abyssinia, on the borders of the
Red Sea. It was not until toward the fifteenth century that the
seed migrated from this sea and penetrated into Arabia, where it
has been cultivated since that epoch. It is from there in
particular that we get the famous Mocha. The use of coffee became
common immediately. From the east it was introduced into Europe
at a later period, and it was at Marseilles that it was used for
the first time in France.

"The first cup of coffee that was drank in Paris, was in the year
1667. A few grains were brought over by a French sailor called
Thevenot. Two years after, Soliman Aga, ambassador of the Porte,
under Louis XIV., gave an entertainment to some friends of the
king, where it was introduced, and the beverage pronounced
delightful. The use of coffee, however, did not become general in
France until the eighteenth century. You see, then, that coffee
has not been very long in use. It was almost a century and a half
before it became general among Europeans.

"During this time Europe became tributary to Arabia for this
luxury. All the coffee that was used in Europe came from Arabia,
and particularly from Mocha. Toward the beginning of the
eighteenth century the Dutch tried to import it to Batavia, one
of their Indian colonies. They succeeded. From Batavia, some
plants were sent to Holland, and planted in heated earth. This
also proved a success.

"One of these plants was carried to Paris in 1710, and was placed
in one of the beds of the Jardin des Plantes. It flourished, and
supplied numberless plants. Toward 1720 or 1725, a French marine
officer named Captain Destiaux, thought that, as Holland had
cultivated coffee in Batavia, it could also be acclimated in the
French colonies in the Gulf of Mexico. At the moment of embarking
for Martinique he took three plants from the Jardin des Plantes,
and carried them with him. The voyage was long and impeded by
head-winds. Water becoming scarce, it became necessary to put the
crew upon short rations.
Captain Destiaux, like the others, had but a small allowance for
each day, and this he shared with his coffee-plants.
Notwithstanding all his care, two of them died in their transit.
One only arrived safe and sound at Martinique. Planted
immediately, it prospered wonderfully, and from it have descended
all the coffee-trees in the Antilles, and in South-America.

"Thirty years after, our western colonies exported millions of
pounds each year. You see that the plant, starting from Africa,
reached the east, the extremity of Asia, then America and the
west. It has consequently made almost the tour of the world. In
this long passage it has changed.

"Laying aside the plant that we are not familiar with, let us
take merely the grain. It is not necessary to be a planter to
distinguish its different qualities and their provinces. No one
will confound the Mocha with the Bourbon, the Rio Janeiro with
the Martinique. Each grain carries in its form, in its
proportions and aroma, its extraction, so to speak.

"From whence came these changes? We cannot certainly explain the
why or the wherefore, and follow rigorously the relation of cause
and effect; but in taking these phenomena together, it is evident
that these modifications result from the differences of
temperature, climate, and cultivation.

"This example, taken from the vegetable kingdom, shows us that by
transporting the same vegetable to different places, and
subjecting it to different culture, _diverse races_ are

"Tea that was transported to South America several years since
presents the same results.

"Now take an example from among the animals. You know that the
turkey is a native of America. Its introduction into Europe is
quite recent.

"In America the turkey is wild; and there, in the condition of
its natural existence, it presents several characteristics which
distinguish it from the domestic bird. The wild turkey is
beautiful. Of a rich brown color, its plumage presents the
reflections of blue, copper, and gold, making it truly a
beautiful ornament. It was on account of its plumage that it was
first brought to France. No one dreamed of eating it, and the
first one that was served upon a table in France, was in the year
1570, and upon the occasion of the nuptials of King Charles IX.

"When found to be such a luxury, it was considered too good to be
merely looked at, and it passed from the court to the farm-yard,
from farm to farm, from east to west, from north to south. At
this present time it is an article of commerce all over France.

"In going from farm to farm, and from country to country, this
bird has sustained different conditions of existence,
nourishment, and temperature, but never a continuation of its
primitive condition that was natural to it in America. The result
is, that it has changed, and at this present time the turkey in
France bears no resemblance to its savage source. In general, it
is smaller, and its rich plumage has undergone a marked change.
Some are yellow, others white, some mixed with black, gray, and
yellow. Almost all the localities devoted to raising the fowl
have caused several new varieties, which have transformed them
into _races_.

"To have thus changed their habits so as to lose resemblance to
their first parents, are our French fowls any the less
descendants of the wild turkeys of America? Are they less the
brothers, or cousins, if you like the term better? Have they
ceased to be of the _same species?_ Certainly not!


"That which is characteristic of the turkey is also true of the
rabbit. The wild rabbit lives around and about us, on our downs,
and in our woods. It resembles our domestic rabbits but little.
Among the latter you will see the large and the small, the
smooth-haired and the silky; the black and the white, the yellow
and the gray, and the mixed. In a word, this species comprises a
great number of different races, all constituting one and the
same kind with the wild races we see around us. From these facts,
which I could multiply, we can deduce an important consequence to
which I call your attention. A pair of rabbits left unmolested in
a field, would, in a few years, people entire France with their
descendants. We have seen how the single coffee-plant, carried by
Captain Destiaux, has propagated all the plants now found in

"The wild turkeys and their domestic descendants, the wild
rabbits and theirs, reduced to captivity, could then be
considered by naturalists as all proving equally their descent
from one primitive pair.

"This is the secret of species. Having always before our eyes
numbers of single groups of animals or vegetables, for one reason
or other we hardly consider them as descendants of one only
primitive pair; we call what we see a _species_; if there
are differences observable among these groups, they are _the
races of this species_.

"Observe that, in my explanations, I have not given for a
certainty the existence of one primitive source for rabbits and
turkeys. I do not affirm the fact, as neither observation nor
experience--the two guides we must follow in science--teaches
anything in this regard. I simply say, all are as though
descended from one only primitive pair.

"In summing up the question of _species_ _and_ race, it
is not difficult to understand nor to believe, when we know the
savage type, and have historical authority which permits us to
attach to this type the groups, more or less different, according
to their domestication. But when we are ignorant of the savage
type, and in want of historical authority, the question becomes
extremely difficult at first, because the differences we find in
one and the other, and above all, in the different groups, could
hardly be considered other than such as characterize different

"Happily, physiology comes then to our relief. We find in this
science one of those grand and beautiful general laws, which
holds and maintains the established order, and which we admire
the more we study it. It is the law of _crossing_, which
governs animals as well as vegetables, and is, consequently,
applicable to man himself.

"We understand by the term _crossing_, all unions effected
between animals belonging to different species or to two
different races. The result of the unions obeying these laws is,
that if the animals of _different species_ unite, in the
majority of cases the union is barren.

"Thus, for example, it has been tried a million of times all over
the world, to effect a union between rabbits and hares. It is
said to have succeeded twice.

"Much doubt is cast upon this operation by the testimony of a man
of undoubted talent, habituated to experiments, who believed
these unions to be possible. Though availing himself of all
possible means of proof, he was not more fortunate than his
predecessors, Buffon and the brothers Geoffrey St. Hilaire. Thus,
the rabbit and the hare, though presenting a great conformity in
appearance, cannot reproduce. Such is the general result of
crossing two different _species_.


"In a few cases, the union between two different species may be
fruitful, but the offspring cannot reproduce. For example, the
union between a horse and an ass. The product of this union is
the mule. All the mules in the world are the descendants of the
ass and the mare. These animals are so numerous in Spain and
South America that they are preferred to horses, on account of
their great strength and powers of endurance. The genet, which is
less desirable because it is not so robust, is the fruit of the
inverse crossing of the horse and the female ass. The genet, no
more than the mule, can reproduce. If one or the other is
desired, of necessity recourse is had to the two _species_.
In extremely rare cases, fecundity remains among some of their
descendants, but it diminishes gradually from the second
generation down to the third, fourth, and fifth. The same result
is shown in the union of the canary bird. I could here accumulate
a crowd of analogous details. Above all, two great general facts
appear that comprehend all, and are the expression of the law;
they are that, notwithstanding the accumulated observations of
years, made from experiments on certain species, not a single
example is known of an intermediate species being obtained by the
_crossing_ of animals belonging to _two different

"This general fact explains how order is maintained in the actual
living creation. Were it otherwise, the animal and vegetable
world would have been filled with intermediate groups, passing
from one to the other insensibly, and in the confusion, it would
be impossible for naturalists to recognize them. The general
conclusion to draw from these precedents is, that infecundity is
_the law of union between animals of different species_.

"Unions are always more fruitful when between two animals of the
same race. Their descendants are as fruitful as the parents and
the grandparents, where pains are taken to preserve the race
pure, and to prevent strange blood from debasing it.

"When, on the contrary, a union is effected between two different
races belonging to the same species, producing a _mongrel
race_, the contrary takes place.

"There is no difficulty in obtaining a mongrel race--the result
of a crossing of races; but the difficulty is when there is a
pure race, and it is desirable to have it maintained, that great
care is needed to prevent strange blood from changing it.

"Races crossed by mongrels--that is to say, by animals of the
same species, but belonging to different races, multiply around
us. There are the dogs in the streets, the cats of the alleys,
the coach-horses; all beasts among whom the race is undecided in
consequence of crossing indiscriminately, their characteristics
becoming confounded.

"Far from endeavoring to obtain cross races, men who are occupied
in raising stock, also bird-fanciers, know with what care they
endeavor to preserve the purity of the races they keep. This is
the general fact, and the result is, _that infecundity is the
law of unions between animals belonging to different races_.

"This is the fundamental distinction between _species_ and
_race_. This distinction ought to be the more known and
considered, as it is borrowed from experience.

"When there are two animals, or two vegetables, of whom we are
uncertain as to whether they are two distinct _species_, we
have but to observe if their union is fruitful; and if this
quality attaches to their descendants, we can then affirm that,
despite the differences that separate them, _they are the races
of the same species_.
If, on the contrary, their offspring diminishes in a remarkable
manner at the end of several generations, we can then, without
hesitation, declare them to belong to _distinct species_. In
citing these examples, I have not overlooked the subject of my
discourse, or the question at its commencement.

"In referring to the designs before our eyes, they show us that
between the human groups the differences are marked enough,
though to all appearance less considerable than they appeared at
first. We do not know the types, or the primitive types, of the
several groups.

"When we meet with one or several men presenting the
characteristics of these types, and we cannot recognize them in
spite of historical explanations, we are led to judge by our
eyes. Without taking man himself into account, we cannot decide
if these several differences that present themselves in the human
family are those of _race_ or of _species_; if man can
be considered as having had but one primitive source only, or if
he should have been derived from several primitive sources.

"I have said before, and repeat again, man is an organized and
living being. Under this head he obeys all the general laws to
which are attached all organized and living beings; he obeys,
consequently, the law of crossing. He must then apply this law to
ascertain _if there is one or several species of men_. Take,
for example, the two types farthest removed--those which seem
more separated than the others by the greatest
differences--namely, the white and the black.

"If these types really constitute _distinct species_, the
union between these species should follow the proof that we have
seen characterize the unions between animals, and vegetables, of
different species. They should be unfruitful in the majority of
cases, or nearly so. Fecundity should disappear at the end of a
short period, and they could not form intermediate families
between the negroes and the whites. If these are only _the
races of one and the same species_, then unions, on the
contrary, should be quite fruitful, and fecundity should be found
among their descendants, and they should form intermediate races.

"These facts are decisive, and admit of no doubt.

"For three centuries the whites, _par excellence_, the
Europeans, have achieved, so to say, the conquest of the world.
They have gone everywhere. Everywhere they have found local races
who have borne them no resemblance. Whenever they have crossed
with them, these unions have been fruitful; more so than with
those indigenous to themselves.

"Man, from the result of the institution of slavery--which
happily has never stained the soil of France--has transported the
negro everywhere; everywhere he has crossed with his slaves, and
everywhere they have formed a population of mulattoes. Wherever
the negro has crossed with local groups or families, there has
arisen an intermediate race, who in character manifest their
two-fold origin. The whites have finally crossed with the
mongrels of all origins, and the result is, that in certain
quarters of the globe--particularly in South America--there is an
inextricable mixture of people, comparable, under the class, to
the dogs in our streets and the cats of our alleys.

"The rapidity with which these mongrel races cross and multiply
is really remarkable. It is scarcely three centuries--hardly
twelve generations--since Europeans penetrated into different
parts of the world.
It is estimated that already the number of mongrels resulting
from the crossing of whites with natives, is a seventieth of the
whole population of the globe. Experience is indisputable, if we
even deny modern science, or at least, wish to make man an
exception to all living and organized beings. We must admit that
all men form but one species, composed of a certain number of
different races; consequently, all men can only be considered as
having descended from one primitive pair.

"We arrive at this conclusion in despite of all kinds of
dogmatical, theological, philosophical, and metaphysical
considerations. Observation and experience alone, applied to the
animal and vegetable kingdoms, in a word, science, conducts us to
the conclusion, _there exists but one species of man._

"This result, I do not fear to say, is of great and serious
importance; for it creates in our minds an idea of the universal
fraternity of science and reason, the only schools that many
persons recognize at this present time.

"I hope that my demonstrations will have convinced you;
meanwhile, I am not ignorant, and you all know, that
anthropologists differ. There are among my contemporaries a
number of men, even of great merit, who believe in the plurality
of the human species. You may possibly come into contact with
them. Listen attentively, then, to the reasons they will urge to
make you see with their eyes. You will find that their reasonings
all tend to prove that there is too great a difference between
the negro and the white for them to be of the same species. In
reply, state that between the black and the white spaniel, the
lap-dog and the mastiff, there exist greater differences than
exist between the European and the African. Yet these animals are
all dogs. They may argue, perhaps, that man, whatever may have
been his characteristics, could not have generated both blacks
and whites. Then ask why the wild turkey, whose origin, and that
of its ancestors, we are acquainted with, and the wild rabbit,
which we find everywhere, could have generated all our domestic

"We cannot, I repeat, explain perfectly the how and the
wherefore; but what we know is, that the fact exists, and we
shall find a general explanation in all states of existence--in
all conditions of people.

"It is not, then, surprising that man presents, in the different
groups, the differences herein depicted; man who trod the earth
long before the turkey and the rabbit; man, who for centuries has
existed upon the surface of the globe, submitting to the most
diverse and opposite conditions of existence, multiplying again
the causes of those modifications by his manners and habits, by
his ways of living, by more or less care in his own preservation;
man, finding himself in more marked and varied conditions than
those sustained by the animals we have quoted. If anything
surprises us, it is that the distinctions are not more

"In turn, ask the polygenists--as those _savans_ are called
who believe in the multiplicity of the human species--how it is
that when the white man locates in any country, from the
antipodes, if you will, or from America or Polynesia--that if he
unites with the natives, who differ the most completely from him,
these unions are fruitful, and that, above all, there remains
traces of this alliance in producing a mongrel race?


"If you press the question more closely, you will find them
denying the truth of species; by so doing, placing themselves in
contradiction with all naturalists, botanists, or zoologists,
without exception; consequently, with all the eminent minds who
have followed in the wake of Buffon, Tournefort, Jussieu, Cuvier,
and Geoffrey St. Hilaire, who made the animal and vegetable
kingdoms their study, without discussion, or dreaming of its
connection with man. In agitating these doctrines, polygenists
place themselves in opposition to the most firmly established
science. You will hear them declare that man, above all, is an
exception; that he is guided by laws peculiar to himself; and
that arguments deduced from the study of animals and plants, are
not applicable to him. Then reply that, in the name of all the
natural sciences, they are certainly in error, and that it is an
impossibility that a living and organized being can escape the
laws of organization and of life, having a body fortified against
the laws that govern inorganic matter; that man, to be living and
organized, obeys, under this title, all general laws, and those
of intersection like all the others. The conclusion that we have
attained is, then, legitimate, and the nature of the arguments
employed to combat them, is a proof the more in its favor.


   Sayings Of The Fathers Of The Desert.

A certain brother was praised in Abbot Antony's presence. He went
to visit him, and tried to see whether he would bear
mortification; and finding that he could not, he said to him:
"Thou art like a house which is fair to the eye on the outside,
but within hath been despoiled by robbers."

St. Synclitica said: "As a treasure which is exposed is quickly
spent, so, also, is every virtue which is made public soon
reduced to nothing. For as wax melteth before the face of the
fire, even so doth the soul waste away with praises, and lose the
firmness of virtue." Again, she said: "As it is impossible that
the seed and shoot should exist at the same time, even so those
who enjoy the glory of this world are unable to bear heavenly

A certain brother said to Abbot Pastor: "What shall I do, for
when I sit in quiet I lose my spirits?" The old man replied,
"Neither despise nor condemn any one, nor cast obloquy upon him,
and God will give thee rest."

Abbot Antony said: "There are persons who wear away their bodies
by fasting; but because they have not discretion, they are far
distant from God."

A certain old man said: "If thou art ailing in body, do not lose
thy spirit; for if the Lord God desireth thee to become sick, who
art thou that thou shouldst be impatient under it? Doth he not
provide for thee in all things? Canst thou live without him? Be
patient, therefore, and beseech him to give what is expedient for
thee, that is, to do whatsoever may be his will, and to sit in
patience, eating thy bread in charity."



      Holy Week In Jerusalem.

The sacred offices of the Catholic Church, wherever celebrated,
are admirably calculated to increase devotion, and render
intelligible the different events of the ecclesiastical year. In
every land the ceremonies of the great week which ends the season
of Lent have deep interest to all the faithful, since they
portray the chief events of redemption. These annual
commemorations of the passion of Christ have, however, an added
solemnity and power in the two great cities of religion, Rome and
Jerusalem. In the first, the vicar of our Lord takes part in the
holy rites; and, in the second, the whole service is more
impressive than elsewhere; for the great events here occurred,
and the remembrance of them is made, year by year, in closest
proximity to the spot where they took place. It is hazarding
little to say, that nowhere on earth does the office for holy
week have the deep solemnity which marks it in Jerusalem, for the
reason just given. While the rubrics of the Missal and Breviary
are followed with great exactness, several things peculiar to the
place have an interest which may render a description of them
worthy of attention.

On the morning of Palm Sunday, 1866, the writer of this sketch
went to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, to be present at the
benediction of the palms by his excellency the Patriarch of
Jerusalem. The palms, noble branches, seven feet in length, fresh
and green, are brought every year from Gaza, a little city about
eighteen miles distant. Tied in bundles of suitable size, they
were placed within the most holy sepulchre, the patriarch being
outside the sacred place until the time for sprinkling them with
holy water and incensing, when he entered for that purpose. The
benediction completed, the distribution of the palms took place,
and the long procession began. Chanting the antiphons, the clergy
and laity went twice around the sepulchre, and once around the
stone of unction, and then passed into the Latin chapel.

The solemn Mass, to be celebrated by the patriarch, was to begin
immediately. The holy sepulchre, being about six feet square, is,
of course, much too small for that purpose, and therefore a
temporary altar of large size was promptly set up in front of the
sacred tomb. While the attendants were preparing and decorating
this, in compliance with an intimation given early in the
morning, I went into the most holy sepulchre, and offered the
Divine Sacrifice--it being the third time I had been privileged
to say Mass in that holiest of places. To me it is one of the
most memorable things in life, that this happiness should, at
such a time, have been mine--that a simple priest could say Mass
in "the new tomb of Joseph, which he had hewn out of the rock,"
while the patriarch was officiating outside the sacred place.

On Wednesday, the office of Tenebrae was said in the church. The
patriarch was present and a large number of priests, friars,
seminarians, and choir-boys, and many of the laity. The service
was very solemn, and the music good. The priests were seated in
front of the holy sepulchre, and the triangular candlestick was
placed at the right hand of the door leading to the tomb.
The chanting of the Lamentations was most impressive; and when
the words, "Jerusalem, Jerusalem, _convertere ad Dominum Deum
tuum!_" were uttered, it seemed that this plaintive entreaty
even now could be addressed with fitness to the city that once
was full of people, but is solitary, and made tributary to her
enemies. There was a wild pathos and deep earnestness in the
chant when the summons to turn to the Lord God was made, as if
the singer knew that to-day there is need for the city to listen
and obey. Jerusalem is in the power of the followers of the false
prophet of Mecca; schismatic Christians outnumber the Catholics;
the Jews know not the Lord their God; and the ways of Sion mourn.
Would that the expostulation could be heard by all, that they
might be perfectly united as a company of brethren, having the
same faith and the same worship!

In the afternoon, the column of the flagellation of Christ was
exposed for an hour, or two, by removing the iron grating from
the front of it. As is well known, a portion of the column is in
Rome, in the church of Saint Praxede. The fragment here is only
about one foot high, and of the same diameter. It is kept in the
Latin chapel, in a recess over an altar named after it, and
cannot be seen during the year, as there is little light in the
chapel, and that comes through a window high above and nearly
over the altar. A popular devotion is to pray in front of the
column, and then touch it with a rod, about twenty inches long,
having a brass ferule or cap on the end; this ferule is kissed on
the place which had touched the stone. It being impossible to
reach the pillar by the hand through the grating, this method has
been contrived to satisfy the devotion of those who are anxious
to salute with reverence all the objects and places connected
with the passion of our Lord. On Thursday, at five o'clock, we
went down to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, as the office was
to begin early. We waited nearly an hour, in a dismal morning,
until it pleased the Turkish door-keeper to come and unlock the
portals. While standing here, among other subjects for
consideration, was the evident fact that Christians desiring to
celebrate the divine office, in the holiest week of the year, and
in the most sacred place on earth, were compelled to delay the
fulfilment of their wishes until permission had been given by a
Mohammedan. When we were admitted, the services were long,
occupying five and a half hours. The holy oils were consecrated.
At the end a procession was formed, and the blessed sacrament was
carried twice around the sepulchre, and once around the stone of
unction, and then was placed in a repository which stood in the
tomb where our Lord had lain centuries ago.

At one o'clock, the Mandatum, or ceremony of washing the feet of
the pilgrims, was performed by his excellency the patriarch in
front of the most holy sepulchre. He gave to each of the pilgrims
a wooden cross, about seven inches long, roughly made, and having
spaces under bits of pearl for relics from the stations of the
Via Dolorosa. Of the many objects of interest brought home from
the Holy Land, there is scarcely any one valued more than this,
because of the time, place, and occasion when it was received.

The office of the Tenebrae began at three o'clock, as on the day
before. Nothing can surpass in solemnity and deep impressiveness
the chantings of the Lamentations in this place.
The profound desolation of the soul of the prophet as he uttered
the sad words is fully expressed and realized; and the
remembrance of the calamities which have so frequently befallen
Jerusalem, and even now are her portion, gives bitterness to the
insulting demand, "Is this the city of perfect beauty, the joy of
all the earth?"

On Good Friday the patriarch officiated again in the Church of
the Holy Sepulchre. The passion was sung on Calvary by three
chanters, one reciting the narrative by Saint John, another the
words of our Lord, while the third sung the remainder. The voice
of the priest who chanted the words of Jesus was gentle and sad,
and so like what we may imagine to have been that of our Lord, as
to become painful and oppressive. When the ejaculation,
_consummatum est_, had been made, the first chanter went to
the place where the cross had been set up on which Jesus died,
and kneeling there, in a low voice uttered the words, _et
inclinato capite, tradidit spiritum_.

The prayers were chanted in front of the altar of the
crucifixion, which belongs to the Catholics, and is at the place
properly called of the crucifixion, as being that where our Lord
was nailed to the cross; it is to the right, and about twelve
feet from the spot where the cross was set up. The unveiling of
the cross, at the chant, "_Ecce lignum crucis_," was done
here also; and, when the crucifix was laid on the pavement in
front of the altar, it covered the stone which marks the locality
where our Lord was fastened to the tree. The veneration of the
cross at such a time and place was deeply impressive. After the
patriarch, the priests, monks, and laity, having put off their
shoes, came in their order, and kissed the feet of the image of
the Redeemer.

Wishing to spend as much of Good Friday on Calvary as was
possible, I returned to the church in the afternoon, and sat for
a long time on the floor, leaning against the large square
pillar, within ten feet of the spot where the great oblation was
made. While there, I meditated and prayed as well as was possible
under the circumstances. For many years the Catholics have had
exclusive possession of the church during the last three days of
holy week; and accordingly, when the faithful had been admitted,
the doors were locked, and the sacred offices performed in peace,
free from the annoyance of the crowd which generally fills the
edifice. Today, however, on returning, I found the doors open,
and every one allowed free access. Many who were not Catholics
were now present, and among them were five or six English
travellers who were out sight-seeing. Accompanied by their
dragoman or interpreter, they came on Calvary, and looked around
with idle curiosity. One of them, had he been alone, would
probably have knelt down and prayed; but, being with his friends,
he only bent one knee, and bowed his head a moment at the place
where the cross had been set up. The others of the party,
evidently, did not believe this to be the spot of the
crucifixion. They were more attracted by the gold, silver, and
diamonds on the image of the Blessed Virgin, on the little altar
of the Dolors, than by anything else, and for some time admired
the brilliancy of these as a candle was held near, and talked of
them as the most interesting objects. One glance at the place
where the Lord died was enough for them; and when they went away,
it was a relief to find the chapel again occupied by those who
came to worship. People who have no faith should not visit the
Holy Land.
If they do, they derive little benefit themselves, and give great
disedification to Christians of every name.

It was now toward the close of the day. Some persons, chiefly
Greeks, were praying on Calvary, when a Turkish officer came up,
and made signs for them to depart. Unwilling to do so, they
remained for some time, when he summoned several soldiers who,
with muskets, came up to enforce obedience to his commands. They
walked slowly around the chapel, close to the wall; and then the
people, seeing that they must go, quietly arose and descended. I
have little doubt that the church was cleared in order to prepare
for the solemn procession in the evening. Although the soldiers
behaved with as much decorum as possible, it was a sad sight for
Christians to find themselves driven from Calvary on Good Friday
by Turks, and it was the bitterest thing experienced in

There is always a company of soldiers on duty when any service of
unusual interest takes place in the church. They are there by
request of the French Consul, who is the representative of the
European protector of the Holy Land, and are designed to preserve
order and add to the display. Although the church covers a large
area of ground, there are no spaces of great extent; and thus the
presence of men to keep order is necessary. It is recorded with
pleasure that, during a residence of two months in the holy city,
I saw no act of incivility, nor even a rude look, on the part of
the soldiers. The Greeks and Armenians, not to be excelled by
Catholics, ask for the soldiers on occasion of their solemnities;
and thus, the court of the church, and the edifice itself, are
not unfrequently occupied by the military.

In the evening, the patriarch and clergy, with a crowd of laity,
assemble in the church for the great procession which is made but
on this day. The sacred building was filled to its utmost
capacity; but, owing to the perfect arrangements made, the long
service was gone through without the least irregularity or
embarrassment. There were seven sermons on the passion, in as
many different languages, by priests from the nations whose
vernacular they spoke. The office began in the Latin chapel, and
the first sermon, delivered with much fervor and pathos, was in
Italian. When this had been concluded, the procession was formed.
As it moved from one station to the next, verses of the Miserere
were sung. One of the Franciscan brothers, carrying a large
crucifix, led the procession, an acolyte being on either side of
him. At the place of the division of the garments of Christ, the
sermon was in Greek--at that of the mocking, in another Eastern
language. When we had climbed the stairs of Calvary, and were at
the place of crucifixion, the cross was laid on the ground, while
the sermon in German was preached. Then the crucifix was taken
from this place, where our Lord was once nailed to the wood, and
carried to that where Christ died. The sermon at this place was
in French, and was preached by the leader of the French caravan
of pilgrims, a venerable ecclesiastic. When the discourse was
finished, several priests came to take the body down from the
cross. The crown of thorns was first removed, very slowly, and
with great reverence. The nails were then tenderly drawn from the
hands; and, as each was removed, the arm of the figure, having
joints at the shoulders, was brought down to the side of the
body. The feet were, in like manner, disengaged from the nail; a
sheet passed under the arms, and the body lowered to the altar,
and laid on fine linen.
Holding the corners of this cloth, four priests slowly carried
the figure down the stairs to the stone of unction, where the
patriarch strewed myrrh over it, and sprinkled rose-water. The
sermon was now preached in Arabic by the Franciscan curate of the
Church of the Nativity, at Bethlehem, and was delivered in a most
energetic manner. Of the seven sermons preached, it was probably
the one understood by the largest number of those present.
Finally, the body was carried to the most holy sepulchre, and
laid in the same place where once reposed the Lamb of God, who
taketh away the sins of the world. Here the sermon was in
Spanish, in compliment to that nation of Catholic renown; and,
when it had been finished, the procession went to the Latin
chapel, whence it had started, and the service of the day was

It will be readily understood that the ceremony of taking down
from the cross, and carrying the image of our Lord to the tomb,
was intended to be a representation of the manner in which the
deposition took place on the day of the earth's redemption. It
was a most powerful sermon, reaching the heart through the sight.
By it we were carried back eighteen hundred years. Standing on
Calvary, we were looking on him whose arms were stretched out on
the cross, as if, in his infinite love, he would embrace all
mankind. We saw him dying that we might live, and dead that we
might be ransomed from the grave. No word was spoken, as good
Father Jucundino came with pincers to remove the crown of thorns,
which he did in such a devout manner, as to make us feel that we
were witnessing the great transaction itself. The power and
impressiveness of the whole ceremony were such as to render the
bystanders awestruck and faint. A scene like this it is
impossible to forget, and neither pencil nor words could produce
a similar result.

On Holy Saturday I prayed a long time in the sepulchre, where our
Lord had lain, as on this day. To be on Calvary on Good Friday,
and in the Tomb on Easter eve, had been the desire of my heart.
With the realization of such a wish, any one should be content;
for he has a privilege granted to but few whose homes are distant
from the Holy Land. In the afternoon, the daily procession was
made with solemnity, the patriarch and many priests and laymen
being present. The pilgrims from Europe were also in the train.

Easter-day was the last of my sojourn in the holy city. Many
priests wished to say Mass in the holy sepulchre, some of whom
had not yet had that privilege. I said Mass on Calvary, for the
last time, that day. During the day the shrines were visited, and
the tomb was now indeed the place of the resurrection.
"_Surrexit, non est hic._" Yes! the grave is empty, and
death hath no more power over him who was once here but is risen
and gone. We see the place where the Lord lay. His day of victory
has come, and the triumph over death and hell is complete. The
tears of the Christian are dried, and the joy of the Paschal time



          Nellie Netterville;
      Or, One Of The Transplanted.

      Chapter I.

The stream which divides the county of Dublin from that of Meath
runs part of its course through a pretty, rock-strewn,
furze-blossoming valley, crowned at its western end by the ruins
of a castle, which, in the days of Cromwell, belonged to one of
the great families of the Pale--the English-Irish, as they were
usually called, in order to distinguish them from the Celtic
race, in whose land they had cast their fortunes.

A narrow, winding path leads from the castle to the stream below,
and down this there came, one cold January morning, in the year
of the great Irish "transplantation," a young girl, wrapt in a
hooded mantle of dark cloth, which, strong as it was, seemed
barely sufficient to defend her from the heavy night fogs still
rolling through the valley, hanging rock and bush and
castle-turret in a fantastic drapery of clouds, and then falling
back upon the earth in a mist as persistent, and quite as
drenching, as an actual down-pour of rain could possibly have
proved. Following the course of the zigzag stream, as,
half-hidden in furze and bramble, it made its way eastward to the
sea, a short ten minutes' walk brought her to a low hut, (it
could hardly be called a house,) built against a jutting rock,
which formed, in all probability, the back wall of the tenement.
Here she paused, and after tapping lightly on the door, as a
signal to its inmates, she turned, and throwing back the hood
which had hitherto concealed her features, gazed sadly up and
down the valley. In spite of the fog-mists and the cold, the spot
was indeed lovely enough in itself to deserve an admiring glance,
even from one already familiar with its beauty; but in those dark
eyes, heavy, as it seemed, with unshed tears, there was far less
of admiration than of the longing, wistful gaze of one who felt
she was looking her last upon a scene she loved, and was trying,
therefore, to imprint upon her memory even the minutest of its
features. For a moment she suffered her eyes to wander thus, from
the clear, bright stream flowing rapidly at her feet to the
double line of fantastic, irregularly cut rocks which, crowned
with patches of gorse and fern, shut out the valley from the
world beyond as completely as if it had been meant to form a
separate, kingdom in itself; and then at last, slowly, and as if
by a strong and painful effort of the will, she glanced toward
the spot where the castle stood, with its tall, square towers cut
in sharp and strong relief against the gloomy background of the
sky. A "firm and fearless-looking keep" it was, as the habitation
of one who, come of an invading race, had to hold his own against
all in-comers, had need to be; but while it rose boldly from a
shoulder of out-jutting rock, like the guardian fortress of the
glen, the little village which lay nestled at its foot, the mill
which turned merrily to the music of its bright stream, the
smooth terraces and dark woods immediately around it, the rich
grazing lands, with their herds of cattle, which stretched far
away as the eye could reach beyond, all seemed to indicate that
its owner had been so long settled on the spot as to have learned
at last to look upon it rather as his rightful inheritance than
as a gift of conquest.
Castled keep and merry mill, trees and cattle and cultivated
fields, the girl seemed to take all in, in that long, mournful
gaze which she cast upon them; but the thoughts and regrets which
they forced upon her, growing in bitterness as she dwelt upon
them, became at last too strong for calm endurance, and throwing
herself down upon her knees upon the cold, damp earth, she
covered her face with both her hands, and burst into a passionate
fit of weeping. Her sobs must have roused up the inmates of the
hut; for almost immediately afterward the door was cautiously
unclosed, and an ancient dame, with a large colored handkerchief
covering her gray hairs, and tied under her chin, even as her
descendants wear it to this hour, peeped out, with an evident
resolve to see as much and be as little seen as possible in
return, by the person who had, at that undue hour, disturbed her
quiet slumbers. The moment, however, she discovered who it was
that was weeping there, all thoughts of selfish fear seemed to
vanish from her mind, and with a wild cry, in which love and
grief and sympathy were mingled, as only an Irish cry can mix
them, she flung her strong, bony arms around the girl, and
exclaimed in Irish, a language with which--we may as well, once
for all remark--the proud lords of the Pale were quite
conversant, using it not only as a medium of communication with
their Irish dependents, but by preference to English, in their
familiar intercourse with each other. For this reason, while we
endeavor to give the old lady's conversation verbatim, as far as
idiom and ideas are concerned, we have ventured to omit all the
mispronunciations and bad grammarisms which, whether on the stage
or in a novel, are rightly or wrongly considered to be the one
thing needed toward the true delineation of the Irish character,
whatever the rank or education of the individual thus put on the
scene may happen to be.

"O my darling, my darling!" cried the old woman, almost lifting
the girl by main force from the ground; "my heart's blood,
a-cushla machree! what are you doing down there upon the damp
grass, (sure it will be the death of you, it will,) with the
morning fog wrapping round you like a curtain? Is there anything
wrong up there at the castle? or what is it all, at all, that
brings you down here before the sun has had time to say
'Good-morrow' to the tree-tops?"

"O Grannie, Grannie!" sobbed the girl, "have you not heard? do
you not know already? It was to say good-by--I could not go
without it. Grannie! I never shall see you again--perhaps

Pity, and love, and sympathy, all beaming a moment before upon
the face of the old hag, changed as instantaneously as if by
magic, into an expression of wild hatred, worthy the features of
a conquered savage.

"It is true, then!" she cried; "it is true what I heard last
night! what I heard--but wouldn't believe, Miss Nellie--if you
were not here to the fore to say it to me yourself! It is true
that they are for robbing the old master of his own; and that
them murdering Cromwellians--my black curse on every mother's son
of them--"

But before she could bring her denunciation to its due
conclusion, the girl had put her hand across her mouth, and, with
terror written on every feature of her face, exclaimed:


"Hush, Grannie, hush? For Christ and his sweet Mother's sake,
keep quiet! Remember such words have cost many an honest man his
life ere now, and God alone can tell who may or may not be within
hearing at this moment."

She caught the old woman by the arm as she spoke, dragging rather
than leading her into the interior of the cottage. Once there,
however, and with the door carefully closed behind her, she made
no scruple of yielding to the anguish which old Grannie's
lamentations had rather sharpened than allayed, and sitting down
upon a low settle, suffered her tears to flow in silence. Grannie
squatted herself down on the ground at her feet, and swaying her
body backward and forward after the fashion of her people, broke
out once more into vociferous lamentations over the fallen
fortunes of her darling.

"Ochone! ochone! that the young May morning of my darling's life
(which ought to be as bright as God's dear skies above us) should
be clouded over this way like a black November's! Woe is me! woe
is me! that I should have lived to see the day when the old stock
is to be rooted out as if it was a worthless weed for the sake of
a set of beggarly rapscallions, who have only come to Ireland,
may be, because their own land (my heavy curse on it, for the
heavy hand it has ever and always laid on us!) wasn't big enough
to hold their wickedness."

It was in perfect unconsciousness and good faith that old Grannie
thus spoke of Nellie and her family as of the old stock of the
country--a favorite expression to this day among people of her
class in Ireland.

The English descendants of Ireland's first invaders had, in fact,
as years rolled by, and even while proudly asserting their own
claims as Englishmen, so thoroughly identified themselves both by
intermarriages and the adoption of language, dress, and manners
with the Celtic natives of the soil that the latter, ever ready,
too ready for their own interest perhaps, to be won by kindness,
had ended by transferring to them the clannish feeling once given
to their own rulers, and fought in the days we speak of under the
standard of a De Burgh or a Fitzgerald as heartily and bitterly
against Cromwell's soldiers as if an O'Neil or a MacMurrough had
led them to the combat. To Nellie Netterville, therefore, the
sympathy and indignation of old Grannie seemed quite as much a
matter of course as if the blue blood coursing through her veins
had been derived from a Celtic chieftain instead of from an old
Norman baron of the days of King Henry. Nellie was, moreover,
connected with the old woman by a tie which in those days was as
strong, and even stronger, than that of race; for the English of
the Pale had adopted in its most comprehensive sense the Irish
system of fosterage, and Grannie having acted as foster-mother to
Nellie's father, was, to all intents and purposes, as devoted to
the person of his daughter as if she had been in very deed a
grandchild of her own.

But natural as such sympathy might have seemed, and soothing as
no doubt it was to her wounded feelings, it was yet clothed in
such dangerous language that it had an effect upon Nellie the
very opposite of that which, under any other circumstances, it
might have been expected to produce. It recalled her to the
necessity of self-possession, and conscious that she must command
her own feelings if she hoped to control those of her
warm-hearted dependent, she deliberately wiped the tears from her
eyes, and rose from the settle on which she had flung herself
only a few minutes before, in an uncontrolled agony of grief.
When she felt that she had thoroughly mastered her own emotion,
she drew old Grannie toward her, made her sit down on the stool
she herself had just vacated, and kneeling down beside her, said
in a tone of command which contrasted, oddly yet prettily enough,
with the child-like attitude assumed for the purpose of giving

"You must not say such things. Grannie. I forbid it! Now and for
ever I forbid it! You must not say such things. They can neither
help us nor save us sorrow, and they might cost your life, old
woman, if any evil-designing person heard them."

"My life! my life!" cried old Grannie passionately. "And tell me,
acushla, what is the value of my life to me, if all that made it
pleasant to my heart is to be taken from me? Haven't I seen your
father, whom I nursed at this breast until (God pardon me!) I
loved him as well or better than them that were sent to me for my
own portion? haven't I seen him brought back here for a bloody
burial in the very flower of his days? and didn't I lead the
keening over him at the self-same moment that I knew my own poor
boy was laying stiff and stark on the battle-field, where he had
fallen (as well became him) in the defence of his own master? And
now you come and tell me that you--you who are all that is left
me in the wide world; you who have been the very pulse of my
heart ever since you were in the cradle--that you and the old
lord are to be driven out of your own kingdom, and sent, God only
knows where, into banishment--(him an old man of seventy, and you
a slip of a girl that was only yesterday, so to speak, in your
nurse's arms)--and you would have me keep quiet, would you? You'd
have me belie the thought of my heart with a smiling face? and
all for the sake of a little longer life, forsooth! Troth,
a-lannah, I have had a good taste of that same life already, and
it's not so sweet I found it, that I would go as far as the river
to fetch another sup of it. Not so sweet--not so sweet," moaned
the old woman, rocking herself backward and forward in time to
the inflection of her voice, "not so sweet for the lone widow
woman, with barely a roof above her head, and not a chick or
child (when you are out of it) for comfort or for coaxing!"

Grannie had poured forth this harangue with all the eloquent
volubility of her Irish heart and tongue, and though Nellie had
made more than one effort for the purpose, she had hitherto found
it quite impossible to check her. Want of breath, however,
silenced her at last, and then her foster-child took advantage of
the lull in the storm to say:

"Dear old Grannie, do not talk so sadly. I will love and think of
you every day, even in that far-off west to which we are exiled.
And I forgot to say, moreover, that my dear mother is to remain
here for some months longer, and will be ready (as she ever is)
to give help and comfort to all that need it, and to you, of
course, dear Grannie, more than to all the rest--you whom she
looks, upon almost as the mother of her dead husband."

"Ready to give help? Ay, that in troth she is," quoth Grannie,
"God bless her for a sweet and gentle soul, that never did aught
but what was good and kind to any one ever since she came among
us, and that will be eighteen years come Christmas twelvemonth.
Ochone! but them were merry times, a-lannah! long before you were
born or thought of.
God pity you that you have burst into blossom in such weary days
as these are!"

"Merry times? I suppose they were," said Nellie good-naturedly,
trying to lead poor Grannie's thoughts back to the good old times
when she was young and happy. "Tell me about it now, dear
Grannie, (my mother's coming home, I mean,) that I may amuse
myself by thinking it all over again, when I am far away in the
lone west, and no good old Grannie to go and have a gossip with
when I am tired of my own company."

"Why, you see, Miss Nellie, and you mustn't be offended if I say
it," said Grannie, eagerly seizing on this new turn given to her
ideas; "we weren't too well pleased at first to hear that the
young master was to be wedded in foreign parts, and some of us
were even bold enough to ask if there weren't girls fair enough,
ay, and good enough too, for that matter, for him in Ireland,
that he must needs bring a Saxon to reign over us! However, when
the old lord up yonder at the castle, came down and told us how
she had sent him word, that for all she had the misfortune to be
English born, she meant, once she was married in Ireland, to be
more Irish than the Irish themselves, then, I promise you, every
vein in our hearts warmed toward her; and on the day of her
coming home, there wasn't, if you'll believe me, a man, woman, or
child, within ten miles of Netterville, who didn't go out to meet
her, until, what with the shouting and the hustling, she began to
think, (the creature,) as she has often told me since, that it
was going to massacre her, may be, that we were; for sure, until
the day she first saw the young master, it was nothing but tales
upon tales she had heard of how the wild Irish were worse than
the savages themselves, and how murder and robbery were as common
and as little thought of with us as daisies in the springtime.
Any way, if she thought that for a moment, she didn't think it
long; for when she faced round upon us at the castle-gates,
standing between her husband and her father-in-law, (the old lord
himself,) we gave her a cheer that might have been heard from
this to Tredagh, if the wind had set that way; and though she
didn't then understand the '_Cead-mille-failthe_ to your
ladyship!' that we were shouting in our Irish, she was cute
enough, at all events, to guess by our eyes and faces what our
tongues were saying. And that wasn't all," continued Grannie,
growing more and more garrulous as she warmed to her theme; "that
wasn't all neither; for when the people were so tired they could
shout no more, and quiet was restored, she whispered something to
the young master; and what do you think he did, my dear, but led
her right down to the place where me and my son (his own
foster-brother, that's gone, God rest him!) were standing in the
crowd, and she put out her pretty white hand and said, (it was
the first and last time that ever I liked the sound of the
English,) 'It is you, then, that was my husband's foster-mother,
isn't it?' And says I, in her own tongue, for I had picked up
English enough at the castle for that, 'Please your ladyship, I
am, and this is the boy,' says I, pulling my own boy forward--for
he was shy like, and had stepped a little backward when she came
near--'this is the boy that slept with Master Gerald' (that was
the master, you know, honey) 'on my breast.'"


"'Well, then,' said she, giving one hand to me and the other to
my boy, 'remember it is with my foster-brother I mean to lead out
the dancing to-night;' and troth, my pet, she was as good as her
word, and not a soul would she dance with, for all the fine lords
and gentlemen who had come to the wedding, until she had footed
it for a good half-hour at least with my Andie, Ah! them were
times indeed, my jewel," the old crone querulously wound up her
chronicle by saying. "And to think that I should have lived to
see the day when the young master's father and the master's child
are to be hunted out of their own by a Cromwellian upstart with
his 'buddagh Sassenachs,' (Saxon clowns,) like so many
bloodhounds at his heels, to ride over us roughshod."

So far the young girl had "seriously inclined her ear" to listen,
partly to soothe old Grannie's grief by suffering it to flow
over, and partly, perhaps, because her own mind, exhausted by
present sufferings, found some unconscious relief in letting
itself be carried back to those bright days when the sun of
worldly prosperity still lighted up her home. The instant,
however, that the old woman began, with all the ferocity of a
half-tamed nature, to pour out denunciations on the foes who had
wrought her ruin, she checked the dangerous indulgence of her
feelings by saying:

"Hush, dear Grannie, and listen to me. My mother is to stay here
until May, (so much grace they have seen fit to do us,) in order
that she may collect our stock and gather such of our people
together as may choose to follow us into exile."

"Then, may be, she'll take me," cried old Grannie suddenly, her
withered face lightening up into an expression of hope and joy
that was touching to behold. "May be she'll take me, a-lannah!"

Nellie Netterville eyed Grannie wistfully. Nothing, in fact,
would she have better liked than to have taken that old relic of
happier days with her to her exile; but old, decrepid, bowed down
by grief as well as years, as Grannie was, it would have been
folly, even more than cruelty, to have suffered her to offer
herself for Connaught transplantation. It would have been,
however, but a thankless office to have explained this in as many
words; so Nellie only said: "When the time comes, dear old woman,
when the time comes, it will be soon enough to talk about it
then--that is to say, if you are still able and willing for the

"Willing enough at all events, God knows," said Grannie
earnestly. "But why not go at once with you, my darling? The
mistress _is the mistress_ surely; but blood is thicker than
water, and aren't you the child of the man that I suckled on this
bosom? Why not go at once with you?"

"I think it is too late in the year for you--too cold--too
wretched; and besides, we are only to take one servant with us,
and of course it must be a man," said Nellie, not even feeling a
temptation to smile at the blind zeal which prompted Grannie to
offer herself, with her sixty years and her rheumatic limbs, to
the unprofitable post of bower-maiden in the wilderness. "It
would not do to alter our arrangements now," she continued
gently; "but when spring comes, we will see what can be done; and
in the mean time, you must go as often as you can to the castle,
to cheer my dear mother with a little chat. Promise me that you
will, dear Grannie, for she will be sad enough and lonely enough,
I promise you, this poor mother, and nothing will help her so
much in her desolation as to talk with you of those dear absent
ones, who well she knows are almost as precious to you as they
can be to herself. And now I must begone--I must indeed!
I could not go in peace without seeing you once more, and so I
stole out while all the rest of the world were sleeping; but now
the sun is high in the heavens, and they will be looking for me
at the castle. Good-by, dear Grannie, good-by!"

Sobbing as if her heart would break, Nellie flung her arms round
the old woman's neck; but Grannie, with a wild cry of mingled
grief and love, slipt through her embraces and flung herself at
her feet. Nellie raised her gently, placed her once more upon the
settle, and not daring to trust herself to another word, walked
straight out of the cottage, and closed the door behind her.

    Chapter II.

The sun had by this time nearly penetrated through the heavy fog,
which had hung since early dawn like a vail over the valley; and
just as Nellie reached the foot of the path leading straight up
to the castle, it fairly broke through every obstacle, and cast a
gleam of wintry sunshine on her face. That face, once seen, was
not one easily to be forgotten. The features were almost, and yet
not quite, classic in their beauty, gaining in expression what
they lost in regularity; and the frequent mingling, by
intermarriages, of Celtic blood with that of her old Norman race,
had given Nellie that most especial characteristic of Irish
beauty--hair black and glossy as the raven's wing, with eyes blue
as the dark, double violet, and looking even bluer and darker
than they were by nature through the abundance of the long,
silken lashes, the same color as her hair, which fringed them.
She carried her small, beautifully-formed head with the grace and
spirit of a young antelope, and there was something of firmness
even in the elastic lightness of her movements, which gave an
idea of energy and decision not naturally to be looked for in one
so young and girlish, both as to form and feature. Her
tight-fitting robe of dark and strong material, though evidently
merely adopted for the convenience of travelling, rather set off
than detracted from the beauty of her form; and over it hung that
long, loose mantle of blue cloth which seems, time out of mind,
to have been a favorite garment with the Irish. It was fastened
at the throat by a brooch of gold, curious and valuable even then
for its evident antiquity; and with its broad, graceful folds
falling to her feet, and its hood drawn forward over her head,
and throwing her sweet, sad face somewhat into shadow, gave her
at that moment, as the sun shone down upon her, the very look and
expression of a Mater Dolorosa.

Ten minutes' rapid walking up a path, which looked more like an
irregular staircase cut through rock and turf-mould than a way
worn gradually by the pressure of men's feet, brought her to the
platform upon which the castle stood.

Moated and circumvallated toward the south and west, which were
easy of access from the flat lands beyond, Netterville was
comparatively defenceless on the side from whence Nellie now
approached it; its builders and inhabitants having evidently
considered the deep stream and valley which lay beneath as a
sufficient protection against their enemies.

The great gate stood looking eastward, and Nellie could see from
the spot where she halted that all the preparations for her
approaching journey were already almost completed. A couple of
sorry-looking nags, (garrans, the Irish would have called them,)
one with a pillion firmly fixed behind the saddle, were being led
slowly up and down in readiness for their riders.
Little sorrowful groups of the Irish dependents of the family
stood here and there upon the terraces, waiting (faithful to the
last as they ever were in those days) to give one parting glance
and one sorrowful, long farewell to their deposed chieftain and
his heiress; and a little further off, like hawks hovering around
their prey, might be seen a band of those iron-handed,
iron-hearted men in whose favor the transplantation of the
present owners of the soil had been decreed, and who had been set
there, half to watch and half to enforce departure, should
anything like evasion or resistance be attempted. Something very
like an angry frown clouded Nellie's brow as she caught sight of
these men for whose benefit she was being robbed of her
inheritance; but, unwilling to indulge such evil feelings, she
suffered her gaze to pass quietly beyond them until it rested
once more on the streamlet and valley as they stretched eastward
toward the sea. Just then some one tapped her on the shoulder,
and, turning sharply round, Nellie found herself confronted by a
woman not many years older, probably, than herself, but with a
face upon which, beautiful as it was, the early indulgence of
wild passions had stamped a look of premature decay.

"What would you with me?" said Nellie, surprised at the
familiarity of the salutation, and not in the least recognizing
the person who had been guilty of it. "I know you not. What do
you want with me?"

"Oh! little or nothing," said the other, in a harsh and taunting
voice; "little or nothing, my fair young mistress--heiress, that
has been, of the house of Netterville--only I thought that, may
be, you could say if the old mistress will be after going with
you into exile. _They_ told me she was," she added, with a
gesture toward the soldiers; "and yet, as far as I can see, only
one of the garrans has a pillion to its back. But, may be, she'll
be for going later--"

"I have already said," Nellie coldly answered, for she neither
liked the matter nor the manner of the woman's speech--"I have
already said that I know you not, and, in all likelihood, neither
does my mother. Why, therefore, do you ask the question?"

"Because I _hope_ it!" said the woman, with such a look of
hatred on her face that Nellie involuntarily recoiled a
step--"because I hope it; and then perhaps, when she is houseless
and hungry herself, she will remember that cold December night
when she drove me from her door, to sleep, for all that she
cared, under the shelter of the whin-bushes in the valley."

"If my mother, good and gentle as she is to all, ever acted as
you say she did, undoubtedly she had wise and sufficient reasons
for it," Nellie coldly answered.

"Undoubtedly--good and sufficient reasons had she, and so, for
that matter, had I too, when I put my heavy curse upon her and
all her breed," retorted the girl, with a coarse and taunting
laugh. "And see how it has come to work," she added wildly--"see
how it has come to work! Ay, ay--she'll mind it when it is too
late, I doubt not; and will think twice before she lets loose her
Saxon pride to flout a poor body for only asking a night's
shelter under her roof. Roof! she'll soon have no roof for
herself, I guess; but if ever she has one again, she'll think
better of it, I doubt not."


"She will think next time just what she thought last time--that,
so long as you lead the life you lead at present, you would not,
though you were a princess, be fitting company for the lowest
scullion in her kitchen."

Thus spoke a grave, sweet voice (not Nellie's) close at the
woman's elbow. She started, as if a wasp had stung her, and
turned toward the speaker.

A tall lady, dressed in widow's weeds, with a pale face and eyes
weary, it almost seemed, with sorrow, had approached quietly from
behind, and overhearing the girl's defiant speech, saved Nellie
the trouble of an answer by that firm yet most womanly response.
Then passing to the front, she put her arm round Nellie's waist,
as if to protect her from the very presence of the other, and
drew her away, saying:

"Come along, my daughter; the morning wears apace, and these long
delays do but embitter partings. Your grandfather is already
waiting. Remember, Nellie," she added in a faltering voice, "that
he, with his seventy years, will be almost as dependent upon your
strength and energy as you can be on his. He is my dead husband's
father, and therefore, after a long and bitter struggle with my
own heart, I have devoted you, my own and only treasure, to be
his best support and help and comfort in the long and
unseasonable journey to which the cruelty of our conquerors has
compelled him. I trust--I trust in God and his sweet Mother that
I shall see no cause later to repent me of this decision!"

Nellie drew a little closer to her mother, and a strange firmness
of expression passed over her young face as she answered quietly:

"My own unselfish mother, doubt not that I will be all--son and
daughter both in one--to him; and fear not, I do beseech you, for
our safety. What though he has seen his seventy winters, and I
but barely seventeen! We are strong and healthy, both of us; and
with clean consciences (which is more than our foes can boast of)
and good wits, I doubt not we shall reach our destination safely.
Destination!" she repeated bitterly--"ay, destination; for home,
in any sense of the word, it never can be to us."

"Say not so, my Nellie--say not so," said her mother gently.
"Home, after all, is only the place where we garner up our
treasures; and, therefore, in the spot where I may rejoin you,
however wild and desolate it otherwise shall be, _my_ heart,
at all events, will acknowledge it has found its home!"

As they thus conferred together, mother and daughter had been
moving slowly toward the castle, in absolute forgetfulness of the
woman who had originally made a third in the group, and who was
still following at a little distance. She stopped, however, on
discovering that they had no intention of making her a sharer in
their conversation, and, gazing after them with a fearful
mingling of hatred and wounded pride on her coarse, handsome
features, exclaimed aloud:

"The second time you have flouted me, good madam! Well, well, the
third is the charm, and then it will be my turn. See if I do not
make you rue it!"

Shaking her fist, as she spoke, savagely in the air, she turned
her back upon Netterville towers, and rushed down a path leading
directly to the river.

As Mrs. Netterville and her daughter approached the castle-gates,
a young man came out to meet them, and, with a look and bearing
half-way between that of an intelligent and trusted servant and a
petted follower, said hurriedly:


"My lord grows impatient, madam. He says he is ready to depart at
once, and that the sooner it is done the better. And, in troth, I
am much of the same way of thinking my own self," he added, with
that sort of grim severity which some men seem almost naturally
to assume the moment they feel themselves in danger of giving way
to grief, in the womanly fashion of tears.

Hamish was of the same age as Nellie, though he looked and felt
at least eight years older. He was her foster-brother, as we have
already said, and had been her companion in the nursery; but as
war and poverty thinned the ranks of followers attached to the
house of Netterville, he had been gradually advanced from one
post of confidence to another, until, young as he was, he united
the various duties of "bailiff" or "steward," as it would be
called in Ireland--major-domo or butler, valet, and footman, all
in his own proper person.

"True," said Mrs. Netterville, in answer to his
communication--"too true. Every moment that he lingers now will
be but a fresh barbing of the arrow. Come, my Nellie, let us
hasten to your grandfather. Would that I could persuade him to
take Hamish with him instead of Mat, who has little strength and
less wit to help you in such a journey. I should be far more at
ease, both on his account and yours, my daughter."

"Faix, madam, and it was just that same that I was thinking to
myself awhile ago," cried Hamish eagerly. "Sure, who has a better
right to go with Mistress Nellie than her own foster-brother? And
am not I strong enough, and more than willing enough to fight for
her--ay, and to die for her too, if any of them black-browed
hypocrites should dare for to cast their evil eyes upon her or
the old master?"

"Strong enough and brave enough undoubtedly you are," said
Nellie, speaking before her mother could reply, "and true-hearted
more than enough, my dear foster-brother, are you; but, if only
for that very reason, you must stay here to help and comfort my
dear mother. Bethink you, Hamish, hers is, in truth, the hardest
lot of any. We shall have but to endure the weariness of long
travel; she will have to contend with the insolence of men in
high places--yes, and perhaps even to dispute with them, day by
day, and hour by hour, for that which is her rightful due and
ours. This is man's work, not woman's; and a man, moreover,
quick-witted and fearing no one. Will you not be that man,
Hamish, to stand by her against the tyrant and oppressor, and to
act for her whenever and wherever it may be impossible for her to
act for herself?"

Hamish would have answered with a fervor equal to her own, but
Mistress Netterville prevented him by saying, with a mingling of
grief and impatience in her manner:

"It is in vain to talk to you, Nellie! You have all your
grandfather's stiff-necked notions on this subject. Nevertheless
it would have been far more to my real contentment if he and you
had yielded to my wishes, seeing that there is many a one still
left among our dependents to whom, on a pinch, I could entrust
the care both of cattle and of household gear, and but one (and
that is Hamish) to whom willingly I would confide my child."

"Now, may Heaven bless you for that very word, madam," cried
Hamish eagerly and gratefully; and then turning to Nellie, he
went on: "See now, Mistress Nellie, see now, when her ladyship
herself has said it--surely you would never think of going
contrary to her wishes!"


"Listen to me, Hamish," said Nellie, putting her hand on his
shoulder and standing still, so that her mother unconsciously
moved on without her. "Ever since that weary day when the sheriff
came here to inform us of our fate, I have had a strange,
uncomfortable foreboding that my mother will soon find herself in
even a worse plight than ours. A woman, as she will be, alone and
friendless--foemen all around her--foemen domiciled even in her
household--foemen, the worst and cruelest of any, with prayer on
their lips and hypocrisy in their hearts, and a strong sword at
their hips, ready to smite and slay, as they themselves express
it, all who oppose that wicked lusting for wealth and power which
they so blindly mistake for the promptings of a good spirit! With
us, once we have obtained our certificate from the commissioners
at Loughrea, it will be far otherwise. Each step we take in our
wild journey westward will, if, alas! it leads us further from
our friends, set, likewise, a safer distance between us and our
oppressors. Promise me, therefore, to ask no more to follow us
who go to peace and safety, but to abide quietly here, where
alone a real danger threatens. Promise me even more than this, my
foster-brother--promise to stay with her so long as ever she may
need you; and should aught of evil happen to her, which may God
avert! promise to let me know at once, that I may instantly
return and take a daughter's proper place beside her. Promise me
this, Hamish--nay, said _I promise!_--Hamish, you must
swear it!"

"I swear it! by the Mother of Heaven and her blessed Child, I
swear it!" said Hamish fervently; for he saw at once that there
was much probability in Nellie's view of the subject, though, in
his overweening anxiety for the daughter, he had hitherto
overlooked the chances of danger to the mother. "But, Christ save
us!" he added suddenly, as some wild notes of preparation reached
his experienced ear; "Christ save us, if the old women are not
going to keen for your departure as if it were a burial!"

"Oh! do not let them--do not let them; bid them stop if they
would not break our hearts!" cried Nellie, rushing on to overtake
her mother, while Hamish, in obedience to her wishes, struck
right across the terrace toward a distant group of women, among
whom, judging by their excited looks and gestures, he knew that
he should find the keeners. Long, however, ere he could reach
them, a wild cry of lamentation, taken up and prolonged until
every man, woman, and child within ear-shot had lent their voices
to swell the chorus, made him feel that he was too late; and
turning to ascertain the cause of this sudden outburst, he saw
that Lord Netterville had come forth from the castle, and was
standing at the open gates. A fine, soldierly-looking man he was,
counting over seventy years, yet in appearance not much more than
sixty, and as he stood there, pale and bare-headed, in the
presence of his people, a shout of such mingled love and
sympathy, grief and execration rent the air, that some of the
Cromwellian soldiers made an involuntary step forward, and
handled their muskets in expectation of an attack.

"Tell them to stop!" cried the old man, throwing up his arms like
one who could bear his agony no longer. "For God's sake, tell
them to stop! Let them wait, at least," he added, half bitterly,
half sorrowfully, "until, like the dead, I am out of hearing."


There was no need for Hamish to become the interpreter of his
wishes. That sudden cry of a man's irrepressible anguish had
reached the hearts of all who heard it, and a silence fell upon
the crowd--a silence more expressive of real sympathy than their
wildest lamentations could have been.

The old lord bowed, and tried to speak his thanks, but the words
died upon his lips, and he turned abruptly to take leave of his
daughter-in-law. She knelt to receive his blessing. He laid his
hand upon her head, and then, making an effort to command his
voice, said tenderly:

"Fare thee well, my best and dearest! It is the way of these
canting times to be for ever quoting Scripture, and for once I
will follow fashion. May Heaven bless and keep thee, daughter;
for a very Ruth hast thou been to me in my old age; yea, and
better than seven sons in this the day of my poverty and sorrow!"

He stooped to kiss her brow and to help her to rise, and as he
did so, he added in a whisper, meant only for the lady's ear:

"Forgive me. Mary, if I once more allude to that subject we have
so much discussed already. Are you still in the mind to send
Nellie with me? Think better of it, I entreat you. The daughter's
place should ever, to my poor thinking, be beside her mother!"

"I _have_ thought," she answered, "and I _have_
decided. If Nellie is my child, she is your grandchild as well;
and the duty which her father is no longer here to tender, it
must be her pride and joy to offer you in his stead. Moreover, my
good lord," she added, in a still lower tone, "the matter hath
another aspect. Nellie will be safer with you! This place and all
it contains is even now at the mercy of a lawless soldiery, and
therefore it is no place for her. Too well I feel that even I,
her mother, am powerless to protect her."

Lord Netterville cast a wistful glance on the fair face of his
young granddaughter, and said reluctantly:

"It may be that you are right, sweet Moll, as you ever are. Come,
then, if so it must be, give us our good-speed, and let us hasten
on our way."

He once more pressed her affectionately in his arms, then walked
straight up to his horse, and leaped almost without assistance to
the saddle. But his face flushed scarlet, and then grew deadly
pale, and as he shook his reins and settled himself in his seat,
it was evident to Hamish, who was holding his stirrup for him,
that he was struggling with all his might and main to bear
himself with a haughty semblance of indifference before the
English soldiery. After he was seated to his satisfaction, he
ventured a half glance around his people, and lifted his beaver
to salute them. But the effort was almost too much; the big tears
gathered in his eyes, and his hand shook so violently that he
could not replace his hat, which, escaping from his feeble grasp,
rolled under his horse's feet. Half a dozen children darted
forward to recover it, but Hamish had already picked it up and
given it to his master, who instantly put it on his head, saying,
in a tone of affected indifference:

"Pest on these trembling fingers which so libel the stout heart
within. This comes of wine and wassail, Hamish. Drink thou water
all thy life, good youth, if thou wouldst match a sturdy heart
with a steady hand, when thy seventy years and odd are on you."


"Faix, my lord, will I or nill I," said Hamish, trying to fall in
with the old man's humor by speaking lightly; "will I or nill I,
it seems only too likely that water will be the best part of my
wine for some time to come; leastways," he added in a lower
voice, "leastways till your honor comes back to your own again,
and broaches us a good cask of wine to celebrate the day."

"Back again! back again!" repeated Lord Netterville, shaking his
head with a mixture of grief and impatience impossible to
describe. "I tell thee, Hamish, that men never come back again
when they carry seventy years with them to exile. But where is my
granddaughter? Bid her come forth at once, for it's ill lingering
here with this weeping crowd around us, and yonder pestilent
group of fanatics marking out every mother's son among them,
doubtless, for future vengeance."

Mrs. Netterville heard this impatient cry for her only child, and
flung her arms for one last passionate embrace round Nellie's
neck. Then, firm and unfaltering to the end, she led her to
Hamish, who lifted her as reverently as if she had been an
empress (as indeed she was in his thoughts) to the pillion behind
her grandfather.

Lord Netterville barely waited until she was comfortably settled,
ere he stooped to kiss once more his daughter-in-law's uplifted
brow, after which, waving his hands toward the weeping people, he
dug his spurs deep into his horse's sides, and rode swiftly

Then, as if moved by one common impulse, every man, woman, and
child in presence there, fell down upon their knees, mingling
prayers and blessings, and howls and imprecations, as only an
Irish or an Italian crowd can do; and yet obedient to the last to
the wishes of their departing chief, it was not until he was
well-nigh out of sight that they broke out into that wild,
wailing keen, with which they were known to accompany their loved
ones to the grave. But the wind was less considerate, and as it
unluckily set that way, it bore one or two of the long, sad notes
to him in whose honor they were chanted. As they fell upon the
old exile's ears, the stoical calmness which he had hitherto
maintained forsook him utterly; the reins fell from his hands, he
bowed his head till his white locks mingled with his horse's
mane, and, "lifting up his voice," he wept as sadly and
unrestrainedly as a woman.

     To Be Continued.



  The Church Review and Victor Cousin. [Footnote 31]

    [Footnote 31: _The American Quarterly Church Review_.
    New York: N. S. Richardson. January, 1868. Art. ii., "O. A.
    Brownson as a Philosopher. Victor Cousin and his Philosophy.
    _Catholic World_."]

The article in the _Church Review_ promises an estimate of
the character of Dr. O. A. Brownson as a philosopher; but what it
says has really no relation to that gentleman, and is simply an
attempt, not very successful, nor very brilliant indeed, to
vindicate M. Cousin's philosophy from the unfavorable judgment we
pronounced on it, in the magazine of last June. Dr. Brownson is
not the editor, nor one of the editors, of _The Catholic
World_; the article in question was signed by no name, was
impersonal, and the _Review_ has no authority for charging
its authorship to any one but ourselves, or for holding any but
ourselves responsible for its merits or demerits. When the name
of a writer is signed to an article, he should be held answerable
for its contents; but when it is not, the magazine in which it
appears is alone responsible. According to this rule, we hold the
_Church Review_ answerable for its "rasping" article against

The main purpose of the reviewer seems to be to prove that we
wrote in nearly entire ignorance of M. Cousin's philosophy, and
to vindicate it from the very grave charges we urged against it.
As to our ignorance, as well as his knowledge, that must speak
for itself; but we can say sincerely that we should be most happy
to be proved to have been in the wrong, and to see Cousin's
philosophy cleared from the charge of being unscientific,
rationalistic, pantheistic, or repugnant to Christianity and the
church. One great name would be erased from the list of our
adversaries, and their number would be so much lessened. We
should count it a great service to the cause which is so dear to
us, if the _Church Review_ could succeed in proving that the
errors we laid to his charge are founded only in our ignorance or
philosophical ineptness, and that his system is entirely free
from them. But though it talks largely against us, assumes a high
tone, and makes strong assertions and bold denials, we cannot
discover that it has effected anything, except the exhibition of
itself in an unenviable light. It has told us nothing of Cousin
or his philosophy not to be found in our article, and has not in
a single instance convicted us of ignorance, malice,
misstatement, misrepresentation, or even inexactness. This we
shall proceed now to show, briefly as we can, but at greater
length, perhaps, than its crude statements are worth.

The principal charges against us are:
  1. We said M. Cousin called his philosophy eclecticism;
  2. We wrongly denied scepticism to be a system of philosophy;
  3. Showed our ignorance of Cousin's doctrine in saying it
     remained in psychology, never attained to the objective, or
     rose to ontology;
  4. Misstated his doctrine of substance and cause;
  5. Falsely denied that he admits a nexus between the creative
     substance and the created existence;
  6. Falsely asserted that he holds creation
     to be necessary;
  7. Wrongly and ignorantly accused him of Pantheism;
  8. Asserted that he had but little knowledge of Catholic
  9. Accused him of denying the necessity of language to thought.


In preferring these charges against M. Cousin's philosophy, we
have shown our ignorance of his real doctrine, our contempt for
his express declarations, and our philosophical incapacity, and
the reviewer thinks one may search in vain through any number of
magazine articles of equal length, for one more full of errors
and fallacies than ours. This is bad, and, if true, not at all to
our credit. We shall not say as much of his article, for that
would not be courteous, and instead of saying it, prefer to let
him prove it. We objected that M. Cousin assuming that to the
operation of reason no objective reality is necessary, can never,
on his system, establish such reality; the reviewer, p. 541,
gravely asserts that we ourselves hold, that to the operations of
reason no objective reality is necessary, and can never be
established! This is charming. But are these charges true? We
propose to take them up _seriatim_, and examine the
reviewer's proofs.

1. We said M. Cousin called his philosophical system eclecticism.
To this the reviewer replies:

  "'Eclecticism can never be a philosophy;' making, among other
  arguments, the pertinent inquiry: 'How, if you know not the
  truth in its unity and integrity beforehand, are you, in
  studying those several systems, to determine which is the part
  of truth and which of error?'

  "We beg his pardon, but M. Cousin never called his
  philosophical system Eclecticism. In the introduction to the
  _Vrai, Beau, et Bien_, he writes:

  "'One word as to an opinion too much accredited. Some persons
  persist in representing eclecticism as the doctrine to which
  they would attach my name. I declare, then, that eclecticism
  is, undoubtedly, very dear to me, for it is in my eyes the
  light of the history of philosophy; but the fire which supplies
  this light is elsewhere. Eclecticism is one of the most
  important and useful applications of the philosophy I profess,
  but it is not its principle. My true doctrine, my true flag, is
  spiritualism; that philosophy, as stable as it is generous,
  which began with Socrates and Plato, which the gospel spread
  abroad in the world, and which Descartes placed under the
  severe forms of modern thought'

  "And the principles of this philosophy supply the touchstone
  with which to try 'those several systems, and to determine
  which is the part of truth and which of error.' Eclecticism, in
  Cousin's view of it, as one might have discovered who had
  'studied his works with some care,' is something more than a
  blind syncretism, destitute of principles, or a fumbling among
  conflicting systems to pick out such theories as please us."

If M. Cousin never called his philosophical system eclecticism,
why did he defend it from the objections brought on against it,
that, i. Eclecticism is a syncretism--all systems mingled
together; 2. Eclecticism approves of everything, the true and the
false, the good and the bad; 3. Eclecticism is fatalism; 4.
Eclecticism is the absence of all system? Why did he not say at
once that he did not profess eclecticism, instead of saying and
endeavoring to prove that the eclectic method is at once
philosophical and historical? [Footnote 32]

    [Footnote 32: See _Fragments Philosophiques_, t i. pp.

Everybody knows that he professed eclecticism and defended it. As
a method, do you say? Be it so. Does he not maintain, from first
to last, that a philosopher's whole system is in his method? Does
he not say, "Given a philosopher's method, we can foretell his
whole system"? And is not his whole course of the history of
philosophy based on this assumption? We wrote our article for
those who knew Cousin's writings, not for those who knew them
not. There is nothing in the passage quoted from the reviewer,
quoted from Cousin, that contradicts what we said. We did not say
that he always called philosophy eclecticism, or pretend that it
was the principle of his system. We said:


  "There is no doubt that all schools, as all sects, have their
  part of truth, as well as their part of error; for the human
  mind cannot embrace pure, unmixed error any more than the will
  can pure, unmixed evil; but the eclectic method is not the
  method of constructing true philosophy any more than it is the
  method of constructing true Christian theology. The Catholic
  acknowledges willingly the truth which the several sects hold;
  but he does not derive it from them, nor arrive at it by
  studying their systems. He holds it independently of them; and
  having it already in its unity and integrity, he is able, in
  studying them, to distinguish what they have that is true from
  the errors they mix up with it. It must be the same with the
  philosopher. _M. Cousin was not unaware of this, and he
  finally asserted eclecticism rather as a method of historical
  verification, than as the real and original method of
  constructing philosophy_. The name was therefore unhappily
  chosen, and is now seldom heard." (_Catholic World_, p.

Had the reviewer read this passage, he would have seen that we
were aware of the fact that latterly Cousin ceased to profess
eclecticism save as a method of verification; and if he had read
our article through, he would have seen that we were aware that
he held spiritualism to be the principle of his system, and that
we criticised it as such.

2. Cousin counts scepticism as a system of philosophy. We object,
and ask very pertinently, since he holds every system has a
truth, and truth is always something affirmative, positive,
"What, then, is the truth of scepticism, which is a system of
pure negation, and not only affirms nothing, but denies that any
thing can be affirmed?" Will the reviewer answer the question?

The reviewer, of course, finds us in the wrong. Here is his

  "In the history of the progress of the human mind, the phase of
  scepticism is not to be overlooked. At different periods it has
  occurred, to wield a strong, sometimes a controlling, often a
  salutary, influence over the thought of an age. Its work, it is
  true, is destructive, and not constructive; but not the less as
  a check and restraint upon fanciful speculation, and the
  establishment of unsound hypotheses, it has its _raison
  d'être_, and contributes, in its way, to the advancement of
  truth. Nor can the works of Sextus, Pyrrho, Glanvil, Montaigne,
  Gassendi, or Hume be considered less 'systematic' than those of
  any dogmatist, merely from their being 'systems of pure
  negation.'" (P. 533.)

That it is sometimes reasonable and salutary to doubt, as if the
reviewer should doubt his extraordinary genius as a philosopher,
we readily admit; but what salutary influence has ever been
exerted on science or morals by any so-called system of
scepticism, which denies the possibility of science, and renders
the binding nature of virtue uncertain, we have never yet been
able to ascertain. Moreover, a system of pure negation is simply
no system at all, for it has no principle and affirms nothing. A
sceptical turn of mind is as undesirable as a credulous mind.
That the persons named, of whom only one, Pyrrho, professed
universal scepticism, and perhaps even he carried his scepticism
no farther than to doubt the reality of matter, may have rendered
some service to the cause of truth, as the drunken helotae
promoted temperance among the Spartan youth, is possible; but
they have done it by the truth they asserted, not by the doubt
they disseminated. There is, moreover, a great difference between
doubting, or suspending our judgment where we are ignorant or
where our knowledge is incomplete, and erecting doubt into the
principle of a system which assumes all knowledge to be
impossible, and that certainty is nowhere attained or attainable.
It seems, we confess, a little odd to find a Church Review taking
up the defence of scepticism.


3. We assert in our article that M. Cousin, though he professes
to come out of the sphere of psychology, and to rise legitimately
to ontology, remains always there; and, in point of fact, the
ontology he asserts is only an abstraction or generalization of
psychological facts. The reviewer is almost shocked at this, and
is "tempted to think that the time" we claim to have spent in
studying the works of Cousin with some care "might have been
better employed in the acquisition of some useful knowledge more
within the reach of our 'understanding.'" It is possible. But
what has he to allege against what we asserted, and think we
proved? Nothing that we can find except that Cousin professes to
attain, and perhaps believes he does attain, to real objective
existence, and, scientifically, to real ontology. But, my good
friend, that is nothing to the purpose. The question is not as to
what Cousin professes to have done, or what he has really
attempted to do, but what he has actually done. When we allege
that the being, the God asserted by Cousin, is, on his system,
his principles, and method, only an abstraction or a
generalization; you do not prove us wrong by reiterating his
assertion that it is real being, that it is the living God, for
it is, though you seem not to be aware of it, that very assertion
that is denied. We readily concede that Cousin does not
_profess_ to rise to ontology by induction from his
psychology, but we maintain that the only ontology he attains to
is simply an induction from his psychology, and therefore is, and
can be, only an abstraction or a generalization. We must here
reproduce a passage from our own article.

  "What is certain, and this is all the ontologist need assert,
  or, in fact, can assert, is, that ontology is neither an
  induction nor a deduction from psychological data. God is not,
  and cannot be, the generalization of our own souls. But it does
  not follow from this that we do not think that which is God,
  and that it is from thought we do and must take it. We take it
  from thought and by thinking. What is objected to in the
  psychologists is the assumption that thought is a purely
  psychological or subjective fact, and that from this
  psychological or subjective fact we can, by way of induction,
  attain to ontological truth. But as we understand M. Cousin,
  and we studied his works with some care thirty or thirty-five
  years ago, and had the honor of his private correspondence,
  this he never pretends to do. What he claims is, that in the
  analysis of consciousness we detect a class of facts or ideas
  which are not psychological or subjective, but really
  ontological, and do actually carry us out of the region of
  psychology into that of ontology. That his account of these
  facts or ideas is to be accepted as correct or adequate we do
  not pretend, but that he _professes_ to recognize them and
  distinguish them from purely psychological facts is undeniable.

  "The defect or error of M. Cousin on this point was in failing,
  as we have already observed, to identify the absolute or
  necessary ideas he detects and asserts with God, the only
  _ens necessarium et reale_, and in failing to assert them
  in their objectivity to the whole subject, and in presenting
  them only as objective to the human personality. He never
  succeeded in cutting himself wholly loose from the German
  nonsense of a subjective-object or objective-subject, and when
  he had clearly proved an idea to be objective to the reflective
  reason and the human personality, he did not dare assert it to
  be objective in relation to the whole subject. It was
  impersonal, but might be in a certain sense subjective, as Kant
  maintained with regard to the categories." (_Catholic
  World_, PP. 335, 336.)

The reviewer, after snubbing us for our ignorance and ineptness,
which are very great, as we are well aware and humbly confess,
replies to us in this manner:

  "And yet nothing in Cousin is clearer or more positive than
  that this 'pure and sublime degree of the reason, when will,
  reflection, and personality are as yet absent'--this
  'intuition and spontaneous revelation, which is the primitive
  mode of reason'--is objective to the whole subject in every
  _possible_ sense, and is, consequently, conformed to the
  objective, and a revelation of it.

  "Can the critic have read Cousin's Lectures on Kant, 'thirty or
  thirty-five years ago'? If so, we advise him to refresh his
  memory by a re-perusal, and perhaps he may withdraw the strange
  assertion that Cousin held an 'absolute idea to be impersonal,
  but that it might be in a certain sense subjective, _as Kant
  maintained with regard to the categories_.' 'The scepticism
  of Kant,' says Cousin, [Footnote 33] 'rests on his finding the
  laws of the reason to be subjective, personal to man; but here
  is a mode of the reason where these same laws are, as it were,
  deprived of all subjectivity--where the reason shows itself
  almost entirely impersonal.


  "How the critic would wish this impersonal activity to be
  objective to the 'whole subject,' and not to the 'personal
  only,' as if there was any greater degree of objectivity in one
  case than in the other, it is not easy to see. It looks like a
  distinction without a difference. The abstract and logical
  distinction is apparent, but though distinct, the 'whole
  subject,' and the 'human personality,' cannot be separated, so
  that what is objective to one, shall not be so to the other
  also. The 'whole subject' is, simply, the thinking, feeling,
  willing being, which we are, as distinguished from the world
  external to us. If an idea, then, is revealed to us by what is
  completely foreign to us--if an act of the reason is
  spontaneous and unreflective, +hat is, impersonal--what is
  there that can be more objective to the subject?

  "We have said, that such an act is objective to the subject in
  every _possible_ sense. For we are not to forget the
  conditions of the case. 'Does one wish,' says Cousin, 'in order
  to believe in the objectivity and validity of the reason, that
  it should cease to make its appearance in a particular
  subject--in man, for instance? But then, if reason is outside
  of the subject, that is, of myself, it is nothing to me. For me
  to have consciousness of it, it must descend into me, it must
  make itself mine, and become in this sense subjective. A reason
  which is not mine, which, in itself being entirely universal,
  does not incarnate itself in some manner in my consciousness,
  is for me as though it did not exist. [Footnote 34]
  Consequently, to wish that the reason, in order to be
  trustworthy, should cease entirely to be subjective, is to
  demand an impossibility.'" (Pp. 534, 535.)

    [Footnote 33: Lecture viii.]

    [Footnote 34: Lectures on Kant, viii.]

We have introduced this long extract in order to give our readers
a fair specimen of the reviewer's style and capacity as a
reasoner. It will be seen that the reviewer alleges, as proof
against us, what is in question--the very thing that he is to
prove. We have read Cousin's Lectures on Kant, and we know well,
and have never thought of denying, that he criticises Kant
sharply, says many admirable things against him, and professes to
reject his subjectivism; we know, also, that he holds what he
calls the impersonal reason to be objective, operating
independently of us; all this we know and so stated, we thought,
clearly enough, in our article; but we, nevertheless, maintain
that he does not make this impersonal reason really objective,
but simply independent in its operations of our personality. He
holds that reason has two modes of activity--the one personal,
the other impersonal; but he recognizes only a distinction of
modes, sometimes only a difference of degrees, making, as we have
seen, as quoted by the reviewer, the impersonal reason a sublimer
"degree" of reason than the personal. He calls the impersonal
reason the spontaneous reason, sometimes simply spontaneity. All
this is evident enough to any one at all familiar with Cousin's
philosophical writings.

But what is this reason which operates in these two modes,
impersonal and spontaneous in the one, personal and reflective in
the other? As the distinction between the personal and impersonal
is, by Cousin's own avowal, a difference simply of modes or
degrees, there can be no entitative or substantial difference
between them. They are not two different or distinct reasons, but
one and the same reason, operating in two different modes or
degrees. Now, we demand, what is this one substantive reason
operating in these two different degrees or modes? It certainly
is not an abstraction, for abstractions are nullities and cannot
operate or act at all. What, then, is it? Is it God, or is it
man? If you say it is God, then you deny reason to man, make him
a brute, unless you identify man with God.
If you say it is man, that it is a faculty of the human soul, as
Cousin certainly does say--for he makes it our faculty and only
faculty of intelligence--then you make it subjective, since
nothing is more subjective than one's own faculties. They are the
subject itself. Consequently the impersonal reason belongs as
truly to man, the subject, as the personal reason, and therefore
is not objective, as we said, to the whole subject, but at best
only to the will and the personality--what Cousin calls _le
moi_. The most distinguished of the disciples of Cousin was
Theodore Jouffroy, who, in his confessions, nearly curses Cousin
for having seduced him from his Christian faith, whose loss he so
bitterly regretted on his dying-bed, and who was, in Cousin's
judgment, as expressed in a letter to the writer of this article,
"a true philosopher." This true philosopher and favorite disciple
of Cousin illustrates the difference between the impersonal
reason and the personal by the difference between _seeing_
and _looking_, _hearing_ and _listening_, which
corresponds precisely to the difference noted by Leibnitz between
what he calls simple _perception_ and _apperception_.
In both cases it is the man who sees, hears, or perceives; but in
the latter case, the will intervenes and we not only see, but
look, not only perceive, but apperceive.

Now, it is very clear, such being the case, that Cousin does not
get out of the sphere of the subject any more than does Kant, and
all the arguments he adduces against Kant, apply equally against
himself; for he recognizes no actor in thought, or what he calls
the fact of consciousness, but the subject. The fact which he
alleges, that the impersonal reason necessitates the mind,
irresistibly controls it, is no more than Kant says of his
categories, which he resolutely maintains are forms of the
subject. Hence, as Cousin charges Kant very justly with
subjectivism and scepticism, we are equally justified in
preferring the same charges against himself. This is what we
showed in the article the reviewer is criticising, and to this he
should have replied, but, unhappily, has not. He only quotes
Cousin to the effect that, "to wish the reason, in order to be
trustworthy, should cease entirely to be subjective, is to demand
an impossibility," which only confirms what we have said.

We pursue in our article the argument still further, and add:

  "Reduced to its proper character as asserted by M. Cousin,
  intuition is empirical, and stands opposed not to reflection,
  but to discursion, and is simply the immediate and direct
  perception of the object without the intervention of any
  process, more or less elaborate, of reasoning. This is, indeed,
  not an unusual sense of the word, perhaps its more common
  sense, but it is a sense that renders the distinction between
  intuition and reflection of no importance to M. Cousin, for it
  does not carry him out of the sphere of the subject, or afford
  him any basis for his ontological inductions. He has still the
  question as to the objectivity and reality of the ideal to
  solve, and no recognized means of solving it. His ontological
  conclusions, therefore, as a writer in the _Christian
  Examiner_ told him as long ago as 1836, rest simply on the
  credibility of reason or faith in its trustworthiness, which
  can never be established, because it is assumed that, to the
  operation of reason, no objective reality is necessary, since
  the object, if impersonal, may, for aught that appears, be
  included in the subject." (_Catholic World_, p. 338.)

We quote the reply of the reviewer to this at full length, for no
mortal man can abridge or condense it without losing its essence.


  "If a man speaks thus, after a careful study of Cousin, it is
  almost useless to argue with him. He either has not understood
  the philosopher, or his scepticism is hopelessly obstinate.
  Intuition, as asserted by Cousin, is not reduced to its proper
  character, but simply misrepresented, when it is called
  empirical; for it is the primitive mode of reason, and prior to
  all experience. It is a revelation of the objective to the
  subject, and to be a revelation must, of course, come into the
  consciousness of the subject. Cousin has carefully and
  repeatedly established the true character of intuition as a
  disclosure to the understanding in the reason, and free from
  any touch of subjectivity. _Of course, his ontological
  conclusions rest on a belief in the credibility of reason, and,
  of course, this credibility can never be established in a
  logical way, although, metaphysically, it is abundantly
  established_. One may 'assume,' to the end of time, that 'to
  the operation of reason no objective reality is necessary,
  since the object may, for aught that appears, be included in
  the subject,' but the universal and invincible opinion of the
  human race has been, and will be, to the contrary of such an

  "As firmly as Reid and Hamilton have established the doctrine
  of sensible perception, and the objective existence of the
  material world, has Cousin that of the objective existence of
  the absolute, and, on the very same ground, the veracity of
  consciousness. And the mass of mankind have lived in happy
  ignorance of any necessity for such arguments. When they sowed
  and reaped, and bought and sold, they never questioned the real
  existence of the objects they dealt with; _nor did they, when
  the idea of duty or obligation made itself felt in their souls,
  dream that, 'for such an operation of reason, no objective
  reality was necessary_.'

  "Men have an unquestioning but unconquerable belief, that the
  very idea of obligation implies _something outside of
  them_, that obliges. Something other than itself it must be,
  that commands the soul. Right is a reality, and duty a fact.
  The philosophy, that does not come round to an enlightened and
  intelligent holding of the unreflecting belief of mankind, but
  separates itself from it, is worse than useless. In such wisdom
  it is indeed 'folly to be wise.' And this philosophic folly
  comes from insisting on a logical demonstration of what is
  logically undemonstrable--of what is superior, because anterior
  to reasoning. We cannot _prove_ to the understanding
  truths which are the very basis and groundwork of that
  understanding itself." (Pp. 536, 537.)

This speaks for itself, and concedes, virtually, all we alleged
against Cousin's system; at least it convicts us of no
misapprehension or misrepresentation of that system; and the
reviewer's sneer at our ignorance and incapacity, however much
they may enliven his style and strengthen his argument, do not
seem to have been specially called for. Yet we think both he and
M. Cousin are mistaken when they assume that to demand any other
basis for science than the credibility or faith in the
trustworthiness of reason, is to demand an impossibility, for a
science founded on faith is simply no science at all. There is
science only where the mind grasps, and appropriates, not its own
faculties only, but the object itself. The reason, personal or
impersonal, is the faculty by which we grasp it, or the light by
which we behold it; not the object in which the mental action
terminates, but the medium by which we attain to the object. If
it were otherwise, there might be faith, but not science, and
though reason might search for the object, yet it would always be
pertinent to ask, Who or what vouches for reason? Descartes
answered, The veracity of God, which, in one sense, is true, but
not in the sense alleged; for on the Cartesian theory we might
ask, what vouches for the veracity of God? The only possible
answer would be, it is reason, and we should simply traverse a
circle without making the slightest advance.

The difficulty arises from adopting the psychological method of
philosophizing, or assuming, as Descartes does in his famous
_cogito, ergo sum_, I think, therefore, I exist, that man
can think in and of himself, or without the presence and active
concurrence of that which is not himself, and which we call the
object. Intuition, on Cousin's theory, is the spontaneous
operation of reason as opposed to discursion, which is its reflex
or reflective operation, but supposes that reason suffices for
its own operation.
In his course of philosophy professed at the Faculty of Letters
in 1818, he says, in the consciousness, that is, in thought,
there are two elements, the subject and object; or, in his
barbarous dialect, _le moi et le non-moi_; but he is careful
to assert the subject as active and the object as passive. Now, a
passive object is as if it were not, and can concur in nothing
with the activity of the subject. Then, as all the activity is on
the side of the subject, the subject must be able to think in and
of itself alone. The fact that I think an existence other than
myself, on this theory, is no proof that there is really any
other existence than myself till my thought is validated, and I
have nothing but thought with which to validate thought.

The _cogito, ergo sum_ is, of course, worthless as an
argument, as has often been shown; but there is in it an
assumption not generally noted; namely, that man suffices for his
own thought, and, therefore, that man is God. God alone suffices,
or can suffice, for his own thought, and needs nothing but
himself for his thought or his science. He knows himself in
himself, and is in himself the infinite Intelligibile, and the
infinite Intelligens. He knows in himself all his works, from
beginning to end, for he has made them, and all events, for he
has decreed them. There is for him no medium of science
distinguishable from himself; for he is, as the theologians say,
the adequate object of his own intelligence. But man being a
creature, and therefore dependent for his existence, his life,
and all his operations, interior and exterior, on the support and
active concurrence of that which is not himself, does not and
cannot suffice for his thought, and he does not and cannot think
in and of himself alone, in any manner, mode, form, or degree, or
without the active presence and concurrence of the object, as
Pierre Leroux has well shown in his otherwise very objectionable
_Réfutation de l'Eclecticisme._ The object being independent
of the subject, and not supplied by the subject, must exist _a
parte rei_, since, if it did not, it could not actually concur
with the subject in the production of thought. There can arise,
therefore, to the true philosopher, no question as to the
credibility or trustworthiness of reason, the validity or
invalidity of thought. The only question for him is, Do we think?
What do we think? He who thinks, knows that he thinks, and what
he thinks, for thought is science, and who knows, knows that he
knows, and what he knows.

The difficulty which Cousin and the reviewer encounter arises
from thus placing the question of method before the question of
principles, as we showed in our former article. No such
difficulty can arise in the path of him who has settled the
question of principles--which are given, not found, or obtained
by the action of the subject without them--and follows the method
they prescribe. The error, we repeat, arises from the
psychological method, which supposes all the activity in thought
is in the subject, and supposes reason to be operative in and of
itself, or without any objective reality, which reality, on
Cousin's system, or by the psychological method, can never be

The reviewer concedes that objective reality cannot be
established _in a logical way_, but maintains that there is
no need of so establishing it; for "men have an unquestioning, an
unconquerable _belief_ that the very idea of obligation
implies something outside of them." Nobody denies the belief, but
its validity is precisely the matter in question.
How do you prove the validity of the idea of obligation? But the
reviewer forgets that Cousin makes it the precise end of
philosophy to legitimate this belief, and all the universal
beliefs of mankind, and convert them from beliefs into science.
How can philosophy do this, if obliged to support itself on these
very beliefs?

The reviewer follows the last passage with a bit of philosophy of
his own; but, as it has no relevancy to the matter in hand, and
is, withal, a little too transcendental for our taste, he must
excuse us for declining to discuss it. We cannot accept it, for
we cannot accept what we do not understand, and it professes to
be above all understanding. In fact, the reviewer seems to have a
very low opinion of understanding, and no little contempt for
logic. He reminds us of a friend we once had, who said to us, one
day, that if he trusted his understanding and followed his logic
he should go to Rome; but, as neither logic nor understanding is
trustworthy or of any account, he should join the Anglican
Church, which he incontinently did, and since, we doubt not,
found himself at home. Can it be that he is the writer of the
article criticising us?

The reviewer, in favoring us with this bit of philosophy of his
own, tells us, in support of it, that Sir William Hamilton says,
"All thinking is negation." So much the worse, then, for Sir
William Hamilton. All thinking is affirmative, and pure negation
can neither think nor be thought. Every thought is a judgment,
and affirms both the subject thinking and the object thought, and
their relation to each other. This, at least sometimes, is the
doctrine of Cousin, as any one may ascertain by reading his
essays, _Du Fait de Conscience_ and _Du Premier et du
dernier Fait de Conscience_. [Footnote 35] Though even in
these essays the doctrine is mixed up with much that is
objectionable, and which leads one, after all, to doubt if the
philosopher ever clearly perceived the fact, or the bearing of
the fact, he asserted. Cousin often sails along near the coast of
truth, sometimes almost rubs his bark against it, without
perceiving it. But we hasten on.

    [Footnote 35: _Fragments Philosophiques_, t. i. pp. 248,

4. We are accused of misstating Cousin's doctrine of substance
and cause. Here is our statement and the reviewer's charge:

  "'M. Cousin,' continues _The Catholic World_, 'professes
  to have reduced the categories of Kant and Aristotle to
  two--substance and cause; but as he in fact identifies cause
  with substance, declaring substance to be substance _only in
  so much_ [the italics are ours] as it is cause, and cause to
  be cause _only in so much_ as it is substance, he really
  reduces them to the single category of substance, which you may
  call, indifferently, substance or cause. But, though every
  substance is intrinsically and essentially a cause, yet, as it
  _may be something more_ than a cause, it is not necessary
  to insist on this, and it may be admitted that he recognized
  two categories.'

  "What is exactly meant by these two contradictory statements it
  is not easy to guess; but let Cousin speak for himself:
  [Footnote 36]

    [Footnote 36: VI. Lecture, Course of 1818, on the Absolute.]

  "'Previous to Leibnitz, these two ideas seemed separated in
  modern philosophy by an impassable barrier. He, the first to
  sound the nature of the idea of substance, brought it back to
  the notion of force. This was the foundation of all his
  philosophy, and of what afterward became the Monadology. ...
  But has Leibnitz, in identifying the notion of substance with
  that of cause, presented it with justness? Certainly, substance
  is revealed to us by cause; for, suppress all exercise of the
  cause and force which is in ourselves, and we do not exist to
  ourselves. It is, then, the idea of cause which introduces into
  the mind the idea of substance. But is substance nothing more
  than cause which manifests it? .... The causative power is the
  essential attribute of substance; it is not substance itself.
  In a word, it has seemed to us surer to hold to these two
  primitive notions; distinct, though inseparably united; one,
  which is the sign and manifestation of the other, this, which
  is the root and foundation of that.'


  "One would think this sufficiently explicit for all who are not
  afflicted with the blindness that will not see." (P. 539.)

We see no self-contradiction in our statement, and no
contradiction of M. Cousin. We maintain that M. Cousin really,
though probably not intentionally or consciously, reduces the
categories of Kant and Aristotle to the single category of
substance, and prove it by the words italicized by the reviewer,
which are our translation of Cousin's own words. Cousin says, in
his own language, in a well-known passage in the first preface of
his _Fragments Philosophiques_, "Le Dieu de la conscience
n'est pas un Dieu abstrait, un roi solitaire, rélegué pardelà la
création sur le trône desert d'une éternité silencieuse, et d'une
existence absolue qui ressemble au néant même de l'existence:
c'est un Dieu à la fois vrai et réel, à la fois substance et
cause, toujours substance et toujours cause, _n'étant substance
qu'en tant que cause, et cause qu'en tant que substance_,
c'est-à-dire, étant cause absolue, un et plusieurs, éternité et
temps, espace et nombre, essence et vie, indivisibilité et
totalité, principe, fin, et milieu, au sommet de l'être et à son
plus humble degré, infini et fini, tout ensemble, triple enfin,
c'est-à-dire, à la fois Dieu, nature, et humanité. En effet,
_si Dieu n'est pas tout il n'est rien._" [Footnote 37] This
passage justifies our first statement, because Cousin calls God
substance, the one, absolute substance, besides which there is no
substance. But as our purpose, at the moment, was not so much to
show that Cousin made substance and cause identical, as it was to
show that he made substance a necessary cause, we allowed, for
reasons which he himself gives in the passage cited by the
reviewer from his course of 1818 on the Absolute, that he might
be said to distinguish them, and to have reduced the categories
to two, instead of one only, as he professes to have done. But
the reviewer hardly needs to be told that, when it is assumed
that substance is cause only on condition of causing, that is,
causing from the necessity of its own being, the effect is not
substantially distinguishable from the substance causing, and is
only a mode or affection of the causative substance itself, or,
at best, a phenomenon.

    [Footnote 37: _Fragments Philosophiques_, t. i. p. 76.]

5. Accepting substance and cause as two categories, we contend
that Cousin requires a third; namely, the creative act of the
causative substance, and contingent existences, as asserted in
the ideal formula. _Ens creat existentias_. To this the
reviewer cites, from Cousin, the following passage in reply:

  "In the fifth lecture of the course of 1828, M. Cousin says:

  "'The two terms of this so comprehensive formula do not
  constitute a dualism, in which the first term is on one side
  and the second on the other, without any other connection
  between them than that of being perceived at the same time by
  the intelligence; so far from this, the tie which binds them is
  essential. It is a connection of _generation_ which draws
  the second from the first, and constantly carries it back to
  it, and which, with the two terms, constitutes the _three_
  integrant elements of intelligence. ... Withdraw this relation
  which binds variety to unity, and you destroy the necessary
  bond of the two terms of every proposition. These three terms,
  distinct, but inseparable, constitute at once a triplicity and
  an indivisible unity. ...  Carried into Theodicy, the theory I
  have explained to you is nothing less than the very foundation
  of Christianity. The Christians' God is at once triple and one,
  and the animadversions which rise against the doctrine I teach
  ought to ascend to the Christian Trinity.'" (P. 540.)


We said in our article, "Under the head of substances he (Cousin)
ranges all that is substantial or that pertains to real and
necessary being, and under the head of cause the phenomenal or
the effects of the causative action of substance. He says he
understands, by substance, the universal and absolute substance,
the real and necessary being of the theologians; and by
phenomena, not mere modes or appearances of substance, but finite
and relative substances, and calls them phenomena only in
opposition to the one absolute substance. They are created or
produced by the causative action of substance. [Footnote 38] If
this has any real meaning, he should recognize three categories
as in the ideal formula, _Ens creat existentias_, that is,
Being, existences, or creatures, and the creative act of being,
the real nexus between substance or being and contingent
existences, for it is that which places them and binds them to
the Creator."

    [Footnote 38: _Fragments Philosophiques_, t i. pp. xix.

The passage cited by the reviewer from Cousin is brought forward,
we suppose, to show that it does recognize this third category;
but if so, what becomes of the formal statement that he has
reduced the categories to _two_, substance and cause, or, as
he sometimes says, substance or being and phenomenon? Besides,
the passage cited does not recognize the third term or category
of the formula. It asserts not the _creative_ act of being
as the _nexus_ between substance and phenomenon, the
infinite and the finite, the absolute and the relative, etc.; but
_generation_, which is a very different thing, for the
generated is consubstantial with the generator.

6. We were arguing against Cousin's doctrine, that God, being
intrinsically active, or, as Aristotle and the schoolmen say,
_actus purissimus_, most pure act, must therefore
necessarily create or produce exteriorly. In prosecuting the
argument, we anticipated an objection which, perhaps, some might
be disposed to bring from Leibnitz's definition of substance, as
a _vis activa_, and endeavored to show that, even accepting
that definition, it would make nothing in favor of the doctrine
we were refuting, and which Cousin undeniably maintains. We say,
"The doctrine that substance is essentially cause, and must, from
intrinsic necessity, cause in the sense of creating, is not
tenable. We are aware that Leibnitz, a great name in philosophy,
defines substance to be an active force, a _vis activa_, but
we do not recollect that he anywhere pretends that its activity
necessarily extends beyond itself. God is _vis activa_, if
you will, in a supereminent degree; he is essentially active, and
would be neither being nor substance if he were not; he is, as
Aristotle and the schoolmen say, most pure act; ... but nothing
in this implies that he must necessarily act _ad extra_, or
create. He acts eternally from the necessity of his own divine
nature, but not necessarily out of the circle of his infinite
being, for he is complete in himself, is in himself the plenitude
of being, and always and everywhere suffices for himself, and
therefore for his own activity. Creation, or the production of
effects exterior to himself, is not necessary to the perfection
of his activity, adds nothing to him, as it can take nothing from
him. Hence, though we cannot conceive of him without conceiving
him as infinitely, eternally, and essentially active, we can
conceive of him as absolute substance or being, without
conceiving him to be necessarily acting or creating _ad


The reviewer says, sneeringly, "This is the most remarkable
passage in this remarkable article." He comments on it in this

  "Thus appearing to accept the now exploded Leibnitzian theory,
  which Cousin has combated both in its original form, and as
  maintained by De Biran, our critic tries to escape from it by
  this subtle distinction between the southern and south-eastern
  sides of the hair. He enlarges upon it. God, according to him,
  is indeed _vis activa_ in the most eminent degree, but
  this does not imply that he must act _ad extra_, or
  create. He acts eternally from the necessity of his nature, but
  not necessarily out of the circle of his own infinite being.
  Hence, though we cannot conceive of him but as infinitely and
  essentially active, we can conceive of him as absolute
  substance without conceiving him to be necessarily creating, or
  acting _ad extra_. M. Cousin, he says, evidently confounds
  the interior acts of the divine being with his exterior or
  creative acts.

  "We have no wish to deny that he does make such a confusion. To
  one who holds that 'to the operation of reason no objective
  reality is necessary, and that such reality can never be
  established,' this kind of subjective activity of the will,
  which seems so nearly to resemble passivity--these pure acts,
  or volitions, which never pass out of the sphere of the will
  into causation--may be satisfactory; but to one who believes
  that God is not a scholastic abstraction--to one who worships
  the 'living God' of the Scriptures--it will sound like a
  pitiful jugglery with words thinly veiling a lamentable
  confusion of ideas. God is a person, and he acts as a person.
  The divine will is no otherwise conceivable by us than as of
  the same nature as man's will; it differs from it only in the
  mode of its operation--for with him this is always immediate,
  and no deliberation or choice is possible--and it is as absurd
  to speak of the activity of his will, the eminently active
  force, never extending 'out of the circle of his own infinite
  being,' as it would be to call a man eminently an active person
  whose activity was all merely purpose or volition, never
  passing into the creative act _ad extra_, or out of the
  circle of his own finite being.

  "If St. Anselm is right, that, to be _in re_ is greater
  than to be _in intellectu_, then has the creature man,
  according to the critic, a higher faculty than his Creator
  _essentially and necessarily_ has. For his will is by
  nature causative, creative, productive _ad extra_, and it
  is nothing unless its activity be called forth into act
  external to his personality, while the pure acts of the divine
  will may remain for ever enclosed in the circle of the divine
  consciousness without realizing themselves _ad extra_!"
  (Pp. 540, 541.)

We do not like to tell a man to his face, especially when he
assumes the lofty airs and makes the large pretensions of our
reviewer, that he does not know what he is talking about, or
understand the ordinary terms and distinctions of the science he
professes to have mastered, for that, in our judgment, would be
uncivil; but what better is to be said of the philosopher who
sees nothing more in the distinction between the divine act _ad
intra_, whence the eternal generation of the Son and the
eternal procession of the Holy Ghost, and the divine act _ad
extra_, whence man and nature, the universe, and all things
visible and invisible, distinguishable from the one necessary,
universal, immutable, and eternal being, than in "the distinction
between the southern and south-eastern sides of the hair"? The
Episcopalian journals were right in calling the _Church
Review's_ criticism on us "racy," "rasping," "scathing;" it is
certainly astounding, such as no mortal man could foresee, or be
prepared to answer to the satisfaction of its author.

In the passage reproduced from ourselves we neither accept nor
reject the definition of substance given by Leibnitz, nor do we
say that Cousin accepts it, although he certainly favors it in
his introduction to the _Posthumous Works of Maine de
Biran_, and adduces the fact of his having adopted it in his
defence against the charge of pantheism, [Footnote 39] but simply
argue that, if any one should adopt it and urge it as an argument
for Cousin, it would be of no avail, because Leibnitz does not
pretend that substance is or must be active outside of itself, or
out of its own interior, that is, must be creative of exterior
effects. This is our argument, and it must go for what it is

    [Footnote 39: _Fragments Philosophiques_, t i. p. xxi.]


We admit that in some sense God may be a _vis activa_, but
we show almost immediately that it is in the sense that he is
most pure act, that is, in the sense opposed to the _potentia
nuda_ of the schoolmen, and means that God is _in actu_
most perfect being, and that nothing in his being is potential,
in need of being filled up or actualized. When we speak of his
activity, within the circle of his own being, we refer to the
fact that he is living God, therefore, Triune, Father, Son, and
Holy Ghost. As all life is active, not passive, we mean to imply
that his life is in himself, and that he can and does eternally
and necessarily live, and in the very fulness of life in himself;
and therefore nothing is wanting to his infinite and perfect
activity and beatitude in himself, or without anything but
himself. This is so because he is Trinity, three equal persons in
one essence, and therefore he has no need of anything but
himself; nothing in his being or nature necessitates him to act
_ad extra_, that is, create existences distinct from
himself. Does the reviewer understand us now? He is an
Episcopalian, and believes, or professes to believe, in the
Trinity, and, therefore, in the eternal generation of the Son,
and the eternal procession of the Holy Ghost. Do not this
generation and this procession imply action? Action assuredly and
necessarily, and eternal action too, because they are necessary
in the very essence or being of God, and he could not be
otherwise than three persons in one God, if, _per
impossibile_, he would. The unity of essence and trinity of
persons do not depend on the divine will, but on the divine
nature. Well, is this eternal action of generation and procession
_ad intra_, or _ad extra?_ Is the distinction of three
persons a distinction _from_ God, or a distinction _in_
God? Are we here making a distinction as frivolous as that
"between the southern and south-eastern sides of a hair"? Do you
not know the importance of the distinction? Think a moment, my
good friend. If you say the distinction is a distinction
_from_ God, you deny the divine unity--assert three Gods; if
you say it is a distinction in God, you simply assert one God in
three persons, or three persons in one God, or one divine
essence. If you deny both, your God is a dead unity in himself,
not a living God.

The action of God _ad intra_ is necessary, proceeds from the
fulness of the divine nature, and the result is the generation of
the Son and the procession of the Holy Ghost. Now, can you
understand what would be the consequence, if we made the action
of God _ad extra_, or creation, proceed from the necessity
of the divine nature? The first consequence would be that
creation is God, for what proceeds from God by the necessity of
his own nature is God, as the Arian controversy long ago taught
the world. The second consequence would be that God is incomplete
in himself, and has need to operate without, in order to complete
himself, which really denies God, and therefore creation,
everything, which is really the doctrine of Cousin, namely, God
completes himself in his works. Can you understand now, dear
reviewer, why we so strenuously deny that God creates or produces
existences distinguishable from himself, through necessity?
Cousin says that God creates from the intrinsic necessity of his
own nature, that creation is necessary. You say he has retracted
the expression. Be it so.
But, with all deference, we assert that he has not retracted or
explained away his doctrine, for it runs through his whole
system; and as he nowhere makes the distinction between action
_ad intra_ and action _ad extra_, his very assertion
that God is substance only in that he is cause, and cause only in
that he is substance, implies the doctrine that God, if substance
at all, cannot but create, or manifest himself without, or
develop externally. What say we? Even the reviewer sneers at the
distinction we have made, and at the efforts of theologians to
save the freedom of God in creating. Thus, in the paragraph
immediately succeeding our last extract, he says, "But all this
quibbling comes from an ignorant terror, lest God's free-will
should be attacked." The reviewer, on the page following, admits
all we asserted, and falls himself, blindfold, as it were, into
the very error he contends we falsely charge to the account of
Cousin. "The necessity he (Cousin) speaks of is a metaphysical
necessity, which no more destroys the free-will of God, than the
metaphysical necessity of doing right, that is, obligation,
destroys man's free-will." [Footnote 40] (P. 542.)

    [Footnote 40: The reviewer, misled by the evasive answer of
    Cousin, supposes the objection urged against his doctrine,
    that creation is necessary, is, that it destroys the
    free-will of God; but that, though a grave objection, is not
    the one we insisted on; the real objection is, that if God is
    assumed to create from the necessity of his own nature, he is
    assumed not to create at all, for what is called his creation
    can be only an evolution or development of himself, and
    consequently producing nothing distinguishable in substance
    from himself, which is pure pantheism. Of course, all
    pantheism implies fatalism, for if we deny free-will in the
    cause, we must deny it in the effect; but it is not to escape
    fatalism, but pantheism that Cousin's doctrine of necessary
    Creation is denied, as we pointed out in our former article.]

_Metaphysical_ necessity, according to the reviewer, p. 537,
means real necessity, since he says, "Metaphysics is the science
of the real," and therefore God is under a real necessity of
creating. Yet it is to misrepresent Cousin to say that, according
to him, creation is necessary! But assume that, by
_metaphysical_, the reviewer means _moral_; then God is
under a moral necessity, that is, morally bound to create, and
consequently would sin if he did not. But we have more yet, in
the same paragraph: "A power essentially creative _cannot but
create._" Agreed. But to assert that God is essentially
creative, is to assert that he is necessary creator, and that
creation is necessary, for God cannot change his essence or belie
it in his act. But this assertion of God as essentially creative,
is precisely what we objected to in Cousin, and therefore, while
asserting that God is infinitely and essentially _active_ in
his own being, we denied that he is essentially _creative_.
He is free in his own nature to create or not, as he pleases. The
reviewer does not seem to make much progress in defending Cousin
against our criticisms.

7. That Cousin was knowingly and intentionally a pantheist, we
have never pretended, but have given it as our belief that he was
not. We do not think that he ever comprehended the essential
principle of pantheism, or foresaw all the logical consequences
of the principles he himself adopted and defended. But his
doctrine, notwithstanding all his protests to the contrary, is
undeniably pantheism, if any doctrine ever deserved to be called
by that name. It is found not here and there in an incidental
phrase, but is integral; enters into the very substance and
marrow of his thought, and pervades all his writings. We felt it
when we attempted to follow him as our master, and had the
greatest difficulty in the world to give him a non-pantheistic
sense, and never succeeded to our own satisfaction in doing it.


Cousin's pantheism follows necessarily from two doctrines that
he, from first to last, maintains. First, there is only one
substance. Second, Creation is necessary. He says in the
_Avertissement_ to the third edition of his _Philosophical
Fragments_ that he only in rare passages speaks of substance
as one, and one only, and when he does so, he uses the word, not
in its ordinary sense, but in the sense of Plato, of the most
illustrious doctors of the church, and of the Holy Scripture in
that sublime word, I AM that I AM; that is, in the sense of
eternal, necessary, and self-existent Being. But this is not the
case. The passages in which he asserts there is and can be only
one substance, are not rare, but frequent, and to understand it
in any of these passages in any but its ordinary sense, would
make him write nonsense. He repeats a hundred times that there
is, and can be, only one substance, and says, expressly, that
substance is one or there is no substance, and that relative
substances contradict and destroy the very idea of substance. He
is talking, he says in his defence, of absolute substance. Be it
so; interpret him accordingly. "Besides the one only absolute
substance, there is and can be no substance, that is, no other
one only absolute substance." Think you M. Cousin writes in that
fashion? But we fully discussed this matter in our former
article, and as the reviewer discreetly refrains from even
attempting to show that we unjustly accused him of maintaining
that there is and can be but one substance, we need not attempt
any additional proof. The second doctrine, that creation is
necessary, the reviewer concedes and asserts, "In Cousin, as we
have attempted to explain, creation is not only possible, but
NECESSARY," repeating Cousin's own words.

  "As to Cousin's pantheism, if any one is disposed to believe
  that the systems of Spinoza and of Cousin have anything in
  common, we can only recommend to him a diligent study of both
  writers, freedom from prejudice, and a distrust of his own
  hastily formed opinions. It is too large a question to enter
  upon here, but we would like to ask the critic how he
  reconciles the two philosophers on the great question he last
  considered--the creation. In Spinoza, there is no creation. The
  universe is only the various modes and attributes of substance,
  subsisting with it from eternity in a necessary relation. In
  Cousin, creation, as we have attempted to explain, is 'not only
  possible but necessary.' The relation between the universe and
  the supreme Substance is not a necessary relation of substance
  and attribute, but a contingent relation of cause and effect,
  produced by a creative fiat." (P. 545.)

A necessitated creation is no proper creation at all. And Cousin
denies that God does or can create from nothing; says God creates
out of his own fulness, that the stuff of creation is his own
substance, and time and again resolves what he calls creation
into evolution or development, and makes the relation between the
infinite and the finite, as we have seen, not that of
_creation_, but that of _generation_, which is only
development or explication. He also denies that individuals are
substances, and says they have their substance in the one
absolute substance. Let the reviewer read the preface to the
first edition of the _Fragments_, reproduced without change
in subsequent editions, and he will find enough more passages to
the same effect, two at least in which he asserts that finite
substances, not being able to exist in themselves without
something beyond themselves, are very much like phenomena; and
his very pretension is, that he has reduced the categories of
Kant and Aristotle to two, substance or being, and phenomenon.

Now, the essential principle of pantheism is the assertion of one
only substance and the denial of all finite substances.
It is not necessary, in order to be a pantheist, to maintain that
the apparent universe is an eternal mode or attribute of the one
only substance, as Spinoza does; for pantheism may even assert
the creation of modes and phenomena, which are perishable; its
essence is in the assertion of one only substance, which is the
ground or reality of all things, as Cousin maintains, and in
denying the creation of finite substances, that can act or
operate as second causes. Cousin, in his doctrine, does not
escape pantheism, and we repeat, that he is as decided a
pantheist as was Spinoza, though not precisely of the same

The reviewer says, p. 544, "We proceed to another specimen of the
critic's accuracy; 'M. Cousin says pantheism is the divinization
of nature, taken in its totality as God, But this is sheer
atheism.'" Are we wrong? Here is what Cousin says in his own
language: "Le panthéism est _proprement_ la divinisation du
tout, le grand tout donné comme Dieu, l'universe Dieu de la
plupart de mes adversaires, de Saint-Simon, par example. C'est au
fond un veritable athéisme." [Footnote 41] If he elsewhere gives
a different definition, that is the reviewer's affair, not ours.
We never pretended that Cousin never contradicts himself, or
undertook to reconcile him with himself; but the reviewer should
not be over-hasty in charging inaccuracy, misrepresentation, or
ignorance where none is evident. He may be caught himself. The
reviewer stares at us for saying Cousin's "exposition of the
Alexandrian philosophy is a marvel of misapprehension." Can the
reviewer say it is not? Has he studied that philosophy? We
repeat, it is a marvel of misapprehension, both of Christian
theology and of that philosophy itself. The Neoplatonists were
pantheists and emanationists, and Cousin says the creation they
asserted was a creation proper. Let that suffice to save us from
the scathing lash of the reviewer.

    [Footnote 41: _Fragments Philosophiques_, t i. pp. 18,

8. We said, in our article, "It was a great misfortune for M.
Cousin that what little he knew of Catholic theology, caught up,
apparently, at second hand, served only to mislead him. The great
controversies on Catholic dogmas have enlightened the darkest
passages of psychology and ontology, and placed the Catholic
theologian on a vantage-ground of which they who know it not are
incapable of conceiving. Before him your Descartes, Spinozas,
Kants, Fichtes, Hegels, and Cousins dwindle into pigmies." The
reviewer replies to this:

  "This is something new indeed, and we think the great Gallican
  churchmen of the seventeenth century, whom Cousin understood so
  intimately, and for whom he had so sincere an admiration, would
  be the last to claim an exclusive vantage-ground from their
  knowledge of the controversies on Catholic dogma. For these
  men, alike of the Oratory and of Port Royal, were Cartesians,
  and their faith was interwoven with their philosophy; it was
  not in opposition to it. And they knew that that philosophy was
  based upon a thorough understanding of the great 'controversies
  on Catholic dogma,' which had been carried on in the schools by
  laymen as well as by ecclesiastics.

  "But who is the Romish theologian the critic refers to, and how
  is it he makes so little use of his 'vantage-ground'? Since
  Descartes brought modern philosophy into being by its final
  secularization, we do not recollect any theologian so eminent
  that all the great men he has named dwindle into pigmies before
  him. Unless, indeed, this should take place from their being so
  far out of the worthy man's sight and comprehension, as to be
  'dwarfed by the distance,' as Coleridge says." (Pp. 546, 547.)


We referred to no _Romish_ theologian in particular; but if
the reviewer wants names, we give him the names of St. Augustine,
St. Gregory the Great, St. Anselm, St. Bonaventura, St. Thomas of
Aquino, Fonseca, Suarez, Malebranche, even Cardinal Gerdll, and
Gioberti, the last, in fact, a contemporary of Cousin, whose
_Considerazioni sopra le dottrine del Cousin_ prove his
immense superiority over him, and of the others named with him.
Cousin may have admired the great Gallican churchmen of the
seventeenth century, but intimately understand them as
theologians, he did not, if we may judge from his writings;
moreover, all the great churchmen of that century were not
Frenchmen. As great, if not greater, were found among Italians,
Spaniards, Poles, and Germans, though less known to the
Protestant world. Has the reviewer forgotten, or has he never
known, the great men that in the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries flourished in the great religious orders, the
Dominicans, Franciscans, the Augustinians, and especially the
Jesuits--men whose learning, genius, and ability were surpassed
only by their humility and sanctity?

But we spoke not of Cousin's little knowledge of churchmen, but
of his little knowledge of Catholic theology. The reviewer here,
probably, is not a competent judge, not being himself a Catholic
theologian, and being comparatively a stranger to Catholic
theology; but we will accept even his judgment in the case.
Cousin denies that there is anything in his philosophy not in
consonance with Christianity and the church; he denies that his
philosophy impugns the dogma of the Word or the Trinity, and
challenges proof to the contrary. Yet what does the reviewer
think of Cousin's resolution of the Trinity, as cited some pages
back, in his own language, into God, nature, and humanity? He
says God is triple. _"Cest-à-dire, à la fois Dieu, nature, et
humanité."_ Is that in consonance with Catholic theology?

Then, of the Word, after having proved in his way that the ideas
of the true, the beautiful, and the good are necessary and
absolute ideas, and identified them with the impersonal reason,
and the impersonal reason with the Logos, he asks what then? Are
they God? No, gentlemen, they are not God, he answers, but the
Word of God, thus plainly denying the Word of God to be God. Does
that prove he knew intimately Catholic theology? What says the
reviewer of Cousin's doctrine of inspiration and revelation? That
doctrine is, that inspiration and revelation are the spontaneous
operations of the impersonal reason as distinguished from the
reflective operations of the personal reason, which is pure
rationalism. Is that Catholic theology, or does it indicate much
knowledge of Catholic theology, to say it is in consonance with
that theology?

In his criticism on the Alexandrians or Neoplatonists, he blames
them for representing the multiple, the finite, what they call
creation, as a fall, and for not placing them on the same line
with unity, the infinite, or God considered in himself. Is that
in accordance with Catholicity, or is it a proof of his knowledge
of Catholic theology to assert that it is, and to challenge the
world to prove the contrary? But enough. No Catholic theologian,
not dazzled by Cousin's style, or carried away by his glowing
eloquence and brilliant generalizations, can read his
philosophical works without feeling that he was no Christian
believer, and that he neither knew nor respected Catholic faith
or theology. In his own mind he reduced Catholic faith to the
primitive beliefs of the race, inspired by the impersonal reason,
and as he never contradicted these as he understood them, he
persuaded himself that his philosophy did not impugn Christianity
and the church.


9. The reviewer says:

  "One more extract, by way of capping the climax. Seemingly
  ignorant of Cousin's criticism upon De Bonald's now exploded
  theory of language, and his exposition of De Biran's, the
  critic thinks, 'He would have done well to have studied more
  carefully the remarkable work of De Bonald; had he done so, he
  might have seen that the reflective reason cannot operate
  without language.' Has this man not read what Cousin has
  written, on the origin, purpose, uses, and effects of language,
  that he represents him as believing that the reflective reason
  can operate without language, without signs!" (P. 547.)

If M. Cousin maintains that the reflective reason cannot operate
without language, as in some sense he does, it is in a sense
different from that in which we implied he had need to learn that
fact. We were objecting to the spiritualism--we should say
intellectism, or noeticism--which he professed, that it assumed
that we can have pure intellections. Cousin's doctrine is that,
though we apprehend the intelligible only on the occasion of some
sensible affection, yet we do apprehend it without a sensible
medium. This doctrine we denied, and maintained, in opposition,
that, being the union of soul and body, man has, and can have in
this life, no pure intellections, and that we apprehend the
intelligible, as distinguished from the sensible, only through
the medium of the sensible or of a sensible representation, as
taught by Aristotle and St. Thomas. The sensists teach that we
can apprehend only the sensible, and that our science is limited
to our sensations and inductions therefrom; the pure
transcendentalists, or pure spiritualists, assert that we can and
do apprehend immediately the noetic, or, as they say, the
spiritual; the peripatetics hold that we apprehend it, but only
through the medium of sensible representation; Cousin, in his
eclecticism, makes the sensation the occasion of the apprehension
of the intelligible, but not its medium. On his theory the
sensible is no more a medium of noetic apprehension than on that
of the transcendentalists; for the occasion of doing a thing is
very different from the medium of doing it.

Now, language is for us the sign or sensible representation of
the intelligible, and, as every thought includes the apprehension
of the intelligible, therefore to every thought language, of some
sort, is essential. The reviewer stumbles, and supposes that we
are accusing Cousin of being ignorant of what he is not ignorant,
because he supposes that we mean by reflective reason the
discursive as distinguished from the intuitive faculty of the
soul, which, if he had comprehended at all our philosophy, he
would have seen is not the case. Intuition with us is ideal, not
empirical. It is not our act, whether spontaneous or reflective,
but a divine judgment affirmed by the Creator to us, and
constituting us capable of intelligence, of reason, and
reasoning. Reflective reason is our reason, and the reflex of the
divine judgment, or the divine reason, directly and immediately
affirmed to us by the Creator in the very act of creating us. Not
only discursion, then, but what both Cousin and the reviewer call
intuition, or immediate apprehension, is an operation of the
reflective reason. Hence, to the operation of reason in the
simple, direct apprehension of the _intelligible_, as well
as in discursion or reasoning, language of some sort, as a
sensible medium, is necessary and indispensable. When the
reviewer will prove to us that Cousin held, or in any sense
admitted this, he will tell us something of Cousin that we did
not know before, and we will then give him leave to abuse us to
his heart's content.


But we have already dwelt too long on this attempt at criticism
on us in the _Church Review_--a _Review_ from which,
considering the general character of Episcopalians, we expected,
if not much profound philosophy or any very rigid logic, at least
the courtesy and fairness of the well-bred gentleman, such as we
might expect from a cultivated and polished pagan. We regret to
say that we have been disappointed. It sets out with a promise to
discuss the character of Dr. Brownson as a philosopher, and
confines itself to a criticism on an article in our magazine
without the slightest allusion to a single one of that
gentleman's avowed writings. Even supposing, which the
_Review_ has no authority for supposing, that Dr. Brownson
wrote the article on Cousin, that article was entitled to be
treated gravely and respectfully; for no man in this country can
speak with more authority on Cousin's philosophy, for no one in
this country has had more intimate relations with the author, or
was accounted by him a more trust worthy expositor of his system.

As to the reviewer's own philosophical speculations, which he now
and then obtrudes, we have, for the most part, passed them over
in silence, for they have not seemed to us to have the stuff to
bear refuting. The writer evidently has no occasion to pride
himself on his aptitude for philosophical studies, and is very
far from understanding either the merits or defects of such a man
as Victor Cousin, in every respect so immeasurably above him. We
regret that he should have undertaken the defence of the great
French philosopher, for he had little qualification for the task.
He has provoked us to render more glaring the objectionable
features of Cousin's philosophy than we wished. If he sends us a
rejoinder, we shall be obliged to render them still more glaring,
and to sustain our statements by citation of passages from his
works, book and page marked, so express, so explicit, and so
numerous, as to render it impossible for the most sceptical to
doubt the justice of our criticism.


          The Tears Of Jesus.

  "And Martha said: Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had
  not died. ... Jesus saith to her: Thy brother shall rise again.
  ... And Mary saith to him: Lord, if thou hadst been here, my
  brother had not died. ... And Jesus wept."


  "Kind Lord,
   Dost Martha's love prefer?
   Cheer Mary's heavy heart likewise,
     And say to her,
   Thy brother once again shall rise.


  "Why fall those voiceless tears
     In sad reply
   To her, as if thine ears
     Heard not her cry?

  "What opens sorrow's deep abyss
     At Mary's word?
   When Martha spoke, no grief like this
     Thy spirit stirred."


  "My child,
   Remember what I said to her--
     The elder of the twain,
   When she, the busy minister,
     Of Mary did complain.

  "Know, they who choose the better part
     And love but me alone.
   Ask only that my loving heart
     Shall make their griefs mine own.

  "To Martha is the promise given
     That Lazarus shall rise from sleep;
   But Mary is the bride of heaven--
     With her shall not the bridegroom weep?"


  "Kind Lord,
   When breaks my heart in agony,
   Dost ever shed a tear with _me_?"


  "My Child,
   Wilt all things else for me resign?
   Wilt others' love for mine forego
   Wilt find thy joy alone in me?
   Then will I count thy griefs as mine.
   And with thy tears my tears shall flow
   In loving sympathy."



         Sister Simplicia.

"What a wet, disagreeable day it is! If papa hadn't bought the
tickets last evening, I don't believe I should have come out
to-day, even for the sake of hearing Ristori in Marie Antoinette.
She can't do better than she does in Mary Stuart, and I already
wish ourselves back in your cosy little library again; besides, I
haven't half finished looking at those curious old illuminated
books of your father's, and, as we go home to-morrow, I fear I
shan't have time, for papa has an invitation for us all this

So spoke Anita Hartridge as she and Mary Kenton took their places
in the Broadway stage on their way to a matinee at the French
Theatre. Anita's father was a Baltimore merchant. He was often in
the city buying goods, but this was the first time he had brought
his daughter with him. The two girls were warm friends. They had
been educated together, and it was not yet a year since they had
bidden adieu to the convent walls, the one to thread, motherless,
the gay mazes of Baltimore society; the other to come home as a
household angel to the father and mother, who were already
beginning to grow old. It has been a happy week, a week all too
soon coming to an end; and Mary Kenton sits thinking sadly, so
wrapped in her reveries that she does not even raise her eyes
when the stage stops to take in more passengers.

She is thinking of Anita, of her beauty and brilliancy, her
quick, flashing, Southern gayety, and yet deep, true, sympathetic
heart; and she wonders what will become of her friend, with no
mother to restrain her impulsiveness and a father who thinks only
of gratifying her lightest wish. How gladly she would share with
her her own mother's tender care; and if she could but be taken
from this whirl of amusement for a short time; but no; they
return to-morrow. Well, here they are at Union Square, and Anita
is speaking softly.

"Mary, did you ever see so beautiful a face? No, not opposite;
over there in the corner next the door--that younger Sister of
Mercy. She looks like Elizabeth of Hungary. I have been watching
her all this time, and she has never looked up once. She seems
inspired. Do you believe any one _can_ be so happy as she
looks, I mean any one who leads so self-denying a life?"

But there is no time to reply. They leave the omnibus and are
soon entranced under the magic power of the great tragedian.

"I wish I were Ristori," said Anita, as they left the theatre.
"To have her power and to be admired as she is admired; oh! that
were grand. That were a life worth living. What is it to live as
we do--to-day as yesterday, and to-morrow as to-day again--no
grand purpose; and when we die, have the world go on just the
same as before? Such lives are not worth living. I wish I could
be great as Madame de Staël, or beautiful as Madame Recamier."

  "'O world! so few the years we live,
    Would that the life that thou dost give
    Were life indeed!'"

repeated Mary slowly; "and yet, there are other lives that I had
rather take for my model than any of these."


"Yes, I know, Mary. You would take rather the life of some saint,
St. Elizabeth herself, perhaps; you are always so good and
gentle; and Sister Agnes used to say that she knew you would come
back to her some time as a sister yourself. But I am not at all
so; I love the world, and society, and amusement, and am only
dissatisfied because I am neither so brilliant nor beautiful as I
should like to be. I feel that your ideal is the better one, but
I have not strength of character enough to live anything but a
gay, butterfly life. You know my favorite song is, 'I'd be a
butterfly,' and indeed I do wish for beauty more than anything
else in the world. And yet, after all, that face that I saw under
the plain black bonnet was of a heavenly beauty that I cannot
forget. Page's copy of the _Madonna della Seggiola_ that we
admired so much yesterday is scarcely more beautiful."

"And her life has been as beautiful as her face, they say. But
there is our stage. Let us hurry a little; mother will be waiting
dinner for us already."

A low rap at Mrs. Kenton's door. It is the hour after dinner, and
Dr. Kenton and Mr. Hartridge are in the library, alternately
discussing business and their meerschaums. There are two hours
yet before the ladies need dress for the evening. Mrs. Kenton is
sitting in her large chair before the grate, and the girls come
in quietly and draw up two low ottomans at her feet. The gas is
not yet lighted, and the twilight throws long, deep shadows from
the curtains and the quaint, old-fashioned high bedposts.

"Mother, we have seen Sister Simplicia to-day. Anita very much
wishes to hear her history, and you have never told it to me yet.
It is just the night to tell a story, just such a night as we
read of, 'without, the snow falling thick and fast, but within a
bright fire throwing its cheerful light around the room and
lighting up the countenance of the narrator,'" said Mary,

"I imagine the fire you are quoting about was of hickory logs in
a great, wide fireplace; and this is only a city grate," said her
mother in the same tone; and then more seriously, "but I will
tell you the story, since you wish it, and all the more readily
as I was thinking of her at the moment you entered.

"Eight years ago Rose Harding was the belle of our circle. I
loved her as I would have loved a little sister of my own, had I
been blessed with one. She was the younger sister of my dearest
friend; and when Rachel died, she left Rose half in my care, for
their mother was dead and the father only too indulgent. But Rose
was not easily spoiled, and looking back now at this distance, I
think that I have never known another that was her equal. Mr.
Harding was wealthy, and she had all that heart could wish. Of
course she was much sought after and much loved; but few were
made unhappy through her, for she was far too generous and too
conscientious to be a coquette; and when one evening she came to
me, blushing and trembling, and told me that Willis Courtney
loved her--"

"Willis Courtney, the son of papa's old partner?" asked Anita.

"You have seen him?"

"Yes; he was my ideal when I was still a very little girl. But
then I was sent away to be educated, and never saw him

"He was worthy of Rose, though very different. How proud he was
of her! I loved to watch them together. He was so gentle and
thoughtful of every little attention, and she trusted and honored
him so fully. It seemed there never could be a brighter future in
store for any than for these two, and surely there never could be
any more deserving of the choicest blessings of earth.
Mr. Harding was happy in his child's happiness, and Willis only
waited a visit from his father to give him the glad surprise. Mr.
Courtney was at that time the senior partner in your father's
firm, Anita! Willis was in the second year of his law studies,
and in less than a year he could look forward to establishing a
home; for his father was growing old, and had told him often that
he only wished to see him happily settled in life before he died.
And so the weeks passed in happiness, and tomorrow Mr. Courtney
should come. I shall never forget how anxiously Rose awaited this
coming--expectant, hopeful, timid. 'Willis says his father is a
stern man. I shall be so afraid of him. Perhaps he will not
approve of me'--with a half-frightened laugh; 'I do so want him
to like me. Willis honors him so, and yet says he always stood in
awe of him. _Do_ you think he will like me? I wish to-morrow
were past, I dread it so; and yet Willis says he is sure to love
me, and that he will be so glad to have a daughter.'

"And Willis was at the depot, impatient to see his father again,
and still more impatient to have the crowning seal of approval
set upon his choice.

"At length the shrill whistle of the distant train, a few anxious
glances through the darkness, and the bright red light of the
engine glides past slowly. Why is it that this red glare, shining
as it passes, seems to throw a sort of supernatural glare over
the platform and the waiting figures? A strange, weird feeling
comes over him. Is it himself standing there, or is he, too, only
some phantom of his own imagination? In a moment he lives over
his whole past life in one comprehensive flash, as people who are
drowning are said to do. But the train has stopped, and there is
his father's bald head among the crowd of rushing passengers.
Willis passes his hand quickly over his forehead, as if to brush
away the illusion, and advances to meet him.

"It is a glad meeting. Mr. Courtney looks at his son, and, as he
looks, the benignant smile on his face broadens and deepens. It
is something to have delved in the counting-house all these
years, and bent his shoulders over the dull ledgers, that these
shoulders may have no need to bend, and that this intellect shall
have the means of making the best of itself; and, as he walks
beside him to the waiting carriage, he says in his heart, 'There
is none equal to _my_ son.'

"And now they sit in their parlor at the '---- House,' and the
bottle of old port is almost emptied, for Mr. Courtney is fond of
good wine. The waiter has arranged the fire, and brought in a
fresh bottle, and father and son are alone.

"'And now, Willis, who is she, this divinest of her sex; and when
am I to see her?'

"'To-morrow, or this evening if you prefer. Mr. Harding is almost
an invalid, and so spends his evenings at home, and Rose seldom
leaves him.'

"'_Harding!_ What Harding is this? You always spoke of her
as "Rose," and I never thought to ask her family name,' said Mr.
Courtney, in ill-suppressed anxiety.

"'Thomas Harding, formerly of New-Orleans. Why, father, what is
it; are you ill? What can I do for you?' said Willis, rising from
his chair quickly, as Mr. Courtney arose and staggered toward the
mantle piece. He stood there, resting his folded arms on it, with
his head so buried in them that the son could see nothing of his
John Courtney was not a man to be approached easily. Whatever the
joys or sorrows of his life might have been, his son was as
ignorant of them as the stranger who met him just an hour ago. So
Willis stood now at a little distance, not feeling sufficient
freedom to approach, and anxiously awaiting some word or movement
that should give him permission to speak. But none such came,
and, after a few moments, Mr. Courtney raised his head, saying,
'A glass of wine, Willis. I felt a little faint a moment ago.
Travelling is tiresome work for an old man.' And Willis filled
the glass silently; for there was a look in the white face that
chilled, while it awed him--a look of determination, and yet of
indecision at the same time.

"It seemed as if a cold, misty atmosphere had suddenly entered
the room; and the two men spent the remainder of the evening in a
vain effort to sustain a conversation upon all manner of general
subjects, which the son seemed always to succeed in shaping till
it just approached the subject in which alone he was then
interested, and the father always to turn it off just in time to
prevent its touching. At length Willis arose, saying:

"'But your journey has tired you very much, father. I will go
now, that you may have a long night's rest.'

"'Yes, yes. I am no longer so young as I was once.'

"But after his son had gone, he forgot his weariness, and spent
the night in walking up and down the length of the parlor, and
drinking wine, as the waiter said in the morning, 'like a
high-bred gentleman;' and when the morning came, the look of
indecision had passed away, and the determination alone remained.

"And Willis passed the long hours of darkness in a nightmare of
undefined dread, half asleep, but yet entirely conscious of all
around; a state that confused imagination and reality, till the
most frightful dreams became impressed with all the power of real
events--so real that only the morning, with the unchanged,
familiar face of the servant could make him feel certain that
they were all waking dreams, and that he had not lived a horrible
year. But the cold water, and the cheerful breakfast-table, and
all the invigorating morning influences served to restore him;
and he laughed at the absurd fancies, and went around to his
father's hotel, wondering that he should have felt so discouraged
and uncomfortable in his presence last evening, and mentally
resolving to let no such chill come over their intercourse this

"As he stepped into the hall, he noticed the well-known baggage,
with the initials, 'J. C.,' and said to the waiter:

"'What carelessness is this? You have never carried up my
father's baggage.'

"'As soon as you had gone last evening,' said the waiter, 'I went
up to his door, sir, and asked if I should send it up then; but
he said, "No," as he should leave early in the morning, sir.'

"Willis hurried up and found the old man at breakfast, or rather
sitting there beside it, for he had evidently eaten nothing,
although he said he had finished.

"'Why, father! your baggage--'

"'Yes, yes, a telegram. Must return immediately; and now sit down
a moment. There is half an hour yet before going to the train.
When do you finish your studies?'

"'In two months.'


"'So I thought--so I thought. There is no hurry about your
beginning to practise, and I need your assistance in my business
just at present. There are some speculations in the West that
must be attended to. There is money in them, but I can't trust
Stephens to go alone, and I want to send you with him. I shall
make all arrangements for you to start at the end of two months.'

"'But, father--Rose?'

"'Time enough. There's nothing will test your affections like a
little absence. Besides, you aren't either of you old enough to
know what you want yet. If in two years you both feel as you do
now, why, then we'll see about matters; and you know your means
don't depend on your practice; besides, you'll get along better
in that for seeing something of the world before you commence.
I'm getting to be an old man, Willis, and need my son's help a
little now. Surely he won't make any objections to doing what I

"Filial respect and affection was a strong trait in Willis
Courtney's character. Disobedience to the father whom he had
always feared, and to whom he was really so much indebted, was a
thing of which he had never thought before, and thought of now
only to put away the idea as one unworthy of him; and Rose, who
loved her own father devotedly, respected him the more for his
duty to his; and so it came about that when the two months had
passed, he went to California with Stephens, the head clerk of
the firm, and Rose had only the long, tender letters; and Mr.
Harding, who had never been dissatisfied while Willis was here,
grew suddenly restless, and longed to travel.

"'As long as Rose was so happy, I was contented here,' he said,
'but now she is often sad, and I think a little change will be
good for both of us. I have travelled too much in my life to be
satisfied to settle down in one spot and remain there. I must see
Italy once again before I die.'

"And so their passage was taken, and one morning we stood on the
deck of an English steamer to bid them 'God speed;' and after we
had come on shore again, stood long watching the ship till it was
far down the bay.

"At first Rose wrote long, cheerful, descriptive letters. A
summer at a German watering-place had almost entirely restored
Mr. Harding's health, and in the early autumn they began their
tour, intending to visit Vienna, and, passing directly from there
to Venice, make a short stay in two or three cities of Northern
Italy, and then go on to Rome to spend the winter.

"Letters came seldom now--it was at the beginning of our civil
war--and when they came, there was no longer any mention of
Willis, nor of glad anticipations of return; and later, in a
letter dated at Brescia, she wrote: 'I am in the city of Angela
da Brescia. How was it possible for her to be what she was? I
cannot understand it. To rise up out of the shadow of a great
grief, and to go forth cheerfully into the world and work to do
good and make others happy. It needs more than human will. God
alone can give the strength to do this, and yet if he does it
sometimes, as he did for her, why not always?'

"And still there was no mention of any personal grief; but the
whole tone of her letter was sad, and I felt that something more
than a mere transient annoyance had occurred to thus destroy her
accustomed cheerfulness.


"At first, the genial climate and the revival of old
associations--for he had spent several winters there in his
youth--had seemed to give Mr. Harding a new life, and almost a
second youth, while they visited the familiar places, and he
pointed out to his daughter the glorious relics of past
architecture and the grand works of the old masters; but it was
only for a time, and when we heard again, his strength was
failing rapidly. At Rome they had met an old friend who was
staying there with his wife, so they joined company, and planned
their return together for the ensuing summer.

"And all this time we had only heard of Willis Courtney that he
had, without returning home, joined the Union army as a private,
and that his father, whose sympathies were entirely Southern, was
very much displeased; and, in addition, that he had sold out his
interest in the business, some said in order to retire and enjoy
his wealth, others, to avoid a financial crisis which he imagined
to be impending.

"In May came another letter from Rose. The time of their return
was uncertain; her father was feeble, and wished neither to leave
the mild climate, nor to risk the danger of a voyage, till he
should be stronger. And in reply to some question of mine--'I
have heard no word from Willis Courtney this winter, and even
last autumn his letters had changed and were no longer like him.
But I cannot write of this. I do not understand it all. ... I
have spent almost the entire day in St. Peter's. I do this often.
It is God's grandest monument on earth, and I never feel so near
him as here. I never truly felt the love of holiness before; but
here, under the influence of the inimitable grandeur of his
church, and in the presence of his earthly representative, I can
almost shut out the vanities of the world, and bow before God
alone, worshipping him in supreme love and reverence. I love the
beautiful rites of the church. Ah! how gladly I would lie down
beneath the shadow of her walls, and sleep the last sleep--or if
that may not be, take the vows which should make me the bride of
heaven alone, and shut out for ever the coldness and deceptions
of the world. But my poor father needs me so much, and is so
entirely dependent upon me, that I cannot leave him while he
lives. He is fearfully changed, and has grown so much older
within the last two months that you would scarcely recognize him
now. I hope he may soon be better, and am sure he must be, for he
is always so cheerful.'

"But this was not to be, and after lingering a few weeks longer,
he died amid the scenes he had loved so well, having first
exacted a promise from Rose that she would return to New York
with Mr. and Mrs. Rowland.

"They had a pleasant voyage, good weather and a smooth sea, and
the vessel glided along, making every day her full number of
knots, and making glad the hearts of the passengers, who were
returning to home and friends.

"Mr. and Mrs. Rowland spent much of the time on deck, and Rose
sat near them, always with a book lying open on her lap; to the
careless observer she appeared to be reading, but those who,
after a few days, began to notice the sad face, noticed, too,
that the leaves of the book were never turned and that her glance
rested always on the sea. These were days of rest. The slow
rolling of the waves lent her an artificial calmness. The events
of the last few months had stunned her, and this was the
transition state before reaction. A sort of veil seemed to have
been cast between her vision and the past, and the future seemed
a blank, a desert that she had no wish to explore, and before
which she shut her eyes.
She seemed to be falling into that dreamy melancholy which so
often precedes insanity, and Mrs. Rowland watched her anxiously,
and Mr. Rowland made every exertion to distract her attention,
making every little excuse to get her to walk on deck, and to
notice some peculiar cloud or singular fish. And so the days
passed till they were within two days of New York; then the pilot
came on board, and they began to realize, for the first time,
that they were almost home. He brought the last papers, three
days old now, and the hitherto quiet passengers were all
excitement, gathered here and there in little groups eagerly
discussing the news he had brought, for those were times full of
interest, and this news was the defeat at Bull Run.

"Mr. Rowland had put a paper into Rose's hands, and as she read,
she became first interested; then the quick blood mounted to her
face, and Mr. Rowland remarked:

"'You have not yet forgotten that you are an American, Miss

"She replied quickly and continued reading. Presently the paper
dropped from her hands; her face became deadly pale, and she
leaned heavily against the rail for support. Mr. Rowland took up
the paper and searched the page she had been reading; but in
vain; he saw nothing that should have startled her, and so turned
away, thinking he had been mistaken, thus leaving her alone to
accustom herself to the reality of what she had read.

"What she had read? It was only a name, and that the name of a
common soldier.

"In looking over the list of the names of those found dead on the
battle-field of Bull Run, she had found that of Willis Courtney.

"The next day they reached Sandy Hook. But it was already
evening, and they were obliged to anchor over night, and defer
running up to the city till the next morning. There were many
impatient at this detention, but none more so than Rose Harding.
What has come over her? her kind friends asked each other in
vain; but she was no longer indifferent, and her face expressed a
cheerful determination. It was a conviction of duty, and a
resolution to fulfil it. All the night after the news, she had
lain awake and pictured to herself the horrors of lying wounded
on the battle-field, and of dying alone in the cold and darkness.
She had loved Willis Courtney with the full depths of a first
matured affection, and she loved him now, despite the
indifference and coldness with which he had rewarded that love.
And now he was dead, and whatever had come between them on earth
had passed away; and, strange as it seemed to her, she felt that
he had come back to her, and that they were nearer together than
they had ever been. But he was dead, and he had died in a noble
cause, and she felt ashamed of her own selfish grief, that had
shut out the world and its cares and sorrows. The old words came
ringing in her ears:

  'The noblest place for man to die,
  Is where he dies for man.'

"Had he not died nobly? And then she contrasted her own life with
his. What had _she_ done to make any of God's creatures
better or happier! 'Nothing! nothing!' Then came bitter regrets,
and accusations against her destiny. Why had she not been
permitted to be near him in the last struggle? Had not her own
pride been perhaps somewhat to blame? He had suffered alone.

"Then suddenly he seemed to stand beside her, and pointing
upward, to repeat to her those words of Christ: 'Inasmuch as ye
have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have
done it unto me.'


"It was a revelation. What God had done for Angela da Brescia, he
had done for her. Darkness had passed away, and in its place was
light, and the warmth of renewed life. 'Unto the least of these.'
Willis was gone. On earth she could do nothing more for him; but
there were others, others who were laying down their lives as
nobly and in the same cause; for these she could work; and
whatever she could do 'unto the least,' she should be doing for
_him_ and for _Christ_.

"It was no mere momentary enthusiasm. She came home to join the
devoted band of the Sisters of Mercy, and among these she was one
of the bravest and truest. No duties were too arduous and no
dangers too great, for this child of luxury to encounter.
Herself, and the great wealth which she had inherited from her
father, she consecrated to the service of God. Like the noble
Paula of old, who went forth from pagan Rome to assemble around
her a community of sisters in Palestine, 'she was piteous to them
that were sick, and comforted them, and served them right
humbly,' and 'laid the pillows aright' with a tender hand; and
many a poor soldier thanked her for his life, and many more
blessed with dying lips the name of her who had robbed the grim
messenger of his terrors, and shown the light of God's love
gilding the horizon of the valley of the shadow of death.

"And when the war was ended, she came back to New York, to
continue, in another field, her labors of love. Here she visited
hospitals and prisons, carrying the promises of the Father's
forgiveness to the repentant, and words of comfort and
consolation to those who were sick and weary of life.

"One morning, about a year ago, as she was visiting prisoners in
company with an older sister, she noticed in the Tombs a new
prisoner, who attracted her attention by his dignified bearing,
and evident reluctance to speak to any of his companions; and as
he turned, and she caught a view of his profile, she was startled
with a feeling that it was familiar to her; and yet she had
surely never seen the man. But he seemed glad to talk of
religion; and when she left, she gave him a pocket Bible to read
until she should next visit the prison. But all that day the face
seemed to haunt her. It came between her and her prayers; it
visited her dreams in the night, and hung over her like an
incubus that would not away at her entreaties; and she found
herself looking forward to her next visit with a mixed feeling of
anxiety and curiosity. When at last she went again, the old man
recognized her, and asked suddenly, in a trembling voice:

"'Are you Rose Harding?'

"'I am Sister Simplicia. I _was_ Rose Harding,' she replied,
shocked at the suddenness and eagerness of the question.

"He looked at her wonderingly, and then said:

"'Are you happy? But what use to ask. Your face and voice show
it. See here,' he added, and handed her back the open Bible. It
was one that Willis had given her years ago, and on the fly-leaf
to which the man now opened was written--

  'Rose Harding.
    From Willis Courtney.'


"This was the one relic she had kept of her past life. She had
fastened those leaves together with thin white wafers, so that
the names should be invisible, and had felt still that _his_
book must be especially blessed, and so had given it often to
prisoners to read. She had intended to destroy everything that
should remind her of Rose Harding; but these names, written in
his hand, she could not destroy, but had thought to hide them
even from herself.

"And this man had torn them open. It was as if he had committed a
sacrilege; as if he had opened the grave of the dead; for were
these not buried long ago?

"But he was speaking hurriedly:

"'I am John Courtney. I have something to tell you; something
that has hunted me down for years, and driven me here at last.'
And she listened.

"He had been her father's confidential clerk years ago in New
Orleans. In an evil moment, he had allowed himself to take a
small sum from the drawer; for his salary, large though it was,
was not sufficient to meet the expenses of a young man who loved
gay company, drank much and gambled more. It was not discovered,
and so he had helped himself again, and Mr. Harding, who was
scarcely older than himself, and had absolute confidence in him,
had still made no discovery; but when it became time to balance
the yearly accounts, he knew it could be concealed no longer, and
so one night he took enough more to pay travelling expenses, and
to help him in starting into some business for himself, and left
on a night-boat for the North. He remained secreted in St. Louis
till he had discovered through the papers that Mr. Harding had no
intention of prosecuting him; then, after having adopted the
precaution of changing his appearance as much as possible, and
his name from James Rellerton to John Courtney, had come to
Baltimore and gone into business, in which he had prospered, and
had married into one of the first families in the place. His wife
had died while Willis was yet a child, and he had centered his
pride and affection upon this only boy. For his sake he had
worked untiringly, and had showered his wealth upon him, that he
might never know the temptation that had overcome his father. But
from making any acknowledgment to Mr. Harding his pride shrunk.
He had, indeed, sent back the money he had taken, but to see Mr.
Harding he had felt to be impossible. James Rellerton was dead,
and John Courtney must stand without reproach before the world,
and no man living must know that there was any connection between
the two.

"But when Willis had spoken the name of Thomas Harding as that of
the father of his affianced bride, it seemed that retribution,
from being so long delayed, had come upon him with double
harshness, as the interest of a debt that has run long is
sometimes greater than the principal itself. Should he destroy
the happiness of the son for whom he would have given his life,
or run the risk of being recognized by Mr. Harding?

"He could do neither; and besides, would Mr. Harding allow his
daughter to marry the son of James Rellerton?

"Then he had resolved to separate them, and let time and events
decide the future means to be employed. It had been a double
game. If Willis had been instructed to watch Stephens, Stephens
had been no less definitely instructed to watch Willis; and when,
after six months, he had reported that the correspondence between
him and Rose was undiminished, he had received instructions that
he must 'see to it that it should cease gradually;' and so the
letters had been intercepted, a few times changed, and then no
longer sent in any form. The father had said:


"'My son will blame her, and his pride will prevent his

"But when did pride prevent suffering? It may prevent the showing
of any sign, and it did here; but Willis had been one of the
first volunteers, and then he had fallen; and the old man had
been left desolate with a double crime upon his conscience. He
had no object in attending to business and making money now, so
had sold his interest, and tried to find in travel that
alleviation from thought which could alone make life endurable.
But he could not leave himself--the one thing he desired to
leave--and an attraction beyond his control had brought him back
to New Orleans. Here the necessity for excitement had again led
him into the old temptation of gambling. But he was not always
successful; and when the Mississippi was again open, he had
travelled on the boats, at first with better success, but at last
had become too well known, and in looking for a new field, had
fallen in with a band of counterfeiters, and so had come to New
York in their employ.

"And this was the end of it all.

"At first Rose had listened with an intense loathing for the man.
Had he not wronged her father, and blighted her own youth, and
even chased his own son to his death; and was he not a
counterfeiter and a gambler; an outcast before God and man?

"Then, as she turned her glance, it fell upon her cross, and it
brought back the scene on Calvary and the face of Him who had
prayed 'Father, forgive them.' Then she looked again at the old
man, and, trembling with emotion, he cast himself on the floor at
her feet, crying:

"'Merciful sister, pray for me!'

"And the peace of God came back to her, as she clasped her hands,
and raising to heaven her eyes filled with the tears of a gentle
pity, prayed aloud:

"'O Jesus! be merciful; and deal with me even as I deal with this
repentant man.'

"The Bible of his son first, and the labors of the appointed
ministers of God afterward, brought him again under the
benediction of the church. But she it was who stood beside him in
the last struggle, and closed the eyes with more tenderness than
a daughter; for hers was that holy love, born of heaven and
earth, which dwells only in the consecrated heart."


Mrs. Kenton had finished. The long shadows had grown longer and
mingled together, till it had become only darkness; and then the
moon had arisen and was shining with a pale light through the
masses of heavy clouds. They arose silently and went each to her
own room. But for Anita Hartridge this night was the
turning-point in life. The "butterfly" was such no longer, and in
its place grew up the noble woman.

Did Sister Simplicia, as she knelt at her prayers that night,
know the work she had done for her Master that day?



    The Merit Of Good Works

In a recent article we endeavored to explain the catholic
doctrine, that good works as well as faith are an essential
condition of justification. This implies, of course, that good
works are meritorious, and that eternal life is due to them as a
recompense. We wish to elucidate this point a little more fully,
and to show what is the nature of that merit which is ascribed to
good works proceeding from the principle of faith informed by

In the widest sense of the word, merit signifies any kind of
excellence or worthiness. In this sense, a picture is said to
have merit; and purely physical or intellectual perfections,
which are merely natural gifts, are said to merit admiration and
praise. In the strict sense of the word, merit signifies the
quality by which certain free, voluntary acts entitle the person
who performs them to an adequate recompense. It is in this sense
that merit is ascribed to the good works of a just man. These
works are said by Catholic theologians to deserve eternal life by
a merit of condignity and a title of justice.

What is meant by merit of condignity? It means that there is an
equality of dignity or intrinsic worth and value between the work
performed and the recompense bestowed. This is easily understood
in regard to merely human affairs. It is not easy to understand,
however, how a creature can deserve the reward of eternal life
from the Creator. Good works, however excellent they may be in
the finite order, and as measured by a human standard, appear to
be totally incommensurate with the infinite, and therefore
wanting in all condignity with an infinite recompense. So far as
the mere physical entity of the works is concerned, this is
really so. The gift of a cup of cold water to a person suffering
from thirst, the recital of a few prayers, a trivial act of
self-denial, evidently bear no proportion to eternal beatitude.
Neither does a life like that of St. Paul, filled with labors, or
a long course of penance and prayer like that of St. Romuald, or
a martyrdom like that of St. Polycarp. The mere extent or
duration of the labor or suffering, considered as something
endured for the sake of God, is nothing in comparison with the
crown of immortal life. The condignity of good works is not
derived from an equality or proportion between their physical
extent and duration and the physical extent and duration of the
recompense. It is derived from an equality in kind between the
interior principle from which good works proceed, and the
interior principle of beatitude. The interior principle of good
works is charity; not a merely natural charity, but a
supernatural, a divine charity, produced by the Holy Spirit. Good
works proceed from a supernatural principle, and are performed by
a concurrence of the human will with the divine Spirit. They
have, therefore, a superhuman, divine quality, and are elevated
to the supernatural order, the same order to which eternal
beatitude belongs. They are, therefore, equal to it in dignity in
this sense, that they are equally supernatural.
The principle of divine charity in the soul is, moreover, the
germ of the eternal life itself, which is promised as the reward
of the acts which proceed from charity. The life of grace is the
life of glory begun, and the life of glory is the life of grace
consummated. The germ is equal in grade and quality with the tree
which it produces, though not equal in extent and perfection. In
the same manner, a little act, like that of giving a cup of water
to another for the love of God, although trivial in itself,
contains a principle which is capable of uniting the soul to God
for all eternity. It is the principle of divine love, making the
soul like to God, imitating on a small scale those acts of the
love of God toward men which are the most stupendous, and
therefore, making the soul worthy to be loved by God with a love
of complacency similar in kind to that love which he has toward

Again, the value and merit of services rendered by one person to
another are estimated, not alone by the substance of the services
rendered, but by the quality of the person who renders them. An
article of small utility or cost is sometimes more valued as a
token of affection from a dear friend, or as a sign of esteem and
honor from a person of high rank, than a large sum of money would
be which had been accumulated by the industry of a servant. The
good works of a just man fall under this category. They are
estimated according to the quality and rank of the person who
performs them. The just man is the friend of God, and the
services he renders to God are valued accordingly, not as so much
work done, but as tokens of love and fidelity. As a friend of
God, the just man is a person of high rank in the scale of being.
He is a "partaker of the divine nature," as St. Peter distinctly
affirms. His human nature is exalted and sublimated to a certain
similitude with the nature of God; and the acts which proceed
from it have a corresponding dignity and elevation, proportioned
to their end, which is eternal life, or the consummation of the
union between human nature and the divine nature in eternal
beatitude. The just man is the adopted son of God the Father,
through his union with God the Son incarnate. This adoption into
a participation with Jesus Christ in his sonship reflects the
dignity and excellence of the person of Christ upon his person
and upon all his works. As a member of Christ and a son of God,
his person and his works are superior to the whole natural order,
and, therefore, there is nothing which has the relation of
condignity toward them except the supernatural order itself.

It is evident, therefore, that regenerate nature has condignity
with the state of glory, and that the good works which proceed
from it have condignity with degrees of splendor in this state of
glory. Regenerate nature bears the image of God, aspires after
union with God, is fitted to find its beatitude in the vision of
God, is made apt and worthy to be admitted into the kingdom of
heaven. It demands, therefore, as its last complement, the
_lumen gloriae_ which enables it to see God face to face.
The personal love of the soul to God as its friend and Father,
and the personal love of God to the soul as his friend and son,
require that they should have mutual vision of each other and
live together. This living with God is eternal life, which is,
therefore, the only fitting recompense for the love of God
exercised by the just man upon earth.


Theologians do not, however, regard the title in strict justice
to a supernatural reward, or the ratio of condign merit, as
consisting solely in the condignity of the meritorious works
themselves. They place it partially in the promise of God, or the
decree of his providence which he has promulgated, in which
special rewards are assigned as the recompense of good works
performed in the state of grace. Therefore, they say, the reward
of eternal life is due in strict justice, not by an obligation
arising _per se_ from the act of the creature, but by an
obligation of the Creator to himself to fulfil his own word. They
say that God may require, by virtue of his sovereign dominion,
any amount of service from the creature as his simple due,
without giving him any reward for it; that he may even annihilate
him if he pleases, and, moreover, that the holy acts of the
blessed in heaven, although they have a perfect condignity with
supernatural rewards, do not receive any. Therefore, they say, a
creature cannot merit a reward from God according to rigorous
justice, but only according to a rule of justice derived from the
free determination and promise of God. Scotus and some others
even hold that the condignity of meritorious works with the
promised reward is altogether extrinsic, and denotes merely that
they are conformed to the standard or rule which is laid down by
the divine law. It is, therefore, only required in strictness by
the definition of the church, that one should confess that the
good works of the just man entitle him to a supernatural reward
by virtue of a promise which God has given. Those who are so
extremely frightened at the sound of the phrase, "merit of
condignity," as applied to men, can adopt the opinion of Scotus
if they please. For our own part, we prefer the other and more
common doctrine of condignity which we have already explained. We
do not apprehend any danger to the glory of the Almighty from the
exaltation of his own works, or any diminution of the merits of
Christ from the glorification of his saints. On the contrary, the
power and glory of God are magnified the more, the more like to
himself the creature is shown to be which he has created. "God is
admirable in his saints;" and, the more excellent their works
are, the greater is the praise and homage which accrues to him
from these works which are offered up to him as acts of worship.
The only error to be feared is the attributing of something to
the creature which he derives from himself, as having
self-existent, independent being. To attribute to angel or man as
much good as is in a withered leaf, is equivalent to a total
denial of God, if this good is not referred to God as first
cause. But to attribute to created nature all possible good, even
to the degree of hypostatic union with the divine nature, does
not detract in the slightest degree from the truth that God alone
is good in himself, if the good of the creature is referred to
him as its source and author. No doubt all right to existence, to
immortality, to felicity of any kind, is derived from God, and is
originally a free gift to the creature from him. But the right is
a real right, of which the creature has just possession when God
has given it to him, one which may be an inalienable right in
certain circumstances, that is, a right which God cannot, in
consistency with his own attributes, withdraw. When God creates a
rational nature, in which he has implanted the desire and
expectation of immortal existence and felicity, he implicitly
promises immortality and felicity. We do not like to hear it said
that he can annihilate such a creature or withhold from it the
felicity after which it naturally aspires, unless it be as a just
punishment for sin.
So, when God creates man anew in the supernatural order, by
giving him the grace of regeneration, he gives him an implicit
promise of eternal beatitude. It is very true that he can exact
from him any amount of service he pleases, as a debt that is due
to his sovereign majesty; yet he cannot justly withhold from him
final beatitude, unless he forfeits it by his own fault. The
special reward annexed to every good work is undoubtedly due only
by virtue of the explicit promise which God has made, to reward
every such good work by an increase of grace and glory. It is
also true that God does confer some degrees of glory on the just
out of pure liberality and beyond the degree of merit. Moreover,
the period of merit is limited by the decree of God to this life,
because it is fitting that the creature should increase and
progress, during his probation, toward the full measure of his
perfection, and should afterward remain in that perfection when
he has arrived at his term. We think, therefore, that we have
made it plain enough that good works have a merit of condignity
in relation to eternal life, and nevertheless derive this merit
from the promise and appointment of God, subject to such
conditions as he has seen fit, in his sovereign wisdom and
liberality, to establish.

The doctrine we have laid down detracts in no way from the merits
of Christ. Christ alone has the principle of merit in his own
person as an original source. He alone has merited of condignity
grace to be bestowed on others. His merits alone are the cause of
the remission of sins, and the bestowal of regenerating,
sanctifying, saving grace. His merits merits of the saints as the
head is superior to the inferior members of the body. His
incarnation, life, and death are, in a word, the radical
meritorious cause of human salvation from the beginning to the
end; and, in their own proper sphere or order of causation, are
entirely alone. Christ is the only mediator of redemption and
salvation between God and man, in whom the Father is reconciling
the world to himself. His acts alone are referable to no
principle higher or more ultimate than his own personality. All
merely human grace, sanctity, or merit is, therefore, to be
referred to him as its chief author, and to merely human subjects
only as recipients or secondary and concurrent causes. It is easy
to understand, therefore, what is meant by presenting the merits
of the Blessed Virgin Mary and the saints before God as a motive
for bestowing grace. The saints have not merited anything over
and above that which Christ has merited, nor have they merited,
by a merit of condignity, even the application of the merits of
Christ to others. Through their personal merits, they have
obtained a kind of right of friendship to ask in a specially
efficacious manner for graces and favors to be conferred on those
for whom they intercede. Their mediation and merits are,
therefore, only efficacious by way of impetration and prayer, and
not by virtue of a right which they have obtained by a title of
justice. This is what is meant by merit of congruity, which
denotes a certain fitness in a person to obtain from God the
favors for which he asks. This merit of congruity is all that is
ascribed to the Blessed Virgin or the saints, as a groundwork of
their intervening power, by any Catholic theologian. It is the
same in kind with that which the just on earth possess, by virtue
of which they obtain, through their prayers, blessings and graces
for other persons. It is easy to see, therefore, how completely
the Catholic doctrine is misunderstood by those who imagine that
it either places man in the room of Christ, as his own Saviour,
or substitutes the mediation of the Blessed Virgin and the saints
for the mediation of Christ.



         Full Of Grace.

  Flowers in the fields, and odors on the air,
    The spring-time everywhere;
  Music of singing birds and rippling rills,
    Soft breezes from the hills;
  So broke the sweetest season, long ago,
    Far from this death-cold snow.
  In that blest land which smiles to every eye,
    Most favored from on high;
  And in one town whose sheltering mountains stand
    Broad breast-plates of the land;
  So fair a spring-time sure was never seen,
    Since Eden's walks were green.

  A sudden glory flashed upon the air,
    A face unearthly fair;
  A beauty given but to those alone
    The nearest to the throne;
  The great archangels who upon their hair
    The seven planets wear.
  Lightly as diamonds--such the form that now,
    With brilliant eyes and brow.
  Paused by the humble dwellings of the poor.
    Entered the humblest door,
  Veiling his awful beauty, far too bright,
    With wide wings, strong and white.

  Within the dwelling where his flight was stayed
    A kneeling woman prayed.
  The angel bowed before that holy face,
    And hailed her "Full of Grace."
  No other title, not the kingly name
    Which David's line can claim;
  Not highest rank, though unto her was given
    Queenship of earth and heaven;
  Not as that one who gave life to the dead,
    Bruising the serpent's head;
  Not even as mother of the Sacrificed,
    The world-redeeming Christ.

  This thought might be a sermon, while yet we,
    Heirs of eternity,
  Walk this brief, sin-surrounded tract of life.
    Wage this short, sharpest strife,
  Which must be passed and won before the rest.
    The triumph of the blessed.
  And when the hour supreme of fate shall come,
    And at our promised home
  We wait in breathless and expectant dread
    Between the quick and dead,
  Then may the angel warders of the place
    Welcome us, "Full of Grace."



    Translated From L'Economiste Belge.

       How Our History Will Be Told
          In The Year 3000.

In those days--our latest posterity _loquitur_--the people
were not entirely freed from the savage instincts of their
ancestors, the anthropophagi, those ferocious contemporaries of
the deluge and such great inundations of the world. True, they
did not still eat their enemies, nor break their skulls with
clubs; they did not pierce their bodies with arrows of bone and
flint; but they did the work more delicately, entirely according
to the rules of art, with the precision of a surgeon who cuts off
a limb, or the coolness of a butcher who bleeds a sheep. By dint
of inventions, calculations, and trials of every kind, they
fabricated, at last, most ingenious tools, very convenient and
very simple, and which they handled with equal dexterity. They
were not instruments of natural philosophy, chemistry, astronomy,
or mathematics; our fathers possessed, it is true, objects of
this kind, but they did not think it proper to put them in the
hands of the people. Their thermometers, microscopes, telescopes,
and electrical machines remained in the shade of libraries or the
cabinets of the learned. The people were ignorant of their names
and uses, while they well understood the management of the tools
of which I speak. So you will suppose these were very useful
articles, as they were so generally employed in every clime and
nation, and their object to moralize and instruct mankind, as
governments consented to their gratuitous distribution among
their subjects--went farther, even, and imposed their use. But
alas! no; they were only tools of death and carnage, worthy to
figure among the arms and instruments of torture of preceding
ages; for while some shot off bullets, others threw to enormous
distances balls of brass and steel, that made holes in human
walls, burnt up towns, and sunk ships.


The men of this time were called _"civilized"!_ Strange to
say, they had abolished torture, and wished to do away with the
pain of death. The scaffold horrified them, and the sight of the
gallows gave them a vertigo! They had journals and books filled
with beautiful phrases in honor of peace and civilization. But
they did not comprehend the sense of aphorisms which they
repeated incessantly and inscribed everywhere, on the fronts of
their temples, and the first page of their constitutions.

Their age to them was the age of light, and they seemed ready to
burst with pride when they considered their enormous riches, the
fame of their arts, and the extent of their sciences. And, in
appearance, one might have believed them wise, and as good as the
beings who inhabit the more favored planets of our solar system.
They had noble aspirations and a generous ardor.

In the penumbra in which they were plunged, a confused mass of
whirling and exasperated workers was alone distinguishable,
hungry, indefatigable, running up and down, like busy ants
seeking their subsistence. The ear heard only a deafening and
monotonous noise, like the buzzing of a hive. But in spite of
shocks and hurts, inevitable from such a clamorous multitude,
order and harmony seemed about being established, when suddenly
the same beings who until then had appeared so laborious and
active, were seized with a sort of rage, and set violently upon
each other. The red light of incendiarism and the thundering
brightness of battle thus demonstrated to the astonished gaze of
philanthropists and thinkers, that vices, sanguinary passions,
and brutal instincts, always alive and always indomitable, were
only hidden in shade, and awaiting the favorable moment to break
their bonds and annihilate civilization. By the artificial and
slightly tarnished light of their sciences, philosophers had
gathered round them men of policy and amiability, civilized and
peaceable, distinguished by good manners, and saying pretty
things about fraternity and progress; but the light that broke
upon them, the evidence that disenchanted them in this shock of
nations, showed them only coarse and ignorant crowds, capable of
committing, in their folly and cruelty, every crime and every
infamy. They had believed that the type of their epoch was the
man of business, industrial or negotiating, the sharp worker,
armed for competition, and prepared for the incessant struggles
of production; and behold! suddenly this personage quits the
scene, transforming himself into a fantastical being, clothed in
brilliant colors, his head ornamented with cock's feathers, his
step stiffened, his manners brusque, and his voice short and
sonorous. At the first boom of the cannon, the rolling of the
drum, or the sound of a warlike march, millions of men, clothed
in red, like the common hangman, marched out of the shade,
furnished with instruments suitable for bleeding, scorching,
disembowelling, crushing, burning, and stopping the breath of
their neighbors. And perhaps you think these men were the refuse
of society; that they came from low haunts and prisons; had
neither heart nor intelligence; that they were given up to public
execration. You never were more mistaken. Each one of these
auxiliaries of death was considered healthy in mind and body,
vigorous and intelligent, honest and disciplined.
To exercise his trade suitably, he was obliged to possess a crowd
of precious qualities, know perfectly how to behave himself, be
honorable, and of unimpeachable integrity!

As to the great generals, they were wise men, and men of the
world. They were expected to study mathematics, as it specially
teaches order and harmony; history, which proves that violence
and force have never established anything; and many other
sciences, which one would have imagined capable of directing
their thoughts from their impious career, and rendering them
pacific and humane.

Toward 1866 a great invention agitated the world. You are ready
to believe it was some means of aerial locomotion, or some
process for utilizing central heat, or placing our planet in
communication with the neighboring ones of Mars and Venus. Alas!
no. Such discoveries were not yet ripe; and besides, men of this
age had other preoccupations. A small province of the north of
Germany, with an erudite and philosophical people, had the honor
of giving to the world the celebrated _needle-gun_. Tired of
thinking, they relinquished their ideal, to move heavily and
noisily under the sun of reality, and set about acting; but
instead of inventing a philosophy, they considered a new engine
of destruction more creditable, and having tried it with the most
magnificent results, they offered to the public the instrument
which was entirely to change the map of Europe, break the
equilibrium of power, and annihilate all international right.
After having laid low several millions of men on the field of
battle, this comparatively insignificant people on the borders of
the Spree, who until then had won more academical laurels than
cannons, and more truths than promises, began to comprehend that
they could play a splendid _rôle_, and exercise a
preponderating influence in Europe. Formerly they had invented an
absolute philosophy; now they invented and practised an absolute
policy. And this was the union of the German people, the triumph
of Prussian institutions, the decay of the Latin and rise of the
Germanic races, and many other changes which only absolute power
can effect. These little people on the borders of the Spree awoke
to a new life, and determined to take all and absorb all; they
threatened Holland; coveted Alsace; were disposed to swallow up
Bavaria, the grand-duchy of Baden, and Würtemberg. Other nations
were troubled, and justly; for the power of the Germans seemed to
them very much like absolutism. So each of them, in great haste,
began to perfect their own instruments of death with the faint
hope, too, that they might very soon make use of them. Old
France, tired of conquests and interior struggles, wished only to
rest. Having disturbed the tranquillity of Europe so often, she
had come to that age when repose is the chief good; so she
feigned ignorance of the insolent aspect and gestures of defiance
of her young rival; but unhappily a few judicious men, and many
more of an intriguing nature, fools and ambitious ones, were at
the head of affairs. These loved war as a golden egg, and birds
of prey, we know, derive their sustenance from a field of battle.
Some already dreamed of wading through blood to conquer an
epaulette, others that they gained millions in supplies, and
became great dignitaries in the empire.
So they went about repeating that their country was degraded,
reduced to a second rank; that Germanic insolence must be
chastised, and the glorious tricolor planted on the left shore of
the Rhine. The journals commented on their words, and the rustic
in his hut, the laborer at his forge, and the financier in his
counting-house dreamed with terror of the dawning evil. Certain
politicians, meditating on the situation and the march of events,
declared war inevitable, necessary, providential, and alone able
to reëstablish the influence of the country and the
_prestige_ of the government. So they burst out in eloquent
discourses in favor of military armaments, while on their side
strategists, inventors, and administrators set to work, believing
they were the foundation of the future prosperity of their

Their theory was very simple. The power of a nation, they said,
depended on the number of men capable of bearing arms, and on the
quantity and quality of the engines of destruction that they
possessed. That is, our country must be powerful in order to be
rich, prosperous, and free. _Ergo_, let us increase to every
extent the effectiveness of our troops and fabricate without
parsimony such arms as are unparalleled in Europe. Weak patriots
and economists, the _Sancho Panzas_ of these _Don
Quizotte_ politics, murmured a little, but they found
themselves obliged to be silent and bow their heads under the
taunts and reproaches with which they were loaded. "Utopists,"
cried the inventors, "you say our machines are not useful; but
look down there in the direction of Sadowa and Custozza, and tell
us afterward if we have not rapidly and economically fabricated
smoke and glory. Ask the surgeons, and they will describe to you
the gaping wounds, the deep rents they can produce; [Footnote 42]
ask statesmen, and they will tell you the services they render to
the ambitious, and the good livings they secure thereby."
"Miserable citizens! men without energy and honor," cry they to
others, "you lazily prefer well-being to glory, and the success
of your personal enterprises to that of the national glory; but
let the hour of danger come, and we will make you walk at the
point of the bayonet, notwithstanding your cries and menaces."
... And people who cared nothing for truth, and judged by
appearances, echoed the cry, and called them utopists, hollow
dreamers, theorists, and, after all, cowardly and egotistical.

    [Footnote 42: _At Strasbourg the effects of the Chassepot
    gun have just been certified by experiments on a corpse hung
    at a distance of fifteen yards. The experiments were made by
    M. Sarazin, and corroborated by the medical faculty. We will
    hear the good doctor in his own words: "I am far from
    exaggerating," said he modestly, "the practical value of my
    experiences, and I well know the desiderata, easier to
    distinguish than resolve, that they present from the point of
    view in which the effect of the Chassepot gun is produced
    according to distance and on the living being. However,
    everywhere I have drawn the following conclusions:

    "At a short distance, and on a corpse the projectiles have
    not deviated in their course.

    "1. The diameter of the orifice, as it enters, is the same as
    that of the projectile.

    "2. The diameter of the orifice, as it goes out, is enormous,
    seven to thirteen times larger than that of the ball.

    "3. The arteries and veins are cut transversely, drawn back
    and gaping. The muscles are torn and reduced to the
    consistency of pulp.

    "4. The bones are shattered to a considerable extent, and out
    of all proportion to the shock of the projectile.

    "To sum up, the effects present a remarkable intensity, and
    it is well to note that, after having traversed the corpse,
    the projectile pierced two planks, each an inch thick, and
    buried itself deeply in the wall."_]

So soon as such a river of ink flowed from the desks of the
journalists, dragging in its course these insults and injuries,
the workmen commenced their labors. They made rifled cannon of
steel; hammered coats of mail for their men-of-war; pointed their
sword-blades with steel and iron; made bullets, balls, bombs, and
howitzers, heaped up in their arsenals great quantities of
And one bright day the government announced with pride to the
country that it owned 9173 brass cannons, 2774 howitzer cannons,
of the same material, 3210 bronze mortars, 3924 small bronze
howitzers, 1615 cast-iron cannons, 1220 howitzers, 20,000
carriages for ordnance, 10,000 covered wagons, 4,933,688 filled
cannon-balls, 3,630,738 howitzer-balls, 18,778,549 iron bullets,
351,107,574 ball-cartouches, 1,712,693 percussion guns, 817,413
guns of flint, 10,263,986 pounds of powder--in short, enough to
exterminate the entire globe. Admirable litany, which the good
citizens were to recite mentally every time they thought of the
future of their country! Yet profound politicians said it was not
enough, and the great statesmen were not at all satisfied. "We
must have," said they, "some terrible invention that will strike
our enemies with terror. We would like a machine that would mow
them down like the scythe of the reaper in the harvest, with
movement so regular and continued that it would be impossible for
one to escape."

They did speak of a new apparatus, ornamented by its inventor
with the pretty name of the grape-gun, and which could send off,
twice a minute, a shower of fifty balls. But public opinion
demanded something better, and the mortified death-seekers
recommenced their labors.

In those days philanthropists and politicians tried to think of
the best means of establishing peace an Europe. So they met in a
town of Switzerland, on the borders of a beautiful lake, and in
presence of grand and lovely scenery--a place which ought to have
inspired them with high and holy resolutions. But, unfortunately,
they brought with them the bellicose thoughts of their own
countries; and so they concluded the only way to promote peace
was to destroy all bad and weak governments, abolish abuses,
upset society, and so unite all peoples. One might have suggested
that a state of peace could alone have produced such harmony; but
they did not so closely consider the question.

They were so-called democrats, and they sincerely believed the
aurora of justice would shine in the future on the field of
battle, and brighten the smoking ruins of its former society. ...

But let us pardon our ancestors: they were more ignorant than
wicked. Peace to their ashes! which, mingling now with the
elements, circulate in the universe.

Since their time, the globe has many times recommenced its
eternal evolutions; the sun has gone out of its orbit, and
carried with it the planets into the depths of space; science has
become the principal work of human existence, and order is
established everywhere; and we, the latest comers on the earth,
live happily, because we are free--free, because we are
united--united, because we are members of the same family, and
children of the same God.



     Plan For A Country Church.

At the request of several bishops and clergymen, we intend to
publish from time to time in this magazine, architectural plans
suitable for churches of moderate size and costliness. There are
many churches of this kind, especially in small country places,
required by the wants of the people, where an architect cannot be
found, and where the materials, furniture, and other necessary
parts or appendages of the sacred edifice must be of the cheapest
possible kind. Generally speaking, churches of this sort are
built and furnished without any regard to beauty or rubrical
propriety. It is, however, just as cheap and easy to make them
attractive, neat, and strictly ecclesiastical in their style and
proportions as the contrary, if only proper plans and directions
can be obtained. These we purpose to furnish after various styles
of architecture, and suitable to the different exigencies and
tastes of different places and persons. In so doing, we hope to
supply a want that has long been felt, and to assist a great
number of priests who are laboriously engaged in the meritorious
but difficult task of building churches with but limited means
for carrying out their plans.


The design which we have engraved in this number will give
accommodation to two hundred and fifty persons seated, the area
of the floor of the church being 41 x 25 feet in the clear, with
a sanctuary of 12 x 16 feet, a sacristy 12 x 15 feet, and a porch
to the front of the church sheltering the door against exposure.
The confessional is placed in such a position that the comfort of
the priest as well as the convenience of the people may be

The church should be framed with good, stout sills 8x12 inch
section, resting on a substantial wall of rubble masonry, where
stone can be obtained, or of brick where this material becomes
necessary, which wall should be carried deep enough to be
unaffected by the frosts of winter, and raised one foot at least
above the earth, a wall of rubble or brick being built along the
centre to bear the joists of the floor. The joists should be (3 x
10) framed into the sills so that the top of the floor, when
finished, may be twenty-eight inches, above the earth, giving
four steps to the church, the floor of the sanctuary and sacristy
being one step higher, and both on a level. The corner-posts
should be 8 X 8 pine timber, and four intermediate posts of 4 x
8. under each principal of the roof. The plate on the top should
be 4 x 8, and carried round the whole building except where the
chancel intervenes, and care should be taken that all the scarfs
of this piece of timber should be carefully made. The posts
should all be braced with 4x6 pieces, and the walls studded with
4x4, so that, should it be deemed necessary, in particular
localities, to render the building less susceptible to the
changes of temperature, the inner space may be filled.

The roof should be framed as high as shown on the elevation, with
a slope of 60° with the horizon, in order to obtain greater
height to the interior and greater strength to the truss, with a
collar about midway of the height, but not lower, and curved
braces, resting on hammer beams projecting from the side-walls at
the height of the plate, and a curved brace underneath this beam,
bringing the strain of the truss as low as possible on the
side-walls, but not incommoding the congregation.


 [Image: Front Exterior image of church building.]



 [Image: Floor plan of church building.]


This simple roof should be framed of the best seasoned timber,
4x6 inches scantling, and should be dressed neatly, and, wherever
desired, may be moulded and have chamfered edges, and the
spandrels filled with two-inch tracery.

In the sanctuary should this more especially be done to mark the
distinction of this part of the church. The principals of the
roof should be 10 ft. 3 in. apart from the centres, with rafters
of 2 x 8 laid across the same 2 ft. 6 in. apart, and the plank
covering to be laid neatly with narrow tongued and grooved boards
where it may not be desired to plaster the under side of the
rafters; in case it may be thought advisable to plaster the
ceiling, the plaster should be colored a light blue. The chancel
arch should be struck with a curve from the same centre as the
roof-braces, with the edges of the jambs and soffit chamfered and

The walls plastered up to the plate and floated with two coats
and finished a light, pleasing, and warm color. If means
sufficient warranted, a good cornice neatly moulded should finish
the side-walls and break against the principals of the roof, and
may be of wood or run in plaster.

A label moulding should be run around each door and window, and
in the sanctuary should be enriched whenever possible.

The window over the altar should be two lights wide or more,
filled with good geometrical tracery, like that in the front of
the pattern shown, the side-windows having pointed heads to the
frames and sashes enclosed in segmental heads on the inside. All
the windows should be glazed with plain diamond quarry glass of a
warm color, and where it may be possible, the chancel window
should have enriched borders and the tracery filled with
appropriate symbols.

The front of the chapel has been shown covered with shingles, the
timbers showing the framing prominently, and should be dressed
and the angles chamfered in the manner indicated; the corner-post
that carries the bell-cot should be made in one length, and the
bell-cot sheltered by a roof of considerable projection and
surmounted by a cross, which feature may not inappropriately be
transferred to the gable of the chapel at the option of the
priest. In structures like the one presented, it is a simpler and
at the same time better arrangement to allow the eaves of the
roof to project and to dispense with the gutter, the earth below
being protected by flagging, or a properly graded gravelled
slope. The chimney shown on the plan should be placed in the
position marked, to render the draught more equable; in general,
all other details of the church, such as pews, and a gallery if
needed, and the doors, must be made to accord with the style of
the building, and the painting should be the natural color of the
wood, stained, unless it be sought to grain the roof or color in
bright colors.

In presenting these directions for the builder, many details and
features are omitted which can only be supplied by

This building can be executed for the sum of $3150, the work
being plain but substantial, in accordance with the description.




We learn with much regret that on the 12th of February the
printing establishment of the Abbé Migne, at Mont Rouge, in the
southern suburb of Paris, was totally destroyed by fire. No
particulars of the occurrence have yet been given. The
enterprise, conducted with extraordinary vigor and ability by the
abbé, was unique in the history of publishing. It was founded for
the purpose of supplying books for the Catholic clergy of France
and the whole world. Nearly two thousand volumes, in large
imperial octavo, comprising the whole of the Greek and Latin
fathers of the church, and writers on theology and ecclesiastical
history, were edited, published, and kept constantly in print,
employing a staff of several hundred persons, including literary
men, printers, binders, etc.--_London Publishers' Circular._


_Amaurosis from Tobacco-Smoking._--Mr. Hutchinson has
reported thirty-seven cases of amaurosis, of which he says
thirty-one were among tobacco-smokers. Mr. Hutchinson concludes:

  1. Amongst men, this peculiar form of amaurosis (primary white
  atrophy of the optic nerve) is rarely met, except among

  2. Most of its subjects have been heavy smokers--half an ounce
  to an ounce a day.

  3. It is not associated with any other + affection of the
  nervous system.

  4. Amongst the measures of treatment, the prohibition of
  tobacco ranks first in importance.

  5. The circumstantial evidence tending to connect the affection
  with the habit of tobacco-smoking is sufficient to warrant
  further inquiry into the matter on the part of the
  profession.--_Popular Science Review._


_The New Laboratory at the Sorbonne._--This magnificent
establishment, which is to be devoted to the pursuit of chemical
investigation, seems to provide for the student's wants on even a
more liberal scale than its celebrated rival at Berlin. Besides
the various rooms for researches in chemistry, _pur et
simple_, there are numberless apartments exclusively intended
for investigation in optics, electricity, mechanics, and so
forth. Motive-power is provided for by a steam-engine of great
force, which is connected by means of bands with wheels in the
several laboratories. Again, besides the ordinary pipes carrying
coal-gas, there will be a series of pipes supplying oxygen from
retorts kept constantly at work. Indeed, altogether the new
laboratory will be a species of Elysium for the chemical


_The Bessemer Steel Spectrum._--Father Secchi, who lately
presented to the French Academy his fine memoir on the Stellar
Spectra, compared the spectra of certain yellow stars with the
spectrum produced in the Bessemer "converter" at a certain stage
of the process of manufacture. The employment of the spectroscope
in the preparation of this steel was begun a couple of years
since; but the comparison of the Bessemer spectrum with the
spectrum of the fixed stars has not, so far as we can remember,
been made before. The Bessemer spectrum is best seen when the
iron is completely decarbonized; it contains a great number of
very fine lines, and approaches closely to the spectrum of
_a_ Ononis and _a_ Herculis. The resemblance, no doubt,
is due to the fact that the Bessemer flame proceeds from a great
number of burning metals. The greatest importance attaches to the
analogy pointed out by Father Secchi. Father Secchi suggests that
beginners could not do better than practise on the Bessemer flame
before turning the spectroscope on the stars. Difficult an
instrument to conduct investigations with as the spectroscope
undoubtedly is, the difficulty almost becomes perplexity when the
student tries to examine stellar spectra.



         New Publications.

  Count Lucanor; or, The Fifty Pleasant Stories of Patronio.
  Written by the Prince Don Juan, A.D. 1335-1347.
  First done into English, from the Spanish,
  by James York, Doctor of Medicine, 1868:
  Basil Montague Pickering, Piccadilly,
  in the City of Westminster.
  For sale at the Catholic Publication House,
  126 Nassau Street, New-York.

Mr. Pickering seems to revel in literary oddities. His book on
the _Pilgrim's Progress_ was quaint enough, and this volume
is scarcely behind it in any of its queer qualities. A more
totally _foreign_ book we do not remember ever seeing. In
style, idiom, turn of thought, everything, it is remote, _toto
caelo_, from all the ideas and criteria of English and modern
criticism. Its publication strikes us as being a remarkably bold
stroke; we cannot imagine for what class of readers it could have
been intended. The only market we could conceive of for such a
work in this country, would be a class of Mr. George Ticknor's,
if he were to have one, in Spanish archaeology. In Spanish, and
as Spanish, we should think it would prove most interesting; even
though the translation is intensely Iberian, both in structure
and thought.

The "Fifty Pleasant Stories" are very simple as to the machinery,
so to speak, of the telling of them. "Count Lucanor" throughout
the book asks advice of his friend Patronio, stating his case,
and being responded to with a story. Who Count Lucanor may have
been is a mystery for ever. The book shows him to posterity only
as a Spanish gentleman of apparent consequence, whose forte, as
poor Artemus Ward would say, seems to have been to fall into
difficulties and ask advice of Patronio. This gentleman appears
as a sort of Don Abraham Lincoln, or Señor Tom Corwin, rather.
Every question instantly and irresistibly reminds him of "a
little story, you know," etc., etc. This is all of their history.
What the end of a man must have been who answered every question
with an anecdote, we can only shudderingly decline to conjecture.
Whether the gallant Count Lucanor sportively ran him through the
body after one story too many some roystering day; whether he
went mad when the stories gave out, or whether death interrupted
him in a sage narrative, with his sapient hand button-holing the
count's doublet, it is not said.

There is a world of dry, old-world, dusty, aged pithiness about
the stories. They are generally very fairly to the point, and
often full of the peculiar patness so characteristic of Sancho
Panza. The most remarkable thing about the book, though, is the
really large number of apparent originals it contains. In it are
gems of all manner of precepts and principles that others have
amplified into poetry, and tragedy, and novels, and almost
everything. Still, we cannot call this more than a seeming
originality, because directly alongside of a tale we are
surprised to trace in Shakespeare, or La Fontaine, (a principal
debtor to Count Lucanor,) or some other admired author, we are as
likely to find some story so aged, so thread-bare, so worn and
torn and sapless with the use of centuries, that one is tempted
to refer it back to the year 1. Several of the tales are taken
from the _Arabian Nights_, and Don Juan Manuel generally
modernized them (?) to suit the enlightened Castilian and
anti-Moorish tastes of A.D. 1335, The old, old story of
Alnaschar, for instance, is dished up as "What happened to a
Woman called Pruhana," and the note to the story quietly goes on
to the original original, (skipping old Alnaschar with a word as
a mere junior copy,) namely, "the fifth part of the _Pantcha
Pantra_," which, all will be charmed to learn, is entitled
"Aparickchita Kariteva," which latter an Irish friend translates,
"Much good may it do ye," and our annotator "Inconsiderate
We will not quote the intensely thrilling narrative of this
Hindoo classic, but content ourselves with assuring our readers,
on our honor as a Brahmin, that the point is identically the

One of the best examples of the characteristic aptness of the
book is Chapter vii.--"The Invisible Cloth." Count Lucanor's
quandary is all of a man who offered the count great advantages
if he would trust absolutely in him and in no one else. Three
impostors (we condense the good Patronio mercilessly) come to a
king as weavers of a peculiar cloth that no man but a legitimate
son of his father could see; to any one with even a secret taint
upon his authenticity it was utterly invisible. The king,
delighted with this test of so interesting and gossipable a
matter, shuts them up in his palace to make the cloth, furnishing
them rich raw material of all sorts. After some days the king is
invited alone to see the wonderful woof. King-like, the king
sends his chamberlain first. The chamberlain, trembling for his
pedigree, opens his mind's eye, sees the cloth distinctly, and
returns full of its praises. The king goes next, can't see it
either, is terrified for his title to his throne, and decides to
see it also; does see it, and admires it extravagantly. Finding
it still rather puzzling, he sends his Superintendent Kennedy
(_alguacil_) to work up the case. This functionary, likewise
failing to see it, and fearing supersedure by the senior
inspector of police, makes up his mind that the king's eyes are
good enough for him, and, through them, sees it too. Next a
councillor goes to report, and, like a true councilman as he is,
honors his father and mother by seeing it in the same light as
the powers that be. Finally, for some one of the three hundred
and sixty-five extraordinary feast-days of Spain, the king orders
a suit of the invisible cloth, doesn't dare not to see it, and
rides forth among his leal subjects in a costume strikingly like
that famous fatigue uniform of the Georgia cavalry, that we used
to hear so much of during the war. His people generally, out of
respect to their parents, submit to the optical illusion, till,
finally, a Spanish citizen of African descent, "having (says
Patronio--not we) nothing to lose, came to him and said: 'Sire,
to me it matters not whose son I am; therefore, I tell you that
you are riding without any clothes.'" The result is a general
opening of eyes, a sudden change of tailors, it is hoped, by the
king, and the disappearance of the weavers with the rich raw
material. Moral (slightly condensed from one page of
Patronio)--"Don't Trust."

"James York, Doctor of Medicine," has wasted valuable medical
time in translating this, with a good deal of fidelity to the
spirit of the Spanish. His style really does render much of its
quaintness; as much, perhaps, as today's English will hold in
solution. He is also very fairly fortunate with certain small
mottoes, or couplets, which close each story, prefaced thus, with
slight variations: "And Don Juan, (another utterly mystical
character, who does nothing but what follows,) also seeing that
it was a good example, wrote it in this book, and made these
lines, which say as follows:

  'Who counsels thee to secrecy with friends,
   Seeks to entrap thee for his own base ends.'"
                 (Chapter vii., above given.)'

The notes appended to each story are as odd, many of them, as the
stories. Generally, they are little more than notes of
admiration, but often brief _excursuses_, showing quite a
varied range of reading, and full of all manner of reconditeness.
These would seem to be mainly Mr. York's, and they do him credit
in spite of their ludicrously high praise now and then.

In the mechanical execution of the volume, Mr. Pickering, we
observe, cleaves to his chosen model, the Aldine press, and so
gives us in great perfection that accurate and studious-looking
print which we all feel we ought to like, and which none of us do
like. For our own part, we frankly own our preference for the
short _s_, and all the modern improvements.
Still, one must bear in mind a thing very obvious in all this
line of publications, that it is expressly to meet and foster a
kind of taste almost unknown in this country, and that the
publisher is evidently carrying out with consistency and energy a
peculiar policy of his own, whose success must at last be the
test of its own merit.

The general American reader will find this a thoroughly curious
book; the lover of cheap learning, a perfect treasure-house of
rather uncommon commonplaces; and the Spanish scholar, "a
genuine, if rugged, piece of ore from that rich mine of early
Spanish literature which yet lies hidden and unwrought."


  Peter Claver: A Sketch of his Life and Labors
  in behalf of the African Slave.
  Boston: Lee & Shepard. 1868.
  For sale at the Catholic Publication House,
  126 Nassau street, New York.

This little book is a brief compendium of the life of a great
saint, who was the apostle of the negro slaves in South America.
Its publication is very timely, as it shows to the
philanthropists of New-England and of the country at large, who
interest themselves so much in behalf of the African race, what
Catholic charity has done and can do in their behalf. We
recommend it to their attention. The Catholic religion, and it
alone, can really and completely meet the wants of this
much-to-be-compassionated portion of mankind. The striking
vignette of this little volume, representing St. Peter Claver
supporting the head of a dying negro, who holds a crucifix
clasped to his dusky bosom, is an expressive emblem of this
truth. It would be an excellent thing if our philanthropists, in
Congress and out of Congress, would get a copy of this very
suggestive photograph framed and hung up in some place where they
are accustomed to say their prayers.


  The Book of Moses; or, The Pentateuch in its
  Authorship, Credibility, AND Civilization.
  By the Rev. W. Smith, Ph.D.
  Volume I. London: Longman, Green & Co. 1868.
  For sale at the Catholic Publication House, New York.

Dr. Smith has given us in this volume the first instalment of an
extensive work on the Pentateuch. The authorship alone is treated
of in this portion of the work. Dr. Smith happily combines
orthodoxy of doctrine with a scientific spirit. He has evidently
studied Egyptology, geology, comparative philology, and other
sciences bearing on sacred science. He has also made himself
familiar with Jewish and Protestant, as well as Catholic
commentators. From a cursory examination, we are inclined to
judge that his great and useful task has been thus far very well
and thoroughly performed, and to expect that it will be completed
in a satisfactory manner. The volume is brought out in the best
style of English typographical art, with fac-similes of ancient
pictures and inscriptions, which add much to its value. We
recommend it to all students of the Holy Scriptures as one of the
most valuable aids to their researches which has yet been
published in the English language.


  Life of St. Catharine of Sienna.
  By Doctor Caterinus Senensis.
  Translated by the Rev. John Fen, in 1609,
  and Reëdited, with a Preface, by Very
  Rev. Father Aylward.
  New York: Catholic Publication Society. 1868.

This biography is a charming one, translated in the inimitable
English idiom of the 17th century. Father Aylward has very
successfully imitated the antiquated style in his valuable
preface. The biography leaves nothing to be desired as a history
of the private, interior life of the saint, though her wonderful
public career is but slightly touched upon. The sketch of it in
Father Aylward's preface induces us to wish that he would add to
the history of Saint Catharine's private life by Caterinus, an
equally complete history of her public life, with translations of
her letters, from his own graceful and devout pen, which would
furnish the English public with one of the best and most valuable
biographies of a truly great and heroic woman to be found in any



  Prayer the Key of Salvation.
  By Michael Müller, C.S.S.R.
  Baltimore: Kelly & Piet. 1868.

This book is an expansion of the excellent work of St. Alphonsus
Liguori on Prayer. The object of it seems to be, to explain the
saint's doctrine and illustrate it by examples, so as to bring it
more within the comprehension of the mass of the people. But we
are sorry to be obliged to say that the execution of the work
does not come up to the idea. Without commenting on the matter,
which is, in general, very good, we are compelled to say that the
style is faulty in the extreme; the sentences are mostly
un-English in their construction, and sometimes so long and
involved that they are hard to understand. It also abounds in
grammatical errors. In short, it is a pity it was not first
thoroughly overlooked and revised by a competent hand before
being allowed to go to press. However much we may desire to
commend this book, we cannot in conscience do so, so long as it
continues in its present dress.


  La Reforme en Italie, les Precurseurs:
  Discours Historiques de César Cantu.
  Traduits de l'Italien par Aniset
  Digard et Edmond Martin.
  Paris: Adrien le Clere, 29 Rue Cassette. 1867.

Caesar Cantu is the author of the best universal history extant,
and of other historical works of the first class. He has
undertaken the task of crushing the destructive pseudo-reformers
of Italy under the weight of his massive historical erudition.
The first volume of the present work, which is the only one yet
published, brings down the subject to the 16th century, and will
be followed by three others. The author is a sound and orthodox
Catholic, yet, as a layman and as a historian, his work has not
the distinctively professional style and spirit which are usually
found in the works of ecclesiastical authors. He is fearless and
free in speaking the historical truth, even when it is
discreditable to ecclesiastical rulers and requires the exposure
of scandals and abuses in the church. His spirit is calm and
impartial, and the theological and ascetical elements are
carefully eliminated. He has gone back to the very origin of
Christianity, in order to trace the course of events from their
beginning, and has traced the outlines of the constitution of
historical Christianity. Church principles and dogmas are,
however, exhibited in a purely historical method, and as
essential portions of the history of facts and events. Such a
writer is terrible to parties whose opinions and schemes cannot
bear the light of history. The whole class of pseudo-reformers,
whether semi-Christian or openly infidel, are of this sort. Cantu
sweeps them off the track of history by the force and weight of
his erudition, as a locomotive tosses the stray cows on the track
of a railway, with broken legs, to linger and die in the meadows
at each side of it. It is only Catholic truth, either in the
supernatural or the natural order, which can bear investigation,
or survive the crucial test of history. The so-called Reformation
retains its hold on the respect of the world only through
ignorance. When history is better and more generally known, it
will be universally admitted that it was not only a great crime,
but a great blunder, a _faux pas_ in human progress.


  The Infant Bridal, and other Poems.
  By Aubrey De Vere. London: MacMillan & Co.

We are glad to see this book, rather for the memories than the
novelties it brings us. Almost all its contents have been
published in the author's other volumes, and there is nothing in
this to alter the opinions, either good or ill, that we took
occasion to express in a former review of them at large. The most
remarkable about the book is the selection of the republished
It only verifies anew the observation that authors, no more than
we of the world, have the giftie to see themselves as others see
them. Some of the best poems are there, and some of the worst.
_The Infant Bridal_ and _The Search for Proserpine_ are
perhaps the very two poorest of all the author's longer
productions. Still, perhaps the many faults we fancy we see in
the tact of the compilation, only come to this--that we ourselves
would have compiled differently, and possibly worse.

But we meet, all over these elegant tinted pages, lines and
beauties that we fondly remember loving of old--fine blank verse,
wonderful descriptions, delicious idyls. These latter, by the
way, are equally remarkable and unremarked. They are from the
same fount with Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus. We cannot resist
giving one extract, from _Glance_, p. 64:

  "Come forth, dear maid, the day is calm and cool,
   And bright though sunless. Like a long green scarf,
   The tall pines, crowning yon gray promontory,
   In distant ether hang, and cut the sea.
   But lovers better love the dell, for there
   Each is the other's world. How indolently
   The tops of those pale poplars, bending, sway
   Over the violet-braided river brim!
   Whence comes this motion? for no wind is heard,
   And the long grasses move not, nor the reeds.
   Here we will sit, and watch the rushes lean
   Like locks, along the leaden-colored stream
   Far off; and thou, O child, shall talk to me
   Of Naiads and their loves."

One more sample of the contents of this volume, and we have said
all there is to say. It is an unusual vein for De Vere, but one
in which, like Tennyson, he engages never lightly and always with
telling success. It is the close of _A Farewell to Naples_,
p. 255:

  "From her whom genius never yet inspired.
   Or virtue raised, or pulse heroic fired;
   From her who, in the grand historic page.
   Maintains one barren blank from age to age;
   From her, with insect life and insect buzz.
   Who, evermore unresting, nothing does;
   From her who, with the future and the past,
   No commerce holds--no structure rears to last.
   From streets where spies and jesters, side by side.
   Range the rank markets and their gains divide;
   Where faith in art, and art in sense is lost.
   And toys and gewgaws form a nation's boast;
   Where passion, from affection's bond cut loose,
   Revels in orgies of its own abuse;
   And appetite, from passion's portals thrust.
   Creeps on its belly to its grave in dust;
   Where vice her mask disdains, where fraud is loud.
   And naught but wisdom dumb, and justice cowed;
   Lastly, from her who planted here unawed,
   'Mid heaven-topped hills and waters bright and broad,
   From these but nerves more swift to err has gained
   And the dread stamp of sanctities profaned;
   And, girt not less with ruin, lives to show
   That worse than wasted weal is wasted woe--
   We part; forth issuing through her closing gate.
   With unreverting faces, not ingrate."

Cannot this book speak better for itself than our good word?


  Folks and Fairies. Stories for little children.
  By Lucy Randall Comfort.
  With engravings. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1868.

Judging, not, however, from perusal,
but from hearsay, we think the pleasure
of Mrs. Comfort's juvenile readers would
be increased if she had given them more
"Folks" and less "Fairies." On the
same high authority we also protest
against some of the engravings, for example,
"Otho returning home," as illustrations
of the text.


         Books Received.

From Leypoldt & Holt, New York:

  Mozart. A Biographical Romance.
  From the German of Heribert Ran.
  By E. R. Sill, 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 323.

  Easy French Reading: Being selections of historical tales and
  anecdotes, arranged with copious foot-notes, containing
  translations of the principal words, a progressive development
  of the form of the verb, designations of the use of
  prepositions and particles, and the idioms of the language. By
  Professor Edward T. Fisher. To which is appended a brief French
  grammar. By C. J. Delille. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 232.

From Kelly & Piet, Baltimore:

  A Catechism of the Vows.
  For the use of persons consecrated to
  God in the religious state.
  By the Rev. Father Peter Cotel, S.J.

From Samuel R. Wells, New York:

  Oratory, Sacred and Secular: or, The Extemporaneous Speaker.
  With sketches of the most eminent speakers of all ages. By
  William Pittenger, author of Daring and Suffering. Introduction
  by Hon. John A. Bingham, and appendix containing a Chairman's
  Guide for conducting public meetings according to the best
  parliamentary models, 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 220.

  Life in the West; or, Stories of the Mississippi Valley.
  By N. C. Meeker, Agricultural Editor
  of the New York Tribune, 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 360.

From Lee & Shepard, Boston:

  Red Cross; or, Young America in England and Wales.
  A story of Travel and Adventure.
  By Oliver Optic,
  1 vol. 12mo, pp. 336.



          The Catholic World.

      Vol. VII., No. 38.--May, 1868.

    Tennyson In His Catholic Aspects.

For a poet eminently modern and English in his modes of thought,
Tennyson is singularly free from the spirit of controversy. His
native land is distracted by religious feuds, yet he who has been
called "the recognized exponent of all the deeper thinkings of
his age," takes no active part in them, and seldom drops a line
that bespeaks the school of theology to which he belongs. At long
intervals, indeed, devout breathings escape him. Once now and
then he extracts a block of dogma from the deep quarry within,
and fixes it in an abiding place. He never scatters doubts
wantonly; he is always on the side of faith, though not perfect
and Catholic faith. He alludes to Christian doctrines as
postulates. For his purpose they need no proof. It would be idle
to prove anything if they were not true. They are the life of the
soul, and the vitality of verse.

  "Fly, happy, happy sails, and bear the press,"

he cries; but he adds this apostrophe likewise:

  "Fly happy with _the mission of the cross_."

			   _The Golden Year._

He looks for the resurrection of the body, and bids the dry dust
of his friend (Spedding) "lie still, _secure of change_."
(_Lines to J. S._) When the spirit quits its earthly frame,
he follows it straight into the unseen world and the presence of
its Creator and God. He points to "the grand old gardener and his
wife" in "yon blue heavens," smiling at the claims of long
descent, (_Lady Clara Vere de Vere;_) and he speeds the soul
of the expiring May Queen toward the blessed home of just souls
and true, there to wait a little while for her mother and Effie:

  "To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast--
   Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest."

				  _The May Queen_.

Intensely as he loves nature, Tennyson is no Pantheist. Though
like the wild Indian, he "sees God in clouds and hears him in the
wind," he does not therefore confound matter with its Maker, nor
lose sight of the personality of the Being whom he adores. He is
no disciple of fate or chance, but recognizes in all human
affairs the working of a divine and retributive providence, whose
final judgment of good and evil is foreshadowed and begun during
our mortal life.
To His presence and promptitude in reply to prayer, he refers
more than once in pathetic and pointed language. He tells us how
Enoch Arden, when cast away on a desert island, heard in his
dream "the pealing of his parish bells," and

    "Though he knew not wherefore, started up
  Shuddering, and when the beauteous, hateful isle
  Returned upon him, had not his poor heart
  Spoken with that, which, being everywhere.
  Lets none who speak with Him seem all alone,
  Surely the man had _died of solitude_."

                                _Enoch Arden._

It would not be difficult for those who are acquainted with
Tennyson's earlier history, to discover the church of which he is
a member, and the section of it whose views he adopts. _In
Memoriam_ takes us into the interior of his father's
parsonage, to the Christmas hearth decorated with laurel, and the
old pastimes in the hall; to the witch-elms and towering
sycamore, whose shadows his Arthur had often found so fair; to
the lawn where they read the Tuscan poets together; and the
banquet in the neighboring summer woods. We almost hear the songs
that then pealed from knoll to knoll, while the happy tenants of
the presbytery lingered on the dry grass till bats went round in
fragrant skies, and the white kine glimmered, couching at ease,
and the trees laid their dark arms about the field. "The merry,
merry bells of Yule," with their silver chime, are referred to
more than once in Tennyson's poems. They seem to be ever ringing
in his ears. They controlled him, he says, in his boyhood, and
they bring him sorrow touched with joy.

It is in singing of Arthur Hallam that the poet's faith in the
immortality of the soul is brought out with beautiful clearness.
The bitterness of his grief draws him to the "comfort clasped in
truth revealed," and he looks forward with hope to the day when
he shall arrive at last at the blessed goal, and He who died in
Holy Land shall reach out the shining hand to him and his lost
friend, and take them "as a single soul." (_In Memoriam_,

From the verses addressed to the Rev. F. D. Maurice, (January,
1854.) we learn that one of Tennyson's children claims that
gentleman as his godfather, and we gather from it and other
poems, what all the Laureate's friends know, that his sympathies
are with the _Broad Church_, of which Mr. Maurice, Kingsley,
Temple, the Bishop of London, and Dr. Stanley are distinguished
leaders. It is one of the peculiarities of this school to
moderate the torments of the lost and to deny that they are
eternal, to hope that good will in some way be the final goal of
ill, and that every winter will at last change to spring. It
cannot be disputed that this teaching is at variance with
Catholic doctrine; but it is one which Tennyson puts forward with
singular modesty, describing himself as

   "An infant crying in the night;
    An infant crying for the light;
  And with no language but a cry."

                  _In Memoriam_, liii.

The _Broad Church_, as its name implies, professes large and
liberal views. Not wishing to be tried by too strict a standard
itself, it repudiates all harsh judgments on others. Accordingly,
we find in Tennyson few allusions to errors, real or supposed, in
the creed of others. He regards as sacred whatever links the soul
to a divine truth. He has many friends who are Catholics, and we
have heard that he has expressed sincere anxiety to publish
nothing relative to the Catholic religion calculated to give
offence to its followers.
There are few lines in his volumes which grate on the most pious
ear, and no devout breathings in which we do not cordially join.
It is in one of his earlier poems, and only in sport, that he
makes the Talking Oak tell of--

  "Old summers, when the monk was fat,
     And, issuing shorn and sleek,
   Would twist his girdle tight, and pat
     The girls upon the cheek,
   Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's pence,
     And numbered bead, and shrift.
   Bluff Harry broke into the spence,
     And turned the cowls adrift."

In conning his verse, therefore, the Catholic mind is at ease; it
lights on no charges to be repelled, and (so far as we know,
after long and close study of every line he has published) no
mistakes regarding our faith which require to be rectified. There
are those who imagine that in _St. Simeon Stylites_, he has
wilfully misrepresented the character of a Catholic saint; but we
venture to entertain a more lenient opinion, and shall endeavor
presently to justify it. It is in a tone of irony, such as we
must admire, that he describes the "heated pulpiteer in chapel,
not preaching simple Christ to simple men," but fulminating
"against the scarlet woman and her creed," and swinging his arms
violently, as if he held the apocalyptic millstone, while he
predicts the speedy casting of great Babylon into the sea.
(_Sea Dreams_.) Nor are there wanting points of contact
between Tennyson's ideas on religious matters and some of those
dwelt on by Catholic divines. Thus he, like Dr. Newman, finds the
arguments for the existence of God drawn from the power and
wisdom discoverable in the works of nature, cold and inconclusive
in comparison with that one which arises from the voice of
conscience and the feelings of the heart. The cxxiiid section of
_In Memoriam_ runs singularly parallel with this beautiful
passage in the _Apologia_, (p. 377:)

  "Were it not for this voice, speaking so clearly in my
  conscience and my heart, I should be an atheist, or a pantheist
  or a polytheist, when I looked into the world. ... I am far
  from denying the real force of the arguments in proof of a God,
  drawn from the general facts of human society; but these do not
  warm me or enlighten me; they do not take away the winter of my
  desolation, or make the buds unfold and the leaves grow within
  me, and my moral being rejoice."

The arguments adduced by infidels, in support of their unbelief,
have never been rebutted in verse more cleverly than by Tennyson.
His blade flashes like lightning, and severs with as fine a
stroke as Saladin's scimitar. _The Two Voices_ may be cited
in proof, and also the following passages in the matchless elegy
on Arthur Hallam:

  The Fates not blind,           (_In Memoriam_)  iii.

  Life shall live for evermore.  (_In Memoriam_)  xxxiv.

  If Death were death, love
    would not be true love,      (_In Memoriam_)  xxxv.

  Individuality defies the tomb, (_In Memoriam_)  xlvi.

  Immortality,                   (_In Memoriam_)  liv. lv.

  Doubt issuing in belief.       (_In Memoriam_)  xcv.

  Knowledge without wisdom.      (_In Memoriam_)  cxiii.

  Progress,                      (_In Memoriam_)  cxvii.

  We are not all matter.         (_In Memoriam_)  cxix.

  The course of human things,    (_In Memoriam_)  cxxvii

These verses are no doubt the record of a mental conflict carried
on during some years of the author's earlier life--a battle
between materialism and spiritualism, between faith and unbelief,
reason and sense. The _Two Voices_ is philosophy singing, as
_In Memoriam_ is philosophy in tears. The _English
Cyclopaedia_ well calls the last poem "wonderful," and adds:
"In no language, probably, is there another series of elegies so
deep, so metaphysical, so imaginative, so musical, and showing
such impassioned, abnormal, and solemnizing affection for the

But it is now time to point to those passages in which Tennyson
may be said to have, more particularly, Catholic aspects. Be they
few or many, they are worth noticing, even though they prove
nothing but that a Protestant poet of the highest order has such
aspects, intense, striking, and lovely in no ordinary degree.
Every true poet is in a certain sense a divine creation, and
nothing but a celestial spark could ignite a Wordsworth, a
Longfellow, or an Emerson. It has ever been the delight of the
ancient church and her writers to discover portions of her truth
among those who are separated from her visible pale. Far from
grudging them these precious fragments, she only wishes they were
less scanty, and would willingly add to them till they reached
the full measure of the deposit of the faith. It would be easy to
make out a complete cycle of her doctrine in faith and morals
from the poems of Protestant and Mohammedan authors, but it would
be only by combining extracts from many who, in matters of
belief, differ widely from each other. In looking through the
Laureate's volumes for traces of the church's teaching, we are in
a special manner struck by his treatment of the invocation of the
departed. With what deep feeling does he invite the friend, who
is the subject of his immortal elegy, to be near him when his
light is low, when pain is at its height, when life is fading
away. (_In Memoriam_, xlix.) It reminds us of good Dr.
Johnson's prayer for the "attention and ministration" of his lost
wife, as Boswell has given it us. Can any Catholic express more
fully than the Laureate the frame of mind becoming those who
desire that the departed should still be near them at their side?
(_In Memoriam,_ 1.)

  "How pure at heart and _sound in head_,
     _With what divine affections bold_.
     Should be the man whose thoughts would hold
   An hour's communion with the dead.

  "In vain shall thou, or any, call
    The spirits from their golden day,
    Except, like them, thou too canst say,
   My spirit is at peace with all.

  "They haunt the silence of the breast,
    Imaginations calm and fair,
    The memory like a cloudless air,
  The conscience as a sea at rest.

  "But when the heart is full of din,
    _And doubt beside the portal waits_.
    They can but listen at the gates.
  And hear the household jar within."

                          _In Memoriam_, xciii.

"If I can," says the dying May Queen in _New Year's Eve_--

  "If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;
   Though you'll not see me, mother, _I shall look upon your face_;
   Though I cannot speak a word, _I shall hearken what you say_,
   _And be often, often with you, when you think I'm far away._"

It is not, therefore, in a vague and dreamy way, but with the
full force of the understanding, that Tennyson invokes the
spirits in their place of rest. It is not merely as a poet, but
as a Christian, that he exclaims:

  "Oh! therefore, from thy sightless range,
    With gods in unconjectured bliss.
    Oh  from the distance of the abyss
  Of tenfold, complicated change,

  "Descend, and touch, and enter: hear
    The wish too strong for words to name;
    That in the blindness of the frame
  My ghost may feel that thine is near."

                           _In Memoriam_, xcii.

We say "as a Christian;" for we warmly repudiate the harsh
interpretation which is often put on his words addressed to the
Son of God:

  "Thou _seemest_ human and divine,
    The highest, holiest manhood thou."

"See," it is said, "this is the most you can get from your
favorite about Christ--that he _seems_ divine. It is an
appearance, a semblance only." Now, this reasoning is most
unfair. The remainder of the verse implies his godhead--

  "Our wills are ours, we know not how;
    Our wills are ours, _to make them thine._"

The verses which follow are a prayer to Christ, imploring from
him light and aid, wisdom and forgiveness. (Prefatory lines to
_In Memoriam_)
In fact, it is evident from other parts of Tennyson's elegy, that
he does not use the word _seem_ in the sense of appearing to
be what a thing is _not_, but in the sense of its appearing
to be _what it is_. Thus, in the fifth stanza, below the
lines just quoted, we have--

  "Forgive what _seemed_ my sin in me;
    What _seemed_ my worth since I began;
    For merit lives from man to man,
  And not from man, O Lord! to thee."

So again, _In Memoriam_, xxxiii.,

  "O thou that after toil and storm,
    May'st _seem_ to have reached a purer air;"

where "_seem_ to have reached" is equivalent to "thou who
_hast_ reached," with that delicate shade of difference only
which belongs to Greek rather than to English diction. Thus the
verb [Greek text] is repeatedly used in the New Testament as an
expletive, not meaningless to the ear, though adding no distinct
idea which can be expressed in a single word, [Greek text], (St.
Matt. iii. 9,) means to all intents, simply, "Say not in
yourselves," and [Greek text] (Gal. ii. 9) means, "who were
really the pillars they seemed to be." Such passages, it is true,
prove nothing as to Tennyson's use of the word _seem_, but
they do illustrate it. The perfect godhead of Christ is brought
out fully in the sermon preached by Averill in _Aylmer's
Field_. "The Lord from heaven, born of a village girl,
carpenter's son," is there styled in the prophet's words,
"Wonderful, Prince of Peace, the Mighty God."

When the Laureate prays that his very worth may be forgiven, he
employs the language of deep humility which meets us so
constantly in the writings of Catholic saints. It reminds us of
their prayers to the Father of Lights that the best they have
ever done may be pardoned, that their tears may be washed, their
myrrh incensed, their spikenard's scent perfumed, and their
breathings after God fumigated. It is no shallow view that he
takes of repentance when he makes Queen Guinevere ask:

  "What is true repentance but in thought--
   Not e'en in inmost thought to think again
   The sins that made the past so pleasant to us?"

                              _Idylls of the King._

He has been accused of making St. Simeon Stylites a
self-righteous saint. That he makes him ambitious of saintdom is
true, but this hope which he "will not cease to grasp," is
fostered by no sense of his own merits, but, on the contrary,
springs from the deepest possible conviction of his unworthiness.
He describes himself as

                   "The basest of mankind,
  From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin,
  Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet
  For troops of devils mad with blasphemy."

He proclaims from his pillar, his "high nest of penance,"

  "That Pontius and Iscariot by _his_ side
   Showed like fair seraphs."

He details, indeed, in language strikingly intense, his
sufferings, prayers, and penances; but he disclaims all praise on
account of them, and ascribes all his patience to the divine
bounty. He does not breathe or "whisper any murmur of complaint,"
while he tells how his teeth

  "Would chatter with the cold, and all his beard
   Was tagged with icy fringes in the moon;"

how his "thighs were rotted with the dew;" and how

  "For many weeks about his loins he wore
   The rope that haled the buckets from the well.
   Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose;"

yet the climax of it all is, "Have mercy, mercy: take away my

The Catholic aspects in _St. Agnes' Eve_ and _Sir
Galahad_, are no less marked than those of _St. Simeon
As a devout breathing of a dying nun, the first of these poems is
touching and exquisite. The snows lie deep on the convent-roof,
and the shadows of its towers "slant down the snowy sward," while
she prays and says:

  "As these white robes are soiled and dark.
     To yonder shining ground;
   As this pale taper's earthly spark,
     To yonder argent round;
   So shows my soul before the Lamb,
     My spirit before Thee;
   So in mine earthly house I am,
     To that I hope to be."

All heaven bursts its "starry floors," the gates roll back, the
heavenly Bridegroom waits to welcome and purify the sister's
departing soul. The vision dilates. It is mysteriously
vague--mysteriously distinct:

  "The sabbaths of eternity.
     One sabbath deep and wide--
   A light upon the shining sea--
     The Bridegroom with his bride!"

There is in such verse an indescribably Catholic tone. It is like
the heavenly music of faith, which pervades the _Paradise_
of Dante, and which (in spite of the lax lives of the authors)
runs through the "Sacred Songs" of Moore, and the _Epistle of
Eloisa_, and _The Dying Christian's Address to his Soul_,
by Pope. But if Tennyson has proved equal to portraying a
Catholic saint, he has also depicted most graphically a Catholic
knight of romance. Sir Galahad, one of the ornaments of King
Arthur's court, (_Idylls of the King_., p. 213,) whose

    "strength is as the strength of ten,
  Because his heart is pure,"

goes in quest of the Sangreal--the sacred wine. He hears the
noise of hymns amid the dark stems of the forest, sees in vision
the snowy altar-cloth with swinging censers and "silver vessels
sparkling clean." He sails, in magic barks, on "lonely mountain
meres," and catches glimpses of angels with folded feet "in
stoles of white," bearing the holy grail.

  "Ah! blessed vision! _blood of God!_
     My spirit beats her mortal bars.
   As down dark tides the glory slides,
     And star-light mingles with the stars. ...
   So pass I hostel, hall, and grange.
     By bridge and ford, by park and pale.
   All armed I ride, whate'er betide.
     Until I find the holy grail."

                        _Poems_, p. 336.

A Catholic aspect may sometimes be observed in a single word.
"And so thou lean on our fair father Christ," (_Idylls,
Guinevere_, p. 254,) may perhaps sound strange to some ears,
and is familiar to Catholics only. "He alone is our inward life,"
says Dr. Newman, speaking of Christ; "He not only regenerates us,
but (to allude to a higher mystery) _semper gignit_; he is
ever renewing our new birth and our heavenly sonship. In this
sense he may be called, _as in nature so in grace, our real
Father_." (_Letter to Dr. Pusey_, p. 89.) Hence, in the
Litany of the Holy Name we say, "Jesu, _Pater_ futuri
seculi," and "Jesu, _Pater_ pauperum."

The Catholic who well understands his own faith will always be
very scrupulous about disturbing that of others. If there is
anything abhorrent to him, "it is the scattering doubt and
unsettling consciences without necessity." (_Newman's
Apologia_, p. 344.) There is a well-known poem in _In
Memoriam_, (xxxiii.,) which admirably illustrates this
feeling. We quote but one verse, as the reader's memory will no
doubt supply the rest.

  "Leave thou thy sister, when she prays,
     Her early heaven, her happy views;
     Nor thou with shadowed hint confuse
   A life that leads melodious ways."

The theory and practice of the wisest Catholics conform to the
spirit and letter of this injunction. Their devotional life, too,
is perfectly reflected in Tennyson whenever he writes of prayer.
There is a depth of feeling in his expressions on this subject
which reaches to the fact that prayer is the truest
religion--that it is the link which unites man more closely to
his Creator than any outward acts, any meditations, any professed
creed, and is the spring and current of religious life.

  _Prayer_ from a living source within the will,
  And beating up through all the bitter world,
  Like fountains of sweet water in the sea,
  Kept him a living soul"

                        _Enoch Arden_, p. 44.

  "Thrice blest _whose lives are faithful prayers_.
     Whose loves in higher love endure:
     What souls possess themselves so pure?
   Or is there blessedness like theirs?"

                         _In Memoriam_, xxxii.

Thus again, in the _Morte d'Arthur_, which was a forecast of
_The Idylls of the King_, we are reminded of the efficacy of
prayer in language worthy of being put into a Catholic's lips:

  "Pray for my soul. _More things are wrought by prayer_
   _Than this world dreams of_. Wherefore, let thy voice
   Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
   For what are men better than sheep or goats.
   That nourish a blind life within the brain,
   If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
   Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
   _For so the whole round earth is every way
   Bound by gold chains about the feet of God._"

In the following lines, on the rarity of repentance, there is a
reference to the coöperation of human will with divine grace,
which equals the precision of a Catholic theologian:

  "Full seldom _does_ a man repent, or _use_
   _Both grace and will_ to pick the vicious quitch
   _Of blood and custom_ wholly out of him.
   And make all clean, and plant himself afresh."

                     _Idylls of the King_, p. 93.

In the same poem we find lines of a distinctly Catholic tone on
the repentant queen's entering a convent, and on a knight who had
long been the tenant of a hermitage. Guinevere speaks as follows:

  "So let me, _if you do not shudder at me_,
   Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you;
   Wear black and white, and be a nun like you;
   Fast with your fasts, _not feasting with your feasts_;
   Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys.
   _Bid not rejoicing_; mingle with your rites;
   Pray and be prayed for; _lie before your shrines_;
   Do each low office of your holy house;
   Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole
   To poor sick people, richer in his eyes
   Who ransomed us, and haler, too, than I;
   And treat their loathsome hurts, and heal mine own;
   And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer
   The sombre close of that voluptuous day
   Which wrought the ruin of my lord the king."

                   _Idylls of the King_, p. 260.

The hermitage is thus described:

               "There lived a knight
  Not far from Camelot, now for forty years
  A hermit, _who had prayed, labored, and prayed_.
  And ever laboring had scooped himself
  In the white rock a chapel and a hall
  On massive columns, like a shorecliff cave.
  And cells and chambers: all were fair and dry."

                     _Idylls of the King_, p. 168.

Among Tennyson's earlier poems, the picture of Isabel, "the
perfect wife," with her "_hate of gossip parlance, and of
sway_," her

            "locks not wide dispread.
  Madonna-wise on either side her head;
  Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign
    The summer calm of golden charity;"


  "Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, but fed
     With the clear-pointed flame of chastity,"

                               _Poems_, pp. 7, 8,

is worthy of a Catholic matron. The description of St. Stephen,
in _The Two Voices_, has all the depth and pathos of the
poet's happiest mood; and, though neither it, nor some other
passages which have been quoted, contain anything distinctively
Catholic as opposed to other forms of Christianity, it is
strongly marked with those orthodox instincts to which we are
drawing attention:

  "I cannot hide that some have striven,
   _Achieving calm_, to whom was given
   The joy that mixes man with heaven;
   Who, rowing hard against the stream,
   Saw distant gates of Eden gleam.
   And did not dream it was a dream;
   But heard, by secret transport led,
   E'en in the charnels of the dead,
   The murmur of the fountain-head--
   Which did accomplish their desire,
   Bore and forbore, and did not tire;
   Like Stephen, an unquenched fire,
   He heeded not reviling tones.
   Nor sold his heart to idle moans.
   Though cursed, and scorned, and bruised with stones;
   But looking upward, full of grace.
   He prayed, and from a happy place
   God's glory smote him on the face."

                        _Poems_, p. 299.


We are anxious not to appear to lay undue stress on these
extracts. Let them go for as much as they are worth, and no more.
We do not stretch them on any Procrustean bed to the measure of
orthodox. Others might be adduced, of a latitudinarian tendency,
but they are few in number, and do not neutralize the force of
these. In view of many passages in Shakespeare of a Catholic
bearing, and of several facts favorable to the belief that he was
a Catholic, M. Rio has come to the probably sound conclusion that
he really was what he himself wishes to prove him. We put no such
forced interpretation on our extracts from Tennyson as M. Rio has
certainly put on many which he has brought forward from the
Elizabethan poet; but we think that they are sufficiently cast in
a Catholic mould to warrant us in applying to Tennyson the words
which Carlyle has used in reference to his predecessor:
"Catholicism, with and against feudalism, but not against nature
and her bounty, gave us English a Shakespeare and era of
Shakespeare, and so produced _a blossom of Catholicism_."
(_French Revolution_, vol. i. 10.)

But religion, as we have said, does not occupy a prominent place
in Tennyson's pages. He is, in the main, like the great
dramatist--a poet of this world. Love and women are his favorite
themes, but love within the bounds of law, and woman strongly
idealized. License finds in him no apologist, while he throws
around purity and fidelity all the charms of song. The most rigid
moralist can find nothing to censure in his treatment of the
guilty love of Lancelot and Guinevere, the wedded love of Enid
and Geraint, the meretricious love of Vivien, and the unrequited
love of Elaine. If Milton had, as he intended, [Footnote 43]
chosen King Arthur as the subject of his epic, he could not have
taken a higher moral tone than Tennyson has in the _Idylls of
the King_, and, considering how lax were his notions about
marriage, it is probable he would have taken a lower one.

    [Footnote 43: See his _Mansas_, and Life, by Toland, p.

King Arthur's praise of honorable courtship and conjugal faith is
too long to be quoted here, but it may be referred to as equally
eloquent and edifying. (_Idylls of the King_.)

The Laureate has learned at least one secret of making a great
name--not to write too much. "I hate many books," wrote Père
Lacordaire. "The capital point is, to have an aim in life, and
deeply to respect posterity by sending it but a small number of
well-meditated works." This has been Tennyson's rule. With six
slender volumes he has built himself an everlasting name. He has,
till within the last few months, seldom contributed to
periodicals, and when he has done so, the price paid for his
stanzas seems fabulous. The estimation in which he is held by
critics of a high order amounts, in many cases, to a passion and
a worship. The specimen he has given of a translation of the
_Iliad_ promises for it, if completed, all that Longfellow
has wrought for the _Divina Commedia_. The attempts he has
made at _Alcaics, Hendecasyllabics_, and _Galliambics_
in English have been thoroughly successful, and stamp him as an
accomplished scholar. (_Boädicea_, etc., in _Enoch Arden
and other Poems_.) As he does not write much, so neither does
he write fast. The impetuous oratory of Shakespeare's and Byron's
verse is unknown to him. He never affects it. He reminds us
rather of the operations of nature, who slowly and calmly, but
without difficulty, produces her marvellous results.
Drop by drop his immortal poems are distilled, like the
chalybeate droppings which leave at length on the cavern floor a
perfect red and crystal stalagmite. "Day by day," says the
_National Review_, when speaking on this subject--"day by
day, as the hours pass, the delicate sand falls into beautiful
forms, in stillness, in peace, in brooding." "The particular
power by which Mr. Tennyson surpasses all recent English poets,"
writes the _Edinburgh Review_, "is that of sustained
perfection. ... We look in vain among his modern rivals for any
who can compete with him in the power of saying beautifully the
thing he has to say."

  O degli altri poeti onore e lume,
  Vagliami 'l lungo studio e 'l grande amore
  Che m' han fatto cercar lo tuo volume. [Footnote 44]

    [Footnote 44: _L Inferno_, i. 82.]

During a long period, the originality of Tennyson's verse was an
obstacle to its fame, and indeed continues to be so in the minds
of some readers. His use of obsolete words appears to many
persons affected, while others applaud him for his vigorous
Saxon, believing, with Dean Swift, that the Saxon element in our
compound tongue should be religiously preserved, and that the
writers and speakers who please us most are those whose style is
most Saxon in its character. If Tennyson has modelled his verse
after any author, it is undoubtedly Shakespeare, and the traces
of this study may perhaps be found in his vocabulary. Yet no man
is less of a plagiarist; not only his forms of thought but of
language also are original, and though he owes much to the early
dramatists, to Wordsworth and to Shelley, he fuses all metals in
the alembic of his own mind, and turns them to gold. His love of
nature is intense, and his observation of her works is
microscopic. Yet he is never so occupied with details as to lose
sight of broad outlines. In 1845, Wordsworth spoke of him as
"decidedly the first of our living poets;" but since that time
his fame has been steadily on the increase. Many of his lines
have passed into proverbs, and a crowd of feebly fluttering
imitators have vainly striven to rival him on the wing. What the
people once called a weed has grown into a tall flower, wearing a
crown of light, and flourishing far and wide. (_The Flower.
Enoch Arden_, etc., p. 152.) A concordance to _In
Memoriam_ has been published, and the several editions of the
Laureate's volumes have been collated as carefully as if they
were works of antiquity. Every ardent lover of English poetry is
familiar with Mariana, "in the lonely moated grange;" the good
Haroun Alraschid among his obelisks and cedars; Oriana wailing
amid the Norland whirlwinds; the Lady Shalott in her "four gray
walls and four gray towers;" the proud Lady Clara Vere de Vere;
the drowsy Lotos-Eaters; the chaste and benevolent Godiva; Maud
in her garden of "woodbine spices;" the true love of the Lord of
Burleigh, and the reward of honest Lady Clare. The highest praise
of these ballads is that they have sunk into the nation's heart.
They combine the chief excellences of other bards, and remind us
of some delicious fruit which unites in itself a variety of the
most exquisite flavors. This richness and sweetness may be
ascribed in part to that remarkable condensation of thought which
enriches one page of Tennyson with as many ideas and images as
would, in most other poets, be found scattered over two or three
pages. "We must not expect," wrote Shenstone in one of his
essays, "to trace the flow of Waller, the landskip of Thomson,
the fire of Dryden, the imagery of Shakespeare, the simplicity of
Spenser, the courtliness of Prior, the humor of Swift, the wit of
Cowley, the delicacy of Addison, the tenderness of Otway, and the
invention, the spirit, and sublimity of Milton, joined in any
single writer." Perhaps not.
But Shenstone had never read Tennyson, and there is no knowing
what he might have thought if he had conned the calm majesty of
_Ulysses_; the classical beauty of _Tithonus_ and the
_Princess_; the luxuriant eloquence of _Locksley Hall_;
the deep lyrical flow of _The Letters_ and _The
Voyage_; the _'cute_ drollery of the _Northern
Farmer_; the idyllic sweetness of _OEnone_; the grandeur
of _Morte d'Arthur_; the touching simplicity of _Enoch
Arden_; the power and pathos of _Aylmer's Field_; the
perfect minstrelsy of the _Rivulet_, and the songs, _O
Swallow, Swallow_, and _Tears, Idle Tears_; and the
sharps and trebles of the _Brook_, more musical than

Far be it from us to carp at any poetry because it proceeds from
one who is not a Catholic. We believe, indeed, firmly that, if
Tennyson had been imbued with the ancient faith, it would have
cleared some vagueness both from his mind and his verse. But in
these days, when Socinianism, positivism, and free-thinking in
various shapes are taking such strong hold of educated men, we
rejoice unfeignedly to find popular writings marked, even in an
imperfect degree, with Christian doctrine and feeling. The
influence exerted by the Laureate in the world of letters is
great, and we have, therefore, endeavored at some length to show
how far it is favorable, and how far unfavorable, to the cause of
truth. Though unhappily not a Catholic, we recognize with delight
the fact that he is not an infidel, and we feel persuaded that
some at least of our readers will be pleased at our having placed
in a prominent point of view the redeeming features in the
religious character of his poetry.



  When, fixed in righteous wrath, a nation's eye
  Torments some crowned tormentor with just hate.
  Nor threat nor flattery can that gaze abate;
  Unshriven the unatoning years go by;
  For as that starry archer in the sky
  Unbends not his bright bow, though early and late
  The syren sings, and folly weds with fate,
  Even so that constellated destiny
  Which keeps fire-vigil in a night-black heaven,
  Upon the countenance of the doomed looks forth
  Consentient with a nation's gaze on earth:
  To the twinned powers a single gaze is given;
  The earthly fate reveals the fate on high--
  A brazen serpent raised, that says, not "live," but "die."

                                  Aubrey de Vere.



         Professor Draper's Books. [Footnote 45]

    [Footnote 45:
    1. _Human Physiology, Statical and Dynamical;
       or, Conditions and Course of the Life of Man_.
       By J. W. Draper, M.D., LL.D., Professor of Chemistry
       and Physiology in the University of New York.
       New York: Harper & Brothers. 1856. 8vo, pp. 649.

    2. _History of the Intellectual Development of Europe_.
       By the same. Fifth edition. 1867. 8vo, pp. 628

    3. _Thoughts on the Civil Policy of America_.
       By the same. Third edition. 1867. 8vo, pp. 323.

    4. _History of the American Civil War_.
       By the same. In three volumes.
       Vol. I. 1867. 8vo, pp. 567.]

Professor Draper's works have had, and are having, a very rapid
sale, and are evidently very highly esteemed by that class of
readers who take an interest, without being very profoundly
versed, in the grave subjects which he treats. He is, we believe,
a good chemist and a respectable physiologist. His work on Human
Physiology, we have been assured by those whose judgment in such
matters we prefer to our own, is a work of real merit, and was,
when first published, up to the level of the science to which it
is devoted. We read it with care on its first appearance, and the
impression it left on our mind was, that the author yields too
much to the theory of chemical action in physiology, and does not
remember that man is the union of soul and body, and that the
soul modifies, even in the body, the action of the natural laws;
or rather, that the physiological laws of brute matter, or even
of animals, cannot be applied to man without many important
reserves. The Professor, indeed, recognizes, or says he
recognizes, in man a rational soul, or an immaterial principle;
but the recognition seems to be only a verbal concession, made to
the prejudices of those who have some lingering belief in
Christianity, for we find no use for it in his physiology. All
the physiological phenomena he dwells on he explains without it,
that is, as far as he explains them at all. Whatever his personal
belief may be, his doctrine is as purely materialistic as is Mr.
Herbert Spencer's, which explains all the phenomena of life by
the mechanical, chemical, and electrical changes and combinations
of matter.

It is due to Professor Draper to say, that in this respect he
only sins in common with the great body of modern physiologists.
Physiology--indeed, all the inductive sciences--have been for a
long time cast in a materialistic mould, and men of firm faith,
and sincere and ardent piety, are materialists, and, therefore,
atheists, the moment they enter the field of physical science,
and deny in their science what they resolutely affirm and would
die for in their faith. Hence the quarrel between the theologians
and the _savans_. The _savans_ have not reconciled
their so-called science with the great theological truths,
whether of reason or revelation, which only the fool doubts, or
in his heart denies. This proves that our physicists have made
far less progress in the sciences than they are in the habit of
boasting. That cannot be true in physiology which is false in
theology; and a physiology that denies all reality but matter, or
finds no place in it for God and the human soul, is no true
physiological science. The physiologist has far less evidence of
the existence of matter than I have of the existence of spirit;
and it is only by spirit that the material is apprehensible, or
can be shown to exist. Matter only mimics or imitates spirit.
The continual changes that take place from time to time in
physiology show--we say it with all deference to
physiologists--that it has not risen as yet to the dignity of a
science. It is of no use to speak of progress, for changes which
transform the whole body of a pretended science are not progress.
We may not have mastered all the facts of a science; we may be
discovering new facts every day; but if we have, for instance,
the true physiological science, the discovery of new facts may
throw new light on the science--may enable us to see clearer its
reach, and understand better its application, but cannot change
or modify its principles. As long as your pretended science is
liable to be changed in its principles, it is a theory, an
hypothesis, not a science. Physiologists have accumulated a large
stock of physiological facts, to which they are daily adding new
facts. We willingly admit these facts are not useless, and the
time spent in collecting them is not wasted; on the contrary, we
hold them to be valuable, and appreciate very highly the labor,
the patient research, and the nice observation that has
collected, classified, and described them; but we dare assert,
notwithstanding, that the science of physiology is yet to be
created; and created it will not be till physiologists have
learned and are able to set forth the dialectic relations of
spirit and matter, soul and body, God and nature, free-will and
necessity. Till then there may be known facts, but there will be
no physiological science. As far as what is called the science of
human life, or human physiology, goes, Professor Draper's work is
an able and commendable work; but he must permit us to say that
the real science of physiology he has not touched, has not
dreamed of; nor have any of his brethren who see in the human
soul only a useless appendage to the body. The soul is the
_forma corporis_, its informing, its vital principle, and
pervades, so to speak, and determines, or modifies, the whole
life and action of the human body, from the first instant of
conception to the very moment of death. The human body does not
exist, even in its embryonic state, first as a vegetable, then as
an animal, and afterward as united to an immaterial soul. It is
body united to soul from the first instant of conception, and man
lives, in any stage of his existence, but one and the same human
life. There is no moment after conception when the wilful
destruction of the foetus is not the murder of a human life.

As we said on a former occasion, or at least implied, man, though
the ancients called him a microcosm, the universe in little, and
contains in himself all the elements of nature, is neither a
mineral nor a vegetable, nor simply an animal, and the analogies
which the physiologist detects between him and the kingdoms below
him, form no scientific basis of human physiology, for like is
not same. There may be no difference that the microscope or the
crucible can detect between the blood of an ox and the blood of a
man; for the microscope and chemical tests are in both cases
applied to the dead subject, not the living, and the human blood
tested is withdrawn from the living action of the soul, an action
that escapes the most powerful microscope, and the most subtile
chemical agent. Comparative physiology may gratify the curiosity,
and, when not pressed beyond its legitimate bounds, it may even
be useful, and help us to a better understanding of our own
bodies; but it can never be the basis of a scientific induction,
because between man and all animals there is the difference of
Comparative physiology is, therefore, unlike comparative
philology; for, however diverse may be the dialects compared,
there is no difference of species among them, and nothing hinders
philological inductions from possessing, in the secondary order,
a true scientific character. Physiological inductions, resting on
the comparative study of different individuals, or different
races or families of men, may also be truly scientific; for all
these individuals, and all these races or families belong to one
and the same species. But the comparative physiology that
compares men and animals, gives only analogies, not science.

We do not undervalue science; on the contrary, what we complain
of is, that our physiologists do not give us science; they give
us facts, theories, or hypotheses. Facts are not science till
referred to the principles that explain them, and these
principles themselves are not science till integrated in the
principles of that high and universal science called theology,
and which is really the science of the sciences. The men who pass
for _savans_, and are the hierophants and lawgivers of the
age, sin not by their science, but by their want of science.
Their ideal of science is too low and grovelling. Science is
vastly more than they conceive it; is higher, deeper, broader
than they look; and the best of them are, as Newton said of
himself, mere boys picking up shells on the shores of the great
ocean of truth. They, at best, remain in the vestibule of the
temple of science; they have not entered the penetralia and knelt
before the altar. We find no fault with Professor Draper's
science, where science he has; we only complain of him for
attempting to palm off upon us his ignorance for science, and
accepting, and laboring to make us accept as science what is
really no science. Yet he is not worse than others of his class.

The second work named in our list is the professor's attempt to
extend the principles of his human physiology to the human race
at large, and to apply them specially to the intellectual
development of Europe; the third is an attempt to apply them to
the civil policy of America, and the fourth is an attempt to get
a counter-proof of his theories in the history of our late civil
war. Through the four works we detect one and the same purpose,
one and the same doctrine, of which the principal _data_ are
presented in his work on human physiology, which is cast in a
purely materialistic mould. They are all written to show that all
philosophy, all religion, all morality, and all history are to be
physiologically explained, that is, by fixed, inflexible, and
irreversible natural laws. He admits, in words, that man has
free-will, but denies that it influences events or anything in
the life and conduct of men. He also admits, and claims credit
for admitting, a Supreme Being, as if there could be subordinate
beings, or any being but one who declares himself I AM THAT AM;
but a living and ever-present God, Creator, and upholder of the
universe, finds no recognition in his physiological system. His
God, like the gods of the old Epicureans, has nothing to do, but,
as Dr. Evarist de Gypendole, in his _Ointment for the Bite of
the Black Serpent_, happily expresses it, to "sleep all night
and to doze all day." He is a superfluity in science, like the
immaterial soul in the author's _Human Physiology_. All
things, in Professor Draper's system, originate, proceed from,
and terminate in, natural development, with a most superb
contempt for the _ratio sufficiens_ of Leibnitz, and the
first and final cause of the theologians and philosophers.
The only God his system recognizes is natural law, the law of the
generation and death of phenomena, and distinguishable from
nature only as the _natura naturans_ is distinguishable from
the _natura naturata_ of Spinoza. His system is, therefore,
notwithstanding his concessions to the Christian prejudices which
still linger with the unscientific, a system of pure naturalism,
and differs in no important respect from the _Religion
Positive_ of M. Augusta Comte.

The Duke of Argyle, in his _Reign of Law_, which we reviewed
last February, a man well versed in the modern sciences, sought,
while asserting the universal reign of law, to escape this system
of pure naturalism, by defining law to be "will enforcing itself
with power," or making what are called the laws of nature the
direct action of the divine Will. But this asserted activity only
for the divine Being, therefore denied second causes, and bound
not only nature, but the human will fast in fate, or rather,
absorbed man and nature in God; for man and nature do and can
exist only in so far as active, or in some sense causative. The
passive does not exist, and to place all activity in God alone is
to deny the creation of active existences or second causes, which
is the very essence of pantheism. Professor Draper and the
positivists, whom he follows, reverse the shield, and absorb not
man and nature in God, but both God and man in nature. John and
James are not Peter, but Peter is James and John. There is no
real difference between pantheism and atheism; both are absurd,
but the absurdity of atheism is more easily detected by the
common mind than the absurdity of pantheism. The one loses God by
losing unity. and the other by losing diversity, or everything
distinguishable from God. The God of the atheist is not, and the
God of the pantheist is as if he were not, and it makes no
practical difference whether you say God is all or all is God.

To undertake a critical review of these several works would
exceed both our space and our patience, and, moreover, were a
task that does not seem to be called for. Professor Draper, we
believe, ranks high among his scientific brethren. He writes in a
clear, easy, graceful, and pleasing style, but we have found
nothing new or profound in his works. His theories are almost as
old as the hills, and even older, if the hills are no older than
he pretends. His work on the Intellectual Development of Europe,
is in substance, taken from the positivists, and the positivist
philosophy is only a reproduction, with no scientific advance on
that of the old physiologers or hylozoists, as Cudworth calls
them. He agrees perfectly with the positivists in the recognition
of three ages or epochs, we should rather say stages, in human
development; the theological, the metaphysical, and the
scientific or positivist. In the theological age, man is in his
intellectual infancy, is filled with sentiments of fear and
wonder; ignorant of natural causes and effects, of the natural
laws themselves, he sees the supernatural in every event that
surpasses his understanding or experience, and bows before a God
in every natural force superior to his own. It is the age of
ignorance, wonder, credulity, and superstition. In the second the
intellect has been, to a certain extent, developed, and the gross
fetichism of the first age disappears, and men no longer worship
the visible apis, but the invisible apis, the spiritual or
metaphysical apis; not the bull, but, as the North American
Indian says, "the manitou of bulls;" and instead of worshipping
the visible objects of the universe, as the sun, moon, and stars,
the ocean and rivers, groves and fountains, storms and tempests,
as did polytheism in the outset, they worship certain
metaphysical abstractions into which they have refined them, and
which they finally generalize into one grand abstraction, which
they call Zeus, Jupiter, Jehovah, Theus, Deus, or God, and thus
assert the Hebrew and Christian monotheism.
In the third and last age there is no longer fetichism,
polytheism, or monotheism; men no longer divinize nature, or
their own abstractions, no longer believe in the supernatural or
the metaphysical or anything supposed to be supramundane, but
reject whatever is not sensible, material, positive as the object
of positive science.

The professor develops this system with less science than its
inventor or reviver, M. Auguste Comte and his European disciples;
but as well as he could be expected to do it, in respectable
English. He takes it as the basis of his _History of the
Intellectual Development of Europe_, and attempts to reconcile
with it all the known and unknown facts of that development. We
make no quotations to prove that we state the professor's
doctrine correctly, for no one who has read him, with any
attention, will question our statement; and, indeed, we might
find it difficult to quote passages which clearly and expressly
confirm it, for it is a grave complaint against him, as against
nearly all writers of his school, that they do not deal in clear
and express statements of doctrine. Had Professor Draper put
forth what is evidently his doctrine in clear, simple, and
distinct propositions, so that his doctrine could at once be seen
and understood, his works, instead of going through several
editions, and being commended in reviews and journals, as
scientific, learned, and profound, would have fallen dead from
the press, or been received with a universal burst of public
indignation; for they attack everything dear to the heart of the
Christian, the philosopher, and the citizen. Nothing worse is to
be found in the old French Encyclopedists, in the _Système de
la Nature_ of D'Holbach, or in _l'Homme-Plant_, and
_l'Homme-Machine_ of Lamettrie. His doctrine is nothing in
the world but pure materialism and atheism, and we do not believe
the American people are as yet prepared to deny either God, or
creation and Providence. The success of these authors is in their
vagueness, in their refusal to reduce their doctrine to distinct
propositions, in hinting, rather than stating it, and in
pretending to speak always in the name of science, thus: "Science
shows this," or "Science shows that;" when, if they knew anything
of the matter, they would know that science does no such thing.
Then, how can you accuse Professor Draper of atheism or
materialism; for does he not expressly declare his belief, as a
man of science, in the existence of the Supreme Being, and in an
immaterial and immortal soul? What Dr. Draper believes or
disbelieves, is his affair, not ours; we only assert that the
doctrine he defends in his professedly scientific books, from
beginning to end, is purely physiological, and has no God or soul
in it. As a man. Dr. Draper may believe much; as an author, he is
a materialist and an atheist, beyond all dispute: if he knows it,
little can be said for his honesty; if he does not know it,
little can be said for his science, or his competency to write on
the intellectual development of Europe, or of any other quarter
of the globe.


But to return to the theory the professor borrows from the
positivists. As the professor excludes from his physiology the
idea of creation, we cannot easily understand how he determines
what is the infancy of the human race, or when the human race was
in its infancy. If the race had no beginning, if, like Topsy, "it
didn't come, but grow'd," it had no infancy; if it had a
beginning, and you assume its earliest stage was that of infancy,
then it is necessary to know which stage is the earliest, and
what man really was in that stage. Hence, chronology becomes
all-important, and, as the author's science rejects all received
chronology, and speaks of changes and events which took place
millions and millions of ages ago, and of which there remains no
record but that chronicled in the rocks; but, as in that record
exact dates are not given, chronology, with him, whether of the
earth or of man, must be very uncertain, and it seems to us that
it must be very difficult for science to determine, with much
precision, when the race was, or what it was, in its infancy.
Thus he says:

  "In the intellectual infancy of the savage state, man transfers
  to nature his conceptions of himself, and, considering that
  everything he does is determined by his own pleasure, regards
  all passing events as depending on the arbitrary volition of a
  superior but invisible power. He gives to the world a
  constitution like his own. The tendency is _necessarily_
  to superstition. Whatever is strange, or powerful, or vast,
  impresses his imagination with dread. Such objects are only the
  outward manifestations of an indwelling spirit, and, therefore,
  worthy of his veneration." (_Intellect. Devel_. p. 2.)

We beg the professor's pardon, but he has only imperfectly
learned his lesson. In this which he regards as the age of fetich
worship, and the first stage of human development, he includes
ideas and conceptions which belong to the second, or metaphysical
age of his masters. But let this pass for the present. The author
evidently assumes that the savage state is the intellectual
infancy of the race. But how knows he that it is not the
intellectual old age and decrepitude of the race? The author,
while he holds, or appears to hold, like the positivists, to the
continuous progress of the race, does not hold to the continuous
progress of any given nation.

  "A national type," he says, (ch. xi.,) "pursues its way
  physically and intellectually through changes and developments
  answering to those of the individual represented by infancy,
  youth, manhood, old age, and death respectively."

How, then, say scientifically that your fetich age, or the age of
superstition, the theological age of the positivists, instead
being the infancy of the nation, is not its last stage next
preceding death? How determine physiologically or scientifically
that the savage is the infant man and not the worn-out man? Then
how determine that the superstition of which you have so much to
say, and which, with you, means religion, revelation, the church,
everything that claims to be, or that asserts, anything
supernatural, is not characteristic of the last stage of human
development, and not of the first?

Our modern physiologists and anti-Christian speculators seem all
to take it for granted that the savage gives us the type of the
primitive man. We refuted this absurd notion in our essay on
_Faith and the Sciences_. There are no known historical
facts to support it. Consult the record chronicled in the rocks,
as read by geologists. What does it prove?
Why, in the lowest and most ancient strata in which human remains
are found, along with those of extinct species of animals, you
find that the men of that epoch used stone implements, and were
ignorant of metals or unable to work them, and, therefore, must
have been savages. That is, the men who lived then, and in that
locality. Be it so. But does this prove that there did not,
contemporary with them, in other localities or in other quarters
of the globe, live and flourish nations in the full vigor of the
manhood of the race, having all the arts and implements of
civilized life? Did the savages of New England, when first
discovered, understand working in iron, and used they not stone
axes, and stone knives, many of which we have ourselves picked
up? And was it the same with Europeans? From the rudeness and
uncivilized condition of a people in one locality, you can
conclude nothing as to the primitive condition of the race.

The infancy of the race, if there is any justice in the analogy
assumed, is the age of growth, of progress; but nothing is less
progressive, or more strictly stationary, in a moral and
intellectual sense, than the savage state. Since history began,
there is not only no instance on record of a savage tribe rising
by indigenous effort to civilization, but none of a purely savage
tribe having ever, even by foreign assistance, become a civilized
nation. The Greeks in the earliest historical or semi-historical
times, were not savages, and we have no evidence that they ever
were. The Homeric poems were never the product of a savage
people, or of a people just emerging from the savage state into
civilization, and they are a proof that the Greeks, as a people,
had juster ideas of religion, and were less superstitious in the
age of Homer than in the age of St. Paul. The Germans are a
civilized people, and if they were first revealed to us as what
the Greeks and Romans called _barbarians_, they were never,
as far as known, savages. We all know how exceedingly difficult
it is to civilize our North American Indians. Individuals now and
then take up the elements of our civilization, but rarely, if
they are of pure Indian blood. They recoil before the advance of
civilization. The native Mexicans and Peruvians have, indeed,
received some elements of Christian civilization along with the
Christian faith and worship; but they were not, on the discovery
of this continent, pure savages, but had many of the elements of
a civilized people, and that they were of the same race with the
savages that roamed our northern forests, is not yet proved. The
historical probabilities are not on the side of the hypothesis of
the modern progressivists, but are on the side of the contrary
doctrine, that the savage state belongs to the old age of the
race--is not that from which man rises, but that into which he

Nor is there any historical evidence that superstition is older
than religion, that men begin in the counterfeit and proceed to
the genuine,--in the false, and proceed by way of development to
the true. They do not abuse a thing before having it.
Superstition presupposes religion, as falsehood presupposes
truth; for falsehood being unable to stand by itself, it is only
by the aid of truth that it can be asserted. "Fear made the
gods," sings Lucretius; but it can make none where belief in the
gods, does not already exist. Men may transfer their own
sentiments and passions to the divinity; but they must believe
that the divinity exists before they can do it.
They must believe that God is, before they can hear him in the
wind, see him in the sun and stars, or dread him in the storm and
the earthquake. It is not from dread of the strange, the
powerful, or the vast, that men develop the idea of God, the
spiritual, the supernatural; the dread presupposes the presence
and activity of the idea. Men, again, who, like the professor's
man in the infancy of the savage state, are able to conceive of
spirit and to distinguish between the outward manifestation and
the indwelling spirit, are not fetich worshippers, and for them
the fetich is no longer a god, but if retained at all, it is as a
sign or symbol of the invisible, Fetichism is the grossest form
of superstition, and obtains only among tribes fallen into the
grossest ignorance, that lie at the lowest round of the scale of
human beings; not among tribes in whom intelligence is
commencing, but in whom it is well-nigh extinguished.

Monotheism is older than polytheism, for polytheism, as the
author himself seems to hold, grows out of pantheism, and
pantheism evidently grows out of theism, out of the loss or
perversion of the idea of creation, or of the relation between
the creator and the creature, or cause and effect, and is and can
be found only among a people who have once believed in one God,
creator of heaven and earth and all things visible and invisible.
Moreover, the earliest forms of the heathen superstitions are, so
far as historical evidence goes, the least gross, the least
corrupt. The religion of the early Romans was pure in comparison
with what it subsequently became, especially after the Etruscan
domination or influence. The Homeric poems show a religion less
corrupt than that defended by Aristophanes. The earliest of the
Vedas, or sacred books of the Hindoos, are free from the grosser
superstitions of the latest, and were written, the author very
justly thinks, before those grosser forms were introduced. This
is very remarkable, if we are to assume that the grossest forms
of superstition are the earliest! But we have with Greeks,
Egyptians, Indians, no books that are of earlier date than the
books of Moses, at least none that can be proved to have been
written earlier; and in the books of Moses, in whatever light or
character we take them, there is shown a religion older than any
of the heathen mythologies, and absolutely free from every form
of superstition, what is called the patriarchal religion, and
which is substantially the Jewish and Christian religion. The
earliest notices we have of idolatries and superstitions are
taken from these books, the oldest extant, at least none older
are known. If these books are regarded as historical documents,
then what we Christians hold to be the true religion has obtained
with a portion of the race from the creation of man, and, for a
long series of years, from the creation to Nimrod, the mighty
hunter or conqueror, was the only religion known; and your
fetichisms, polytheisms, pantheisms, idolatries, and
superstitions, which you note among the heathen, instead of being
the religion of the infancy of the race, are, comparatively
speaking, only recent innovations. If their authenticity as
historical documents be denied, they still, since their antiquity
is undeniable, prove the patriarchal religion obtained at an
earlier date than it can be proved that any of the heathen
mythologies existed. It is certain, then, that the patriarchal,
we may say, the Christian religion, is the earliest known
religion of the race, and therefore that fetichism, as contended
by the positivists and the professor after them, cannot be
asserted to have been the religion of the human race in the
earliest stage of its existence, nor the germ from which all the
various religions or superstitions of the world have been


But we may go still farther. The attempt to explain the origin
and course of religion by the study of the various heathen
mythologies, and idolatries, and superstitions, is as absurd as
to attempt to determine the origin and course of the Christian
religion by the study of the thousand and one sects that have
broken off from the church, and set up to be churches themselves.
They can teach us nothing except the gradual deterioration of
religious thought, and the development and growth of superstition
or irreligion among those separated from the central religious
life of the race. In the ancient Indian, Egyptian, and Greek
mythologies, on which the author dwells with so much emphasis, we
trace no gradual purification of the religious idea, but its
continual corruption and debasement. As the sects all presuppose
the Christian church, and could neither exist nor be intelligible
without her, so those various heathen mythologies presuppose the
patriarchal religion, are unintelligible without it, and could
not have originated or exist without it. The professor having
studied these mythologies in the darkness of no-religion,
understands nothing of them, and finds no sense in them--as
little sense as a man ignorant of Catholicity would find in the
creeds, confessions, and religious observances of the several
Protestant sects; but if he had studied them in the light of the
patriarchal religion, which they mutilate, corrupt, or travesty,
he might have understood them, and have traced with a steady hand
their origin and course, and their relation to the intellectual
development of the race.

We have no space to enter at length into the question here
suggested. In all the civilized heathen nations, the gods are
divided into two classes, the Dii Majores and the Dii Minores.
The Dii Majores are only the result of a false effort to explain
the mysterious dogma of the Trinity, and the perversion of the
Christian doctrine of the Eternal Generation of the Son, and the
Eternal Procession of the Holy Ghost. The type from which these
mythologies depart, not which they realize, is undeniably the
mystery of the Trinity asserted, more or less explicitly, by the
patriarchal religion; and hence, we find them all, from the
burning South to the frozen North, from the East to the West,
from the Old World to the New, asserting, in some form, in the
Divinity the sacred and mysterious Triad. The Dii Minores are a
corruption or perversion of the Catholic doctrine of saints and
angels, or that doctrine is the type which has been perverted or
corrupted, by substituting heroes for saints, and the angels that
fell for the angels that stood, and taking these for gods instead
of creatures. The enemies of Christianity have sufficiently
proved that the common type of both is given in the patriarchal
religion, hoping thereby to get a conclusive argument against
Christianity; but they have forgotten to state that, while the
one conforms to the type, the other departs from it, perverts or
corrupts it, and that the one that conforms is prior in date to
the one that corrupts, perverts or departs from it. No man can
study the patriarchal religion without seeing at a glance that it
is the various forms of heathenism that are the corrupt forms, as
no man can study both Catholicity and Protestantism without
seeing that Protestantism is the corruption, or
perversion--sometimes even the travesty of Catholicity.
The same conclusion is warranted alike by Indian and Egyptian
gloom and Greek gayety. The gloom speaks for itself. The gayety
is that of despair--the gayety that says: "Come, let us eat,
drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die." Through all
heathendom you hear the wail, sometimes loud and stormy,
sometimes low and melodious, over some great and irreparable
loss, over a broken and unrealized ideal, just as you do in the
modern sectarian and unbelieving world.

But why is it that the professor and others, when seeking to give
the origin and course of religion, as related to the intellectual
development of the race, pass by the patriarchal, Jewish, or
Christian religion, and fasten on the religions or superstitions
of the Gentiles? It is their art, which consists in adroitly
avoiding all direct attacks on the faith of Christendom, and
confining themselves in their dissertations on the natural
history of the pagan superstitions, to establishing principles
which alike undermine both them and Christianity. It is evident
to every intelligent reader of Professor Draper's _Intellectual
Development of Europe_, that he means the principles he
asserts shall be applied to Christianity as well as to Indian,
Egyptian, Greek, and Roman mythology, and he gives many broad
hints to that effect. What then? Is he not giving the history of
the intellectual development of Europe? Can one give the history
of that development without taking notice of religion? If, in
giving the natural history of religion, showing whence and how it
originates, what have been its developments, its course, its
modifications, changes, decay, and death, by the influence of
natural causes, science establishes principles which overthrow
all religions, and render preposterous all claims of man to have
received a supernatural revelation, to be in communion with the
Invisible, or to be under any other providence than that of the
fixed, invariable, and irresistible laws of nature, or purely
physiological laws, whose fault is it? Would you condemn science,
or subordinate it to the needs of a crafty and unscrupulous
priesthood, fearful of losing their influence, and having the
human mind emancipated from their despotism? That is, you lay
down certain false principles, repudiated by reason and common
sense, and which all real science rejects with contempt, call
these false principles science, and when we protest, you cry out
with all your lungs, aided by all the simpletons of the age, that
we are hostile to science, would prevent free scientific
investigation, restrain free manly thought, and would keep the
people from getting a glimpse of the truth that would emancipate
them, and place them on the same line with the baboon or the
gorilla! A wonderful thing, is this modern science; and always
places, whatever it asserts or denies, its adepts in the right,
as against the theologians and the anointed priests of God!

The mystery is not difficult to explain. The physiologists, of
course, are good Sadducees, and really, unless going through a
churchyard after dark, or caught in a storm at sea, and in danger
of shipwreck, believe in neither angel nor spirit. They wish to
reduce all events, all phenomena, intellectual, moral, and
religious, to fixed, invariable, inflexible, irreversible, and
necessary laws of nature. They exclude in doctrine, if not in
words, the supernatural, creation, providence, and all
contingency. Every thing in man and in the universe is generated
or developed by physiological or natural laws, and follows them
in all their variations and changes.
Religion, then, must be a natural production, generated by man,
in conjunction with nature, and modified, changed, or destroyed,
according to the physical causes to which he is subjected in time
and place. This is partially true, or, at least, not manifestly
false in all respects of the various pagan superstitions, and
many facts may be cited that seem to prove it; but it is
manifestly not true of the patriarchal, Jewish, and Christian
religion, and the only way to make it appear true, is to not
distinguish that religion from the others, to include all
religions in one and the same category, and conclude that what
they prove to be partially true of a part, is and must be true of
the whole. That this is fair or logical, is not a matter that the
physiologists, who, where they detect an analogy, conclude
identity, trouble themselves at all about; besides, nothing in
their view is illogical or unfair that tends to discredit priests
and theologians. Very likely, also, such is their disdain or
contempt of religion, that they really do not know that there is
any radical difference between Christianity and Gentooism. We
have never encountered a physiologist, in the sense we use the
term here, that is, one who maintains that all in the history of
man and the universe proceeds from nature alone, who had much
knowledge of Christian theology, or knowledge enough to be aware
that in substance it is not identical with the pagan
superstitions. Their ignorance of our religion is sublime.

We have thus far proceeded on the supposition that the professor
means by the infancy of the savage state the infancy of the race;
we are not sure, after all, that this is precisely his thought,
or that he means anything more than the infancy of a particular
nation or family of nations is the savage state. He, however,
sums up his doctrine in his table of contents, chapter i., of his
_Intellectual Development_, in the proposition: "Individual
man is an emblem of communities, nations, and universal humanity.
They exhibit epochs of life like his, and like him are under the
control of physical conditions, and therefore of law;" that is,
physical or physiological law, for "human physiology" is only a
special department of universal physiology, as we have already
indicated. It would seem from this that the author makes the
savage state, as we have supposed, correspond, in the race, in
universal humanity, as well as in communities, to the epoch of
infancy in the individual. But does he mean to teach that the
race itself has its epoch of infancy, youth, manhood, old age,
and death? He can, perhaps, in a loose sense, predicate these
several epochs of nations and of political or civil communities;
but how can he predicate them all of the race? "Individuals die,
humanity survives," says Seneca; and are we to understand that
the professor means to assert that the race is born like the
individual, passes through childhood, youth, manhood, to old age,
and then dies? Who knows what he means?

But suppose that he has not settled in his own mind his meaning
on this point, as is most likely the case; that he has not asked
himself whether man on the earth has a beginning or an end, and
that he regards the race as a natural evolution, revolving always
in the same circle, and takes, therefore, the infancy he speaks
of as the infancy of a nation or a given community. Then his
doctrine is, that the earliest stage of every civilized nation or
community is the savage state, that the ancestors of the
civilized in every age are savages, and that all civilization has
been developed under the control of physical conditions from the
savage state.
The germ of all civilization then must be in the savage, and
civilization then must be evolved from the savage as the chicken
from the egg, or the egg from the sperm. But of this there is no
evidence; for, as we have seen, there is no nation known that has
sprung from exclusively savage ancestors, no known instance of a
savage people developing, if we may so speak, into a civilized
people. The theory rests on no historical or scientific basis,
and is perfectly gratuitous. In the savage state we detect
reminiscences of a past civilization, not the germs of a future
civilization, or if germs--germs that are dead, and that never do
or can germinate. There are degrees of civilization; people may
be more or less civilized; but we have no evidence, historical or
scientific, of a time when there was no civilized people extant.
There are civilized nations now, and contemporary with them are
various savage tribes, and the same may be said of every epoch
since history began. The civilized nations whose origin we know
have all sprung from races more or less civilized, never from
purely savage tribes. The physiologists overlook history, and
mistake the evening twilight for the dawn.

But pass over this. Let us come to the doctrine for which the
professor writes his book, namely, individuals, communities,
nations, universal humanity, are under the control of physical
conditions, therefore of physical law, or law in the sense of the
physiologists or the physicists. If this means anything, it means
that the religion, the morality, the intellectual development,
the growth and decay, the littleness and the grandeur of men and
nations depend solely on physical causes, not at all on moral
causes--a doctrine not true throughout even in human physiology,
and supported by no facts, except in a very restricted degree,
when applied to nations and communities. In the corporeal
phenomena of the individual the soul counts for much, and in
morbid physiology the moral often counts for more than the
physical; perhaps it always does, for we know from revelation
that the morbidity of nature is the penalty or effect of man's
transgression. It is proved to be false as applied to nations and
communities by the fact that the Christian religion, which is
substantially that of the ancient patriarchs, is, at least as far
as science can go, older than any of the false religions, has
maintained itself the same in all essential respects, unvaried
and invariable, in every variety of physical change, and in every
diversity of physical condition, and absolutely unaffected by any
natural causes whatever.

The chief physical conditions on which the professor relies are
climate and geographical position. Yet what we hold to be the
true religion, the primitive religion of mankind, has prevailed
in all climates, and been found the same in all geographical
positions. Nay, even the false pagan religions have varied only
in their accidents with climatic and geographical positions. We
find them in substance the same in India, Central Asia, on the
banks of the Danube, in the heart of Europe, in the ancient
Scania, the Northern Isles, in Mexico and Peru. The substance of
Greek and Roman or Etrurian mythology is the same with that of
India and Egypt. M. Rénan tells us that the monotheism so firmly
held by the Arabic branch of the Semitic family, is due to the
vast deserts over which the Arab tribes wander, which suggest the
ideas of unity and universality; and yet for centuries before
Mohammed, these same Arabs, wandering over the same deserts, were
polytheists and idolaters; and not from contemplating those
deserts, but by recalling the primitive traditions of mankind,
preserved by Jews and Christians, did the founder of Islamism
attain to the monotheism of the Koran. The professor is misled by
taking, in the heathen mythology he has studied, the poetic
imagery and embellishments, which indeed vary according to the
natural aspects, objects, and productions of the locality, for
their substance, thought, or doctrine.
The poetic illustrations, imagery, and embellishments of Judaism
are all oriental; but the Jew in all climates and in all
geographical positions holds one and the same religious faith
even to this day; and his only real difference from us is, that
he is still looking for a Christ to come, while we believe the
Christ he is looking for has come, and is the same Jesus of
Nazareth who was crucified at Jerusalem, under Pontius Pilate.

We know the author contends that there has been from the
beginning a radical difference between the Christianity of the
East and that of the West; but we know that such is not and never
has been the fact. The great Eastern fathers and theologians are
held in as high honor in Western Christendom as they ever were in
Eastern Christendom. Nearly all the great councils that defined
the dogmas held by the Catholic Church throughout the whole world
were held in the East. The Greeks were more speculative and more
addicted to philosophical subtleties and refinements than the
Latins, and therefore more liable to originate heresies; but
nowhere was heresy more vigorously combated, or the one faith of
the universal church more ably, more intelligently, or more
fervently defended than in the East, before the Emperors and the
Bishop of Constantinople drew the Eastern Church, or the larger
part of it, into schism. But the united Greek Church, the real
Eastern Church, the church of St. Athanasius, of the Basils, and
the Gregories, is one in spirit, one in faith, one in communion
with the Church of the West.

The author gravely tells us that Christianity had three primitive
forms, the Judaical, which has ended; the Gnostic, which has also
ended; the African, which still continues. But he has no
authority for what he says. Some Jewish observances were retained
for a time by Christians of Jewish origin, till the synagogue
could be buried with honor; but there never was a Jewish form of
Christianity, except among heretics, different from the
Christianity still held by the church. There are some phrases in
the Gospel of St. John, and in the Epistles of St. Paul that have
been thought to be directed against the gnostics; and Clemens of
Alexandria writes a work in which he uses the terms
_gnosis_, knowledge, and _gnostic_, a man possessing
knowledge or spiritual science, in a good sense; but, we suspect,
with a design of rescuing these from the bad sense in which they
were beginning to be used, as some of our European friends are
trying to do with the terms _liberal_ and _liberalist_.
Nevertheless, what Clemens defends under these terms is held by
Catholics to-day in the same sense in which he defends it. There
never was an African form of Christianity distinct from the
Christianity either of Europe or Asia. The two great theologians
of Africa are St. Cyprian and St. Augustine, both probably of
Roman, or, at least, of Italian extraction.
The doctrine which St. Cyprian is said to have maintained on
baptism administered by heretics, the only matter on which he
differed from Rome, has never been, and is not now, the doctrine
of the church. St. Augustine was converted in Milan, and had St.
Ambrose, a Roman, for his master, and differed from the
theologians either of the East or the West only in the unmatched
ability and science with which he defended the faith common to
all. He may have had some peculiar notions on some points, but if
so, these have never been received as Catholic doctrine.

The professor might as well assert the distinction, asserted in
Germany a few years since, which attracted some attention at the
time, but now forgotten, between the Petrine gospel, the Pauline
gospel, and the Joannine gospel, as the distinction of the three
primitive forms of Christianity which he asserts. We were told by
some learned German, we forget his name, that Peter, Paul, and
John represent three different phases or successive forms of
Christianity. The Petrine gospel represents religion, based on
authority; the Pauline, religion as based on intelligence; and
the Joannine, religion as based on love. The first was the
so-called Catholic or Roman Church. The reformation made an end
of that, and ushered in the Pauline form, or Protestantism, the
religion of the intellect. Philosophy, science. Biblical
criticism, and exegesis, the growth of liberal ideas, and the
development of the sentiments and affections of the heart, have
made an end of Protestantism, and are ushering in the Joannine
gospel, the religion of love, which is never to be superseded or
to pass away. The advocate of this theory had got beyond
authority and intelligence, whether he had attained to the
religion of love or not; yet the theory was only the revival of
the well-known heresy of the Eternal Evangel of the thirteenth
century. So hard is it to invent a new heresy. It were a waste of
words to attempt to show that this theory has not the slightest
foundation in fact. Paul and John assert authority as strenuously
as Peter; Peter and John give as free scope to the intellect as
Paul; and Peter and Paul agree with John in regard to love or
charity. There is nothing in the Gospel or Epistles of John to
surpass the burning love revealed, we might almost say concealed,
so unostentatious is it, by the inflamed Epistles of Paul. As for
Protestantism, silence best becomes it, when there is speech of
intelligence, so remarkable is it for its illogical and
unintellectual character. Protestants have their share of native
intellect, and the ordinary degree of intelligence on many
subjects; but in the science of theology, the basis of all the
sciences, and without which there is, and can be, no real
science, they have never yet excelled.

Nor did the reformation put an end to the so-called Petrine
gospel, the religion of authority, the church founded on Peter,
prince of the apostles. It may be that Protestantism is losing
what little intellectual character it once had, and developing in
a vague philanthropy, a watery sentimentality, or a blind
fanaticism, sometimes called Methodism, sometimes Evangelicalism;
but Peter still teaches and governs in his successor. The
Catholic Church has survived the attacks of the reformation and
the later revolution, as she survived the attacks of the
persecuting Jews and pagans, and the power and craft of civil
tyrants who sought to destroy or to enslave her, and is to-day
the only religion that advances by personal conviction and
Mohammedanism can no longer propagate itself even by the sword;
the various pagan superstitions have reached their limits, and
are recoiling on themselves; and Protestantism has gained no
accession of territory or numbers since the death of Luther,
except by colonization and the natural increase of the population
then Protestant. The Catholic Church is not only a living
religion, but the only living religion, the only religion that
does, or can, command the homage of science, reason, free
thought, and the uncorrupted affections of the heart. The
Catholic religion is at once light, freedom, and love--the
religion of authority, of the intellect, and of the heart,
embracing in its indissoluble unity Peter, Paul, and John.

The professor's work on the intellectual development of Europe
proves that religion in some form has constituted a chief element
in that development. It always has been, and still is, the chief
element in the life of communities and nations, the spring and
centre of intellectual activity and progress. Even the works
before us revolve around it, or owe their existence to their
relation to it, and would have no intelligible purpose without
it. The author has written them to divest religion of its
supernatural character, to reduce it to a physiological law, and
to prove that it originates in the ignorance of men and nations,
and depends solely on physical conditions, chiefly on climate and
geographical position. But in this patriarchal, Jewish, Christian
religion there is something, and that of no slight influence on
the life of individuals and nations, on universal humanity, that
flatly contradicts him, that is essentially one and the same from
first to last, superior to climate and geographical position,
unaffected by natural causes, independent of physical conditions,
and in no sense subject to physiological laws. This suffices to
refute his theory, and that of the positivists, of whom he is a
distinguished disciple; for it proves the uniform presence and
activity in the life and development of men and nations, ever
since history began, of a power, a being, or cause above nature
and independent of nature, and therefore supernatural.

The theory that the rise, growth, decay, and death of nations
depend on physical conditions alone, chiefly on climate and
geographical position, seems to us attended with some grave
difficulties. Have the climate and geographical positions of
India, Persia, Assyria, Egypt, Greece, and Rome, essentially
changed from what they were at the epoch of their greatness? Did
not all the great and renowned nations of antiquity rise, grow,
prosper, decline, and die, in substantially the same physical
conditions, under the same climate, and in the same geographical
position? Like causes produce like effects. How could the same
physical causes cause alike the rise and growth, and the decay
and death of one and the same people, in one and the same
climate, and in one and the same geographical position? Do you
say, climate and even physical geography change with the lapse of
time? Be it so. Be it as the author maintains, that formerly
there was no variation of climate on this continent, from the
equator to either pole; but was there for Rome any appreciable
change in the climate and geography from the time of the third
Punic war to that of Honorius, or even of Augustulus, the last of
the Emperors? Or what change in the physical conditions of the
nation was there when it was falling from what there was when it
was rising?


Nations, like individuals, have, according to the professor,
their infancy, youth, manhood, old age, and death. But why do
nations grow old and die? The individual grows old and dies,
because his interior physical machinery wears out, and because he
must die in order to attain the end for which he lives. But why
should this be the case with nations? They have no future life to
which death is the passage. The nation does not rise or fall with
the individuals that found it. One generation of individuals
passes away, and another comes, but the nation survives; and why,
if not destroyed by external violence, should it not continue to
survive and thrive to the end of time? There are no physical
causes, no known physiological laws, that prevent it. Why was not
Rome as able to withstand the barbarians, or to drive them back
from her frontiers, in the fourth century, as she was in the
first? Why was England so much weaker under the Stuarts than she
had been under the Tudors, or was again under the Protector? Or
why have we seen her so grand under Pitt and Wellington, and so
little and feeble under Palmerston and Lord Russell? Can you
explain this by a change of climate and geographical position, or
any change in the physical conditions of the nation, that is, any
physical changes not due to moral causes?

We see in several of the States of the Union a decrease, a
relative, if not a positive decrease, of the native population,
and the physical man actually degenerating, and to an extent that
should alarm the statesman and the patriot. Do you explain this
fact by the change in the climate and the geographical position?
The geographical position remains unchanged, and if the climate
has changed at all, it has been by way of amelioration. Do you
attribute it to a change in the physical condition of the
country? Not at all. There is no mystery as to the matter, and
though the effects may be physical or physiological, the causes
are well known to be moral, and chief among them is the immoral
influence of the doctrine the professor and his brother
physiologists are doing their best to diffuse among the people.
The cause is in the loss of religious faith, in the lack of moral
and religious instruction, in the spread of naturalism, and the
rejection of supernatural grace--without which the natural cannot
be sustained in its integrity--in the growth of luxury, and the
assertion of material goods or sensible pleasures, as the end and
aim of life. There is always something morally wrong where prizes
need to be offered to induce the young to marry, and to induce
the married to suffer their children to be born and reared.

So, also, do we know the secret of the rise, prosperity, decline,
and death of the renowned nations of antiquity. The Romans owed
the empire of the world to their temperance, prudence, fortitude,
and respect for religious principle, all of them moral causes;
and they owed their decline and fall to the loss of these
virtues, to their moral corruption. The same may be said of all
the ancient nations. Their religion, pure, or comparatively pure,
in the origin, becomes gradually corrupt, degenerates into a
corrupt and corrupting superstition, which hangs as a frightful
nightmare on the breasts of the people, destroying their moral
life and vigor.
To this follows, with a class, scepticism, the denial of God or
the gods, an Epicurean morality, and the worship of the senses;
the loss of all public spirit--public as well as private virtue,
and the nation falls of its own internal moral imbecility and
rottenness, as our own nation, not yet a century old, is in a
fair way of doing, and most assuredly will do, if the atheistic
philosophy and morality of the physiologists or positivists
become much more widely diffused than they are. The church will
be as unable, with all her supernatural truth, grace, life, and
strength, to save it, as she was to save the ancient Graeco-Roman
Empire, for to save it would require a resurrection of the dead.

The common sense of mankind, in all ages of the world, has
uniformly attributed the downfall of nations, states, and
empires, to moral causes, not to physiological laws, climatic
influences, or geographical position. The wicked shall be turned
into hell, and all the nations that forget God. Righteousness
exalteth a nation, and sin is a reproach to any people. This is
alike the voice of inspiration and of universal experience. The
traveller who visits the sites of nations renowned in story, now
buried in ruins, of cities once thronged with a teeming
population, the marts of the world, in which were heard, from
morning till night--till far into night--the din of industry, and
marks the solitude that now reigns there; the barren waste that
has succeeded to once fruitful fields and vineyards, and observes
the poor shepherd that feeds a petty flock on the scanty
pasturage, or the armed robber that watches for a victim to
plunder, receives a far less vivid impression of the dependence
of nations on physical causes and conditions, than of the
influence of the moral world on the natural, and reads in legible
characters the meaning of that fearful penalty which God
pronounced, when he said to the man: "And the earth for thy sake
shall be cursed." The physical changes that have come over
Assyria, Syria, Lybia, Egypt, and Palestine, are the effects of
the moral deterioration of man, not the cause of that

The professor, after dilating almost eloquently, and as a sage,
on the changeability, the transitoriness, the evanescent nature
of all the visible forms of things, says: "If from visible forms
we turn to directing law, how vast the difference! We pass from
the finite, the momentary, the incidental, the conditional, to
the illimitable, the eternal, the necessary, the unshackled. It
is of law I am to speak in this book. In a world composed of
vanishing forms, I am to vindicate the imperishability, the
majesty of law, and to show how man proceeds in his social march
in obedience to it," (_Ibid_. p, 16.) This sounds well; but,
unhappily, he has told us that communities and nations, like
individuals, are under the control of physical conditions, and
_therefore_ of law. If _therefore_ of law, then under
the law of physical conditions, and consequently of a physical or
physiological law. He dwells on the grandeur of this conception,
and challenges for it our deepest admiration. But we see not much
to admire in a purely physical law manifesting itself in
ceaseless instability, metamorphosis, and death. Will the author
forgive us, if we hint that he possibly does not very well
understand himself, or know precisely what it is that he says?
Hear him. "I am to lead my reader, perhaps in a reluctant path,
from the outward phantasmagorial illusions which surround us and
so ostentatiously obtrude themselves on our attention, to
something that lies in silence and strength behind.
I am to draw his thoughts from the tangible to the invisible,
from the limited to the universal, from the changeable to the
invariable, from the transitory to the eternal; from the
expedients and volitions so largely _amusing_ in the life of
man, to the predestined and resistless issuing of law from the
fiat of God." (_Ibid_. p. 16, 17.) Very respectable
rhetoric, but what does it mean? If it means anything, it means
that the visible universe is unreal, an illusion, a
phantasmagoria; that nothing is real, stable, permanent, but law,
which lies in silence and strength behind the phantasmagoria, and
that this law producing the illusion, dazzling us with mere
sense-shows, is identically God, from whose fiat the
phantasmagorial world issues. Is not this grand? is it not
sublime? The scientific professor forgets that he may find
readers, who can perceive through his rhetoric that he makes law
or God the reality of things, instead of their creator or maker,
simply their _causa essentialis_, the _causa immanens_
of Spinoza, and therefore asserts nothing but a very vulgar form
of pantheism, material pantheism, indistinguishable from naked
atheism; for his doctrine recognizes only the material, the
sensible, and by law he can mean only a physiological law like
that by which the liver secretes bile, the blood circulates
through the heart, seeds germinate, or plants bear fruit--a law
which has and can have no indivisible unity.

If the professor means simply that in the universe all proceeds
according to the law of cause and effect, he should bear in mind
that there are moral causes and effects as well as physical, and
supernatural as well as natural; but then he might find himself
in accord with theologians, some of whom, perhaps, in his own
favorite sciences are able to be his masters. It is not always
safe to measure the ignorance of others by our own. No theologian
denies, but every one asserts the law of cause and effect,
precisely what no atheist, pantheist, or naturalist does do, for
none of them ever rise above what the schools call _causa
essentialis_, the thing itself, that which, as we say,
_makes_ the thing, makes it itself and not another, or
constitutes its identity. Every theologian believes that God is
logical, logic in itself, and that all his works are dialectical
and realize a divine plan, which as a whole and in all its parts
is strictly and rigidly logical. If the professor means simply to
assert not only that all creatures and all events are under the
control of the law of cause and effect, but also under the law of
dialectics, there need be no quarrel between him and us; but in
such case, if he had known a little theology, he might have
spared himself and us a great deal of trouble, for we believe as
firmly in the universal reign of law as he or his Grace of
Argyle. But he would have gained little credit for original
genius, depth of thought, profound science, or rare learning, and
most likely would not have lived to see any one of his volumes
reach a fifth edition.

But we must not be understood to deny in the development of
nations or individuals all dependence on physical conditions, or
even of climate and geographical position. Man is neither pure
spirit, nor pure matter; he is the union of soul and body, and
can no more live without communion with nature, than he can
without communion with his like and with God. Hence he requires
the three great institutions of religion, society, and property,
which, in some form, are found in all tribes, nations, or civil
communities, and without which no people ever does or can
Climate and geographical influences, no doubt, count for
something, for how much, science has not yet determined. There is
a difference in character between the inhabitants of mountains
and the inhabitants of plains, the dwellers on the sea-coast and
the dwellers inland, and the people of the north and the people
of the south; yet the Bas Bretons and the Irish have not lost
perceptibly anything, in three thousand years, of their original
character as a southern people, though dwelling for that space of
time, we know not how many centuries longer, far to the north.
Among the Irish you may find types of northern races, some of
whom have overrun the Island as conquerors; but amid all their
political and social vicissitudes, the Irish have retained, and
still retain, their southern character. The English have received
many accessions from Ireland and from the south, but they remain,
the great body of them, as they originally were, essentially a
northern people, and hence the marked difference between the
Irish character and the English, though inhabiting very nearly
the same parallels of latitude, and subject to much the same
climatic and geographical influences. The character of both the
English and the Irish is modified on this continent, but more by
amalgamation, and by political and social influences, than by
climate or geography. The Irish type is the most tenacious, and
is not unlikely in time to eliminate the Anglo-Saxon. It has a
great power of absorption, and the American people may ultimately
lose their northern type, and assume the characteristics of a
southern race, in spite of the constant influx of the Teutonic
element. What we object to is not giving something to physical
causes and conditions, but making them exclusive, and thus
rejecting moral causes, and reducing man and nature to an
inexorable fatalism.

In the several volumes of the professor, except the first named,
we are able to detect neither the philosophical historian nor the
man of real science. The respectable author has neither logic nor
exact, or even extensive, learning, and the only thing to be
admired in him, except his style, is the sublime confidence in
himself with which he undertakes to discuss and settle questions,
of which, for the most part, he knows nothing, and perhaps the
sublimer confidence with which he follows masters that know as
little as himself.

We own we have treated Professor Draper's work with very little
respect, for we have felt very little. His _Intellectual
Development of Europe_ is full of crudities from beginning to
end, and for the most part below criticism, or would be were it
not that it is levelled at all the principles of individual and
social life and progress. The book belongs to the age of
Leucippus and Democritus, and _ignores_, if we may use an
expressive term, though hardly English, Christian civilization
and all the progress men and nations have effected since the
opening of the Christian era. It is a monument not of science,
but of gross ignorance.

Yet in our remarks we have criticised the class to which the
author belongs, rather than the author himself. Men of real
science are modest, reverential, and we honor them, whatever the
department of nature to which they devote their studies. We
delight to sit at their feet and drink in instruction from their
lips; but when men, because they are passable chemists, know
something of human physiology, or the natural history of fishes,
undertake to propagate theories on God, man, and nature, that
violate the most sacred traditions of the race, deny the Gospel,
reduce the universe to matter, and place man on a level with the
brute, theories, too, which are utterly baseless, we cannot
reverence them, or listen to them with patience, however graceful
their elocution or charming their rhetoric.



         Morning At Spring Park.

  Along the upland swell and wooded lawn
  The aged farmer's voice is heard at dawn:
  That well-known call across the dewy vale
  Calls Spark and Daisy to the milking-pail.

  The robin chirps; from farm to farm I hear
  The bugle-note of wakeful chanticleer;
  And far, far off, through grove and bosky dell,
  The dreamy tinkle of sleek Snowflake's bell.

  The huddling sheep, just loose from kindly fold,
  Their nibbling way along the hill-side hold;
  And timid squirrels and shy quails are seen
  Flitting, unscared, across the shaded green.

  The low horizon's dusky, violet blue
  Is tinged with coming daylight's rosy hue,
  Till o'er the golden fields of tasselled corn
  Breaks all the rapture of the summer morn.

  Through forest rifts the level sunbeams dart,
  And gloomy nooks to sudden beauty start;
  Those long, still lines which through rank foliage steal,
  Undreamed-of charms among the woods reveal.

  The yellow wheat-stooks catch the early light;
  Far-nested homesteads gleam at once to sight;
  While, from yon glimmering height, one spire serene
  Points duly heavenward this terrestrial scene.

  Long may the aged farmer's call be heard.
  At dewy dawn, with song of matin bird.
  Among his loving flocks and herds of kine,
  A guileless master, watchful and benign.

  And, when no more his agile footstep roves
  These flowery pastures and these pleasant groves,
  Good Shepherd, may thy call to fields more fair
  Wean every thought from earth, make heaven his care!



  Nellie Netterville; Or, One Of The Transplanted.


  "Set is the sun of the Netterville's glory!
     Down in the dust its bright banners are trailing!
   Hoarse in our anguish we whisper the story,
     And men, as they listen, like women are wailing.

  "Woe! woe to us--woe! we shall see him no more;
     Our tears like the rains of November are flowing;
   Woe! woe to us--woe! for the chief we deplore
     Alone to his exile of sorrow is going.

  "Alone?--not alone! for our dastardly foemen--
     As cruel as base in the day of their power--
   Have lifted their hands against maidens and women;
     Uprooted the tree, and then trampled the flower.

  "And so they have sent her to weep by strange waters--
     The joy of our hearts and the light of our eyes--
   The latest and fairest of Netterville's daughters,
     In whom the last link of their destiny lies.

  "Sad will be, mother, thy waking to-morrow!
     Waking to weep o'er thy dove-rifled nest;
   Widowed and childless--two-fold is thy sorrow.
     And two-edged the sword that is lodged in thy breast.

  "Well may we mourn her--when we too deplore her--
     The vassals and serfs of thy conquering race;
   If blood could but do it, our blood should restore her--
     Restore her to thee and thy loving embrace.

  "Yet not for her only, or thee, are we weeping;
     We weep for our country, fast bound in that chain
   Which in blood from her wrung heart the foeman is steeping,
     Till it looks as if reddened and rusted by rain.

  "Oh! when shall a leader to true hearts be given.
     To fall on the stranger and force him to flee?
   And when shall the shackles that bind her be riven?
     And Erin stand up in her strength, and be free!"

So sung Hamish, the son of the last of the long line of minstrels
who, with harp and voice, had recorded the triumphs of the house
of Netterville, or mourned over the death or sorrow of its
chieftains. For, in spite of the law by which it was strictly
forbidden, the English of the Pale had persisted in the national
custom of keeping a bard or minstrel--whose office was always, or
almost always, hereditary--attached to their households; and in
its palmy days of power the family of Netterville was far too
jealous of its own importance not to have been always provided
with a similar appendage. Its last recognized minstrel had
fallen, however, in the same battle which had deprived Nellie of
her father, and, Hamish being then too young to take up his
father's office, the harp had ever since, literally as well as
figuratively, hung mute and unstrung in the halls of Netterville.
But grief and indignation over its utter ruin had unlocked at
last the tide of poetry and song, ever ready to flow over in the
Celtic breast, and Hamish felt himself changed into a bard upon
the spot. Forgetting the presence of the English soldiers, or,
more probably, exulting in the knowledge that they did not
understand the language in which he gave expression to his
feelings, he stepped out into the midst of the people, pouring
forth his lamentations, stanza after stanza, with all the
readiness and fire of a born _improvisatore_; and when at
last he paused, more for want of breath than want of matter, the
keeners took up the tale, and told, in their wild, wailing chant,
of the goodness and greatness, the glory and honour of their
departed chieftain and his heiress, precisely as they would have
done had the twain over whom they were lamenting been that very
day deposited in their graves. Up to this moment Mrs. Netterville
had preserved in a marvellous degree that statue-like calmness of
outward bearing which hid, and even at times belied, the workings
of a heart full of generous emotions; but the wild wailing of the
keeners broke down the artificial restraint she had put upon her
conduct, and, unable to listen quietly to what seemed to her ears
a positive prophecy of death to her beloved ones, she hastily
reëntered the house and retreated to her own apartment.
This was a small, dark chamber, which in happier times had been
set apart as a quiet retreat for prayer and household purposes,
but which now was the only one the mistress of the mansion could
call her own--the soldiers having that very morning taken
possession of all the others, devoting some of them to their own
particular accommodation and locking up the others. It was, in
fact, as a very singular and especial favour, and as some return
for the kindness she had shown in nursing one of their number who
had been taken suddenly ill on the night of their arrival, that
the use even of this small chamber had been allowed her; for it
was not the custom of Cromwell's army to deal too gently by the
vanquished, and many of the "transplanted," as high-born and
well-educated as she was, had been compelled, in similar
circumstances, to retire to the outer offices of their own abode,
while the rough soldiery who displaced them installed themselves
in the luxurious apartments of the interior.

Hidden from all curious eyes in this dark retreat, Mrs.
Netterville yielded at last to the cry of her weak human heart,
and, flinging herself face downward on the floor, gave way to a
passion of grief which was all the more terrible that it was
absolutely tearless. One or two of the few remaining women of the
household, knowing how fearfully her soul, in spite of all
outward show of calmness, must be wrung, tapped occasionally at
the door; but either she did not hear or did not choose to
answer, and they dared not enter without permission.

At last one of them went to Hamish, feeling instinctively that,
if any one could venture to intrude unbidden, it would be the
foster-brother of Nellie, and said:

"The mistress, God help her! is just drowned with the sorrow, and
won't even answer when we call. Hamish, a-bouchal, couldn't you
manage to go in, just by accident like, and say something or
other to give a turn to her thoughts?"

"Give a turn to her thoughts?" said Hamish crustily; "give a turn
to her thoughts, do you say? My certie, but you take it easy!
Hasn't the woman lost husband and child, to say nothing of the
old lord, who was all as one to her as her own father? and isn't
she going, moreover, to be turned out of house and home, and sent
adrift upon the wide world? and you talk of giving a turn to her
thoughts, as if it was the toothache she was troubled with or a
wasp that had stung her?"

"As you please, Mr. Hoity-toity," said the girl angrily; "I only
thought that, as you were a bit of a pet like, on account of our
young mistress, you might have ventured on the liberty. Not
having set up in that line myself, I cannot, of course, attempt
to meddle in the matter."

But though Hamish had spoken roughly, his heart was very sore,
for all that, over the sorrows of his lonely mistress.

He waited until Cathleen had vanished in a huff, and then, going
quietly to the study-door, knocked softly for admission.

But Mrs. Netterville gave no sign, and, after knocking two or
three times in vain, he opened the door gently and looked in. The
room was naturally a gloomy one, being panelled in black oak; but
Hamish felt as if it never _could_ have looked before so
gloomy as it did that moment.
Half study, half oratory as it was, Mrs. Netterville had spent
here many a long hour of lonely and impassioned prayer, what time
her husband and her father-in-law were fighting the battles of
their royal and most ungrateful master. A tall crucifix, carved,
like the rest of the furniture, in black oak, stood, therefore,
on a sort of _prie-dieu_ at the farther end of the room, and
near it was a table arranged in desk-fashion, at which she had
been in the habit of transacting the business of her household.

Room and _prie-dieu_, crucifix and table, Hamish had them
all by heart already.

Here in his baby days he had been used to come, when he and his
little foster-sister were wearied with their own play, to sit at
the feet of Mrs. Netterville and listen to the tales which she
invented for their amusement. Here, as time went on, separating
Nellie outwardly from his society, yet leaving her as near to him
in heart as ever, he had been wont to bring his morning offerings
of fish from the running stream, or bunches of purple heather
from the rocks. Here he had come for news of the war, and of the
master, on that very day which brought tidings of his death; and
here, too, even while he tried to comfort Nellie, who had flung
herself down in her childish misery just on the spot where her
mother lay prostrate now, he had wondered, and, young as he was,
had in part, at least, comprehended the marvellous
self-forgetfulness of Mrs. Netterville, who, in the midst of her
own bereavement, had yet found heart and voice to comfort her
aged father-in-law and her child, as if the blow which had struck
them down had not fallen with three-fold force on her own head.
In the darkness of the room and the confusion of his own
thoughts, he did not, however, at first perceive Mrs. Netterville
in her lowly posture, and glanced instinctively toward the
_prie-dieu_, where he had so often before seen her take
refuge in the hour of trial.

But she was not there, and a thrill of terror ran through his
frame when he at last discovered her, face downward, on the
floor, her widow's coif flung far away, and her long locks,
streaked--by the hand of grief, not time--abundantly with gray,
streaming round her in a disorder which struck Hamish all the
more forcibly, that it was in such direct contrast to the natural
habits of order and propriety she had brought with her from her
English home. There she lay, not weeping--such misery as hers
knows nothing of the relief of tears--not weeping, but crushed
and powerless, as if her very body had proved unequal to the
weight of sorrow put upon it, and had fallen beneath the burthen.
She seemed, indeed, not in a swoon, but stunned and stupefied,
and quite unconscious that she was not alone. Hamish trembled for
her intellect; but young as he was, he was used to sorrow, and
understood both the danger and the remedy.

His lady must be roused at any cost, even at that the very
thought of which made him tremble, the recalling her to a full
knowledge of her misery. He advanced farther into the room,
moving softly, in his great reverence for her desolation, as we
move, almost unconsciously to ourselves, in the presence of the
dead, and occupied himself for a few minutes in arranging the
loose papers on her desk, and the flowers which Nellie had placed
upon the _prie dieu_ only a day or two before. They were
faded now--faded as the poor child's fortunes--but instead of
throwing them away, he poured fresh water into the vase which
held them, as if that could have restored their beauty.
Yet he sighed heavily as he did so for the thought would flash
across his mind that, whether he sought to give, back life to a
withered flower, or joy to the heart of a bereaved mother, in
either case his task was hopeless. Mrs. Netterville took no
notice of his proceedings, though, as he began to get used to the
situation, he purposely made rather more bustle than was needed,
in hopes of arousing her. At last, in despair of succeeding by
milder methods, he let fall a heavy inkstand, smashing it into a
thousand pieces, and scattering the ink in all directions, an
event that in happier times would certainly not have passed
unreproved. But now she lay within a few inches of the inky
stream, as heedless as though she were dead in earnest; and,
hopeless of recalling her to consciousness by anything short of a
personal appeal, he knelt down beside her and tapped her sharply
on the shoulder, half wondering at his own temerity as he did so.
She shuddered as if, light as the touch had been, it yet had hurt
her, and muttered impatiently, and like one half asleep:

"Not now, Hamish! not now!--leave me for the present, I entreat

"And why not now?" Hamish answered almost roughly. "Do you think
_you_ only have a cause for grieving? Tell me, my mistress,
if we, humble as we are, and not to be thought of in comparison
with your ladyship's honor, if we have not lost--are losing
nothing? Ah! if you could but hear the weeping and wailing that
is going on among the creatures down-stairs, you would never do
us such a wrong as to suppose that _your_ heart is the only
one sore and bleeding to-day!"

"Sore and bleeding! Yes! yes! I doubt it not," moaned the lady
sadly. "Sore and bleeding; but not widowed--not childless; they
have still husbands and children--they have not lost as I have

"They have lost--not, may be, quite so much, but yet enough, and
more than enough, to set them wailing," answered Hamish firmly--
"they have lost a master, who was more like a father than a
master, and a young mistress, who was all as one as a daughter to
every one of them; and moreover," he added mournfully--"and
moreover, instead of the kind hand and generous heart that has
reigned over them till now, they are going to be handed over, (as
if they were so many stocks or stones encumbering the land,)
whether they like it or whether they don't, to the tender mercies
of those very men who thought it neither sin nor shame to make
the child a shield against the soldier's sword, when they fought
knee-deep in blood at the siege of Tredagh!"

"Why do you say these things, Hamish?" she almost shrieked in her
anguish. "Is it my fault? Could I help it? or why do you reproach
me with it?"

"_Your_ fault! No, indeed, it is not. More's the pity; for
if you could have helped it, to a dead certainty it never would
have happened," said Hamish, glad that he had roused her, even if
only to a fit of anger. "But though you cannot prevent these
things, my mistress, you can at all events comfort the creatures
that have to bear them, by showing that you have feelings for
their sorrows as well as for your own."

"I give comfort! God help me, I give comfort!" she answered, with
a sort of passionate irony in her manner; adding, however,
immediately afterward, in a softer tone, "How can I give comfort,
Hamish--I who need it so entirely myself?"


"That is the very thing," cried Hamish eagerly. "God love you,
madam! Do you not see that the only real comfort you could give
them would be the allowing them to try at least and comfort you?"

"Bid them pray, then, for the safe journey of my loved ones," she
answered hoarsely--"that is the only real comfort they can give

"And why, then, couldn't we pray all together?" cried Hamish,
struck suddenly by a bright idea. "Why wouldn't you let them come
up here, madam? I warrant you they would pray as the best of them
never prayed before, if they only seen your ladyship's honor
kneeling and praying in the midst of them."

"I--I cannot pray--I cannot even think," she answered, laying her
head once more on her folded arms, like a weary or a chidden
child. "Go you, good Hamish, and pray yourself with them

"In the kitchen, is it?" said Hamish, with a considerable portion
of irony in his voice. "Faix, my lady, and it's queer thoughts
we'd have, and queer prayers we would be saying there, with the
pot forenent us, boiling on the fire, and Cromwell's black rogues
of troopers coming and going, and flinging curses and scraps of
Scriptures (according to their usual custom) in equal measure at
our heads. No! no! my lady," he continued vehemently, "if you
would have us pray at all, it must be here--here where the cross
will mind us of a Mother who once stood at its foot, and who was
even more desolate than you are; a Mother silent and
heart-broken--not because her Child had gone before her into
exile, from whence He might any day return, but because she saw
Him dying--dying in the midst of tortures--and forsaken so
entirely that it might well have seemed to her (only she knew
_that_ never could be) as if God as well as man had utterly
abandoned Him."

"You are right, Hamish; you are right," cried Mrs. Netterville
suddenly, touched to the quick by his voice and eloquence. "Go
you down at once, good Hamish, and bid them come here directly. I
shall be ready by the time they are assembled."

As Mrs. Netterville spoke thus, she rose from the floor, and
then, all at once perceiving the strange disorder of her attire,
she began hastily to gather up her tresses, previous to placing
her widow's coif upon them.

Hamish waited to hear no more, but instantly left the room to do
her bidding. As he walked rapidly toward the lower part of the
mansion, he drew a long sigh of relief, like one who has just got
rid of a heavy burden, as in truth he had; for he felt that he
had gained his point, and that whatever his mistress might have
yet to suffer, she was safe, at all events, from the effects of
that first great shock of sorrow which had threatened to overturn
her intellect.

When he returned to announce that the household was assembled and
waiting for her further orders he found her kneeling at the
_prie-dieu_, in all the grave composure of her usual manner.
She did not trust herself, however, to look round, but merely
signed to him that they should come in; and the instant the noise
and bustle of their first entrance had subsided, she commenced
reading from her open missal.

But the very sound of her own voice in supplicatory accents
seemed to break the spell which had hitherto been laid upon her
faculties. She fairly broke down and burst into a flood of tears.
This was more than enough for the excitable hearts around her,
and the room was filled in a moment with the wailing of her
Hamish was in despair; and yet, perhaps, no other mode of
proceeding could have done so much toward calming her as did this
sudden outburst; for Mrs. Netterville had a true Englishwoman's
aversion to "scenes," however real and natural to the
circumstances of the case they might be. She instantly checked
her tears, and waiting quietly until the storm of grief had in
some degree died out, she collected all her energies, and read in
a low, steady voice the prayer or collect for those travelling by
land or sea, as she found it in her missal. A few other short but
earnest prayers succeeded, and then she paused once more. Her
audience took the hint and quietly retired. Hamish was about to
follow, but she rose from the _prie-dieu_, and signed to him
to remain.

"Hamish," she said, gently but decidedly, "I have done your
bidding, and now I expect that you will do mine. I wish to be
alone for the rest of the day--do you understand? alone with God
and my great sorrow! To-morrow I will begin the work for which I
have been left here, but to-day must be my own. Come not here
yourself, and look to it that no one else disturbs me. Keep a
heedful watch upon the soldiers, and see that no mischance occurs
between them and any of our people, I trust to you for this and
all things. Now leave me. If I have need of anything, I will let
you know."

There was that in Mrs. Netterville's tone and manner which made
Hamish feel he had gone quite far enough already; so, without
another word of remonstrance or expostulation, he made his
reverence and retired.

    Chapter IV.

Mrs. Netterville waited until the echo of his retreating
footsteps had died away in the corridor, and then fastening the
door so as to secure herself from any further interruption from
the outside, she once more fell on her knees before the crucifix,
and buried her face in both her hands. How long she remained thus
she never knew exactly; but the shades of a short January evening
were already gathering in the room, when, with a start and a look
as if her conscience smote her, she rose suddenly from her knees.
"Christ pardon me!" she muttered half aloud, "that, in my own
selfish sorrows, I have forgotten others! Poor wretch! By this
time he must be well-nigh famished, if, indeed, (though I trust
it will not,) the delay has not worked him deeper mischief."

As these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, she opened a
cupboard close at hand, and drew from thence a bottle of wine,
with some other articles of delicate food, packed carefully in a
wicker-basket, and evidently left there for some especial
purpose. She then sought through the gloom for a cloak, which she
threw upon her shoulders, and, drawing the hood down over her
face, and taking the basket on her arm, she hastily left the
room. Not, however, by the door through which Hamish and the
servants had retreated, but by another at the opposite end, and
which was almost invisible, in consequence of its forming one of
the panels in the black oak wainscoting of the chamber. It led
her directly by a short stone passage to another door or low
wicket, on opening which she found herself in the private grounds
of the castle. Before her at no great distance, stood an old
ivy-covered church, half hidden in a group of tall Irish trees,
which sheltered its little cemetery.
This was not the parish church, but a private chapel, built by
the Netterville family for their own particular use; and here
their infants had been baptized, their daughters married, and
their old men and women laid reverently to their last slumbers,
ever since they had established their existence in the land.

Mrs. Netterville could not resist a sigh as she glanced toward
its venerable walls. It seemed as if it were only yesterday that
she had gone there to lay down her husband in his lowly grave,
hoping and praying, out of the depths of her own great grief,
that she might soon be permitted to sleep quietly beside him. And
now, even this sad hope was to be hers no longer; this poor
possession of six feet of earth was to be wrested from her;
strangers would lay her in a distant grave, and even in death she
would be separated from her husband. The thought was too painful
to bear much lingering upon it, and turning her back upon the
church, Mrs. Netterville followed a path which lay close under
the castle walls, and led to a court-yard at a considerable
distance. Round this court-yard were grouped stables and other
offices, which, having been built at different periods and
without any consecutive idea as a whole, presented rather the
appearance of a collection of stunted farm-houses, than of the
regular out-buildings of an important mansion.

Each of these houses had a private entrance of its own; and
opening the door of one of them, Mrs. Netterville looked in
quietly and entered. The interior was a room, poorly but yet
decently furnished, and on a low settle-bed at the farther end
lay a young man, who, with his sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, had
all the look of a person just rescued from the jaws of death. A
knapsack on the floor, a pike and musket in one corner of the
room, and a steel cap and buff coat in another, seemed to
announce him as one of the band of successful soldiers who were
even then in possession of the castle.

Poor fellow! he lay, with closed eyes, wan and weary, on his bed,
looking, at that moment, like anything rather than like a
successful soldier; but he lifted his head as he caught the noise
of the door creaking on its hinges, and his face brightened into
an expression of joy and gratitude pleasant to behold when he
discovered Mrs. Netterville standing on the threshold.

"Can you ever forgive me?" she said, going up to him at once. "I
cannot easily forgive myself for having left you so long alone.
In the grief and anguish in which I have been plunged all day, I
had well-nigh forgotten your existence, and you must be faint, I
fear me, for want of nourishment."

"Nay, madam," he answered, gently, indeed, but yet with a good
deal of that comfortable self-assurance in spiritual matters
which seems to have been an especial inheritance of "Cromwell's
saints." "If _you_ have forgotten, the Lord at least hath
been mindful of his servant, and hath cast so deep a slumber on
my senses, that I have been altogether unconscious of the lapse
of time, or of the absence of those carnal comforts which,
however the spirit may rebel against them, are nevertheless not
altogether to be despised, as being the means by which we receive
strength to do the bidding of our Master."

Mrs. Netterville could not help thinking that the posset-cup and
soothing draught, which she had administered the night before,
might have had as much as any especial interposition of
Providence to say to his seasonable slumbers; but the times were
too much out of joint to permit of her making, however
reverently, such an observation, so she merely touched his brow
and hand, and said:


"I am right glad, at all events, that you seem in nowise to have
suffered from my neglect. Eat now and drink, I pray you; for I
perceive by this refreshing moisture on your skin that all danger
has passed away, and that you need at present no worse physic
than good food and wine to restore you to your former strength."

"Nay, madam," said the soldier, with great and hardly repressed
feeling in his voice and manner. "Eat or drink I cannot, or in
any way refresh myself, until I have poured forth my song of
gratitude, first to the Lord of hosts, who hath delivered me from
this great danger, and then to you, who have tended me (even as
the widow of Sarepta might have waited on Elias) through the
perils of a sickness from which my very comrades and
fellow-laborers in the vineyard fled, trembling and afraid."

"You must pardon them, good Jackson," said Mrs. Netterville, "and
all the more readily, because this disease, from which you have
so marvellously recovered, is, men say, in its rapid progress and
almost sure mortality, akin, if not indeed wholly similar, to
that terrible malady the plague, which is the scourge of the
Eastern nations, and leaves crowded cities, once it has entered
in, as silent and deserted as the sepulchres of the dead. You
cannot therefore wonder, and you need not feel aggrieved, if men
who would have risked their lives for you on the battle-field,
yet shrunk from its unseen, and therefore, to poor human nature,
its more awful dangers."

"Nay, madam, I blame them not; perhaps even in their place I
should have done the same. Nevertheless--and though I have no
ill feeling toward them--I cannot forget that you, a Popish woman
and an enemy, have done that for me which the very children of my
own household have shrunk from doing, and I would fain show my
gratitude if I could."

"You can show it, and that right easily, if you will," she
answered kindly, "by eating and drinking heartily of the
provisions I have brought, and so regaining strength to wait all
the sooner on yourself. For I shall soon, as you doubtless know
already, have work in hand which will compel me to make my visits
fewer; and yet I shall not like to risk other lives by sending
any of the household to wait on you in my stead."

"Alas! madam, I fear I have been but a troublesome and
unprofitable, though not altogether, I do assure you, a thankless
guest," the man answered, in a somewhat sad and deprecatory

"Nay; but now you mistake me altogether," she answered earnestly.
"You have been a most patient sufferer, and that trouble--which
is altogether unavoidable in any sickness--has been, you may
believe me, a pleasure rather than an uneasiness to me. I only
meant to say that, though I shall still continue to visit you
morning and evening, I shall not be able to come so often in the
daytime as I have been used to do; for all matters in this sad
affair of the transplantation having fallen into my hands, you
may well imagine it is as much or more than one poor woman can
well accomplish by her own unaided efforts."

"Would that I could aid you," he answered fervently--"would that
I could comfort you! But, alas! in this matter of the
transplantation, I can do naught, seeing that it is the Lord
himself who hath girded on our swords, bidding us to smite and
spare not.
Nevertheless, lady, I am not ungrateful, and in the long,
sleepless nights of my weary malady I have wrestled for you in
prayer, striving exceedingly and being much exercised on your
account; nor gave I over until I had received the comfortable
assurance that, as the Lord sent angels to Lot to deliver him out
of Sodom, so he would some day make of me a shield and a defence,
whereby you might be snatched from the woes that he is about to
rain down on this land, because 'the cry of its idolatry is waxen
great before his face,' and he hath sworn to destroy it."

"Well, well!" she answered a little impatiently, "I thank you for
your good-will, at all events; but for the present we will
discourse no further on this matter. God will one day judge
between us, and by his fiat I am content to stand or fall, in all
those matters of religion on which, unhappily, we differ. See, I
have trimmed the lamp so that it will burn brightly until
morning, and there is food and wine on this little table. I will
put it close to the bed, so that when you need nourishment, you
will have but to put forth your hand to take it. And now I must
say good-night--to-morrow I will be with you by the early dawn."

Having thus done all that either charity or hospitality could ask
at her hands, Mrs. Netterville retired from the room, sooner,
probably, than she would have done if the soldier's last words
had not grated on her ear, and roused more angry passions than
she wished to yield to in her breast.

"He has a good heart, poor wretch," she thought, as she took her
way back to the castle; "but strange and fearful is it to see how
pride, in him, as in all his comrades, usurps the place of true
humility and religion."

The sudden sound of a pistol going off disturbed her in the midst
of her cogitations; and with a pang of indescribable fear and
presentiment of evil at her heart, she stood still. It seemed to
come from the grove of yew-trees round the church, and was not
repeated. Having ascertained this fact, she walked rapidly
forward in the direction of the sound, her mind in a perfect
whirl of fear, and only able to shape itself into the one
thought, pregnant of future evil, that, either by some of her own
people, or by one of the English soldiers, a murder had been
committed. Just as she entered the grove of yew-trees, she
perceived something like the loose garb of a woman fluttering
down the path before her, and then suddenly disappearing behind
the tower of the little church. She did not dare to call out; but
feeling certain that this person must either have fired the shot
herself, or have seen it fired by some one else, she quickened
her pace in order to overtake her. Twilight was already deepening
among the yew-trees; the path, moreover, was overgrown with weeds
and brambles, and as she ran with her eyes fixed on the spot
where the figure had disappeared, she felt herself suddenly
tripped up by some object lying right before her, and fell
heavily against it. At the first touch of that unseen something,
a sense of terror, such as animals are said to be conscious of in
the presence of their own dead, seized upon her senses, and all
the blood was curdling in her veins as slowly and with difficulty
she removed herself from its contact. Gradually, as she recovered
from the stunning effects of her fall, and her eyes grew
accustomed to the gloom around her, the "thing" on the ground
shaped itself into the form of a human being--but of a human
being so still and motionless, that it seemed probable it was a
corpse already.
Very reluctantly she put forth her hand to try if life were
really extinct; but suddenly discovering that she was dabbling it
in a pool of yet warm blood, she withdrew it with a shudder.

"My God! my God!" she moaned, "what enemy hath done this? Surely
it is one of the soldiers from the castle, and they will accuse
our people of the murder! Grant Heaven, indeed, that they are
innocent! Would that Hamish were here to help me. Yet no! they
would certainly in that case try to fix the guilt on him. I will
go hence and let them discover it as they can. Yet what if I
should meet them? I am all dabbled in his gore!"

With a new and sharp terror in her heart, as this thought took
possession of it, she began hastily to rub her hands in the moss
and dry leaves around her, in order to free them from the blood
which clung to them; and she was still engaged in this rather
equivocal occupation when a sudden stream of light was cast on
her from behind, and, rising suddenly, she found herself face to
face with the officer who had been left in command of the
garrison of the castle.

Half-a-dozen of his men were at his back, and by the light of the
lantern, which he carried, she read in their faces their
conviction of her guilt. At a sign from their chief they
surrounded her in awful silence, and he himself laid his hand
heavily on her shoulder:

"Murderess!" he said, "thou art taken in thy sin!"

"I did it not," cried Mrs. Netterville, so utterly confounded by
this terrible accusation that she hardly knew what she said. "So
help me Heaven! I am innocent of this deed!"

"Innocent! sayest thou?" the officer answered firmly. "Innocent!
thou with his blood red upon thy hands! Yea, and thy very
garments clotted in his gore! If then thou art innocent, as thou
wouldst have us to believe, say what wert thou doing in this
lonely spot at an hour when none but the murderer or the wanton
would care to be abroad?"

"I was returning from a visit to the soldier Jackson--a visit
which, as thou knowest, Master Rippel, I pay him every evening at
the hour of dusk; and I had well-nigh reached the castle, when
hearing a shot in this direction, and fearing mischief either for
my own people or for thine, I came hither if possible to prevent

"A likely story, truly!" replied the officer, who, unluckily for
her, was one of the fiercest, if not the saintliest, of the band
of warriors then domiciled at the castle. "Nay, woman, and for
thine own sake hold thy peace, or out of thine own mouth thou
shalt stand presently condemned. For tell me, my masters," he
added, addressing the other men, "where will you find a woman,
who, hearing a shot, and dreading mischief, would not have fled
from the danger, instead of incontinently rushing, as she would
have us to believe she did, into its very jaws?"

"Yet have I rushed into the jaws of danger more than once already
within this fortnight, and that not for the sake of my own people
but of thine; as none ought to know better than thou, Master
Rippel, and thy comrades," Mrs. Netterville, now fairly put upon
her mettle, retorted bravely.

"Nay, and that is naught but the very truth, though the father of
lies (which is Beelzebub) himself had said it," one of the men
here ventured to remark. "For surely, Captain Rippel, you cannot
have forgotten that we should have had a soldier the less in the
camp of Israel, if she had not nursed the good youth Jackson
through this black business of the plague, when we, even we, men
anointed and girded to the fight, did hesitate to go near him."


"Ha! Dost thou also venture to defend her?" cried the officer
angrily. "Nay, then, let that woman which is called Deborah be
brought forward and confronted with the prisoner. Her testimony
must decide between us."

One or two of the soldiers who had been lingering at a little
distance in the dusky twilight now advanced, half pushing before
them, half leading, the very woman who had addressed Nellie so
impudently in the morning. She came forward with a strange
mixture of eagerness and reluctance in her manner; willing
enough, it might be, to bear false testimony against her
neighbor, but very unwilling to be confronted with its object.

They placed her face to face with Mrs. Netterville, and the
captain turned his lantern so that the light fell full on the
features of the latter. They were cold and calm, and almost
disdainful in their expression, now that she knew who was her
accuser; and Deborah, spite of all her efforts to brazen out the
interview, cowered beneath her glance of scorn.

"Nay, but look well upon her, Deborah," said the captain, seeing
that her eyes fell beneath those of the woman she had accused.
"Look well upon her, and say if this be not that Moabitish woman
whom thou sawest, as thou wert lingering (for no good purpose, I
do fear me greatly) in the shadow of the trees--whom thou sawest,
say I, steal hither between light and darkness, and treacherously
do to death our brother Tomkins, who, being--as methinks you
revealed to me just now--wearied overmuch with prayer and holding
forth, (he was, as I myself can testify, a man of most precious
doctrine, and greatly favored in the gift of preaching,) had come
hither to repose himself."

"Nay," said the woman, speaking in very tolerable English, an
accomplishment she had picked up when in service in Dublin; "of
that great weariness caused by too much prayer and preaching.
Master Rippel, I said naught--my own impression being," she
added, unable even before such an audience to repress the gibe,
"that the slumberous inclinations of worthy Master Tomkins had
been caused by a somewhat too ardent devotion lately tendered to
the wine-cask."

"Peace, scoffer! peace!" cried the captain. "And if thou wouldst
have thy blasphemy against the Lord and against his saints
forgiven, in this world or the next, look once more on the face
of the prisoner, and be not shamefaced or afraid, but say out
boldly whether you can swear to her in a court of justice as
being the person whom you espied just now in the act--yea, the
very act of murder."

"I can," said the woman shortly, and avoiding the eye of Mrs.
Netterville as she spoke.

"Thou canst?" the latter said in a tone of indignant
astonishment. "And pray, if thou wert watching me so narrowly,
why didst thou not endeavor to prevent me?--why not strike up my
weapon?--why not cry out, at least, so as to rouse up the
sleeping soldier?"

"I did what I could," the woman sullenly responded. "I sought out
his comrades. It was their look-out, not mine, and to them
accordingly I left it."


"She speaks the truth, as we who so lately heard her tale can
testify," the captain answered quickly. "You see, my men," he
added, addressing the other soldiers, "Beelzebub is divided
against himself, and the very children of his kingdom bear
witness against each other. Surely the woman Netterville is
guilty. Take her, therefore, some of you, a prisoner to the
castle, while the rest prepare a decent burial for our murdered
brother. I myself must speak apart with the witness Deborah, in
order to put her testimony into a fitting shape to be laid before
the court of my lords, the high commissioners of justice."

  Chapter V.

The sun had climbed well-nigh midway in the heavens, lighting up
Clew Bay and its hundred isles until they glinted like emeralds
in the blue setting of the sea, as an old, white-haired man and a
young girl--the latter carrying a small bundle in one hand, while
with the other she supported the failing strength of her
companion, made their way, slowly and painfully, along the valley
through which runs the bright "Eriff" river on its way to the
ocean. Following the up course of the stream, they had passed,
almost without knowing it, through some of the finest of the
mountain scenery of the west, up hill and down hill, by pretty
cascades, in which the river seemed to be playing with the
obstacles which opposed it; round huge bare shoulders of rifted
and out-jutting rock; through dark, deep purple gorges, which
looked as if the mountains had been wrenched violently asunder in
order to produce them; and now, at last, they found themselves in
a quiet, dreary-looking glen, where cushions of soft moss and
yielding heather seemed to woo them to repose. Nevertheless,
footsore and worn out as they evidently were, they continued to
press bravely forward until they had nearly arrived at the
farther end of the valley; but by that time the old man's head
had begun to droop wearily on his breast, and his steps had
become so languid and uncertain that it was evident it would be
perilous to proceed farther without giving him the rest he so
absolutely required. Choosing, therefore, a little nook, where
the turf grew soft and dry, and where clusters of tall fern and
heather, rising nearly six feet from the root, seemed to promise
at least partial shelter from the midday sun, the girl quietly
disposed of her bundle as a pillow for his head, and invited him
with a smile to a siesta. He obeyed as readily as if he had been
a child, and she then sat down beside him, crooning an old
nursery lullaby to hush him into slumber. But she sought no such
salutary oblivion for herself; and no sooner had his eyes begun
to close in sleep than she rose, and, as if anxiety had rendered
her incapable of remaining quiet, wandered restlessly on until
she reached the top of a hill which shut in the valley from the
land beyond. There she paused, fear and foreboding, weariness and
sorrow, all forgotten or swallowed up in the breathless
admiration which took instant possession of her soul. Around her,
crumbled and tumbled in all directions, were hills bare indeed of
trees, but green to the very summit, and strangely picturesque in
the fantastic variety of their forms. There were quiet glens and
solemn, rock-strewn passes, with streamlets swelled into
cataracts by the rains of spring, yet looking in the distance
like mere threads of liquid silver spirting from their rugged
sides. There were long brown tracts of peat land, brightened and
relieved by patches of golden, flowering gorse, or of that thin
herbage which, in its perfectly emerald green, is only to be seen
in such like boggy places; and over and above all this, there
were the shadowy outlines of more than one far-off range of
mountains melting into the delicate blue background of the sky,
and changing color, as rapidly as the young cheek of beauty,
beneath the ever-shifting lights and shadows of that "cloud
scenery" which is nowhere more
beautiful or varied than in Ireland.
To the left, and looking, in the clear atmosphere, so close that
she almost felt she could have touched it with her outstretched
hand, rose "Croagh Patrick," sacred to the memory of Ireland's
great apostle; and Clew Bay lay, or seemed to lie, bright and
shining at her feet--Clew Bay, with its gracefully winding shore,
and its archipelago of islets; some bold, beetling rocks, ready
and able to do battle with the storm, others mere baskets of
verdure floating on the tide; while the largest and most
picturesque of them all, the sea, girt kingdom of Grana-Uaile,
Clare Island, stood bravely up, cliff over cliff, at the very
mouth of the harbor, guarding it against the winter encroachments
of the Atlantic, which, green as liquid jasper, and calm, in that
summer weather, as a giant sleeping in the sunshine, unrolled
itself beyond. Long and wistfully Nellie fixed her gaze upon that
fair prospect; and it was with a strange reluctance and
foreboding of future sorrow, that she at last withdrew in order
to examine attentively that portion of the country which lay more
immediately around her, and with which she believed herself about
to be more intimately connected. As she did so, a building,
perched half-way up a hill, rather more inland than that upon
which she herself was standing, attracted her eye, and she
gasped, with a sudden mingling of hope and fear, like a person
choking; for she felt a sudden conviction that in the wild,
uncultivated lands beneath her she beheld the portion assigned to
her grandfather by the commissioners at Loughrea, and in that
edifice, which seemed to have been built for the express purpose
of commanding and overawing the entire district, the house in
which they had told her she was to establish her new home.
_House_, indeed, it could scarcely be called in anything
like the modern acceptation of the term, though it was probably
perfectly well suited to the wants and wishes of the wild
chieftains by whom it had been erected. The original building had
consisted of a single tower, of which the rough, rude walls,
formed of huge stones, put unhammered and uncemented together,
betrayed its origin in times so far remote as to have no history
even in the oldest annals of the land. Added on to this gray
relic of the past, however, a new building was now evidently in
process of erection. It was far from finished yet, as Nellie knew
by the poles and scaffoldings around it; but even in its embryo
state it bore a terribly suspicious resemblance to that square,
simple fortalice type of building which seems to have been the
one architectural idea of Cromwell's Irish drafted soldiers, and
which still remains in many places, the silent but
uncontrovertible witness--the seal which they themselves have set
upon their forcible and unjust possession of the land. The very
look of that half-finished building seemed an answer to Nellie's
late foreboding, and with a sinking heart she turned her back
upon it and retraced her steps to the place where she had left
Lord Netterville. The old man had already shaken off his fitful
slumbers, and was toiling feebly up the hill.


Nellie ran back to fetch her bundle, which he had been unable to
bring with him; but overtaking him in an instant, she gave him
her arm, led him to the spot from whence she had just been taking
her bird's-eye view of the country, and, pointing to the
fortalice in process of erection, watched anxiously to discover
what sort of impression it would make on his mind. But either he
did not observe it, or did not take in the peculiar significance
of its presence in those wilds; and finding that he remained
silent and apparently unmoved, she collected all her remaining
energy to say cheerfully:

"Look at that old gray tower to the right. If the man whom we met
this morning among the hills spoke truth, we have reached the end
of our weary journey, and yonder is our future home. It is not
like our own dear Netterville, indeed, and yet it seems a goodly
enough mansion. So goodly," she added, stealing a glance beneath
her long lashes to see how he took the insinuation, "that I
almost wonder they should have dealt thus kindly by us; for I
know that many of the first of the 'transplanted' have had their
lots assigned them in places where there was not even the hut of
a peasant to shelter them from the weather."

"Tush, child! talk not to me of houses," the old man answered
querulously, too much occupied with the actual disadvantages of
his position to catch the hidden drift of Nellie's observation.
"What boots a goodly mansion, if starvation be at its portal? And
what, I pray you, but starvation are they condemned to, who have
been sent to make themselves a home among these barren

Nellie suffered her eyes to roam once more over the bright waters
of the bay, and then, with a quick sense of beauty kindling up in
her soul, she turned them hopefully upon Lord Netterville.

"Nay, dear grandfather, it is, after all, a country fair and
pleasant to the eye, and once my dear mother rejoins us with the
cows and 'garrans,' there can be no lack of plenty, even in these

"Cows and garrans! And where are we to feed them, girl? Do you
expect to find the pleasant grazing-lands of Meath on the tops of
these barren hills? or are we to fatten our flocks on the
sea-drift, which, I have heard say, the natives of these wilds
are in the habit of gathering on the shore and boiling down into
food, not for their cattle, (they have none, poor wretches!) but

"Some of these hills certainly look black and bare enough, but
still I doubt not that among their glens and hollow places we
shall find many a good acre of green grass for the grazing of our
cattle," the girl answered patiently, and with an evident
determination to look, for the present at least, only on the
bright side of the question. "And now, dear sir," she added
gently, "had we not best move onward? for if yonder tower is
really to be our home, the sooner we are there the better."

She glanced toward the castle as she spoke, and the old man saw
that she started violently as she did so. She said not another
word, however; but he fancied that her cheek grew a shade
paler--if that were possible--than it had been before, as she
continued to gaze silently in that direction.

"What is it, Nellie?" he cried at last, frightened by her strange
looks and silence. "What do you see, child, that you look so
white and scared?"

"See!" she answered slowly and reluctantly, "there seems to be a
party of many people gathering in the court-yard; the house,
therefore, must be inhabited already!"


"People in the court-yard!" cried the old man, now fairly aroused
to that same fear which had been haunting Nellie for the last
half-hour. "What people, Nellie? Tell me, child, if you can
distinguish whether they seem to be natives or strangers to the
place. Our fate, alas! may be dependent on that fact."

The girl walked forward, and shading her eyes with her hand from
the blinding sunshine, looked again, and yet again, in the
direction of the tower.

"Yes," she said at last; "I was not mistaken. There is a party in
the court-yard, and some of them are even standing in the
gate-way, as if they had but this instant stept forth from the
mansion. Surely, grandfather, we cannot have misunderstood or
mistaken our instructions? There is no other building to be
seen--even in the distance--and this one answers in all respects
to the description. The man, too, from whom we inquired our way
this morning, assured us that it was called 'The Rath'--the very
name set down in our certificate. We cannot have been mistaken,
and yet--and yet--if there be persons already in possession,
their claim must needs be superior to our own."

She spoke hesitatingly, and in broken sentences, as if she were
following out a train of thought in her own mind, rather than
addressing her companion. He listened anxiously, and a cloud
gathered on his brow as he gradually took in her meaning.

"It may be only some of the natives," he said at last, in a low
voice. "The original owners, perhaps, of the tower, who have
waited our arrival before giving up possession."

"Owners!" said Nellie quickly. "They told us at Loughrea that the
owner had perished in the war, and that therefore we should find
it empty."

"They may have been mistaken, Nellie. They know little enough, I
think, those high and mighty commissioners at Loughrea, of the
land of which they are so liberally disposing; and still less, I
doubt me, of its original possessors."

"And if they are mistaken, we shall take the place of the
rightful owners, and so deal out to others the very measure which
our enemies have dealt to us. Grandfather, if we are guilty of
this thing, we shall have a twofold sin upon our souls--their
iniquity and our own."

"What would you have, child?" he answered pettishly; for, truth
to say, he had yet quite enough of the Englishman about him, not
to be over-particular as to the rights of the native Irish. "What
would you have? Did you not know already that, in the acceptation
of these lands, we were taking that which it was neither in the
Cromwellians' right to give or in ours to receive? And what if an
old tumble-down tower be thrown into the bargain? Trust me,
Nellie, the business is so black already that, like the face of
his Satanic majesty, who is the author of it, a little more or
less of smutch will hardly make it blacker or uglier than it is."

"I never thought of this before," said Nellie sadly; "I thought
only--fool that I was, so selfishly intent on my own
misfortunes--I thought only of tracts of land left barren for
want of inhabitants to till them, and of houses emptied by the
fate of war. I never dreamed of men and women and little children
turned out of their pleasant homes to make room for us--us who
have as little right to their possessions as the English soldiers
have to ours!"


"Nevertheless it has been done in almost every other case of
transplantation which I have heard of," the old man answered
restlessly. "And the iniquity--for it _is_ an iniquity--is
theirs who have driven us to such spoliation, not ours who have
been compelled in our own despite to do it."

But Nellie was far too noble, and too clear-sighted in her
nobleness, to shelter her actions behind such a subterfuge, and
she answered vehemently:

"But it must not be in ours, sir--it must not be in ours! We
will go down at once, and if the persons whom we see yonder be
the rightful owners of that tower, we will merely crave rest and
hospitality at their hands, until such a time as we have found a
place, however humble, in which, without injury to honor or
conscience, we can make ourselves a home."

"As you will, Nellie--as you will," he answered, too weary,
perhaps, to be able longer to dispute the point. "But after all,
we may be mistaken as to the ownership of these people. Look
again, and tell me, if you can, whether they are clad like
Englishmen, or in the native weeds?"

"Not in the native weeds, I think, my father. Rather I should
say, if it were not impossible, that the men whom I see down
yonder belonged to the army of the oppressor. Ha! Now a lady is
coming forth, and now they are mounting her, and a tall, stately
personage in--yes--certainly in military attire, is mounting
also, and takes his place at her side. Now half a dozen servants,
I suppose, or friends, are on their horses likewise, and now they
are moving forward. Father, they must come this way, there is
none other that I can see by which horses can pass with safety.
Let us wait for them behind the bank, and then, when they are
near enough, we will accost them, and if they be of the
conquering army, show them our certificate. They will, of course,
bow to its authority, and help us to take possession of that
house which the document assigns us. I am glad a woman is among
them; it will make it easier, I think, to speak."

As Nellie ran on thus, she drew her grandfather with her behind a
bank which dipt down suddenly upon the path, narrowing it until
it was all but impassable to riders. There, with pale face and
tightened breath, she nervously awaited the advent of the party
upon whose favorable or unfavorable disposition toward them she
felt her own fate and Lord Netterville's to be so painfully

      To Be Continued.



      The Roman Gathering. [Footnote 46]

      By W. G. Dix.

    [Footnote 46: We give place to the above article in our
    columns, though from a non-Catholic pen, thinking that it
    will be read with interest by our readers, while it
    indicates, at the same time, the religious tendencies which
    are becoming more and more prevalent among not a small class
    of minds in our country.--Editor C. W.]

A man of many years, without vast temporal resources, despoiled
of a part of his possessions, having many and vigorous enemies
about him, and regarded by many even of those who profess the
Christian faith as about to fall from his high place in
Christendom, such a man invites his brethren of the apostolical
ministry throughout the world to honor by their personal presence
at Rome the anniversary of the martyrdom, eighteen hundred years
ago, of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, and to join with him in the
exaltation of martyrs who, like them, though in far distant
lands, were "faithful unto death." They respond with eager joy
and haste to the call, and those who cannot go send on the wings
of the wind their words of loving veneration.

To say not a word of the spiritual claims of the man who sent
forth the invitation, so eagerly and widely accepted, there is in
the fact just stated a glowing evidence that, even in these days
of triumphant and insolent materialism, moral power has not
entirely lost ascendency. Though millions of knees are bent in
honor of the Dagon of materialism, in some one or other of its
myriad forms of degrading idolatry, yet millions of hearts also
recognize the gift of God as present evermore in his holy church.
Never before has the Catholic Church beheld so great a multitude,
from so distant places, assembled at her call at the central city
of the faith.

The enemies of catholicity have again and again referred to the
great inventions of modern times as sure destroyers of the claims
of the Catholic Church and of her hold upon her millions of
members; but lo! these very inventions are brought into the
service of the church. The printing-press, which was going to
annihilate the Catholic Church, has proved one of her most
effectual bulwarks; millions of printed pages inspire the
devotion of her children, and make known her claims to reading
men, until many who were even her enemies and revilers, from
ignorance and prejudice, acknowledge their error, and make haste
to go to "their father's house." Steam, in the view of many, was
about so to change the structure of society that the old and
decrepid Church of Rome, the great obstacle on the railroad of
materialism, was about to be run over and cast to the roadside, a
weak and useless wreck; but lo! the power of steam enables
hundreds and thousands more to go up to the sacred city, as the
tribes of Israel were wont to visit Jerusalem, than could
otherwise attend the festivals of the faith in St. Peter's
Church. Of the manifold uses of steam, a large proportion is in
the service of catholic truth. And then the telegraph; that,
surely, was to show an advanced state of civilization which could
not tolerate the slow and ancient ways of catholicity; but lo!
here, again, the event has contradicted the prophecy; for, by
means of the telegraph, the assemblage of the vast host at Rome
was known throughout the world on the very day of its occurrence;
and almost literally, in all parts of Christendom, thousands of
devout worshippers could turn their faces reverently toward the
altar of God in Rome at the very instant when those in its
immediate presence were bending before it, and could join in the
same prayers and anthems, as though the world itself were one
vast St. Peter's Church, and the strains of penitence and hymns
of joy could reverberate across oceans and mountains, among
distant nations and islands of the sea, as among the corridors
and arches of one great temple sacred to the triune God.


As in these instances, so in many others, the church has extended
her sway and deepened her power by the very forces which many
supposed would work her ruin. The history of the church has shown
in the domain of natural science, so often applied in the service
of infidelity and disorder, as in the field of human passion,
that God will make the wrath of man to praise him, and turn
weapons designed to attack his holy Church into her consecrated
armor of defence. The grace of God so overrules the inventions of
man and the powers of nature, that even the terrible lightning
becomes the vivid messenger to convey to the ends of the earth
the benediction of the Vicar of Christ.

What is the chief lesson of the recent gathering at Rome? It is
this, that the church of God, so often, in the view of her
enemies, destroyed, will not stay destroyed; that after every
"destruction" she renews her invincible youth, and rises to
pursue her career of conquest over sin, prejudice, and wrong;
that, though she may bend awhile to the storm that beats upon her
sacred head, she has never been wholly overcome; that,
notwithstanding all that mortal enmity, defection, outrage, have
done or can do, she yet lifts her forehead to the sky to be anew
baptized with light from the sun of truth above; and, strong in
the faith and promise of the Eternal God, she falters not in her
endeavors, patient and persistent, to subdue the world to Christ.

The history of the Catholic Church abounds with instances like
the Roman gathering in June, which prove that her hours of
affliction are those very ones when her faithful children gather
to her side, to assure her of their prayers and support, and to
discern upon her saintly face those "smiles through tears,"
which, in times of trial, are the warmest and most touching
acknowledgments of filial veneration.

The commemorative assemblage at the capital of Christendom,
signifies that the church of God is indestructible by any forces
that earth or hell, singly or united, can bring against her. She
may be at times like the bird in the snare of the fowler; but she
is sure of being released at length, and then she plumes her
wings afresh, and soars heavenward, filling the air with the
divine, exultant music of her voice. The powerful of the earth
have sometimes loaded the church with fetters; but by the
strength of Christ that dwells evermore in her, she has broken
the bonds asunder, or, by his transforming grace, they have
become the wreaths and garlands of new victory, even as the cross
of humiliation has become, by the sacrifice of our Lord, the
emblem of unfading glory.

The church of Christ, bearing on her brow his holy seal, and in
her hands his gifts of power, knelt in sorrow at his grave; but
she hailed his resurrection with joy, and was endowed anew with
treasures of immortal life.
Afterward, the might of heathendom arose against her, and she
descended from the wrath of man into the catacombs; but she
reascended, to wear upon her brow the diadem of a spiritual
empire that shall never fall until the elements shall melt with
fervent heat; and even then, true to all her history in deriving
new glory from every apparent defeat, she will rise again from
the great grave of nature to enjoy for ever the vision of God.
Kings of the earth have denied her right to invest the pastors of
her children with their due prerogatives, and have even dared her
to mortal combat; but though distressed and thwarted, she has
never relinquished her inherent rights, and she never will. As
many times as the head of the church on earth has been driven
from Rome by armed, ungrateful violence, so many times exactly
has he been welcomed back with tears of penitence and shouts of

Despoiled of treasures committed to her care by faithful stewards
of God's bounty, she has labored with her own hands to feed her
needy children. At one time, persecuted in the wilderness, she
has found a refuge and a welcome in the courts of princes; at
another, driven from the courts of princes, because she would not
deny her Lord or her divine commission, she has found a humble
sanctuary in the wilderness, and knelt upon the bare earth to
adore the Lord of life and light, once the child in the manger,
and to invoke all the saints in glory to plead her cause in the
ear of infinite justice and goodness.

She has spurned the anointed king from the temple of God, until
he repented of his crime; and on the head of the lowly monk who
was spending his days in labor and prayer, she has placed the
triple crown. With one hand she has bathed with "baptismal dew"
the brow of the day-laborer's child, while the other she has
raised in defiance of imperial might, which dared to assail her
holy altar.

One of the most violent objections to the Catholic Church has
been urged for the very reason that she has so faithfully held
the balance between the contending forces of society. She has
been accused of favoring the claims of absolutism or popular
demands, as the triumph of either at the time would favor her own
ends, irrespective of right. The charge is unjust, is urged by
many who know better, yet it springs from an honest
misapprehension in many minds. It would have been utterly
impossible for an institution, designed to enlighten and guide
mankind in its higher relations, not to touch human interests of
every kind, and human institutions generally in many ways; yet
the challenge may safely be given to any thoughtful student of
history, to acknowledge with candor, whatever may be his
ecclesiastical position, that the Catholic Church, having often
been chosen to be, and having an inherent right to be, the umpire
between the rights of authority and the rights of individuals,
has faithfully labored to sustain lawful authority when assailed
by the wild fury of misguided multitudes, and that she has
interposed her powerful shield, often with the most triumphant
success, to protect men whose rights as men were assailed by
authority changed by ambition into arrogant and exacting tyranny.
What inconsistency and insincerity have been charged against the
Catholic Church for this remarkable and noble fact in her
history! In this respect the Catholic Church has followed
strictly in the steps of her Divine Author, who, when on earth,
invariably upheld the rights of authority, while vehemently
denouncing those who unjustly exercised it; and while going about
doing good, the friend of the friendless and the helper of the
helpless, pleading with divine eloquence, and laboring with
divine power for the outcast and the poor, never and nowhere
sanctioned the spirit of insurrection, but enjoined obedience as
one of the main duties of life.
Hence, it has come about, by one of those sublime mysteries,
which prove the divine origin of Christianity, that the greatest
revolution which has ever taken place in religious belief and in
civil society in all their bearings, has been effected by the
teachings, by the life and death of one who by no word or deed
ever assailed authority itself or incited resistance to it.

Beauty and order being the same thing, and religious truth being
the beauty of holiness, Christ, who was truth in person, must
have made his church the friend and upholder of all beauty and
order; and so it has proved for eighteen hundred years. The
church has been the celestial crucible in which whatever of human
art or invention had within it the essential attributes of higher
and spiritual goodness has been purified and adapted to the
service of religion. Has poetry sought to please the imaginations
of men? the church of Christ unfolded before her the annals of
Christianity, with her grand central sacrifice of infinite love,
and all her demonstrations of heroic suffering and courageous
faith; and poetry drew holier inspiration from the view, and
incited men by higher motives to a higher life. Have painting and
sculpture sought to represent objects of refining grace and
sublimity? the church of Christ persuaded them to look into the
records of the Christian past, and there they found treasures of
beauty and splendor, devotion and martyrdom, whose wealth of
illustration as examples; incentives, and memorials, art has not
exhausted for centuries, and will never exhaust. Christian
history is the inexhaustible quarry of whatever is most noble and
heroic in man, purified by the grace of God. Has architecture
sought to invest stone with the attributes of spiritual and
intellectual grace? the church of God has so portrayed before her
the sublimities of the Christian faith, that she knelt at her
feet in veneration, and thenceforth consecrated herself to build
enduring structures, which, the more they show of human power and
skill, the more they persuade men to the worship of God. Has
eloquence sought to nerve men for the grand conflicts of life?
the church of Christ has touched the lips of eloquence with
living fire from her altar, until have sprung forth words that
flamed with love to man and love to God. Has music sought to
weave her entrancing spells around the ear and heart and soul?
the church of Christ has breathed into music her own divine
being, until the music of the church seems like beatific worship,
and worship on earth like beatific music.

As in these respects, so in others, the church has made a holy
conquest of whatever is noblest among the endowments of men. In
speaking of Catholic history, even from the secular point of
view, it may be justly said, that nowhere else has there been
such wonderful discernment of the various capacities of the human
mind, and of their various adaptations. Tenacious of the truth
and of all its prerogatives, the Catholic Church has,
nevertheless, allowed a wide liberty of thought. That the
Catholic Church has narrowed the understandings of men, is a
singular charge to make in the face of the schools of Catholic
philosophy, in which men of varying mental structure, training,
or habits of thought, have had full, free play of their
And where else have there been so many free and varying
activities as in the Catholic Church? The false charge that the
church fetters the minds and movements of men, may be traced to
the fact that all Catholic diversities of thought have converged,
like different rays of light, in the elucidation of truth, and
that varying modes of Catholic action have had one object--the
advancement of truth.

Here is the intended force of all these illustrations, for they
have had a logical purpose. The world will never outgrow the
church. All the boasted improvements in science, in art, in
civilization, so far from impeding the church of Christ, and
making her existence no longer needed, will, at the same time,
advance her power, and make her more needed than ever. If in the
middle ages, when society was in the process of transition from
the old to the new, the church was pre-eminently needed to keep
what was just and right and true in the older forms of
civilization, and gradually to adapt to them what was just and
right and true in the newer developments of society, most truly
is the church needed now, when there exists a perfect chaos of
opinions, and when a part of the civilized world is in another
transition, from the aimless, rudderless vagaries of
Protestantism to the solid rock of Catholicity. If ever the voice
of authority was needed, like the voice of the angel of God,
heard amid and above the howlings of the storm, it is needed now.

Much false reasoning has been uttered about the "unchangeable
church," as though, because "unchangeable," it was not adapted to
a changing and striving world, when, in truth, for the very
reason that the church of Christ is unchangeably true, she is
required and adapted for all the changes and emergencies of time.
Who ever heard a sailor complain of the mariner's compass,
because, on account of its unchangeable obstinacy, it would not
conform to his private judgments and caprices about the right
course? No one. It is for the very reason that the mariner's
compass is unchangeably true to the eternal law of magnetic
attraction, under all circumstances and in all places, that it is
the unerring guide among the whirlwinds and heavings of the great
deep. Catholicity is the mariner's compass upon a greater
deep--even that of the wild and rolling, beating ocean of
humanity, pointing, amid sunny calms, or gentle winds, or raging
gales, unerringly to the cross of Jesus Christ, as the needle of
the mariner's compass points to the north--guiding, age after
age, the precious freights of immortal souls to the harbor of
infinite and unending joy.

The force of this illustration is all the stronger that the
mariner's compass is a human adaptation of an immutable law of
nature to navigation, while the church of the living God is
divine alike in origin and application, and has existed from the
beginning, unchangeable, like God himself, yet adapting herself
to the wants of every age. The church of God is like his own
infinite providence, in which unchangeable truth meets in the
harmony of mercy the innumerable changes of human need.

Much has been written and more said about "the church of the
future," as though it were to be some millennial manifestation
altogether different from the historic church; but the church of
the future, which is not also the church of the past and of the
present, can be no church; for a true church must reach to the
ages back as well as to those before.
If the continuity is broken, truth is broken, and cannot be
restored. As for eighteen centuries there have been no forms of
civil society, no calms or tempests in the moral, political,
social, or religious world, in which the Catholic Church has not
been true to the organic principles of her divine life, even the
enemy of catholicity should admit--that fact being granted--that
the presumption is on her side that she will be equally true to
those principles during the centuries that are to come. He may
deny that the church has been true, and, consequently, that she
will be true, but he will not admit one proposition and deny the
other; he will admit both or deny both. In other words, he will
admit, equally with the friend of catholicity, the identity of
the church, past, present, and to come. Now, it will be
impossible for a friend or enemy of the Catholic Church, from her
beginning to this very day, to point to an hour when she was not
a living church; it is, then, probable, that she will continue to
be a living church. But where, since the promulgation of
Christianity to this time, has existed a body of Christian
believers, which, for the quality of continual existence, has so
good a right to be called the church of Christ as the Catholic
Church? Considering her numbers, extent, and duration, that
church has been preeminently the church of the past; considering
numbers, extent, and duration, that church is pre-eminently the
church of the present; considering all analogies and
probabilities, then the Catholic Church will be preeminently the
church of the future. In truth, the vindictive anger of the
enemies of the Catholic Church, in whatever form of opposition it
may be shown, proceeds from the fact, not that she is the dead
church of the past, as she is sometimes called, for there would
be no reason to war with the dead, but because she is, as she has
been and will be, the living church. The Catholic Church is hated
not for being too dead, but for being too living. She has seen
the birth and death of countless "improvements" of her
principles, and she has received with gladness into her fold many
an eager and conscientious inquirer for the "new church," who has
at length reached an end of his wanderings and a solution of his
doubts in finding, with tears of rapturous submission, that the
new church, for which he was seeking, is the same church which
has stood for ages, ever old, yet ever new, because representing
Him who is alike the Living God and the Ancient of Days.

The Catholic Church, so frequently and unjustly denounced as ever
behind the age, or even as facing the past, has been foremost in
all parts of the world. She has sent her faithful soldiers of the
cross where the spirit of commerce dared not go; she was the
first in the east and the first in the West; it was her lamp of
divine light which dispelled the gloomy terrors of the barbarous
north of Europe; it was her sceptre of celestial beauty, which,
under the guidance of Heaven, transformed the political and
social wreck of southern Europe into order. In what part of the
world which man could reach has she not planted the cross? Where
on the face of the earth is the mountain whose craggy sides have
not, at one time or another, sent back into the sounding air the
echoes of Catholic worship?


Daniel Webster gave a vivid picture of the extent of the power of
England, in what I think to be the grandest sentence which
America has contributed to the common treasure of English
literature. He said: "The morning drum-beat, following the sun,
and keeping company with the hours, circles the earth daily with
one unbroken strain of the martial airs of England." That grand
figure of speech may be applied to the extent of the Catholic
Church. Yet it is not by martial airs, but by hymns of praise and
penitential orisons and the continuous sacrifice that the
Catholic Church daily celebrates, "from the rising of the sun
unto the going down of the same," the triumphant march of the
Prince of Peace. How like "the sound of many waters" rolls hourly
heavenward the anthems of catholic worship throughout the world!
Not only is every moment of every day consecrated by catholic
hymns sung somewhere on earth; but how majestically roll down
through eighteen hundred years the unbroken anthems of catholic
devotion! Minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day,
night after night, month after month, year after year, century
after century, the holy strains go on unending. To the mind's ear
seem blended in one almost overpowering flood of holy harmony the
unnumbered voices which have sounded from the very hour when the
shepherds of Bethlehem heard the angelic song to this very
moment, when, somewhere, catholic voices are chanting praise to
the Lord and Saviour of men.

And, in this view, how literally has been fulfilled that
consoling prophecy, "Henceforth all generations shall call me
blessed." Wherever the Divine Son has been duly honored, there
also she, who was remembered with filial love even amid his dying
agonies for a world's salvation, has been remembered and called
blessed; called blessed from that lowly home and from that mount
of sorrow in the distant east, in millions of lowly homes, and
under the shadow of mountains to the farthest west; called
blessed by millions of loving and imploring voices through all
the ages since; called blessed in all the languages that have
been spoken since that time in all the world; called blessed in
the rudest forms of human speech and in the most ecstatic music
of voice and skill; called blessed by the lips of the little
child that can hardly speak the name of mother, and by the lips
that tremble with age and sorrow; called blessed by the sailor on
the deep, by the ploughman on the land, by the scholar at his
books, by the soldier drawing his sword for right upon the
battle-field; called blessed by the voices of peasant-girls
singing in sunny vineyards, and by the voices of those from whose
brows have flashed the gems of royal diadems; called blessed in
cottages and palaces, at wayside shrines, and under the golden
roofs of grand cathedrals; called blessed in the hour of joy and
in the hour of anguish--in the strength and beauty of life, and
at the gates of death. How long, how ardently, how faithfully has
all this loving honor been paid for so many generations, and will
continue to be paid for all generations to come, to that
sorrowing yet benignant one, who bore him who bore our woe!

The recent gathering at Rome indicates that there is no demand
which civilization can rightfully make of the Christian Church
which she will not eagerly, fully, and faithfully meet. The
largest assemblage of professed ministers of Christ which this
age has known--leaving here out of view the claims of the
Catholic Church to an apostolical priesthood--has been held in
Rome by the church, so extensively proclaimed and derided as
being behind the age. If there is life, deep, full, pervading
life anywhere on earth, it is in the Catholic Church and in all
her movements.
She will continue to draw to herself all the qualities and
capacities of life which are in harmony with her spirit; and this
accumulated spiritual force will constantly weaken the barriers
that divide her from the sympathies of a large part of
Christendom, until at length she will be acknowledged by all as
the only living and true church of Christ.

"The restoration of the unity of the church" has been the subject
of many thoughts, of many words, of earnest and devout prayer, of
much and noble effort, and, when understood as referring to the
reconciliation of those who have left the Catholic Church, or who
are now out of it because their fathers left it, the phrase may
pass without objection; but the phrase is greatly objectionable,
even to the extent of expressing an untruth, when it is used to
convey the idea that the unity of the church has ever been
broken. This has not been, and could not be. The church, intended
to be one, and to endure until the end of time, could not, in its
organic structure, be really broken at any period of its history,
without destroying its title as the one church of Christ.
Individuals, communities, even nations, as such, have been broken
off from it; but the essential church herself has remained one
and unbroken through all vicissitudes. The theory that the Church
of Rome, the Greek Church, and the Church of England are equal
and co-ordinate branches of the one church of Christ has no
foundation as an historical fact, and is as destructive of all
true ideas of the unity of the church as the wildest vagaries of
Protestantism. Is there on earth an institution which schism,
heresy, and political ambition have tried to destroy and have
tried in vain? There is; it is the Catholic Church. Is there an
institution on earth which, leaving out of regard all its claims,
has had the quality of historical continuity for eighteen
centuries? There is; it is the Catholic Church.

The charge, if not of bigotry, yet of most unreasonable
arrogance, has been more or less directly made against the
Catholic Church, because she has not received overtures of
reconciliation from enthusiastic and earnest individuals claiming
to represent national churches, as cordially as was expected. But
how can she accept, or even consider, any such overtures,
proceeding as they do from the assumption of equal position and
authority, without disowning herself, without denying even those
claims and prerogatives, the existence of which alone makes union
with her desirable? If there is no institution on earth which has
a valid title to be the continuous church of Christ, all efforts
will be vain to supply the gap of centuries by an establishment
now. A union of churches will not satisfy the design or promise
of our Lord, when he founded the unity of his church. If the
Christian church has really been broken into pieces, it will be
in vain to gather up the fragments; for, on that supposition, the
divine principle has long since departed, and the gates of hell
have prevailed. Those men of strong Catholic predilections, who,
nevertheless, have clung to the theory that the church of Christ
has been really broken, and must be repaired by management, will
yet thank God from their inmost souls for the immovable firmness
with which that theory has been denied at Rome.

The Catholic Church has never condemned a heresy more false or
destructive than the proposition that she is herself but one of
the divisions of the Christian church, having no authority to
speak or to rule in the name of her Lord.
To deny that the one church of Christ is now existing, and that
she has existed for ages, is to deny not merely a fact in
history, but it is to deny the word of our Lord; and to do that,
is to deny alike his holiness and his divinity. How can the
Catholic Church treat with those who wish to make terms before
submitting to her authority, on the basis of a positive untruth?
Catholicity is not an inheritance, to be decided among many
claimants, no one of whom has any right to be or to be regarded
as the sole heir of the homestead; but it is an estate left by
the divine Lord of the manor, in charge of the Prince of the
Apostles and his successors, on the express injunction that it is
to be kept one and undivided, in trust for the benefit of the
faithful for all time. The estate has been kept one and
undivided, according to the title-deed; the injunction has never
been broken; notwithstanding all defections from the household,
the homestead of the Christian world remains in the hands of the
same faithful succession to which it was committed by our Lord
himself. May God grant that all the younger sons who have gone
astray, may return with penitential alacrity to their Father's

The Catholic Church will not stop in her progress, until she has
converted the world to Christ; but she has not denied, and will
not deny, her sacred trust and prerogative of catholicity for the
sake even of adding whole nations to her fold. Whoever enters her
fold must admit by that act her claim to be the one, undivided,
indivisible Church of Christ. There can be no "branches of the
Catholic Church" which are not directly joined to the root and
trunk of catholicity. A severed branch is no branch.

It is not the fault of the Catholic Church that multitudes "who
profess and call themselves Christians" are not members of her
communion. She affords the very largest liberty for individual or
associated action that can be yielded without denying her faith
or her commission. The highest poetry and the severest logic may
kneel in brotherly harmony at her altar. Gifts and talents the
most diverse have been consecrated to her service. The Catholic
Church advancing, century after century, under the banner of the
cross and dove, to the spiritual conquest of the world! how far
more sublime a spectacle it is than that of some parts of
Christendom, which are broken into little independent bands of
sectarian skirmishers, keeping up a kind of guerrilla warfare
against "the world, the flesh, and the devil," and each other.

There are inspiring tokens which show the depth and breadth of
the conviction, that the great schism of three centuries ago has
proved a terrible mistake. Multitudes outside of the Catholic
Church are inquiring with earnest solicitude about the meaning of
catholic unity. The main course of intellectual inquiry is, in
both hemispheres, respecting the claims of the Catholic Church.
There are evident signs that the chaos of Protestantism is about
to be broken up, and the wild, and dreary waste to bloom and glow
with Catholic beauty and order. God grant that it may be so, and
that not only thousands of individuals may know how precious a
prize it is to kneel devoutly and sincerely before, the altar of
God; but that even, mighty nations may be convinced, what
priceless gifts they have forfeited by three centuries of
separation from the source of all they have that has been or is
worth keeping.


In view of the fact that the revival of catholic feeling
enkindles also the enmity of those who scan it, the gathering at
Rome is not only an assurance before the world that the Catholic
Church will continue to be the guide of life and the empire of
civilization, but it is also a sublime challenge against all the
agencies of every kind that have been, or may be tried, to
eliminate Catholicity from the age. The Catholic Church has a
work to do, and she will do it. She can no more forego it, than
she can die by her own will. She has never flinched yet; she
never will. It is the very necessity as well as the reason of her
being that she shall fulfil her charge without wavering or
diminution; and this she will do. If the "gates of hell" cannot
prevail against the church of God, she may safely defy all mortal
might. The sun might more easily have refused to come forth at
the bidding of the Creator, than the church can refuse to do his
will in conquering the world for Christ. God speed the day when
the divisions of Christendom shall end; when all who profess to
be the disciples of Jesus Christ shall seek and find consolation
in his one, true, enduring fold; and when the sceptre of God,
manifest in the church, shall be extended in benignant power over
an obedient and rejoicing world.


    "The United Churches Of England And Ireland, In Ireland."
    [Footnote 47]

    [Footnote 47: _Ireland and her Churches_. By James
    Godkin. London, Chapman & Hall. 1867. 1 vol. pp. 623.]

It is well to be accurate in the bestowal of titles, and we give,
therefore, the institution whose latest history lies before us
the exact definition by which, these sixty years past, it
rejoices to be known. Under this designation of its own choice
this institution is open to the reflection of being one of the
most modern of all the churches pretending to be national; the
junior of even our own American Episcopal Church, which is not
itself very far stricken in years; the junior, indeed, of all the
other churches we can at this moment recall to memory, unless we
were to include "the Church of the Latter-Day Saints," whose
Mecca stands upon Salt Lake.

On the first day of January, in the first year of this century,
the ecclesiastical system, establishment, or organization which
designates itself as "the United Church of England and Ireland,
in Ireland," came, with sound of many trumpets, into the world.
On that auspicious day, the legislative union of Ireland and
Great Britain was proclaimed; a new national flag, "the Union
Jack," was run up from the royal towers of London, Dublin, and
Edinburgh; a new royal title was assumed for the coinage of the
new realm, and in all great public transactions; a new "great
seal" was struck for the sovereign of the newly modelled state;
new peers and new commoners were added to the two houses of
Parliament, and, to complete the revolution, by the 5th clause of
the same act, the matters previously mentioned having been first
disposed of, this new church was, on that same day and hour, by
the same authority, called into existence. His majesty's
proclamation, announced at Paul's Cross in London, at the Cross
in Edinburgh, and where the Cross of _le Dame_ street ought
to have been, in Dublin, that "the doctrine, worship, discipline,
and government of the said United Church shall be and shall
remain in full force for ever, as the same are now by law
established for the Church of England."


The two national churches, thus by act of parliament and royal
proclamation, united into, so to speak, one imperial church, with
an identical "doctrine, worship, and discipline," had a good many
antecedents in common, and a good many others that were peculiar
to each side of the channel. Irish Protestantism had never been a
servile or even a close copy of its English senior. Whether, as
Swift sarcastically maintained, the sermons of Dublin pulpits
were flavored by the soil, or whether the cause of difference lay
in the atmosphere, the Irish variety of "the churches of the
Reformation," was as full of self-complacency and self-assertion,
as any of the sisterhood. It imbibed at the start, chiefly from
Usher, a larger draught of Genevan theology than was quite
reconcilable with the Thirty-nine Articles; it has been almost
invariably toryish in its relations to the state; while the
English establishment, at least since 1668, has been pretty
equally divided between the two great political parties. But the
most singular peculiarity of this very modern church of Ireland
was the persuasion it arrived at, and endeavored to impress upon
the world, that it was the veritable primitive Christianity of
the Green Isle; that instead of tracing its origin to quite
recent acts of parliament, its pedigree ran up nearly to the Acts
of the Apostles; that Saint Patrick and Saint Columba were its
true founders, and not such saints of yesterday as George Browne
and James Usher. Whenever it was necessary to enforce the
collection of tithes, or to protect the monopoly of university
education, the statutes at large were resorted to as the true
charter of its institution; but whenever it became requisite to
defend its anomalous position, by writing or speaking, the
Protestantism of Saint Patrick--his independence of Rome more
especially--was the favorite argument of its defenders.

No "reformed" community has ever made such desperate and
persistent efforts, with such flimsy or wholly imaginary
materials, to bridge over the long space of the middle ages, in
order to make some show of historical connection with the first
founders of Christianity. But the recent revival of genuine
ecclesiastical learning has utterly dissipated the last fond
efforts of these spiritual genealogists; and the very first acts
of its existence as a separated body, are now as well understood
as the 41st of George III., by which it became a copartner in
"the United Church of England and Ireland," no longer ago than
the first day of the year of our Lord, 1801.

The history of the Irish member of this curious ecclesiastical
firm may best be traced through the statutes at large. As its
parentage was parliamentary, so its life has been legislative.
There is one advantage in having this description of authority to
refer to, that it cannot be disputed. The "Journals of
Parliament" in England and Ireland, from the reformation to the
civil emancipation of the Catholics in 1829, are good Protestant
authority. The peers and commoners of the old religion were
excluded from the English houses, from the 10th of Elizabeth
(1567) to the 9th of George IV., (1829,) a period of 262 years;
and in Ireland, the last parliament in which Catholics sat was
that of 4th James II., (1689,) followed by a period of exclusion,
before the union, of 111 years.
It was not found possible, so early as the time of the two first
Stuarts and Elizabeth, to wholly exclude Catholics, or, as they
were then called, "recusants," from membership in either house in
Ireland; and accordingly we find them a formidable minority in
those rarely occurring assemblies, such as the Irish parliaments
held in the 11th and 25th of Elizabeth, the 11th James I., the
14th Charles I., and the 12th of Charles II, In the second
James's short-lived parliament of one session, hastily adjourned
to allow his lords and gentlemen to follow their master to the
banks of the "ill-fated river," they were a majority; but with
that evanescent exception, the statutes of Ireland are quite as
exclusively Protestant authority on all church matters as those
of England previous to the union of the legislatures and the
churches, and subsequently down to 1829.

The history of Protestantism in Ireland, from first to last, is a
political history. Its best record is to be found in the
parliamentary journals as well in the reign of Henry VIII. as of
George III. And though we do not propose to dwell, in the present
paper, in anything like detail on the annals of that
establishment previous to the present century, we must condense
into a short space the main facts of its first appearance on the
scene, and its early parliamentary nurture and education, to
account for the facility with which it ceased to be, even in
pretence, a national church at the time of the legislative union.
Political in its origin, its organization, and its government,
from the first hour of its existence, it had neither will, nor
wish, nor ability, if it had either, to resist the designs of the
state, which included its incorporation into the imperial system.
As the lay representation of Ireland was recast, as the seal and
the standard were changed, so the institution started by statute
and royal orders in council in the sixteenth century came
naturally to have its individuality extinguished by other
statutes and orders in council in the nineteenth. If this
so-called "Church of Ireland" had really believed itself to be
what its champions had so often asserted, the true and ancient
national church of the kingdom, it would at all events have made
some show of patriotic resistance before making its surrender.

Not only, however, was it not really national in its origin, but
it was then, and always, an eminently anti-popular institution.
There was not, as in other countries during the reformation, even
the pretext of what is called a popular "movement against Rome."
No Luther had arisen among the Celtic or the Anglo-Irish
Catholics in that age of perturbation. The ancient faith was
received as implicitly by the burgesses of Dublin as by the
clansmen of Connaught, and the spiritual supremacy of the pope
seemed a doctrine as impossible of contradiction to the
descendants of Strongbow as to the children of Milesius. No
internal revolt against Roman discipline or Roman doctrine had
shown itself within the western island. There was no spiritual
insurrection attempted from within to justify the resort to
external intervention. The annalists of Donegal, who are commonly
called "The Four Masters," and who were old enough to remember
the first mention of Protestantism in their own province, thus
unconsciously express the amazement of the educated Irish mind of
those days at the new doctors and doctrines:


  "A.D. 1537. A heresy and a new error broke out in England, the
  effects of pride, vainglory, avarice, sensual desire, and the
  prevalence of a variety of scientific and philosophical
  speculations, so that the people of England went into
  opposition to the pope and to Rome. At the same time they
  followed a variety of opinions, and the old law of Moses, after
  the manner of the Jewish people, and they gave the title of
  Head of the Church of God to the king. There were enacted by
  the king and council new laws and statutes after their own

But the laws and statutes enacted by the king and council in
England, for changing the national religion, were not immediately
either extended to, or proposed for imitation in, Ireland. The
zeal of the crowned apostle was tempered by the exigencies of the
politician. Before this king's time, the English power in Ireland
had been essentially a colonial power; "a pale" or enclosure, or
garrison. Whoever will not mark the point, will miss the very
pivot of all the operations of the new religion in Ireland. Henry
VIII. had inherited from his father, the first king of united
England for a century, the ambition of making himself equally
master of the neighboring nation. During the twenty years of the
sway of his great cardinal-chancellor, this object never was for
a moment lost sight of. When Wolsey went down to the grave in
disgrace without seeing it fulfilled, his royal pupil continued
to prosecute the plan to its entire accomplishment. This result,
however, he only reached in the thirty-second year of his reign,
(1541,) some six years before his miserable end. Ten years
previously, (1531,) he may be said to have established the new
religion in England by compelling the majority of the clergy to
subscribe to his supremacy in spirituals; within two years
followed his marriage with Anne Boleyn; and in 1535, his order
appeared commanding the omission "of the name of the Bishop of
Rome from every liturgical book," which may be said to have
completed the severance of England from Rome.

Not only did not Henry, in obedience to his political design of
adding another crown to his dominions, not press his reformed
doctrines immediately upon the Irish of either race, but he
expressly reprehended his deputies at Dublin for having
prematurely attempted the national conversion. In the same year
in which he struck the pope's name from every liturgical book, he
sharply rebuked George Browne, an English ex-Augustinian whom he
had appointed Archbishop of Dublin, for destroying certain relics
of saints in the churches of that city. Again in the same year.
Secretary Cromwell writes officially to contradict "a common
rumor," that he intended to pluck down the statue of "our Lady of
Trim," which was as famous on the west, as our "Lady of
Walsingham" on the east of the channel. Four years later, we find
the Lord Deputy Grey, after a victory over O'Neill at Bellahoe,
halting with the whole court and army at this celebrated place of
pilgrimage, and visiting this same shrine of our Lady--"very
devoutly kneeling before her, he heard three or four masses." At
that moment, in the thirtieth year of Henry VIII., and the sixth
of his open rupture with Rome, any Celtic-Irish or Anglo-Irish
Catholic, in the ranks of Lord Grey, not particularly well
informed as to the affairs of the neighboring kingdom, might have
rested honestly in the belief that he was serving a Catholic
prince in full communion with the rest of Christendom.


But as soon as the election to the kingship, which it is not in
our way here to dwell upon, was successfully over, and the new
royal title proclaimed, confirmed, and acknowledged abroad,
especially in Scotland and France, and by the emperor, then there
came a change. The politician being satisfied, the apostle awoke.
A commission of reformation, at the head of which sat Archbishop
Browne, undertook the purgation of the Dublin and neighboring
churches, producing as their warrant the royal authority, "dated
years before." A sufficient guard of horse and foot accompanied
these commissioners, and were much needed to protect them from
the populace. The statues and relics in the cathedrals of
Leighlin, Ferns, and Kildare; the Lady statue at Trim, and a
famous crucifixion in Ballyhogan Abbey, were forthwith destroyed.
So far and so soon as they could venture into the interior, this
"work, of reformation," under the royal warrant, was pushed on
vigorously, in order, as Henry's commission expressed it, "that
no fooleries of this kind might henceforth for ever be in use in
said land." This royal order (1539) sounded the key-note of
spoliation, and little more than this was attempted during the
remainder of this reign. The first serious effort at national
conversion was made under the orders in council of the 4th of
Edward VI., (1551,) when on Easter day the English liturgy was
for the first time publicly recited in Christ Church Cathedral,
the ex-Augustinian archbishop preaching from the text, "Open mine
eyes, that I may see the wonders of the laws," (Ps. 119.) The
liturgy was printed the same year at Dublin, in English, and the
lord deputy was instructed to take measures to have it
"translated into Irish in those places that need it." The
following year the work of spoliation was resumed with new vigor
at the famous seven churches of Clonmacnoise, and other points
upon the Shannon. Within twelve months thereafter, young Edward
died, and the five years' reign of Queen Mary gave a respite to
the Irish church. It was a period too short for restoration, but
long remembered with regretful affection for the temporary
exemption from persecution it had afforded.

Anti-national and anti-popular in its conception, the reformation
presented itself in Ireland as the enemy at once of the useful
and all the fine arts; of all that amused and ennobled and
entertained the people. Among both races, war was a business, and
the layman's hand was always within reach of his weapon. The arts
of peace--agriculture, architecture, botany, medicine, music,
were all inmates of the convent and the monastery. The civil
glories and treasures of the country were hoarded up where alone
they could be secured, in the chancel and the cloister. It was,
however, the first duty of the new reformers to strike down and
demolish these venerated remains of the piety of former
generations. Pictures brought from abroad, or the work of native
artists, were defaced; stained windows were brutally broken;
shrines smashed; beautiful missals thrown into the fire; croziers
broken to bits; chalices and ciboriums melted into bullion; bells
blessed to the offices of peace and forgiveness melted down to be
cast into ordnance; and all the endearing, civilizing, and solemn
associations interwoven from childhood with these consecrated
objects of art, were rudely torn out of the bleeding hearts of
the people. In the six remaining years of Henry, and the six of
Edward VI., nearly six hundred religious houses were thus
stripped, desecrated, and dismantled.
"They sold their roofs and bells," say the Four Masters, in the
annal already quoted, "so there was not a monastery left from the
Arran of the Saints to the Iccian Sea, which was not broken and
shattered, except a few only" in the remoter corners of the
kingdom. Of the regular religious orders then established in that
small kingdom, the rule of St. Augustine was followed by 256
houses, male and female; that of St. Bernard by 44; of St.
Francis by 114; of St. Dominick by 41; of St. Benedict by 14; of
Mount Carmel by 29. Besides these, it is a pathetic and
instructive circumstance to remember, that there were then, even
in that far western island, not less than 22 houses of Knights of
Saint John of Jerusalem, vowed to the redemption of the Holy
Sepulchre, and 14 of the Trinitarian Order for the redemption of
Christian captives from African slavery. All these, with their
interior furniture and external possessions, were with ruthless
hand transferred to the new clergy, or converted to worldly
purposes, in order to prepare the way of the new religion as set
forth by the king's order.

It is but fair to point out, that the preachers of this religious
revolution were only in part, though in a very considerable part,
the receivers of the spoils. A new aristocracy arose on the ruins
of the monasteries and churches. Some Irish houses may claim to
have ancestors who came in with Strongbow; but many more founders
of families came in penniless adventurers at the reformation. The
Bagnals and Chichesters, in the north; the St. Legers, Boyles,
and Kings in the south; and the Burkes and Croftons in the west,
were formerly, and some of their descendants still are, the
largest inheritors of ecclesiastical plunder. The chartered
minorities of townsmen, whose consciences consented to take the
oath of supremacy, were not without their recompense even in this
world. The neighboring church and convent property was frequently
assigned to these corporators, no matter how few in number, for
the use indeed of the corporation; but as they generally
contrived to become in their individual capacity tenants under
themselves as a corporation, there was at least one description
of occupants in the country, who held their lands on easy
conditions. These corporate bodies, which continued exclusively
Protestant down to the passage of the Irish Municipal Reform Bill
in 1834, were often reduced to a ludicrously small number; but
even in such Catholic cities as Limerick, Cashel, Clonmel, and
Waterford and Drogheda, they continued to possess and dispose of,
and often to alienate, the former endowments of pious chiefs and
barons to the suppressed convents and colleges of the vicinity.

The new proprietory and clerical interests thus created at the
expense of the confiscated church, were placed in a position to
require the constant protection and superintendence of the
creative power. And this again required, most unhappily both for
church and state in that country, the continuous proscription and
suppression of those who represented the important interests so
dispossessed and disinherited. From thence arose the deadly feud
between law and nature, which has disfigured and degraded
humanity in Ireland; which has so effectually separated the very
ideas of law and justice in the modern Irishman's mind that his
first presumption in all conflicting cases is (to his own loss
frequently) against the law, rather than in its favor. The body
of legislation of which we speak had long ago swelled to the
dimensions of a code, and since the early years of George III.
has been known exclusively by the name of _The Penal Code_.
The principal collections of this code are by Sir Henry Parnell,
(afterward Lord Congleton,) Mr. Bedford, an English barrister,
Mr. Mathew O'Conor, of the Irish bar, and the late indefatigable
Dr. R. R. Madden. The commentators on the code, from Edmund Burke
to Bishop Doyle, or rather the advocates for its amelioration in
the first place, and afterward for its total repeal, included
almost every name distinguished for liberality in the British
annals of the last hundred years.

The first of these proscriptive enactments dates from the 2d year
of Elizabeth, when a parliament representing ten counties was
held at Dublin. By this assembly the acts enforcing uniformity of
worship, and the queen's supremacy in spirituals as well as
temporals, are said to have been passed; though others say this
parliament adjourned without regularly adopting those measures.
In the 3d year of the same reign a further act is found on the
Irish Statute-Book, obliging, under forfeiture of office and
civil disfranchisement for life, "ecclesiastical persons and
officers, judges, justices, mayors, temporal officers, and every
other person who hath the queen's wages, to take the oath of
supremacy." Commissioners of ecclesiastical causes were created
by an act of the same session, "to adjudge heresy" according to
the canonical scriptures, the first four general councils, and
the laws of parliament. By this commission, five years later,
(1564,) the English _Book of Articles_ was declared of full
force in Ireland. These articles were twelve in number.

 "1. The Trinity in Unity;
  2. The Sufficiency of the Scriptures to Salvation;
  3. The Orthodoxy of Particular Churches;
  4. The Necessity of Holy Orders;
  5. The Queen's Supremacy;
  6. Denial of the Pope's authority 'to be more than other Bishops have;'
  7. The Conformity of the Book of Common Prayer to the Scriptures;
  8. The Ministration of Baptism does not depend on the Ceremonial;
  9. Condemns 'Private Masses,' and denies that the Mass can
     be a propitiatory Sacrifice for the Dead;
  10. Asserts the Propriety of Communion in Both Kinds;
  11. Utterly disallows Images, Relics, and Pilgrimages;
  12. Requires a General Subscription to the foregoing Articles."

The subsequent legislation of Elizabeth in Ireland was chiefly
political, if we except (in the 11th and 12th of her reign) the
act respecting vacant benefices, and the act establishing
[Protestant] free schools.

Parliaments in those days assembled at long and uncertain
intervals. The only one held during the first James's reign in
Ireland--twenty-seven years after Elizabeth's last, and
twenty-one before Charles I. convened another--was purely
political. This parliament was opened and managed by the Lord
Deputy, Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, whose avowed and almost
only object in using such an agency was to make his royal master
"as absolute as any king in Christendom." Four years later,
(1639) was held the second and last Irish parliament of this
reign, and simultaneously, (at the instance, and under the advice
of Laud), the able, iron-nerved, and most unscrupulous deputy
summoned a convocation of the bishops and clergy of the
established religion, which forms a very curious picture of the
state of that establishment at the end of the first century of
the reformation. Strafford himself shall be our authority at this
point, and as abbreviated in Mr. Godkin's
book, pp. 64 and 65.


  "He had ordered a convocation of the clergy to meet
  simultaneously with the parliament for the purpose of adopting
  the Thirty-nine Articles of the Church of England, so that the
  Irish articles might become a dead letter. The convocation went
  to work conscientiously, digesting the canons, etc., to the
  best of their judgment; but Wentworth found that they were not
  doing what he wanted, and resolved to bring them to their
  senses. In a letter to Laud he chuckled over his victory,
  apparently quite unconscious that he had been playing the
  tyrant, _circa sacra_, in a style worthy of Henry VIII.
  Having learned what the committee of convocation had done, he
  instantly sent for Dean Andrews, its chairman, requiring him to
  bring the Book of Canons noted in the margin, together with the
  draught he was to present that afternoon to the house. This
  order he obeyed; 'but,' says the lord deputy, 'when I came to
  open the book, and run over the _deliberandums_ in the
  margin, I confess I was not so much moved since I came into
  Ireland. I told him, certainly not a Dean of Limerick, but an
  Ananias, had sat in the chair of that committee; however, sure
  I was an Ananias had been there in spirit, if not in body, with
  all the fraternities and conventicles of Amsterdam, that I was
  ashamed and scandalized with it above measure.' He gave the
  dean imperative orders not to report anything until he heard
  from him again. He also issued orders to the primate, the
  Bishops of Meath, Kilmore, Raphoe, and Derry, together with
  Dean Leslie, the prolucutor, and the whole committee, to wait
  upon him next morning. He then publicly rebuked them for acting
  so unlike churchmen; told them that a few petty clerks had
  presumed to make articles of faith, without the privity or
  consent of state or bishop, as if they purposed at once 'to
  take away all government and order forth of the church. But
  those heady and arrogant courses he would not endure, nor would
  he suffer them either to be mad in the convocation nor in their
  pulpits.' He next gave them strict injunctions as to what the
  convocation should do. They were to say content, or not
  content, to the Articles of England, for he would not endure
  that they should be disputed. He ordered the primate to frame a
  canon on the subject; but it did not meet his approval, and so
  the lord deputy framed one himself, whereupon his grace came to
  him instantly and said he feared the canon would never pass in
  such a form as his lordship had made, but he was hopeful it
  might pass as he had drawn it himself. He therefore besought
  the lord deputy to think a little better of it. The sequel is
  best told in Strafford's own vigorous language--'But I confess,
  having taken a little jealousy that his proceedings were not
  open and free to those ends I had my eye upon, it was too late
  now either to persuade or to affright me. I told his lordship I
  was resolved to put it to them in those very words, and was
  most confident there were not six in the house that would
  refuse them, telling him, by the sequel, we should see whether
  his lordship or myself better understood their minds in that
  point, and by that I would be content to be judged, only for
  order's sake I desired his lordship would vote this canon first
  in the upper house of convocation, and so voted, then to pass
  the question beneath also.' He adds that he enclosed the canon
  [Footnote 48] to Dean Leslie, 'which, accordingly, that
  afternoon was unanimously voted, first with the bishops, and
  then by the rest of the clergy, excepting one man, who simply
  did deliberate upon the receiving of the Articles of England.'"

    [Footnote 48: The first Irish canon.]

We pause and draw a hard breath, after this dictatorial
description of how to rule a church and have a church, to observe
that the Irish Protestant prelates of those days were no mean
men; Bramhall was Bishop of Derry, and Bedell of Kilmore, and the
primate so hectored and overawed by this Cavalier-Cromwell was no
less a personage than James Usher. But being as they were, as
they well knew they were, the creatures of the state, what could
they do when brought into conflict with the author and finisher
of their law?

Omitting the period of the civil wars and the Cromwellian
Protectorate as a period phenomenal and exceptional, deserving
study apart, we pass to the first parliament of Charles II.,
(1662,) in which one of the first contributions to the statutes
which we find, is the renewal of the Elizabethan act of
uniformity. In the same session was passed the acts of settlement
and explanation, which have been called "the Magna Charta of
Irish Protestantism." These acts confirmed to their Puritan
possessors the properties of the Catholic gentry confiscated by
Cromwell for their attachment to both Charleses, and extending
into almost every county. Of 6000 proprietors, so confiscated,
but 60--one per cent--were restored, in part or whole, to their
hereditary estates.


Thirty years later, after William's victory over James II., 4000
remaining Catholic proprietors were subjected to a similar
proscription--so that in that half-century 10,000 owners of
estates forfeited them for their fidelity to their ancient, and
their hostility to what Mr. Froude correctly calls "the intrusive

No parliament sat again in Ireland, till that short one of a
single session before mentioned, (the 4th James II.,) summoned in
1689. This parliament repealed the acts of settlement and
explanation, Poyning's law, and other coercive and intolerant
statutes; but the issue of battle went against King James, and
the two succeeding reigns became fruitful beyond precedent of
penal legislation. Although the 9th of the "Articles of
Limerick"--at the close of the war--had simply imposed one
unobjectionable sentence as an oath of allegiance on the defeated
party, the act (2d and 3d William and Mary) prescribed an
elaborate form of abjuration of the doctrines of
transubstantiation and of the invocation of saints, and declaring
the holy sacrifice of the Mass "superstitious and idolatrous."'
The oath of abjuration concluded by the denial to any foreign
prince or prelate (namely, the pope) of "any jurisdiction, power,
superiority, preeminence, or authority, _ecclesiastical_ or
_spiritual_, within the realm." There never was a more
shameful breach of public faith than this statute. The treaty of
Limerick had simply prescribed this form of oath for the
restoration to their former _status_ of all who chose to
take it: "I, A. B., do solemnly promise and swear that I will be
faithful and bear true allegiance to their majesties King William
and Queen Mary; so help me God."

And the 10th article of the same treaty had provided: "The oath
to be administered to such Roman Catholics as submit to their
majesties' government, shall be the oath aforesaid and no other."
Yet within the same twelvemonths in which William's generals and
lord-justices signed this latter compact, the new penal law was
passed, and the new oath of abjuration was imposed. In 1691, the
tolerant treaty was signed; in 1692, when the few Catholic peers
and commoners who ventured to present themselves appeared to be
sworn in of the new Irish parliament, they were met by this
infamous oath of abjuration, driven out and disqualified. Above a
million of their broad acres were forfeited, as a further penalty
on those who refused the oath, and we need not be surprised to
find, at King William's death, (1702,) that but "one sixth part"
of the property of the kingdom remained in Catholic hands.

The 7th and 8th William and Mary re-enacted, with additions, the
Elizabethan penal laws. Of these additions the principal were:

  1. Authorizing the Protestant chancellor to name guardians for
     Catholic minors.
  2. Act to prevent recusants (Catholics) from becoming tutors in
     private families, unless by license of the Protestant
     ordinaries of their several dioceses.
  3. An act to prevent Roman Catholics acting as
     guardians to minor children.
  4. An act to disarm Roman Catholics.
  5. An act for the banishment of popish priests and prelates.

During the reign of Queen Anne, however, the code received its
last finishing contributions. In the 1st and 2d of this queen was
passed "the act for discouraging the further growth of popery,"
of which the following were the principal provisions:


  "The third clause provides that if the son of an estated Papist
  shall conform to the established religion, the father shall be
  incapacitated from selling or mortgaging his estate, or
  disposing of any portion of it by will. The fourth clause
  prohibits a Papist from being the guardian of his own child;
  and orders that, if at any time the child, though ever so
  young, pretends to be a Protestant, it shall be taken from its
  own father, and placed under the guardianship of the nearest
  Protestant relation. The sixth clause renders Papists incapable
  of purchasing any manors, tenements, hereditaments, or any
  rents or profits arising out of the same, or of holding any
  lease of lives, or other lease whatever, for any term exceeding
  thirty-one years. And with respect even to such limited leases,
  it further enacts that, if a Papist should hold a farm
  producing a profit greater than one third of the amount of the
  rent, his right to such should immediately cease, and pass over
  entirely to the first Protestant who should discover the rate
  of profit. The seventh clause prohibits Papists from succeeding
  to the properties or estates of their Protestant relations. By
  the tenth clause, the estate of a Papist, not having a
  Protestant heir, is ordered to be gavelled, or divided in equal
  shares between all his children. The sixteenth and
  twenty-fourth clauses impose the oath of abjuration, and the
  sacramental test, as a qualification for office, and for voting
  at elections. The twenty-third clause deprives the Catholics of
  Limerick and Galway of the protection secured to them by the
  articles of the treaty of Limerick. The twenty-fifth clause
  vests in her majesty all advowsons possessed by Papists.

  "A further act was passed, in 1709, imposing additional
  penalties. The first clause declares that no Papist shall be
  capable of holding an annuity for life. The third provides that
  the child of a Papist, on conforming, shall at once receive an
  annuity from his father; and that the chancellor shall compel
  the father to discover, upon oath, the full value of his
  estate, real and personal, and thereupon make an order for the
  support of such conforming child or children, and for securing
  such a share of the property, after the father's death, as the
  court shall think fit. The fourteenth and fifteenth clauses
  secure jointures to Popish wives who shall conform. The
  sixteenth prohibits a Papist from teaching, even as assistant
  to a Protestant master. The eighteenth gives a salary of £30
  per annum to Popish priests who shall conform. The twentieth
  provides rewards for the discovery of Popish prelates, priests,
  and teachers, according to the following whimsical scale: For
  discovering an archbishop, bishop, vicar-general, or other
  person, exercising any foreign ecclesiastical jurisdiction,
  £50; for discovering each regular clergyman, and each secular
  clergyman not registered, £20, and for discovering each Popish
  schoolmaster or usher, £10. The twenty-first clause empowers
  two justices to summon before them any Papist over eighteen
  years of age, and interrogate him when and where he last heard
  Mass said, and the names of the persons present, and likewise
  touching the residence of any Popish priest or schoolmaster;
  and if he refuses to give testimony, subjects him to a fine of
  £20, or imprisonment for twelve months.

  "Several other penal laws were enacted by the same parliament,
  of which we can only notice one; it excludes Catholics from the
  office of sheriff, and from grand juries, and enacts that, in
  trials upon any statute for strengthening the Protestant
  interest, the plaintiff might challenge a juror for being a
  Papist, which challenge the judge was to allow."--_McGee's
  Ireland_, vol. ii. pp. 605, 608.

We may here turn from this repulsive record of tyrannous
legislation to inquire into the consequences of it all at the end
of the second, and once again at the end of the third century,
from the reformation.

George II. came to the throne in 1727, and bequeathed it to his
successor in 1760. This generation saw, therefore, the close of
the second century of the great Protestant experiment; and if a
centennial celebration had been proposed to them in 1751, the
report of progress made must have included the following
principal facts.

  "We have dispossessed the Catholic proprietors of five sixths
  of their property during this last century; we have excluded
  them from the bench, the bar, and parliament; we have
  prohibited them being guardians or teachers of youth; we have
  disfranchised and disarmed their whole body, even their nobles
  and gentry; yet as far as the people are concerned, we labor in
  vain. There has been lately (1747) a census of the kingdom, and
  out of 4,300,000 inhabitants, 3,500,000 are returned as
  papists. Even in Ulster they are not supplanted; in Leinster
  they are three to one; in Munster, seven to one; in Connaught,
  twelve to one. Without property, with few priests, and scarce
  any bishops, still doth this perverse generation increase and
  multiply. What can we do with them more than we have done to
  convince and convert them?" To this searching question some
  observer more profound than the others seems to have replied,
  "Try education!"


The third centennial celebration of the introduction of the
English liturgy into Ireland--the 51st year of the union of the
two national churches--would have afforded an excellent
opportunity of taking stock, humanly speaking, of the progress
made in a hundred years. But no one thought of suggesting an
appropriate celebration of the great event, and so, unhappily,
the precious opportunity has been lost. We shall endeavor,
however, to supply the want of such a comprehensive retrospect;
and here, for the first time, we find the facts and figures of
Mr. Godkin's book of considerable service to the subject. From
the House of Commons debates of the year 1834, Mr. Godkin gives
the following sketch of the arguments and illustrations used in
support of "the Church Temporalities Act:"

  "Lord John Russell, Lord Howick, and Mr. Sheil, while fully
  admitting that an establishment tends to promote religion and
  to preserve good order, contended that it ought not to be
  maintained where it fails to secure these objects, and that it
  must always fail when, as in Ireland, the members of the
  Established Church are only a minority of the nation, while the
  majority, constituting most of the poorer classes, are thrown
  upon the voluntary system for the support of their clergy.
  Concurring with Paley in his view of a Church
  Establishment--that it should be founded upon utility, that it
  should communicate religious knowledge to the masses of the
  people, that it should not be debased into a state engine or an
  instrument of political power--they demanded whether the Church
  of Ireland fulfilled these essential conditions of an
  establishment. They asked whether its immense revenues had been
  employed in preserving and extending the Protestant faith in
  Ireland? In the course of something more than a century it was
  stated that its revenues had increased sevenfold, and now
  amounted to £800,000 a year. Had its efficiency increased in
  the same proportion? Had it even succeeded in keeping its own
  small flock within the fold? On the contrary, they adduced
  statistics to show a lamentable falling off in their numbers.
  For example. Lord John Russell said, 'By Tighe's _History of
  Kilkenny_, it appears that the number of Protestant families
  in 1731 was 1055, but in 1800 they had been reduced to 941. The
  total number of Protestants at the former period was 5238,
  while the population of the county, which in 1800 was 108,000,
  in 1731 was only 42,108 souls. From Stuart's _History of
  Armagh_, we find that sixty years ago the Protestants in
  that country were as two to one; now they are as one to three.
  In 1733, the Roman Catholics in Kerry were twelve to one
  Protestant, and now the former are much more numerous than even
  that proportion. In Tullamore, in 1731, there were 64
  Protestants to 613 Roman Catholics; but according to Mason's
  parochial survey, in 1818 the Protestants had diminished to
  only five, while the Roman Catholics had augmented to 2455. On
  the whole, from the best computation he had seen--and he
  believed it was not exaggerated one way or the other--the
  entire number of Protestants belonging to the Established
  Church in Ireland can hardly be stated higher than 750,000; and
  of those 400,000 are resident in the ecclesiastical province of
  Armagh.'"--pp. 153.

Now, for the maintenance of this church of 700,000 out of a
population of 7,000,000--this church of a tenth of the
people--there were then and now are held in mortmain of the best
lands of the kingdom, above 600,000 acres. We are told by the

  "A time there was ere England's woes began
   When every rood of ground sustained its man."

The Irish soil is not so nutritious; still, even there, every
acre stands for a soul saved or to be saved, according to "the
doctrine and discipline" of the united church.
In addition to the lands and their revenues, there are also
certain supplementary parliamentary grants not to be despised
even by light and worldly-minded persons. Mr. Godkin enumerates,
in his introduction, several of these:

  "It may be desirable to add some more precise information on
  that subject. There was a return made to Parliament, dated 24th
  July, 1803, and signed by the then Chief Secretary, Mr.
  Wickham, who certified that it was made up from the best
  materials in the chief secretary's office, and believed to be
  nearly accurate. From this return it appears that the number of
  parishes in Ireland then was 2436; of benefices, 1120; of
  churches, 1001; and of glebe-houses, 355. This represents the
  state of the establishment in the year 1791.

  "From 1791 to 1803 the Board of First Fruits granted the sum of
  £500, in 88 cases, for the building of churches, making a total
  of £44,000. During the same period the Board granted £100 each
  for 116 glebe-houses, making a total of £11,600.

  "From a parliamentary return, ordered in 1826, it appears that
  within the present century the following amounts have been
  voted by parliament up to that date: Gifts for building
  churches, £224,946; loans for building churches, £286,572;
  total, £511,538, for building churches in twenty-five years.

  "During the same period gifts were made for glebes, £61,484;
  gifts for building glebe-houses, £144,734. Loans were granted
  for the same purpose amounting to £222,291, making a total for
  glebes and glebe-houses of £428,509. Thus, between the year
  1791 and 1826 the Establishment obtained for churches and
  glebes the sum of £940,047. The number of glebe-houses in 1826
  was increased to 771, and of benefices to 1396. The number of
  cures with non-residence was 286." [Footnote 49]

    [Footnote 49: The following additional figures (from the
    _Union_ to the year 1844) are given on page 96:
      For building churches,--           £625,371
      For building glebe houses,--        336,889
      For Protestant charity schools,-- 1,105,588
      For the Society for
        Discountenancing Vice, etc.--     101,991]

And, on the other hand, the celebrants of the third centenary, if
they had thought of holding one, would have learned from Mr.
Godkin (himself a resolute Protestant of the Unitarian school,
and an ex-reverend) of the alarming increase of popery of late
days even in the very capital of English authority.

  "Indeed, the progress of the Roman Catholic Church in this city
  is astonishing, and has no parallel perhaps in any country in
  Europe. In 1820, there were in Dublin only ten parochial
  chapels, most of them of an humble character and occupying
  obscure positions. There were at the same time seven convents
  or 'friaries,' as they were then called, and ten nunneries,
  which Mr. Wright described as 'religious asylums where the
  females of the Roman Catholic religion find shelter when
  deprived of the protection of their relatives by the hand of
  Providence.' [Footnote 50] Now the loveliest daughters of some
  of the most respectable and the best connected Roman Catholic
  families leave their happy homes and take the veil, sometimes
  bringing with them ample fortunes--devoting themselves to the
  work of education and the relief of the poor as 'Sisters of
  Mercy,' 'Sisters of Charity,' etc.

    [Footnote 50: Wright's _Dublin_, p. 174.]

  "There are now thirty-two churches and chapels in Dublin and
  its vicinity. In the diocese the total number of secular clergy
  is 287, and of regulars 125; total priests, 412. The number of
  nuns is 1150. Besides the Catholic University, with its ample
  staff of professors, there are in the diocese six colleges,
  seven superior schools for boys, fourteen superior schools for
  ladies, twelve monastic primary schools, forty convent schools,
  and 200 lay schools, without including those which are under
  the National Board of Education. The Christian Brothers have
  7000 pupils under their instruction, while the schools
  connected with the convents in the diocese contain 15,000.
  Besides Maynooth, which is amply endowed by the state, and
  contains 500 or 600 students, all designed for the priesthood,
  there is the College of All Hallows, at Drumcondra, in which
  250 young men are being trained for the foreign mission. The
  Roman Catholic charities of the city are varied and numerous.
  There are magnificent hospitals, one of which especially--the
  Mater Misericordiae--has been not inappropriately called 'the
  Palace of the Sick Poor'--numerous orphanages, several widows'
  houses, and other refuges for virtuous women; ragged and
  industrial schools, night asylums, penitentiaries,
  reformatories, institutions for the blind and deaf and dumb;
  institutions for relieving the poor at their own houses, and
  Christian doctrine fraternities almost innumerable. All these
  wonderful organizations of religion and charity are supported
  wholly on the voluntary principle, and they have nearly all
  sprung into existence within half a century."--p. 94.


Such is the latest presentation of facts in relation to "Ireland
and her churches." Of Mr. Godkin's book (we don't know whether or
not he is still called _Reverend_) we can only say that it
is very fairly intended, and shows great industry in the
accumulation of materials. From some statements in the historical
introduction we most decidedly demur; but the valuable collection
of facts in the second part, under the head "Inspection of
Bishoprics," and the manifest desire to do, and to inculcate the
doing of, justice to men of all churches, throughout the whole
book, must bring in every true friend of Ireland the author's


         Love's Burden.

      "My burden is light"

    The Disciple.

  "Dear Lord, how canst thou say
      'Tis light,
  When I behold thee on the way
      To Calvary's height,
  Fainting and falling 'neath its heavy weight?
  Ah! no. For me thy burden is too great."

    The Master.

  "Good child, thou dost mistake
  The burden I would have thee take.
      The cruel load
  That crushed me down on Calvary's road
      Was thine,
      Not mine.
  What lighter burden can there be
  Than that which Love would lay on thee?"

    The Disciple.

  "Kind Lord, how foolish is my speech!
  I mark the truth which thou wouldst teach
      To my cold heart.
  Love all the burden bears of others' woes,
      Beyond its might;
  But of its own on them it would impose
      Only a part,
      And makes that light."



    Florence Athern's Trial.

The farm-house occupied by the Lees, Henry and Margaret, was an
old-fashioned, plain brick building. It stood at right angles to
a country road which formed a short cut from the turnpike
(leading from the city of C---- to Hamilton, the county-town of
Butler county, Ohio) to the mills down on the Miami, passing
through Mr. Lee's property and by his garden-gate. The house was
some fifteen or twenty feet back from the road, and built one
room deep three sides, with an old-fashioned garret across the
whole of the main building. A wide brick pavement ran from the
gate opening into the road past the front of the house to another
gate opening into a private lane, leading from the barn and
stables, a hundred yards or so back of the house, to a creek some
distance in front, which had been dammed up to afford a
convenient watering-place for the farm cattle; another brick
pavement, not quite so wide, encircled the rear and sides of the
house. A broad gravel walk led from the back hall-door to a gate,
which, with a hedge, separated the grassy yard from the
vegetable-garden, up through that to the barn; another path led
from the front-door down between broad grass-plats of grass,
studded with evergreens and fruit-trees, over a rustic bridge
that spanned a deep ravine, to some stone steps leading down to a
spring, which, with the space around and the hill behind, was
paved with stone, beneath which the water ran a few feet, then
spread out into a creek fringed with willows. On the right of the
path from the bridge to some distance behind the spring was a
cherry orchard; on the left an open knoll bordered with
flower-beds and shrubbery, and occupied in the centre by a rustic

In front of the farm-house on the edge of the grass-plats was a
row of locust-trees. The parlor was at the end of the house
toward the road and to the right of the hall; to the left of that
was the dining-room; and on the left of that again the kitchen,
not fronting evenly with the rest, but leaving space for a porch
running to the end of the house, into the end of which a door
opened from the dining-room.

It was Christmas eve, 18--. A lovely, clear moonlight night,
rendered brighter by six or eight inches of snow that had fallen
the day before, and now lay glistening like diamond-dust in the
rays of the full moon. No sound disturbed the silence save the
occasional crackling of a branch or twig among the trees, and one
or two passers-by on horse-back or in wagon, trudging merrily
homeward; for though the railroad had long since made a much
shorter route from the city to the mills and Hamilton, Mr. Lee
had not retracted the permit to pass through his farm, and the
road still remained open.

The parlor windows gave out a brilliant light from the candles
burning on the mantle-piece and the Christmas tree, that blazed
between them and the wood fire on the old-fashioned hearth. A
group was seated round it.
Harry Lee, with just a shade of care on his joyous face and a few
threads of silver through his thick brown hair, sat opposite the
front windows at one side of the hearth; at his side, with her
arm resting on his knee, seated on a low ottoman, was a young
girl, his niece, Florence Athern; from the lamp on the table a
little behind her the soft light fell on the masses of golden
hair that covered her well-shaped head, and on the pages of a
richly illustrated book, the leaves of which were held open by a
hand perfect in its size, shape, and texture; and her face, as
she raised it from time to time, in answer to a caressing nod or
motion of her uncle, was very lovely, with a tinge of sadness in
the light of the soft blue eyes and the curve of the sensitive
lips. Opposite these two sat Margaret Lee. Younger than her
brother, but old before her time, her sad face was still
interesting, though it could not be called handsome. At her side
was a younger sister, whose whole attention was given to the
three children seated on the floor in the space before the fire,
eagerly examining the gifts just taken from the Christmas-trees.
Her husband sat on the other side of the table, on which was the
lamp, looking over a book of engravings, and trying, from time to
time, to restrain the uproar made by the juvenile group. Watching
the children while her hands were full of gifts that had fallen
to her share, stood an old colored woman, short and fat, and
dressed in a neat black dress, while on her head she wore a false
front of crinkled black hair and a black lace cap. Her kind old
face beamed with enjoyment at the children's pleasure.

The room was furnished handsomely and with taste. One or two
portraits and paintings of merit hung on the walls, and over the
mantle-piece was a picture of the Nativity, wreathed with holly,
and before which two wax candles were burning.

No one heard the step that approached the house; no one saw the
wan but handsome face that was thrust close to the panes for a
few moments. A tall, well-dressed man stood there looking in,
then turned away with a sound like a sob and a sigh and covered
his face with his hands. "It is she, my child, my darling; but I
am not worthy, O God! I am not worthy!" He did not look in again,
but turned and walked down the path leading to the spring,
murmuring, "Fifteen years, and so little change in outward
things. The same trees, the porch, the door-steps, only that
snow-ball and these ailanthuses grown into large bushes, and here
and there a flower-bed where there had been grass; but she--ah!
how has my darling passed these years that have been so dreary to
me?" Just then the kitchen-door opened, flooding the porch floor,
the steps, and portion of the walk with light. One of the workmen
came out, and the stranger drew himself closely behind a
pear-shaped evergreen. "I hope," he thought, "the fellow will not
bring a dog with him. He has a bucket in his hand, and may be
going to the spring; in that case, I have no escape, for the snow
will betray me if I move!" But the man said good-night in a
German accent, and, whistling to the Newfoundland which had come
out with him, and now stood snuffing the air toward where the
stranger was hiding, turned and walked the length of the porch,
down the steps at the end, past the pump and smoke-house, out
through the gate into the back lane, and so up to the barn. "So,"
said the stranger, "he has gone to feed the horses for the night,
and I am safe."
He walked slowly down across the bridge, and stood for a few
moments on the topmost step leading to the spring; then went down
there, and kneeling on the stones at the edge, scooped up some
water in his hand and drank; then rising and brushing the snow
off his clothes, he retraced his steps and once more gazed in at
the parlor window. It happened that the old colored woman had
just picked up the youngest child in her arms, and, followed by
the others, was moving toward the door, her face turned full to
the window, when she made an exclamation and nearly dropped the
child she held. "Why, Tamar," exclaimed Miss Lee, "what's the
matter?" "Oh! nothin'," replied the woman, "spec this colored
pusson gettin' nervus, dat's all. Come long, chicks, to roost."
And she left the room without affording a chance to the group
round the fire to see her face, which bore a frightened look. But
the children, busy with their happy prattle, did not notice it,
neither did the nurse who was waiting for them. As soon as she
had seen them snug in their beds, with stockings duly hung, and
night prayers said, she started to return to the kitchen. Her
mistress heard her, and came into the hall to speak to her,
preceding her through the dining-room and across the space on the
porch between the dining-room and kitchen doors, much to her
satisfaction, to the latter department, to make some necessary
arrangements for breakfast. On Miss Lee's return to the parlor, a
game of whist was proposed, in which the four elders joined,
leaving Florence to the quiet enjoyment of her book. After a
rubber of three games, a motion to retire was made by the
sisters; and Henry Lee, turning to Florence, said, "Well, Puss,
is it not time to give up your book? Half-past eleven, my pet,"
(looking at his watch,) "and we must be up early, you know, to be
ready for church, and dinner at Uncle Joe's to-morrow."

At last the brother and sister were left alone, and stood looking
at one another for a few moments; then Mr. Lee spoke: "It must be
done to-morrow. Who shall do it--you or I?"

"I think I had better, Harry dear. Women can deal better with
women in such a time, although I know your tender, loving heart,
and do not doubt it."

"I am glad, Mag, you will take it on yourself, for I feel a very
coward in the matter."

"Oh! yes, it is better that I should; but I will not tell her
till night--I will not mar the happiness of her Christmas till I
cannot help it."

"As you will; and now good-night, I must go and see that matters
are all right for the night. You say Anthony has gone up?"

"Oh! yes, some time ago."

"Well, good-night!" He left the parlor, and getting a lantern
from the closet under the stairs, lit it, and started to the

It had been the custom in this family, since Anna Lee married,
that she and her husband should spend Christmas eve at the old
homestead, and return to their own house in Hamilton, with her
brother, sister, and niece, on Christmas morning. The early Mass
was too early for them to hear it, so the clergyman was willing
to give them the holy communion as soon as they had spent a
sufficient time in preparation on their arrival. After making
their thanksgiving, they adjourned to Mrs. Mohun's house for
breakfast. Then, after High Mass and a Christmas dinner at Mrs.
Mohun's, the two Lees and Florence returned to "The Solitude."

This programme was carried out as usual on this Christmas day,
and the evening found the three sitting quietly in the parlor
round the fire-place, with no noise of children's prattle to
distract their attention.
On pretence of letters to write, Mr. Lee left the women alone
with a glance at his sister. No face was flattened against the
windows tonight, though old Tamar refrained from looking toward

Florence occupied a low seat between her aunt and uncle; and when
the latter left the room, Margaret laid her head gently on the
young girl's shoulder, and drew her toward her, saying:

"Florence, dearest, your uncle had a letter yesterday from Arthur
Hinsdale. One to you came by the same mail; but on reading that
directed to him, your uncle decided not to give you yours till he
or I had told you something which you must know before you can
answer it. Here are both the letters, dear; you can read them in
your own room when I have finished. You have often asked," she
continued, as Florence took the letters in silence, "to be told
something about your mother and father. To-night I will tell
you." A hardness came into her voice as she spoke that made the
girl look up in surprise. "We lived, till your mother married, in
the northern part of the State of New York, among the mountains,
where people from the city came every summer to spend the hot
months. My father was wealthy, but cared for no life but that of
the country, so we saw nothing of the fashionable world, beyond
the glimpse caught in the summer. My mother was an invalid, and
cared for little beyond her own health; and Anna, who was then a
child ten or twelve years old, your mother, and I did pretty much
as we pleased. Harry was away at college at Fordham, and, when at
home in the vacations, was our constant companion in our rides
and walks.

"One summer a party of gentlemen from Philadelphia came up to the
Adirondacks to fish. Our farm and house was not far from the spot
where they encamped, and we met them several times in riding.
Your father was among them." Here she paused, as if choking back
some strong feeling, and Florence, slipping on her knees, wound
her arms around her, resting her head against her. "Your mother
was very beautiful," continued Margaret, threading her fingers
through the young girl's golden hair lingeringly, as though she
saw a resemblance that she loved to trace, "and it is not to be
wondered at that she should have attracted attention. After
several accidental meetings, he, your father, took advantage of
some trivial accident, the dropping of Florence's whip, or
something of the kind, to speak when, one day, we came upon them
suddenly. From this it was easy to make an excuse to visit the
farm-house with some of his friends. My father was a man of
cultivation and education, though he chose to bury himself from
the world, and liked the young men. After one or two visits, he
invited them to the house freely, I need not tell you the old,
old story, dear. Before the time came for the visitors to break
up their camp, Paul Athern was engaged to my sister. Florence was
but sixteen; Paul said he was nearly twenty-one; and my father
insisted that they should wait two years, and there was to be no
regular engagement for one year. This was at length agreed to
with great reluctance by, by--your father. He also, being a
Protestant, made all the necessary promises that your mother
should be allowed the full enjoyment of her religion.

"Well, the winter passed quietly as usual, and toward spring a
cousin of my mother's wrote, inviting us to pay her a visit in
New York. We had once before visited her when I was fourteen and
Florence twelve; so remembering the former pleasure, we were
quite eager to go, Florence particularly seemed anxious.
Tamar's mother was our cook, and had been my grandfather's slave
before slavery was done away with in New York. Tamar, a girl of
my own age, was our waiting-maid and humble companion and
_confidante_, and was to go with us. After a good deal of
hesitation--for he seemed to feel a presentiment of evil--my
father consented, and we went to New York. Our visit was nearly
over, when, one day, on coming home from a walk with my cousin, I
found Florence in the drawing-room with Paul Athern. She looked
guilty, and blushed when she saw my look of surprise; but Paul
greeted me with great apparent pleasure, and an easy grace that
covered whatever confusion he may have felt. That night, when
alone in our room, Florence said, 'Mag, was I very, very wrong to
let Paul know I was here? I did want to see him so much, dear.
Oh! you _don't_ know how I have craved a sight of his dear
face!' I could not resist her gentle pleading, so did not blame
her very much; but told her I must write to father, it was the
right thing to do and I must do it. The answer to my letter was a
peremptory order for our instant return home. We, or I, had no
idea of disobedience, and so prepared to return at once. The day
before we were to have left, Florence was particularly
affectionate, and seemed not to wish to be left alone. I had some
last errands to attend to, and leaving Tamar and Florence busy
with their packing, went out for two or three hours. I returned
to find the trunks packed, but neither Florence nor Tamar was in
the house. My cousin said Florence kissed her when she went out,
saying laughingly, 'May be you won't see me again.' Tamar went
with her, carrying her satchel. As evening drew on and they did
not return, a great fear came over me, and Cousin Mary had
difficulty in keeping me from rushing into the street to seek for
them. At last, a ring at the door was followed by Tamar's rushing
into the drawing-room. She threw herself at my feet, buried her
face in my lap, and cried as if her heart would break. At last,
when she could speak, Cousin Mary had great trouble to understand
her broken sentences. As for me, I sat stupefied, filled with the
one idea that Tamar had come back without Florence.


"At last the frightened girl's story was made out. Florence had
taken her, on pretence of carrying her bag; but at Union Square,
Paul Athern met them with a carriage, into which they got, and
were taken to a hotel down Broadway, (the Astor House, we
afterward found it was.) Here they were shown into a private
parlor where there was a strange gentleman, who looked, Tamar
said, like the minister at home who preached in the little
country church near us. He bowed to Paul and Florence when they
entered, and then walked over to the farthest window and stood
looking out. Mr. Athern had to talk a long time to Miss Florence
before she was willing to do something that he wanted her to do.
At last he said something that seemed to frighten her, and then
he made a sign to the strange gentleman who went to the door of
another room opening into this, and opened it. Mr. Tremaine, one
of the fishing-party of the previous summer, came in, and before
Tamar knew what they were doing, she heard the strange gentleman
say, 'I pronounce you man and wife!' Then Florence fainted, and
they had great trouble to bring her
Then they all signed a paper, and the gentlemen shook hands with
_Mr. and Mrs. Athern_, and left them. Paul, after a few
words to Florence, followed them. As soon as they were alone,
Florence threw herself on her knees and cried, 'Oh! what have I
done? what have I done? Tamar, do you think my darling father
will ever forgive me?' She sobbed and cried, but by the time Paul
returned had become quiet. When he came, she asked for paper and
pen, as she wished to write to her father. The letter was given
to Tamar, with a note to me, exonerating the girl from all blame.
Then Mr. Athern said it was time to start to the depot. Florence
turned very pale, but didn't say a word, only got up and began to
put on her things. Mr. Athern turned to Tamar and told her she
was to go home and tell me and Cousin Mary that we would never
see _Miss_ Florence again, but that Mr. and Mrs. Athern
would be happy to see them on their return from their wedding
tour. Then they went to the depot in a carriage, taking Tamar
with them, trusting to her getting safe home after they had left,
which, thanks to a kind Providence, she did.

"This news threw me into a brain-fever; and when I came to
myself, eight weeks after, I was told how my mother had died of a
heart disease at the shock of Florence's flight; how a letter had
come from Germantown, saying how happy she was if only she knew
her dear father had forgiven her; then another, full of grief at
the death of her mother and my illness; how my father had sold
the old house, and was waiting for my recovery to bury himself
and his griefs in the far west. So the next fall saw us fixed out
here; and Florence was told of the change, and that her father
would never cross the mountains again. My father had not cast her
off, as parents do in novels, but his displeasure and
disappointment were very great, and he let her know it; his
letters, few and seldom, were cold and formal, never again the
fond, loving missives they had been during the short separation
from him in her childhood. More than all, he grieved over the
Protestant marriage; for it was a Presbyterian minister who had
performed the ceremony, and Florence had never mentioned having
had it performed by a priest. One day, the next summer, as I was
sitting at the open door, I saw a carriage drive up to the gate,
and a lady get out; in a moment I knew it was Florence, and
calling Tamar, ran out to meet her, only to receive her fainting
in my arms. Tamar helped to carry her in and lay her on the sofa.
Father had gone to Hamilton; and before he returned, we had got
her up-stairs, and all traces of her arrival done away with. I
waited anxiously for him to come, and wondered how I should tell
him; but my anxiety was useless, for he came in with a small
glove in his hand, and his first question was, 'Where's
Florence?' I had hardly time to tell him, when the door opened,
and Florence herself was at his feet.

"I left them alone together, and when I returned, he had placed
her on the sofa, and was sitting close to her, holding her hand.

"It was not till the next day that we asked about her journey,
and then she told her story.

"Paul had never told his father of his marriage, knowing what
different plans the old gentleman had formed, and weakly putting
off the evil hour, dreading the scene that would follow. He often
told Florence of the urgings his father used to induce him to
marry a young lady of the fashionable world, and laughed as he
compared his 'meadow daisy,' as he called Florence, to the
'hot-house plant,' that was his
father's choice.
They managed to get along on the handsome allowance his father
made him, and Florence's share of my mother's fortune. One day
the little cottage at Germantown was overshadowed by a stately
carriage, and out of the carriage came an aristocratic-looking
gentleman, who inquired for Mrs. Paul Athern. When Florence
presented herself, her gentle beauty had no effect in melting his
stony heart, for he did his work well. It was Paul's father. He
told her of his plans for Paul, and how he had discovered their
secret at last; and, with a cruelty I cannot understand even now,
informed her quietly that that marriage was null and void; they
both being minors, by the statutes of New York could not contract
legal marriage without consent of parents or guardians. Florence
heard him out, and then rose and said she would wait till her
husband came home to know the truth. 'Your husband, madam, has
taken my advice and gone to New York for a few days, and you will
not have the opportunity of telling him what he knows already,
and knew when, to satisfy you, he went through the mockery of a
marriage.'" The listener tightened her hold on Margaret and hid
her face; her aunt put both arms around her, and continued: "Here
Florence lost all consciousness, and when she came to herself,
she was alone. The afternoon was nearly gone; but she called her
servant, made her help to pack her trunk, then sent her for a
carriage, leaving a note for Paul with the girl in charge of the
house. She drove to Philadelphia, waited quietly at a hotel till
the next morning, then started for the west.

"My father's anger was fearful, all the more so that he was
powerless. Florence was ill for several weeks after her return,
and even after she recovered she never looked like herself. She
came to us in June; in July came a letter to my father in Paul's
handwriting, which he threw into the fire unopened. In October
you were born, and in six weeks more your poor mother--died."
Here she paused again, and bent her head close to the
golden-tressed one pressed to her breast. "My father lived till
the next fall, but never the same man. Harry came home from
Fordham that summer, and took entire charge of the farm, my
father caring for nothing but to carry you about and watch you.
For two years we heard nothing of your father; and then the
eastern papers were full of a great forgery that had been
committed, and the forger was a son of one of the first families
in the city. Florence, darling, need I tell his name? The trial
proved his guilt, but he managed to escape, and one day we were
surprised by his sudden appearance here. He came without any
announcement, and walked right into the parlor where I was
sitting sewing and Uncle Harry reading, while you were asleep in
your cradle. Before we could recognize him almost, he asked in a
hoarse voice, 'Where is Florence--where, for God's sake, is my
wife?' Then a glance at my black dress and Harry's stern face as
he rose to repel his intrusion, seemed to reveal all, and he sank
on the floor in a deep swoon.

"We kept his presence in the house a secret from the men on the
farm, and only Tamar knew it; fortunately, the house-girl had
gone to Hamilton for a few days. He was quite wild for a day or
so; and when he came to himself, Harry demanded an explanation,
and he gave it.

"He had not known of his father's visit to Germantown till he
returned from New York, where he had gone that day at his
father's request, having written a letter to that effect to
Florence, which must have reached the house very soon after she
left it.
He was kept in New York on some pretext or another for three or
four weeks. His letters to Florence, of course, never reached
her, and on his return home he was told by his father that he
'had seen his pretty plaything, and told her some home truths.' A
fearful scene followed, when he left his father's house, swearing
never to set foot in it again, and that he would be revenged. He
did not know that the marriage was illegal, as he was under the
impression that he was twenty-one, till his father showed him the
record, and then he found his mistake; and, as of course he knew
that no Catholic clergyman would perform the ceremony, the Rev.
Mr. Bell was the only one who could be found to do it. He had
searched for Florence, and written to her father; but, as I knew
too well, had received no answer. His allowance being stopped, he
suddenly found himself without a penny, and no business or
business habits; so he could not come out here to us, and
gradually sought forgetfulness in dissipation. At last, by the
treachery of a friend, himself the guilty one, he was proved a
forger so skilfully that there was no getting over it. He swore
solemnly that he was innocent, and felt sure his innocence would
one day be proved. He did not stay long, being anxious to get out
of the country and the clutches of the law. You were a great
comfort to him, dear, during his short stay, but he had to leave
you. In fifteen years, Florence, we have heard or seen nothing of
him, and his guilt is still believed by those who have not
forgotten the circumstances. Now, my darling, you know why I told
you this ere your uncle gave you Arthur Hinsdale's letter." The
young girl made no answer save a shiver that ran through her
frame as she clung closer to her aunt. For a full hour they sat
thus in silence; then Harry Lee came into the room. Florence rose
to her feet and would have fallen, had her uncle not caught her
in his arms, and tenderly, as if she had been a baby, he lifted
her, and carried her up to her bed-room. Margaret followed, and
tenderly prepared the broken-hearted girl for bed. The letters
lay unheeded on the parlor floor.


All through the night Margaret Lee sat by her niece's bed-side,
praying for strength for her darling, and watching the fitful
slumbers and soothing the sad awakenings. And in the silent
watches of the night arose the long-buried ghost of her own
life's happiness, and kept guard beside her. There was an episode
in the sad story she told her niece that was never
mentioned--that she had not allowed herself to think of for many
a long year; but to-night memory will not be silenced, and she
brings up, once more, the pleasant days when young Tremaine
whispered into her ear the same story which Paul told Florence,
and the fearful crushing of all her hopes of happiness, when her
father forbade her ever to see or speak to him again, his anger
was so great against him for having assisted Paul. Margaret
submitted quietly, as such natures do; but she never cared for
anything afterward beyond doing her strict duty--cheerfully and
heartily; but never joyously. Perhaps the old man repented when
it was too late; for in two years after, they heard Tremaine was
married, and he was
very tender to her then.
On his death-bed he drew her to him, and, asking her forgiveness
if he had made her suffer, blessed her for the fondest love and
gentlest tending that ever parent had from child. In that hour
Margaret felt repaid for all that had gone before. So, through
the long watches of the night, came up the memories of the long
ago, and Margaret lived over again the dead joys and sorrows.
Toward morning Florence slept quietly, and her watcher threw
herself on the bed beside her, and soon fell into a deep sleep.
When she awoke, the sun had risen, and on glancing at Florence,
she found her lying quietly awake.

"Aunt Margaret," said the young girl, "that--that--letter. I know
what he wrote, and it is not necessary to tell him, is it?"

"Only under certain circumstances, my darling; your own heart
will tell you what."

"Oh! yes, auntie; but that can never be. I can tell him that, and
nothing more."

"My poor, dear child, have you not faith enough? do you not think
his love for you is strong enough to live through this trial?"

"Yes, oh! yes! But would it be right to inflict the trial on him?
I think not; I think the burden is mine alone, and I alone must
bear it!"

"God grant you strength to do so, my precious one! If I could
have spared you the suffering, how gladly would I have done it!"

"I know that, auntie, dear. Do you think I do not feel and
appreciate the years of care and tender love I have had from you
and Uncle Harry? I was as happy as any one could be
before--before--and I can and will be happy with you still."

"God bless you, dearest!" was Margaret's answer, as she pressed a
kiss on her forehead and left the room.

As soon as she was alone, Florence turned the key in her door;
then, throwing a dressing-gown around her, fell on her knees
before a beautiful engraving of the Mater Dolorosa, which hung
over a _prie-dieu_ at the side of her bed. Long she knelt
there, her golden hair falling in dishevelled masses over her
shoulders, and nearly touching the floor as she knelt. At first
there was no sound, but presently her slight frame was convulsed
with suppressed weeping that soon found voice in sobs. At last
she rose, and began to dress, ever and anon pressing her hands to
her head or heart to still their aching. When she was ready to go
downstairs, she again knelt before the picture, and prayed for
strength to bear her cross, so that not even the shadow of it
should fall on those whose tenderness and love had been her
shield in the years that had gone.

And then she went down and greeted her uncle with a brave attempt
at her usual manner; she neglected nothing that she had been
accustomed to do, none of the little services she had been in the
habit of rendering; and, but for the sadness that no strength of
will could drive from her face, and the silence of the bird-like
voice that before made music through the house the whole day
long, a casual observer would not have guessed at the sufferings
of the previous night.

On going into the parlor, she saw the letters where she had
dropped them the night before, and the sight of them sent a cold
thrill of pain to her heart; but she picked them up and put them
in her pocket. After going through the house as usual, she locked
herself up in her room once more, to read the letters. Arthur
Hinsdale's to herself was, as she anticipated, a declaration of
affection; that to her uncle, written the day after, expressed a
hope that he would support his cause if it needed it.
And how were they to be answered? Florence paused long in painful
thought on the subject, but felt too utterly miserable to come to
any conclusion. So the day passed sadly, and so the night and the
next day. On the third day Florence felt that some answer must be
given and written before another night went by, and set herself
to her painful task. Having completed it, she brought the letter
down with her into the parlor, and sat down to some pretence of
employment that kept her hands busy, though her mind was far off.
Presently she heard the galloping of a horse in the lane, and in
a few moments a knock at the front-door. The blinds were down
over the front windows, so she had not seen any one pass, and,
rising, she tried to make her escape before the visitor was
admitted. But she was too late. As she opened the parlor door,
the front-door was opened from without by her uncle, and she
stood face to face with Arthur Hinsdale. The hearty greeting he
had met with from Mr. Lee had reassured the young man, and he was
not prepared for the frightened look and deadly pallor that
overspread Florence's face when she saw him. She stepped back
into the parlor, and held out her hand with a desperate attempt
to smile. Arthur took the hand and pressed it to his lips. Mr.
Lee had closed the parlor door, and she was alone with him. With
a desperate effort she commanded her voice enough to make some
commonplace remark about his journey, signing him to a chair,
while she seated herself.

"I ventured to come, although I had received no answer to my
letter. Did you receive it?"

Florence inclined her head.

"Then you knew the reason of my coming?"

Again Florence bowed, but could not speak.

"Miss Athern, was not my letter plain enough--do you not believe
me? I do not understand your silence."

"Your--your letter was fully understood, Mr. Hinsdale, and I

"You thank me, Florence!"

Then in earnest language he told her how he loved her, and how
his fear that his letter had not reached her had brought him
there, preferring the pain of a double refusal to the doubt in
which he must have awaited her reply by post. To all this
Florence listened with head bent down and hands clasped; and when
he paused for a reply, she pointed to the letter lying on the
table. He took it up and walked to the window; a painful silence
followed, broken only by the rustling of the paper in his hands.
When he had finished reading, he came to her side, and leaning
over her said:

"Am I to receive this as your answer?"

"Yes!" said Florence in a whisper.

"A final and decisive answer?"


"Then pardon me. Miss Athern, that I allowed my heart to read
your conduct as I hoped it was meant, not as you really meant it.
I gave you credit for a nobler heart than you possess. Let me
tell you the truth, though what I say seems a reproach, that
offer would never have been made had I not felt assured, by your
treatment of me, that it would be accepted."

Florence started, and the eloquent blood rushed to her very

"Mr. Hinsdale, you have no right to speak thus to me!"

She attempted to draw her hands from his grasp, but could not.

"No right!--well, perhaps I have not. Forgive me, Florence, and
only remember that I love you."


He still held her hands and tried to look into her face, but she
bent her head away from him.

"I love you, Florence, and I feel that I am entitled to a little
more consideration than that letter shows, Florence, will you be
my wife?"

A low but distinct "No," was the answer.

"Do you mean you do not love me?"

She made no answer, and he dropped or rather flung her hands from
him and started to his feet.

"Strange, unfeeling! O fool, fool that I was! to build my
happiness on such a crumbling base; to be caught in the net of a
false woman's beauty, the smiles of a vain coquette!"

"Arthur, Arthur! you will break my heart!"

She had risen and was standing with one hand resting on the back
of a chair, the other pressed to her head. He made a motion to
approach her, but she put out her hand with a sign to stop him.

"Now listen to me. I am no false woman, no vain coquette. Until
the night I received your letter, I knew no reason why I should
not--not--" She hesitated a moment. "I knew no reason why I
should not have answered it according to the dictates of my
heart; but that night a story of a life was told me that--that
changed my whole existence. It is a heavy burden to bear."

"But not, dearest, if I can help you bear it." He would have
taken her hand, but she drew back from him, "You cannot, no one
can--O God! help me, my heart is broken!" She threw her arms up
over her head, and would have fallen had he not caught her. She
had not fainted, though for a moment she thought death had come
to her relief; and almost in a moment released herself from his
arms, and said sadly: "I hoped to have spared us both this
misery; but it was God's will that we should not escape it. For
myself, a little more does not matter; but for you--O Arthur!
forgive me the pain I have made you suffer, and remember my own
cross is as heavy as I can bear. Good-by!" She held out her
hand--"good-by! You cannot return home to-day, it is too late; but
you must excuse me, I will send uncle."

"Florence! I am not going to remain if this is your answer. Do
you think I could break bread or sleep under your roof after what
has passed? Heavens! do you think I'm a stick or a stone?"

"As you will!" she said wearily, "I cannot help it!"

"Then I will take my leave." He was going; but as he laid his
hand on the door-knob, he glanced at her, and the expression of
heart-broken misery in the sweet face overcame his injured
feelings, and he turned and took her hand. "Forgive me, Florence;
I have been rude and unfeeling--selfish in my great
disappointment. Forgive me, darling; remember my love is strong
enough to bear the heaviest burden _you_ could lay upon it,
if your own strength fails, Good-by and God bless you." He raised
her hand to his lips, and in another moment was gone.

Every day Florence strove manfully with her trouble, and every
night her prayers were said before the _Mater Dolorosa_, for
strength to bear with silent patience the sorrow her loving
friends could not cure. But her face grew pale and wan, her form
more slight and delicate, till her aunt, in alarm, proposed a
change of scene. It was in the early spring, and Margaret Lee
proposed a tour through the eastern cities; but Florence begged
so hard not to be taken to New York or Philadelphia that the idea
was given up.
At last they determined to go direct to Boston, and sail thence
for Liverpool. This plan was carried out in June, leaving the
farm in charge of the overseer, and the house to Tamar.

To a mind like Florence's, imbued with a loving reverence for all
connected with the church, filled with a love for the beautiful
and grand, and a heart ready to receive their impressions; with
an intellect of no common order, and a quick appreciation of the
good and noble, a tour through Europe, particularly Spain,
France, and Italy, had many charms, and could not but awake an
interest that surprised herself. When they settled at Rome for
the winter, they had the satisfaction of a decided change for the
better in Florence's appearance.

But she had not forgotten; she was only glad that returning
strength of body enabled her to hide more effectually the anguish
and heart-sick yearning that sometimes seemed unbearable. Several
letters came from Arthur Hinsdale during the first year; but
Florence returned the same answer to all; and at last the young
man desisted. Three years were passed in idling from one point of
interest to another, when the tocsin of civil war in the United
States waked up the nations, and called the country's loyal
children from far and wide to her assistance.

Once more the scene is laid at "The Solitude;" but this time the
earth is not clothed in winter's snowy mantle. Hid in the wealth
of foliage the trees are wearing, the birds are singing their
vesper hymns, the sun is just sinking behind the woods, and
throws his last rays over a group seated on the grass near the
slope into the ravine.

Henry Lee is there, and Margaret and Annie and her children; but
Mr. Mohun is down in Tennessee with Rosecrans, and the wife's
brow wears an expression of anxiety, as she watches her children,
that was a stranger to it when we last saw her. Florence, too, is
there, looking very well, people say; but there is an indefinable
change that those nearest her feel, though they cannot say where
or in what it lies. One or two young ladies are added to the
group, and a young gentleman, whose shoulder-straps show his rank
as second lieutenant, while the foot still bound up and the
crutches lying near, show cause for his presence on the scene. He
is William Mohun, a younger brother of Annie's husband, and was
wounded in the siege of Vicksburg. What he is saying now must be
listened to.

"I wish you knew our colonel, Mr. Lee; for a braver, nobler,
kinder-hearted man never lived. He led a charge at Vicksburg, and
exposed himself unsparingly; indeed, he seemed to court death;
yet when he could help a wounded man, he was as gentle as a
woman. O Miss Florence! a friend of yours is the regimental
surgeon--Arthur Hinsdale, don't you remember him?"

"Oh! yes," replied Florence, with wonderful self-command.

"He, too," continued the young man, "deserves the thanks of the
nation; for I never saw such devotion to the wounded and dying.
Poor Warrington! hope he is not seriously wounded, for he will be
a great loss to us; and I hope Hinsdale is with him, for then I
know he will be well cared for."

"See, is there any mention of Joe's regiment. Will?" asked his
sister-in-law; and the young man referred to the paper in whose
columns he had seen the wounding of his colonel--Warrington.
Florence rose quietly and went into the house; the old
Newfoundland, who had been lying beside her, got up and walked at
her side in stately satisfaction, ever and anon thrusting his
cold nose into her hand in token of sympathy.
When Florence returned, there were traces of tears in her eyes;
but her face wore an expression of loving gratification her aunt
understood well.

A month and more has passed, and October began to touch, with her
changing pencil, the trees and shrubs. The air was hazy and
balmy, and the sun still warm; so the family at "The Solitude"
spent many of their evenings in the open air. William Mohun was
gone back to duty, and the young lady friends were again at home.
Florence and her two aunts were busy over comforts for the
soldiers, to help them through the weary winter with the thought
that loving hearts at home had not forgotten them. One evening
Florence had been down to the spring, and, lured by the lovely
evening, seated herself in the summer-house on the knoll above
it, with a book. She did not hear a carriage which approached the
house from the direction of Hamilton, nor did she see the two
gentlemen who alighted from it. Mr. Lee received Arthur Hinsdale
and his companion with cordial welcome, though surprised at the
sudden arrival, and wondering at Arthur's eager, excited manner.
He greeted Henry and Margaret warmly, but asked instantly for
Florence. They told him where she was, and the young man, instead
of crossing the bridge, which would have apprised her of his
coming, passed with a swift foot down the lane, and, springing
over the fence among the cherry-trees, down the slope, across the
path, was in the summer-house almost before Florence saw him.

"Florence, my darling, our trial is at an end. My precious one, I
know your secret now. Cruel! that you doubted me. Could you not
feel that nothing could change my love?"

He had taken her hands in his, and held them, looking down into
her sweet face while he spoke, Florence looked at him in
bewilderment; then, with a sobbing, convulsive movement of her
lips, almost fainted.

Meanwhile the gentleman, whom Arthur had introduced as Colonel
Warrington, followed Henry and Margaret into the parlor by the
door that opened at the end of the house toward the gate. When
they entered and Margaret turned to offer him a chair, she saw he
was deadly pale, and was glancing round the room as if it
recalled something painful. At the same moment a veil dropped
from Margaret's eyes. She walked up to him, and, laying her hand
on his arm, said, "Paul Athern, in heaven's name speak."

"Paul Athern?" said Henry Lee, with a start of surprise.

"Yes," replied the colonel sadly, "I am Paul Athern. God bless
you for the care you have taken of my darling. I can see her now
without fear. Henry Lee, I can offer you my hand, and you, an
honest man, can take it without hesitation."

Henry Lee grasped the hand extended to him warmly, saying, "I
never thought anything else, Athern, after the interview we had;
but I rejoice that you are relieved from your painful situation
and are living to enjoy the change. We began to fear you had
died. Tell us all about it; for Florence and Arthur will not join
us yet."

Then Paul Athern told how he had gone from "The Solitude" to New
Orleans with a firm purpose to win fortune and a fame that would
enable him to present himself before Florence in his true
relationship. He worked hard and steadily, and gained the
confidence of his employers to such an extent that they took him
into partnership, and then he came to Ohio to see his child.
But the stain was not removed from his name, and he shrank from
the meeting at the last, as much as at first he had longed for
it. He rode out to "The Solitude" on Christmas eve, and took a
peep at the family group through the window, and had gone again
without the consolation of hearing Florence speak. He told them
how, in looking in at the window the second time, he feared Tamar
had seen him, and he had hurried out to his horse and ridden away
quickly. So he went back with only the crumb of comfort that
stolen look afforded to his starving heart. When the war broke
out, he withdrew from business with a comfortable fortune, and
returned to C----, raised a company for the ---- regiment, and
rose to the rank of colonel. During his stay in C----, the family
were still in Europe; but he came out to "The Solitude," and had
a long talk with Tamar. Then came the wound that had prostrated
him and put him into Arthur Hinsdale's hands; during the ravings
of the fever he had mentioned names and revealed enough to arouse
Arthur's interest and curiosity. As soon as he was well enough,
the young man asked for an explanation, first telling why he
asked it. Paul told him all, and his story only bound the young
surgeon more closely to him. The colonel then paid a glowing
tribute to the kindness and care he had received from Arthur, and
to his general interest in and treatment of the wounded men. He
watched till Paul was well enough to travel, and then obtaining a
leave of absence for both from the commanding general, started
home. At first Paul refused to accompany Arthur; but one day a
wounded officer was brought in and laid on the bed next to the
one occupied by him. Arthur made a sign to Paul to help him to
remove the man's clothes; he stooped over him to unbutton his
coat, when the man opened his eyes, and, after looking round with
a startled gaze, fixed them on Paul with a frightened stare. Paul
looked and recognized the man who had blighted his whole
existence. A fierce struggle arose in his breast, and his fingers
ceased their work, while he turned away with a look of disgust
and dislike. Arthur looked up at him with surprise, and just then
the man made a desperate effort and put out his hand, saying

"Athern, forgive--here--I have it--all here."

And his hand fluttered toward his heart, then fell, and his eyes
sought Paul's with agonized entreaty. It was a hard struggle; but
the better angel conquered, and Paul took the hand and said:

"I do forgive you, Brooks, as I hope to be forgiven."

A smile passed over the man's face; he moved his head slightly
and was dead. In his breast-pocket were two packages, one
addressed to Paul's father, the other to an influential gentleman
in Philadelphia. The latter was mailed duly, and the former,
Paul, his father being dead, opened. It contained a full
acknowledgment of having committed the forgery for which Paul
suffered, and an explanation of how it was managed. This
determined him at once to return to his wife's family. Meantime
the same story had been told in different words in the
summer-house down by the spring, and it took so long in the
telling that it was almost dark when Margaret, going to call her
niece, saw them rise and approach the house, Florence, with a
bright look of happiness her face had not worn for years, leaning
on Arthur's arm. She hastened with trembling footsteps to the
parlor, at the door of which Arthur left her, and in another
moment she was clasped in her father's arms.


A gay wedding-party is assembled, when the spring once more puts
on her robes of ferial green, in the parlor of "The Solitude."
All brides look lovely, they say; but certainly May never smiled
on a lovelier one than Florence Athern. Arthur Hinsdale certainly
seemed to think so, for he looked at her with reverence mingled
with his deep love, as though she were a spirit dropped from the
skies. The venerable and dearly loved and honored archbishop is
there, and has blessed the new ties; and the bride was given away
by that tall, handsome man in brigadier-general's uniform, with
one arm in a sling yet, at whose side is the noble form of Henry
Lee, while Margaret moves about through the company with her
usual quiet grace, and Tamar's face is filled with satisfaction
at her young mistress' joy, as she looks in at the door.


   Sayings Of The Fathers Of The Desert.

A brother asked Abbot Antony to pray for him. The old man
responded: "Neither I can pity thee nor can God, unless thou
shalt have been anxious about thyself, and prayed to God."

Abbot Antony again said: "God doth not allow wars to arise in
this generation, because he knoweth they are weak and unable to
bear them."

Abbot Agathi said: "If a man of wrathful spirit should raise the
dead to life, he would not be pleasing to God because of his

Abbot Pastor said: "Teach thy heart, to observe what thy tongue
teacheth others." Again, he said: "Men wish to appear adepts in
speaking; but in carrying out those things of which they speak,
they are found wanting."

Abbot Macarius said: "If we remember the evils done to us by men,
we shall deprive our soul of the power to remember God; but if we
call to mind those evils which the demons raise against us, we
shall be invulnerable."

Abbot Pastor said of Abbot John the Small that, having prayed to
God, all his passions had been taken away, and, thus made proof,
he came to a certain old man and said: "Behold a man freed from
passion, and compelled to battle with no temptations." And the
old man replied: "Go, pray the Lord that he command thee to be
tempted, for the soul grows perfect by temptation." And when
temptations came back upon him, he no longer prayed to be freed
from them, but said, "Lord, give me patience to bear with these

Abbot Daniel used to say: "The stronger the body the weaker the
soul; and the weaker the body the stronger the soul."



         Popular Education. [Footnote 51]

  [Footnote 51: _Report of the Rev. James Fraser.
  Blackwood's Magazine_, Jan. 1868.]

At no period of the world's history have nations and their
governments seemed to be in such a feverish state of uncertainty
and apprehension. From all quarters of Christendom we hear the
cry of change. The last vestiges of the ancient order are
disappearing. The rule of caste is everywhere confronted by
self-asserting populations, who are no longer willing to bear the
patient yoke of servitude, even though consecrated by the
traditions of centuries. Russia has abolished her serfdom, so
long and so deeply rooted in her soil; and the more advanced
nations of Europe, whilst yet retaining their accustomed forms of
government, are heaving with the volcanic fires of revolution. We
speak not of violent revolution, mainly; but of that other more
radical and enduring change, which is the inevitable result of
the wonderful mechanical inventions of this age. It is simply
impossible in the dread presence of steam and the electric cable,
for nations to continue to be what the Greek republics and the
Roman empire were, or what mediaeval Europe was, centuries ago.
The Christian world is now, for all great practical purposes, one
nation. Even that "_despotism tempered by assassination_" is
not now the thing that Talleyrand described in his witty
aphorism; for the Czar himself bows to the censure of the world.
Napoleon prosecutes the Parisian editors, and sends them to
prison; but it avails nothing toward the suppression of the power
of opinion. He, to-day, has greater fear of the sentiment of
France, than ever his terrible uncle felt for the combined armies
of Europe. In England, the House of Peers has become a gloomy
pageant, and the Commons, under the new Reform Bill, will
henceforth represent, not the gentry, nor even the moneyed lords
of the loom, but the toiling millions of Great Britain. In a
word, power is passing from the few to the many, from the
hereditary rulers to the multitude. We have nothing to do, in
this article, with the merits of this vast revolution, as to the
manner of change, its good or evil, its probable success or
failure. We accept it as a fact, and propose to deal with it as
such. It is very possible that all this would have occurred if
America had never been discovered; but it is absolutely certain
that the achievements of Christopher Columbus and George
Washington have been the chief, immediate causes of its rapid
consummation. When a Bourbon king, to gratify the traditional
policy and animosities of his house, sent his fleets and armies
to help the glorious work of building up the independence of this
people, little did either he or his enraged and maniac foe, King
George, imagine what the end of it all would be! Little did they
dream that this land would, in ninety years, contain thirty
millions of men of European blood, and that the whole European
population would learn new principles, catch new inspirations,
and be filled with new longings, new hopes, and stern resolves by
intercourse with this young republic. Those pampered kings could
not foresee the advent of steam-ships and the telegraph!
They could not foretell the power of emigration--how it would
people a continent, build up its commerce, fortify it with the
materials for armies and navies, ready to be called into
existence more magically than the palace of Aladdin, and, above
and beyond all, how its sweeping currents of democratic ideas
would rush back upon the father-lands everywhere, washing away
the old dikes of royalty and caste, and floating the populations
over the battlements of feudal castles, musket in hand, and with
loud cries for "change;" that is, for the all-essential change
which shall see that governments be henceforth established and
conducted for the benefit for the governed, and not that the
governed shall be held, as they have been for many thousand years
heretofore, as the property of the ruler, existing solely for his
glory and profit. Europe sends her millions hither, and they in
turn send back by every ship to those they left behind, the
wonderful record of what they see here; and these inspiring
testimonies are read at the firesides of ten thousand hamlets by
kindred men whose awakening intelligence and energies are
stirring the foundations of European society and shaking all
thrones to inevitable ruin, unless they speedily plant themselves
on more solid ground than the _divine right of kings_. It is
now very certain that no government anywhere can be said to rest
on a sure basis, unless it stand upon the love and confidence of
the people. Any other basis is the lawful prey of time and
fortune, and will go with the opportunity that may arise for its

Now, if these be facts with which we have to deal, then a very
grave question meets us right here, and it is this: Can any such
solid foundation for government be found in a self-governing
community? In other words, can the people govern themselves for
their own weal, and maintain institutions _solely by the force
of their own will_, which shall accomplish the purposes of
good government, and for ever secure the approval of all wise and
virtuous citizens? If nay, then, royalty and aristocracy being
repudiated, whither shall we fly for refuge and hope? If yea,
then how is this most precious end to be attained? We Americans,
by birth and blood, and still more so by passionate love of
country, say most emphatically that we have never doubted that
the way to such a consummation is plain, if only the nation will
pursue it. It is nothing new; simply the old and trite aphorism,
that a free, self-governing nation can only be so upon the
conditions precedent of a clear intelligence and a
well-established virtue; the latter (if we may separate the two)
must always take precedence, and be regarded as the indispensable
prerequisite. It follows, therefore, that education without
morality would be at least futile. It is very certain that it
would be absolutely _fatal_; because the intelligent man of
vice is armed with keen weapons, which are greatly blunted by
ignorance, and are consequently then less dangerous to society.
Catiline, the polished patrician, was a greater object of alarm
to Cicero and the Roman senate than the rude assassins whom he
had hired to do his treason. Before and during the first French
revolution, France was ablaze with genius; but, like the high
intelligence of the "Archangel ruined," it brought death in its
fiery track. Education without morality is more terrible than the
sword in the hands of men or a nation. It is not the part of
patriotism to deny that we have seen some instances of this in
our own favored country, and that the tendency to that perilous
condition is very apparent even now.
This has resulted from the too prevalent idea, taught by the
infidel or indifferent press, and accepted by the unreflecting or
equally indifferent citizen, that morality can be maintained
without formal or doctrinal religion; that one morality is as
good as another; that Plato would answer as well as Christ; that
what even the pagans taught--to deal honestly by your neighbor
and perform the domestic and public duties of life with
reasonable decency--is quite sufficient; and that all else is
nothing more than priestly dogmatism and controversial jargon. So
that, indeed, the prevailing opinion of the country would almost
seem to be (if we judge it by the secular press and multitudes of
very honest and intelligent citizens) that America, as a
Christian democratic nation, may be satisfied to be as moral, and
consequently as grand and powerful, as was pagan Rome in the days
of her republican simplicity of manners. They forget or ignore
the history of the _Decline and Fall_, and fail to see in
that tremendous catastrophe of the most extraordinary people of
the ancient world, the logical development of the certain causes
of destruction which were inherent in the nation from the day
that Romulus slew his brother upon the wall of the rising city.
It cannot be that Christ came for a delusion and a snare, or even
as a simple fatuity. If his coming was necessary, then it was to
teach a new religion and a new morality; _the one inseparable
from the other_. If this be indisputable, then all education
which is not based expressly and clearly upon religion is
heathenish, and will prove destructive in the end. It will
destroy the very people whom it was expected to save. It will
consume them as a fire. Pride and lust of power will burn out the
public conscience. The nation will drip with the blood of
unjustifiable conquest, as did pagan Rome, or be given up to the
ferocious struggle for individual aggrandizement, as seen in
later revolutionary times. The father of our country fully
recognized these principles, and in the foregoing we have but
echoed his words of warning in his Farewell Address to the
American People:

  "Of all dispositions and habits," he says, "which lead to
  political prosperity, religion and morality are indispensable
  supports. A volume could not trace all their connection with
  private and public felicity. Let it simply be asked, Where is
  the security for property, for regulation, for life, if the
  sense of religious obligation desert the oaths which are the
  instruments in courts of justice? And let us with caution
  indulge the supposition that morality can be maintained without

To this it will be replied, by some well-meaning persons, "How
can we place education in the United States upon the basis of
doctrinal religion, when we have innumerable sects, none of which
absolutely agree?" And now we approach the marrow of the subject.

First, let us clear away one difficulty. Let it be very
distinctly comprehended that nowhere can the state find its
commission as exclusive educator of the people. That is a duty
and a privilege belonging, of original right, to the family; it
is domestical and not political, though it may be always, and is
most frequently, wise and politic that the state should lend
efficient aid to _assist_, but not _arbitrarily to
control_ the training of the free citizen's child. The parent
is placed over the child by the Creator, and is the natural
guardian, primarily responsible for the training which is to lead
through this valley of probation to the eternal home.
Religious freedom, freedom of conscience, is not a right granted
by constitutions, but is the result of the relation of man as a
free, moral agent to the Creator who thought fit to make him the
master of his own destiny here and hereafter. To coerce the
conscience of the child by an educational system, actively or
passively, (for there may be effective coercion by negative
means,) is to violate the sacred rights of the parent, vested in
him by the divine appointment. There is not a religious man,
following any form of worship, professing to be a Christian and
an American, who can seriously deny this proposition, or who
would accept any other in a question involving his rights and
duties in regard to his own off-spring. No such man, we are sure,
would tolerate any assumption of the authority on the part of the
state to step between him and his child in the matter of
religious belief and instruction. No other form of tyranny would
arouse so quickly the indignant resistance of an American citizen
and father; and every upright man feels in his heart that what
would be so grievous to him should not be imposed upon any other
of his fellow-citizens, directly or indirectly. Actuated by such
views in the main, the state provides a system of public schools
from which, theoretical (and it may be practically in most
cases,) all forms of doctrinal religion are excluded, and
education is based upon a vague, undefined, generalized moral
teaching which very many eminent men of different religious
denominations have pronounced to be "godless," because the
doctrines of Christ (the foundation of his moral law) are not
taught in such schools according to any interpretation whatever,
for the plain reason that it could not be done without such
manifest injustice and wrong as we have already protested
against. To read the Bible, _without note or comment_, to
young children is, in reality, to lead them to the fountain of
living waters and forbid them to drink; whereas, "to expound the
word" is, at once, to violate the absolute neutrality which the
state is bound to maintain in the presence of conflicting
interpretations and dissenting consciences. Such is the precise
difficulty. Hence it is, that the Catholic Church has set its
face against the peril with which such a system of education
threatens its youth; and the Catholic pastors and their flocks,
though struggling with poverty, and harassed by ten thousand
pressing claims upon their charity, have strained every nerve to
establish parochial and other denominational schools where
secular education could be imparted without sacrificing religious

There is no doubt but that there are many strong and marked
doctrinal differences between the various Protestant
denominations which have led some of their most eminent men to
argue against the possibility of a perfect or desirable system of
public schools upon the mixed or non-intervention basis.
Nevertheless, it is also true that in the fundamental point,
essentially characteristic of Protestantism, and in which it
especially differs from the Catholic Church (private
interpretation and the rejection of tradition) all Protestant
churches agree; and herein we find the reason why they can
conform to the necessities of such a public-school system as we
have described, with some degree of amalgamation; whereas their
Catholic fellow-citizens cannot avail themselves of the secular
advantages of such schools without a total sacrifice of religious
We are told by the Rev. James Fraser, despatched on an official
mission for the purpose of reporting on the whole subject to the
commissioners appointed by her Majesty Queen Victoria, and who
visited the United States in 1865, that one of the
_influences_ adverse to the success of our American
common-school system is, "_the growing feeling that more
distinctly religious teaching is required, and that even the
interests of morality are imperfectly attended to;_" and
another "_influence_" is "_the very lukewarm support that
it receives from the clergy of any denomination, and the languid
way in which its claims on support and sympathy are rested on the
higher motives of Christian duty;_" from which, and other
causes, the Rev. Mr. Fraser reluctantly augurs misfortune to the
system itself in the future. There can be no doubt but that such
"lukewarmness" does exist, and that it is produced solely by the
"growing feeling that more distinctly religious teaching is
required." No accord of the Protestant sects upon what they call
"essentials," can permanently reconcile them to either a
doctrinal teaching at the public schools, in which it would be
impossible for them all to agree, or to the alternative necessity
of excluding from the schools all manner of "distinct religious
teaching," without which "even the interests of morality are
imperfectly attended to." Hence springs not only the
lukewarmness, but the affirmative opposition of distinguished
Protestant clergymen to the "godless system."

It is altogether erroneous, however, to suppose, and unjust to
charge, that Catholics are hostile to the continuance of the
present schools. FAR FROM IT. They rejoice to see their
Protestant fellow-citizens availing themselves freely of those
great opportunities to instruct the future self-governing
citizens of the young republic. They appreciate, nay, they insist
upon the absolute necessity of raising the standard of popular
intelligence, so as to insure the wisest possible administration
of public affairs through the agency of the elective franchise.
That their church is profoundly solicitous for the secular
education of her people is too manifest for dispute, since she
has, by the instrumentality of her various religious orders,
established universities, colleges, academies, and innumerable
preparatory schools in every great city, and throughout the rural
districts of the country, wherever it was possible to do so. A
glance at the Catholic Register or Directory, for 1868, will
satisfy the most sceptical upon that point. The Roman Catholic
Church has covered Europe with such institutions, grand in
design, and magnificent in endowment; and it is not her purpose
to permit her children in America to fall behind the age for the
want of similar advantages, if she can supply their necessities.
She is ever appealing to their public spirit, their patriotism,
their religious sentiment, to obtain the means to build and
conduct her educational establishments; and most nobly have they
ever responded; for it was by the steady contributions of the
poor mainly, that nearly all of those great works were begun and

But we may well adopt the assertion of a writer in the last
January number of _Blackwood's Magazine_, that "_the fact
is palpable and every statesman, philosopher, and candid student
of the educational question confesses, that voluntary agencies
are wholly unable to undertake a task so gigantic,_" as that
of reaching the great mass of helpless ignorance existing even in
the most favored communities.
It is exactly here that government may legitimately step in with
its organized resources, but without wearing the pedagogue's cap.
The wisest governments of Europe, Catholic and Protestant, have
done this. They have abandoned the Lacedemonian usurpation of
domestic rights, reproduced by the first Napoleon, as he
expressed the policy in his curt style, "_My principal end in
the establishment of a teaching corps is to possess the means of
directing political and moral opinions._" A candid confession
for an autocrat. The nephew, who now reigns over France, has
learned by the experience of misfortune to be wiser and more
faithful to natural rights. In Catholic France education is
entirely free and without favoritism. The public educational fund
is equitably distributed to Catholic and Protestant, and each is
permitted to rear, under the supervision of their respective
clergy, as they may elect, the children of their own religious
household. Conscience is respected; and yet the youth of the
country are not deprived of instruction in the Christian faith at
the public schools. Protestant Prussia is as liberal and as wise
as France, and her system of public instruction is based upon the
necessity of religious teaching, and the right of the parent to
direct the child, and the just relation of the pastor to the
parent, and therefore the equity of a proper distribution of the
public-school fund. We have not the time, nor is it necessary to
go into the details; but it is sufficient to say that the
Prussian system concedes more to the Prussian Catholic than the
American Catholic has yet asked from an enlightened and
democratic American government; and yet, strange to say, the
American Catholic has been violently and persistently charged
with hostility to public education, and a conspiracy to destroy
republican institutions! Even England, iron-clad in her
prejudices, has adopted the principles of Prussia, niggardly as
her policy toward the public schools has always been. And what
shall we say of "benighted Austria," the land of popish
concordats! Let Mr. Kay, a recognized authority upon matters of
education, and a Protestant, answer this question.

  "The most interesting and satisfactory feature of the Austrian
  system is the great liberality with which the government,
  though so staunch an adherent and supporter of the Romanist
  priesthood, has treated the religious parties who differ from
  themselves in their religious dogma. It has been entirely owing
  to this liberality that neither the great number of the sects
  in Austria, nor the great differences of their religious
  tenets, has hindered the work of the education of the poor
  throughout the empire. Here, as elsewhere, it has been
  demonstrated that such difficulties may be easily overcome,
  when a government understands how to raise a nation in
  civilization, and wishes earnestly to do so.

  "In those parishes of the Austrian empire where there are any
  dissenters from the Roman Church, the education of their
  children is not directed by the priests, but is committed to
  the care of the dissenting ministers. These latter are
  empowered and required by government to provide for, to watch
  over, and to educate the children of their own sects in the
  same manner as the priests are required to do for the education
  of their children."

He also says:

  "And yet in these countries--Austria, Bavaria, and the Rhine
  provinces, and the Catholic Swiss cantons--the difficulties
  arising from religious differences have been overcome, and all
  their children have been brought under the influence of
  religious education without any religious party having been
  offended." (_Kay_, vol. ii. p. 3.)

And bearing testimony to the earnest desire of the Catholic
Church to advance the education of her children everywhere, he


  "In Catholic Germany, in France, and even in Italy, the
  education of the common people in reading, writing, arithmetic,
  music, manners, and morals is, at least, as generally diffused
  and as faithfully promoted by the clerical body as in Scotland.
  It is by their own advance, and not by keeping back the advance
  of the people, that the popish priesthood of the present day
  seeks to keep ahead of the intellectual progress of the
  community in Catholic lands; and they might, perhaps, retort
  upon our Presbyterian clergy, and ask if they, too, are in
  their countries, at the head of the intellectual movement of
  the age? Education is, in reality, not only not suppressed, but
  is encouraged by the popish church and is a mighty instrument
  in its hands and ably used. In every street in Rome, for
  instance, there are at short distances public primary schools
  for the education of the children of the lower and middle
  classes of the neighborhood. Rome, with a population of 158,000
  souls, has 372 public primary schools, with 482 teachers, and
  14,000 children attending them. Has Edinburgh so many schools
  for the instruction of these classes? I doubt it. Berlin, with
  a population about double that of Rome, has only 264 schools.
  Rome has also her university, with an average number of 600
  students, and the papal states, with a population of 2,500,000,
  contains seven universities; Prussia, with a population of
  14,000,000, has but seven."

If the church has been found in hostility to educational systems,
it has been when, as in Ireland, the schools have been made
_proselytizing agencies_ and _instruments of
oppression_; and if she has disfavored without opposing other
systems, as here, it was solely to preserve her _own people_
from the damaging effects of a purely secular education, and to
secure for them the higher advantages of a religious training. If
others find that the schools answer all their wants, she is well
pleased to see them derive every benefit therefrom which the best
administration of such a system can produce. But the Catholic
people say: If we who are counted by millions, and who are daily
adding to the wealth of the nation by our labor and enterprise,
are required to pay taxes for the support of the public schools
which we cannot use for the education of our children, ought we
not, at least, to receive an equitable proportion of the public
fund, to assist us in securing what every good citizen wishes to
see accomplished, the education of our youth? We are now
millions, and millions more are coming, by ship and steamer,
every day, almost every hour. We are a part of the nation,
children and citizens of the great republic. Shall we add to the
virtue and intelligence of the community, or to its ignorance and
vice? We are struggling with all our might, and devoting all our
means to reach the lowest stratum of our society, and lift it up
into the light and air of secular knowledge and spiritual grace.
Why should not the State of New York help in the good work?

The regulations of France, Prussia, Austria, England, and other
countries of Europe would assuredly afford to our legislators the
practical details of a good working system, which it is not our
province to suggest in form, uninvited. Let it be conceded,
however, that millions of men throughout this country should not
be taxed for establishments of which they cannot conscientiously
avail themselves, unless, at the same time, they are permitted to
participate, in a reasonable way, in the enormous funds derived
from those tax-rates. Let the schools, though denominational when
endowed by the state, be subject to state inspection so far as to
insure the full compliance with the requirements of the general
law as to the standard of education to be bestowed, but with no
further control over management or discipline.


In the European countries referred to, (it may be said here
generally,) each religious denomination when sufficiently
numerous in a district to justify it, is permitted to establish a
denominational school; receiving its share of the public fund,
and being subject to governmental inspection as to the proper
application of the money, and the faithful discharge of the
engagement to impart secular knowledge according to the fixed
educational standard. The selection of the school-books and the
religious training of the children are in such cases placed in
the charge of the clergy, or made subject to their revision.
Where the religious denomination has not sufficient numerical
strength to enable it to establish a separate school, its
children attend the other public school or schools, but are
carefully guarded against all attempts at proselytizing, and
their religious instruction is confided to their own ministers.
In no instance is the proper proportion of the school fund ever
refused to any denomination which has the number requisite under
the law for the establishment of a separate school. By these
means, perfect freedom of conscience is preserved, and public
harmony and good-will promoted; whilst at the same time, the
children of all churches are brought up in the wisdom of the
world without losing the fear of God. In this way, too, religious
freedom becomes a _practical thing_, and not a
constitutional platitude or an empty national boast. In this
serious matter, this great national concern, those European
monarchies have expelled sham altogether. Have we? Do we in the
United States, vaunting our hatred of "_church and state_,"
our devotion to entire freedom of conscience, our preeminent love
of "_fair play_," our respect for the _inviolable rights
of minorities_, do we imitate the liberal example of
monarchical Europe, Catholic and Protestant, when we tax our six
millions of Catholics for public schools, and then refuse them a
participation in the fund? What just man will say that such a
rule is right? What wise man will say that it is _politic_?
At least, let it not be said that in our great cities, where
there are tens of thousands of poor Catholic children, and in
those rural districts where the numbers are notoriously
sufficient to justify the establishment of one or more schools,
they shall be driven to seek an education under a system which
their parents cannot conscientiously sanction, or be left to the
chances of procuring the rudiments of learning from the
over-taxed and doubly-taxed resources of their co-religionists.
Help the schools now actually existing, and which are filled to
overflowing with eager scholars; and assist those who are willing
to build up others; the cost is no greater; the educational
policy of the state is equally satisfied, whilst the morals of
the rising generation, purified by religious faith and
strengthened by religious practices, will give the republic
assurance of a glorious future.

We are satisfied that such a system would give us an enlightened
Christian people, and not merely a nation of intelligent men of
the world, as cold as they are polished, and as indifferent to
divine things as they are eager for the pleasures of sense and
the pride of life.

This would be a truly solid basis upon which to build and
perpetuate the empire of a self-governing nation. Without this,
our constitution is a rope of sand, our republicanism a delusion,
and our freedom a miserable snare to the down-trodden
nationalities all over the earth.



       All Souls' Day--1867.

  Dying? along the trembling mountain flies
    The fearful whisper fast from cot to cot;
  Strong fathers stand aghast and mothers' eyes
    Melt as their white lips stammer, "Not, oh! not
        Him of all others? Nay,
  Not him who from our hearths so oft drove death away?"

  Well may those pale groups gather at each door.
    Well may those tears that dread the worst be shed.
  The hand that healed their ills will bless no more,
    The life that served to lengthen theirs has fled;
        And while they pray and weep,
  Unto his rest he passeth like a child asleep.

  Ah! this is sudden! why, this very morn
    He rode amongst us: sick men woke to hear
  The step of his black pacer: the new-born
    Smiled at him from their cradles; many a tear
        On faces wan and dim.
  He dried to-day: to-night those cheeks are wet for him.

  For there he lies, together gently laid
    The hands we were so proud of, his white hair
  Making the silver halo that it made
    In life around his brow; as if in prayer
        The gentle face composed.
  With nameless peace o'ershadowing the eyelids closed.

  And as beside him through the night we hold
    Our solitary watch, I had not started
  To hear my name break from him, as of old,
    Or see the tranquil lips a moment parted.
        To speak the word unsaid,
  The last supreme adieu that instant death forbade.

  I dread the day-dawn, for his silent rest
    Befits the night: I half believe him mine,
  While in the tapers' shadowy light, his breast
    Seems heaving, and, amid the pale moonshine
        That wanders o'er the lawn.
  Crouch the still hounds unknowing that their master's gone.


  But when the morning at his window stands
    In glory beckoning, and he answers not;
  Not for the wringing of the widowed hands,
    Or orphans wrestling with their bitter lot,
        I feel, old friend, too well,
  That naught can wake thee but the final miracle.

  Was it but yesterday, that at my gate,
    Beneath the over-arching oaks we met;
  Throned in his saddle, statue-like he sate,
    A horseman every inch: I see him yet,
        His morning mission done.
  His deep-mouthed pack behind him trailing, one by one.

  Mute are the mountains now! No more that cry
    Of the full chase by all the breezes borne
  Down the defiles, while echo's swift reply
    Speeds the loud chorus! Nevermore the horn
        Of our lost chief will shake
  Those tempest-riven crags, or pierce the startled brake!

  Those summits were his refuge when the touch
    Of gloom was on him, and the gathered care
  Of long life, that braved and suffered much,
    Drove him from beaten walks, to breathe the air
        That, haunts gray Carrick's crest,
  And spur from dawn to dusk till effort purchased rest.

  But yet, in all these thirty years, how few
    The days we saw not the familiar form
  Amid the valleys passing, till it grew
    Part of the landscape: through the sun or storm
        With equal front he rode,
  Punctual as planets moving in the paths of God.

  I've seen him, when the frozen tempest beat,
    Breast it as gayly as the birds that played
  Upon the drifts: and through the deadly heat
    That drove the fainting reapers to the shade.
        Smiling he passed along.
  Erect the good gray head, and on his lips a song.

  I've known him too, by anguish chained abed,
    Forsake his midnight pillow with a moan,
  And meekly ride wherever pity led,
    To heal a sorrow slighter than his own;
        Or rich or poor the same--
  It mattered not: let any sorrow call, he came.


  Thy life was sacrifice, my own old friend,
    Yet sacrifice that earned a sacred joy,
  For in thy breast kept beating to the end,
    The trust and honest gladness of a boy;
        The seventy years that span
  Thy course, leave thee as pure as when their date began.

  Who could have dreamed the sharp, sad overthrow
    Of such a life, so tender, strong, and brave?
  My pulse seems answering thy finger now--
    'Twas one step from the stirrup to the grave!
        Oh! lift your load with care,
  And gently to its rest the precious burden bear.

  All Souls' Day! as they place him in the aisle.
    The bells his youth obeyed for Mass are ringing;
  And, as beneath the churchyard gate we file,
    To latest rite his honored relics bringing.
        You'd think the dead had all
  Arrayed their little homes for some high festival.

  As if for _him_ the flowering chaplets, strewn
    Throughout God's acre, breathe a second spring;
  To him the ivy on the sculptured stone
    A welcome from the tomb seems whispering:
        The buried wear their best.
  As, in their midst, their old companion takes his rest.

  Yes, he is yours, not ours: set down the bier:
    To you we leave him with a ready trust:
  Beneath this sod there's scarce a spirit here
    That was not once his friend: Oh! guard his dust!
        And if your ashes may
  Thrill to old love, your graves are gladder than our hearths to-day.



         Is it Honest? [Footnote 52]

    [Footnote 52: Sermons in answer to the Tract, _Is it
    Honest?_ By Rev. L. W. Bacon. _The Brooklyn Times_,
    March 9th, 17th, 24th, 1868.]

A brief tract, issued a short time since by The Catholic
Publication Society, seems to have produced an unusual commotion
among our non-Catholic brethren, and has called forth reply after
reply from the sectarian press and pulpit. The tract is very
brief, and consists only of a few pointed questions; but it has
kindled a great fire, and compelled Protestants to come forward
and attempt to defend their honesty, in uttering their false
charges and gross calumnies against Catholics and the church. It
has put them on their defence, made them feel that they, not the
church, are now on trial before the public. This is no little
gain, and they do not have so easy a time of it, in defending
their libels, as they had in forging and uttering them, when
Catholics had no organ through which they could speak, and were
so borne down by public clamor that their voice could not have
been heard in denial, even if they had raised it. Times have
changed since those sad days when it was only necessary to vent a
false charge against the church, to have it accredited and
insisted on by a fanatical multitude as undeniable truth, however
ridiculous or absurd it might be.

Since our sectarian opponents have been put upon their defence,
we trust Catholics will keep them to it. We have acted on the
defensive long enough, and turn about is only fair play. They
must now prove their libels, or suffer judgment to go against
them. They feel that it is so, and they open their defence
resolutely, with apparent confidence and pluck. They have no lack
of words and show no misgiving. This is well; it is as we would
have it, for we wish them to have a fair trial, and to make the
strongest, boldest, and best defence the nature of the case

In our remarks we shall confine ourselves principally to the
justification attempted by Mr. Bacon, in his sermons, as we find
them in the _Brooklyn Times_; and we must remind him in the
outset that the assumption with which he commences--that the
tract, in appealing to the good sense of the public, whether it
is honest to insist on certain charges against the church as
true, when the slightest inquiry would show them to be
false--makes an important concession, or any concession at all to
the Protestant rule, is altogether unwarranted. He says: "This
submitting of the questions in dispute to the public, man by man,
after the Protestant, the American fashion--concedes at the
outset one great and most vital principle, to wit, that the
ultimate appeal in questions of personal belief, is to each man's
reason and conscience in the sight of God." Quite a mistake.
There is no question of personal belief in the case. The question
submitted to the public by the tract is not whether what the
church teaches and Catholics believe is true or false, but
whether it is honest to continue to accuse the church and
Catholics of holding and doing what it is well known, or may
easily be known, they do not do, and declare they do not hold?
This is the question, and the only question, submitted. Is it
honest to continue repeating day after day, and year after year,
foul calumnies against your neighbor, when the proofs that they
are calumnies lie under your hand, and spread out before your
eyes so plainly that he who runs may read? We think even the
smallest measure of common sense is sufficient to answer that
question, which is, on one side, simply a question of fact, and
on the other, a question of very ordinary morals. The competency
of reason to decide far more difficult questions than that, no
Catholic ever disputes. We think even the reason of a pagan can
go as far as that. "Why even of yourselves judge ye not what is

"But this tract," the preacher continues, "is a plain assertion
that no man ought blindly to accept the religious opinions to
which he is born, nor the instructions of his religious teachers;
but that he is bound, in honesty and justice, to hear the other
side, and decide between them by his own private judgment." If by
opinions is meant faith, it does no such thing; if by opinions
are meant only opinions, it may pass, though the tract neither
argues nor touches the question. The Catholic always supposes man
is endowed with reason and understanding, and that both are
active in the act of faith as in an act of science. There is and
can be no such thing as _blind_ faith, though blind
prejudices are not uncommon. Men seek or inquire for what they
have not, not for what they have. They who have the faith do not
seek it, and can examine what is opposed to it only for the
purpose of avoiding or refuting it. Catholics have the faith;
they are in possession of the truth, and have no need to make for
themselves the examination supposed. Non-Catholics have not the
faith; they have only opinions, often very erroneous, very
absurd, and very hurtful opinions, and they are therefore bound,
not by the _opinions_ they have received from their
religious teachers, or to which they were born, but to seek
diligently, with open minds and open hearts, for the truth till
they find it. When they find it, they will not be bound to seek
it, but to adhere to it, and obey it. There is no Protestant
teaching in this, and it is nothing "different from what the
Church of Rome always teaches her followers."

The tract says: "Americans love
fair play." The preacher says:

  "I believe it is no more than the truth. If there is one thing
  rather than another that Americans do love, it is this very
  thing--absolute freedom and fairness of religious discussion.
  Curious, isn't it? How came Americans to 'love fair play'?
  Englishmen seem to have a similar taste. Catholic or Protestant
  in England can speak or write his thoughts, on either side,
  without hinderance or constraint. The same thing may be
  remarked, in a measure, in Northern Germany. How can you
  account for it? What is the reason, do you suppose, why they
  don't 'love fair play' in Spain? or in Austria? or in Mexico?
  or in Rome? This injured innocent stands in New York, at the
  corners of the streets, bemoaning himself that he is treated
  'dishonestly, and unjustly,' because the public will not buy
  and read his books; and all the time, in the Holy City
  itself--under the direct fatherly government of the pope--a
  subject is not allowed to be (as this tract says) 'honest and
  just' toward Protestant Christians by examining both sides,
  except at the peril of being punished as for an infamous crime!
  'Americans love fair play.' Why do all Roman Catholic nations
  suppress it? Why does the pope forbid it in his own dominions?
  And what reason have we to believe that, if these who are
  clamoring for 'fair play' should ever hold the power in this
  country, they would put it to any different use here, from that
  which prevails in Catholic countries generally?"


We are not aware that there is any less love of fair play in
Spain, Mexico, or Rome, than in the United States, England, or
North-Germany, in Catholic than in non-Catholic countries, only
there is more faith and less need to seek it, or to examine both
sides in order to find it. As a matter of fact, though we cannot
regard it as any great merit, Catholics are generally far more
ready to hear both sides, and to read Protestant books, than
Protestants are to read Catholic books. We have never met with
intelligent Catholics as ignorant of Protestantism as we have
generally found intelligent Protestants of Catholicity. There is
nothing among Catholics to correspond to the blind prejudice,
deplorable ignorance, and narrow-minded bigotry of sectarians;
but we are happy to believe that even these are mellowing with
time, losing many of their old prejudices, and becoming more
enlightened and less bigoted and intolerant; there is still room
for improvement.

  "Let us understand in the outset," says the preacher, "that the
  charges against Catholics and the Catholic Church that are
  complained of in this tract, are conceded by the writer to be
  of grave importance. The prohibiting of the Bible to the
  people--the belief that priestly absolution has efficacy of
  itself, and is not merely conditional on the sincerity of the
  sinner's repentance--the paying to images of such worship as
  the heathen do--all these are declared by this writer to be
  'detestable and horrible.' So that if it should appear that any
  one of them is proved against Catholics or the Catholic Church,
  the case is closed against them. He is not at liberty to go
  back and apologize for the doctrine or palliate it. He has
  declared it to be 'false doctrine'--'detestable and horrible.'"

What the tract regards as important or unimportant, is nothing to
the purpose; what the preacher must prove is, that it is honest
to continue to repeat charges against Catholics and the Catholic
Church which have been amply refuted, and the refutation of which
is within the reach of every one who would know the truth; or at
least he must show that the refutation is insufficient, and that
the charges are not false, but true. He will not find us
shrinking from the truth, apologizing for it, or seeking to get
behind it or around it. We, however, beg him to understand that
he is the party accused, and on trial, not we, and that we are
probably better judges on doubtful points, of what is or is not
Catholic doctrine and practice, than he or any of his brethren.
He will do well, also, to bear in mind that the question raised
by the tract is not whether the doctrine of the church is true or
false, but whether it is honest to persist in saying that it is
what the church and all Catholics affirm that it is not. What he
must prove, in order to be acquitted, is that the church and
Catholics do hold what the tract denies, and denies on authority,
or that there are good and sufficient reasons for believing that
they do so hold.

1. The tract asks, "Is it honest to say that the Catholic Church
prohibits the use of the Bible, when anybody who chooses can buy
as many as he likes at any Catholic bookstore, and can see on the
page of any one of them the approbation of the bishops of the
Catholic Church, with the pope at their head, encouraging
Catholics to read the Bible, in these words, 'The faithful should
be excited to the reading of the Holy Scriptures,' and that not
only for the Catholics of the United States, but also for those
of the whole world." Mr. Bacon does not meet directly the facts
alleged by the tract, nor plead truth in justification of the
libel; but undertakes to show that even if false, yet Protestants
may be personally honest in uttering it; and he adduces various
circumstances which he thinks may very innocently induce
Protestants to suppose that the church does prohibit the use of
the Bible.
We have not the patience to take up in detail all the
circumstances alleged, and refute the inferences drawn from them;
most of them are mere inventions, perversions of the truth,
misapprehensions of the facts in the case, and none, nor all of
them together, justify the inference, in face of what the tract
alleges, that the church prohibits the use of the Bible; and it
is easy for any one who honestly seeks the truth to know that
they do not.

The facts alleged by the tract are accessible to all who wish to
know them. He who makes a false charge through ignorance, when he
can with ordinary prudence know that it is false, is not
excusable; and it is not surely in those who claim to be the
enlightened portion of mankind to attempt to defend their honesty
at the expense of their intelligence. They are the last people in
the world, if we take them at their estimate of themselves, to be
permitted to plead invincible ignorance.

The _Newark Evening Journal_ is bolder and more direct than
Mr. Bacon. It asserts that the Church actually forbids the
reading of the Scriptures, and boldly challenges the fact alleged
by the tract. It says: "On the very page from which are taken the
words, 'The faithful should be excited to read the Holy
Scriptures,' are quoted, it is also said, 'To guard against error
it was judged necessary to forbid the reading of the Scriptures
in the vulgar languages, without the advice and permission of the
pastors and spiritual guides whom God has appointed to govern his
Church.' How then can it be false to say that the Church
prohibits the use of the Holy Scriptures?" Simply because to
forbid the _abuse_ of a thing is not to prohibit its
_use_. The faithful, for the promotion of faith and piety,
are excited to read the Scriptures; but to guard against error or
the abuse of the sacred writings, those who would wrest them to
their own destruction are forbidden to read them in the vulgar
languages, except under the direction of their spiritual guides.
A prudent and loving father forbids his child, who has a morbid
appetite or a sickly constitution, to eat of a certain kind of
food except under the direction of the family physician, lest the
child should be injured by it; can you therefore say that he
prohibits the _use_ of that kind of food? Certainly not. All
you can say is, that while he concedes the use, he takes
precautions against the abuse, which is in no sense inconsistent
with anything asserted by the tract.

Mr. Bacon, referring to reported cases of the confiscation of
Bibles, circulated by the Bible Society, found in the hands of
the laity, says the French Bible confiscated was the Catholic
version of De Sacy; that the Polish Bible circulated by the Bible
Society was, word for word, the copy of the version published two
centuries before, and approved by two popes; the Italian Bible,
for reading which the godly family Madiai were persecuted and
imprisoned, was the Catholic version [not so] of Martini,
Archbishop of Florence, published with the approbation and
sanction of Pope Pius VI. Suppose this correct, it does not prove
that the Church prohibits the use of the Holy Scriptures, but is
very good proof to the contrary. These versions were made and
published for the people, and would have been neither made nor
published if the use of the Scriptures was forbidden. And how can
you say that popes prohibit what you show they approved and
sanctioned? There was a German Bible before Luther, and our Douay
Bible was published before the version of King James.


"But I am not willing," continues the preacher, "that this
effrontery [what effrontery?] of this question should be let go
even with this answer." We can easily believe it. "I am ready to
call witnesses." Well, dear doctor, your witnesses; we are ready
to hear their testimony. "Whoever heard of a Catholic Bible
Society multiplying copies of the Bible?" Nobody that we know of.
But how long is it since Protestants had a Bible Society? Prior
to that, did they prohibit the use of the Holy Scriptures? "Popes
have fulminated their bulls against Bible Societies, denouncing
them as an invention of the devil." Not unlikely; but it is one
thing to denounce Bible Societies, and another to prohibit the
use or the reading of the Bible. Your witnesses. Rev. sir, do not
testify to the point. Besides, all the facts, or pretended facts,
you bring forward are too recent for your purpose. The accusation
that the Church prohibits the use of the Scriptures was made by
Protestants long before any of them are even said to have
occurred, and therefore could not have originated in them.
_Ex-post facto_ causes are not admitted in catholic
philosophy. The charge brought against the Church betrays no
little folly and ingratitude. If the Church had prohibited the
use of the Scriptures, how could the Reformers have got a copy of
them? They certainly purloined them from her, and could have got
them from no other source.

The preacher concludes his first sermon by saying: "I am glad the
time has come when it is understood on both sides that, if the
Roman Church is to commend itself to the American people, it must
begin by repudiating, as horrible and detestable, the teaching
and practice for three hundred years of the church." What has for
three hundred years been falsely alleged by her enemies to be her
teaching and practice, agreed; but what has really been her
teaching and practice, denied. "Let it but make good this new
claim, and we thank God for the new reformation, and welcome it
to the platform of Protestantism." There is no new claim in the
case; what the tract asserts has always been the doctrine and
practice of the church; she has always encouraged the use and
opposed the abuse of the Holy Scriptures. That the preacher
should desire a new reformation can be easily understood, for the
old has well-nigh run out; that he will ever be able to welcome
the church to the platform of Protestantism is, however, not
likely; for she is not fond of standing on platforms, and prefers
to remain seated on the rock. The reverend gentleman may be
shocked to hear it; but it is, nevertheless, a fact, that the
Bible and reason are not special Protestant possessions; they
were ours ages before Protestantism was born, and will be ours
ages after Protestantism is dead and forgotten.

2. In his second sermon--in a note to which he corrects his
assertion that it was the Catholic version of Martini, and states
that it was the Protestant version of Diodati, that was used by
the godly family of the Madiai--the preacher confines his efforts
to questions raised by the tract with regard to the worship of
images and pictures, and of the Blessed Virgin and the saints.
The tract asks:

  "Is it honest _to accuse Catholics of paying divine worship
  to images or pictures as the heathen do_--when any Catholic
  indignantly repudiates any idea of the kind, and when the
  Council of Trent distinctly declares the doctrine of the
  Catholic Church in regard to them to be, 'that there is no
  divinity or virtue in them which should appear to claim the
  tribute of one's veneration;' but that all the honor which is
  paid to them shall be referred to the originals whom they are
  designed to represent?' (Sess. 25.)


  "The answer to this question," the preacher says, "is to be
  found by asking two others: 1. What sort of honors do the
  heathen pay to images? 2. What sort of honors do Roman
  Catholics pay to them? When we have got answers to these two,
  we can compare them, and shall be able to say whether they are
  the same."

We respectfully submit that neither of these questions need be
asked; for so far as pertinent, both are answered in the tract
itself. The accusation against Catholics which the tract implies
cannot be honestly made, is that we pay _divine_ worship to
images and pictures, as the heathen do; what the tract then
denies is that Catholics pay _divine_ worship to images and
pictures; and what it asserts is, that the heathen do pay them
divine worship; but this assertion is simply illustrative, and
should it be found inexact, it would not affect the formal denial
that the worship Catholics pay them is _divine_. As to what
sort of worship Catholics do render to images and pictures, the
answer in the tract is explicit, that it is a "certain tribute of
veneration paid them in honor of their original. The worship is
not divine worship, and the honor paid is not paid to them for
any virtue in them, but is referred solely to their originals."
The catechism puts this clearly enough. "_Q. And is it
allowable to honor relics, crucifixes, and holy pictures? A._
Yes; with an inferior and relative honor, as they relate to
Christ and his saints, and are the memorials of them. _Q. May
we then pray to relics and images? A._ No; by no means, for
they have no life or sense to hear or help us."

The preacher labors to show that this inferior and relative honor
is precisely what the heathen pay to the images of their gods;
but this, if true, would not prove that we do, but that the
heathen do not, pay divine honors to images. He cites various
authorities, Christian and heathen, to prove that it is not the
brass and gold and silver, when fashioned into a statue, that the
heathen worship, but that through the statue or image they
worship the invisible gods; that is, they worship the image as
the visible representation of the invisible divinity. This is, no
doubt, in some respects, the actual fact; nobody pretends that
they worship precisely the material statue, but the numen or god,
the prayers, invocations, incantations, and the other ceremonies
of the consecration of the statue by the priests compelled to
enter the statue and take up his abode in it. But to this image,
which for them contains the god, the heathen offer sacrifices and
other acts of worship which are due to God alone, which makes all
the difference in the world, though we have no doubt that the
type copied, perverted, corrupted, and travestied in heathen
worship is the Catholic type; as all heathenism is a corruption,
perversion, or travesty of the true religion, or as Protestantism
is a corruption, perversion, or travesty of the Catholic Church.

The heathen images and pictures represent no absent reality, and
are not memorials of an absent truth, like our sacred images and
pictures; and the heathen, then, can honor only the material
substance or the supposed indwelling numen or daemon. The gods
they are supposed to bring nigh, represent, or render visible,
are either purely imaginary, or evil spirits; hence the Scripture
tells us that "all the gods of the heathen are devils." And
finally, to these idols, which are nothing but wood and stone,
brass and silver, or gold, which represent, if anything, demons
or devils, the heathen pay divine honors; while we simply honor
and respect images and pictures of our Lord and his saints for
the sake of the originals, or the worth to which they are
Here is a difference which we should suppose even our Protestant
doctor capable of perceiving and recognizing.

The preacher forgets that what is denied by the tract is, that we
pay divine honors to sacred images and pictures, and cites ample
authority to prove that we do not pay divine honors to them or
through them. We offer them no sacrifices, and we offer them no
prayers or praises, even as symbols or as memorials of a worth
they represent. They are never the media through which we honor
that worth; but we honor them for the sake of the worth to which
they are related, as the pious son honors the picture of his
mother, the patriot the picture of the father of his country, or
the lover the portrait of his mistress. The respect we pay them
springs from one of the deepest and purest principles of human
nature, and can be condemned only by those who hold that there is
nothing good in nature, and condemn as evil and only evil
whatever is natural.

The minister thinks that, even should enlightened and intelligent
Catholics understand the question as explained by the catechism
and defined by the Council of Trent, yet ignorant Catholics may
not; and with them the honors paid to images and pictures
actually degenerate into idolatry. He asks:

  "But how in this respect do the people of modern Italy differ
  from those of ancient and heathen Italy? Do the practices of
  the people there correspond to the doctrines of the
  theologians, or have they, as of old time, 'bettered the
  instruction?' Do they pay no special veneration, as if there
  were some special virtue in the image itself, to those images
  that are reputed to bleed or sweat, or to the pictures that
  wink? If it was only as a guide of the thoughts toward the
  person represented that the image or picture served, then one
  image would serve as well as another, except that those in
  which the skill and genius of the artist had most excelled to
  represent in touching and vivid portraiture the object of the
  worship, might be preferred above ruder and coarser works. But
  as I have passed from church to church in those lands in which
  the Roman system has had unlimited opportunity to work itself
  out into practice, and have 'beheld the devotions' of the
  people, I have seen certain statues frequented by a multitude
  of worshippers, and visited by pilgrims from afar, who had come
  to bow down before them, and hung with myriads of votive
  offerings--waxen effigies of arms and legs and other members
  that had been healed in consequence of prayers to that
  particular image. And one fact, which I did not then appreciate
  the bearing of, was constantly observed by myself and my
  companion--that these objects of special worship and veneration
  were _never_ works of superior art, but commonly rude, and
  sometimes even grotesque. The inexpressibly beautiful and
  touching statue by Bernini, of the Virgin holding upon her
  knees the body of the dead Jesus, is in the crypt of St.
  Peter's, and admiring critics go down to study it by
  torchlight. But the image which is _adored_ is a grimy
  bronze idol above it in the nave of St. Peter's, which is so
  venerated as the statue of that apostle that the toes of the
  extended foot have been actually kissed away by the adorations
  of the faithful."

It is very evident that the preacher, whatever opportunities he
may have had, knows very little of the Catholic people in
general, or of the Italian people in particular, and his guesses
would deserve more respect if made in relation to his own people.
Protestants have no distinctive worship which can be offered to
God alone, and are therefore very poor judges of what they may
see going on before their eyes among a Catholic people. The
Church is responsible only for the faith she teaches and the
practices she enjoins, approves, or permits. If the people depart
from this faith and abuse these practices in their practical
devotion, the fault, since she takes away no one's freedom, is
theirs, not hers.
The worship that Catholics render to God, the honor they pay to
the saints, and the respect they entertain for sacred images,
differs not, as all worship with Protestants must, simply as more
or less, but in kind, and not even a Protestant community can be
found so ignorant as not to be able to distinguish between an
image or a picture and the saint or person intended to be
represented by it. For the many years we lived as a Protestant we
never met any one of our brethren who mistook his mother's
portrait for his mother herself, or the statue of a distinguished
statesman for the statesman himself. Who ever mistakes the
equestrian statue of George Washington in Union Square for George
Washington on horseback, or confounds Andrew Jackson himself with
Mill's ugly equestrian statue of him in one of the squares of
Washington? Who could mistake the bronze horse on which the image
of the old General is placed, and which you fear every moment is
going to tilt over backward, for a real horse? Well, my dear
doctor, however ignorant these Italian people may be whom you see
kneeling before an image or a picture of the Madonna, they know
more of the doctrines of the Gospel, more of God, and of man's
duties and relations to him, more of his proper worship, than the
most enlightened non-Catholic community that exists or ever
existed on the earth. They may not know as much of error against
faith and piety, of false theories and crude speculations as
non-Catholics; but they know more of Christianity, more of what
Christianity really is, what it teaches, and what it exacts of
the faithful, than the wisest and most learned of your sectarian
ministers, not even excepting yourself.

With regard to bleeding, sweating, or winking pictures, if you
find people believing in them, you will never find among
Catholics any who believe that they bleed, sweat, or wink by any
virtue that is in the picture itself; but that the phenomenon is
a miracle, which God works by the saint pictured. You may doubt
the miracle, but not reasonably, unless on the ground that the
evidence in the case is insufficient. Whoever believes in God
believes in the possibility of miracles, and there is nothing
more miraculous in a picture of the Madonna winking, sweating, or
bleeding, than there was in Balaam's ass speaking and rebuking
his master. It is simply a question of fact. If the proofs are
conclusive, the fact is to be believed; if insufficient, no one
is bound to believe it.

If you find the people flocking to a particular image or picture
and bringing to it their votive offerings, it certainly is not,
as the preacher takes notice, on account of its merit as a work
of art; for the Italian people, with all their love and exquisite
taste for art, do not, like so many non-Catholics, confound
artistic culture with religious culture; nor is it because they
hold that there is any hidden virtue in that particular image or
picture itself, but because the saint whose it is, has or is
believed to have specially favored those who have invoked him
before it. They may or may not be mistaken as to the fact, but
the principle, on which the special devotion to our Lady or a
saint before a particular shrine is a correct one; and there is
in the practice no special honor to the image or picture for its
own sake, and consequently nothing necessarily superstitious or

Even if, as there is no reason to believe, the statue of St.
Peter in St. Peter's at Rome, and which the preacher calls a
"grimy bronze idol," was originally, as he tells us some say it
was, a statue of Jupiter, the honor paid to it by the faithful
would not be paid to Jupiter, while intended to be paid to St.
But the toes of the image have been worn away by the kisses of
the worshippers; and do not these kisses prove that Catholics
adore the image? The heathen adore their gods by kissing the feet
of their statues; and when Catholics kiss the feet of the images
of their saints, how can it be said that they do not worship or
adore images as the heathen do? The heathen use incense in the
worship of idols; Moses prescribes incense, and the Jews use it
in their worship of the true God; therefore the Jews are
idolaters! The preacher forgets that what the tract declares to
be dishonest is the accusation that Catholics pay _divine_
worship, that is, the worship due to God alone, to images and
pictures, as the heathen do. To kiss the feet of the statue of
St. Peter, from love and devotion to the saint himself, the
prince of the apostles, on whom our Lord founded his church, is
not to pay divine worship to the image, nor even to Peter
himself. Were we so happy as to find ourselves at St. Peter's in
Rome, we are quite sure that we should kneel before the statue of
St. Peter, and kiss its feet, running the risk of its having been
once a statue of Jupiter, and we should do it as a proper method
of expressing our love and veneration for the great apostle, and
as simply and innocently as the mother kisses the carefully
preserved portrait of her beloved son slain in battle for his
faith or his country. As to using the forms used by the heathen
to express affection or devotion, if proper in themselves, we
have as little scruple as we have in using the language which our
ancestors used in the worship of Woden or Thor, in our prayers
and praises to the One Ever-living and True God.

3. The sermon next takes up the false accusation that Catholics
pay divine worship to the Blessed Virgin and the saints. The
tract asks:

  "Is IT HONEST _to accuse Catholics of putting the Blessed
  Virgin or the Saints in the place of God or the Lord Jesus
  Christ_--when the Council of Trent declares that it is
  simply useful to ask their intercession in order to obtain
  favor from God, through his Son, Jesus Christ our Lord, who
  alone is our Saviour and Redeemer--

  "When 'asking their prayers and influence with God,' is exactly
  of the same nature as when Christians ask the pious prayers of
  one another?"

The preacher says, "At the outset let me remark, that the
question what Roman Catholics _do_ is not conclusively
answered by quoting what the Council of Trent declares." This
supposes that the same rule must be applied to Catholics, who
have an authoritative church, that is applicable to
non-Catholics, who have none, or to people among whom every one
believes according to his own private judgment, and does what is
right in his own eyes. But this is not permissible. Our faith is
taught and defined by authority, and to know what we as Catholics
believe or do, you must be certain what the church
authoritatively teaches or prescribes. We cannot go contrary to
that and be Catholics. No doubt Catholics may depart from the
faith of the church, and disobey her precepts; but when they
obstinately persist in doing so, they cease to be Catholics in
faith and practice, and their belief or their practice is of no
account in judging what is or is not Catholic doctrine or
practice. They who believe or do anything contrary to what is
declared by the Council of Trent, are _pro tanto_
non-Catholics. To know what is Catholic faith and Catholic
practice, you have only to consult the standards, of the Catholic
Church--not every individual Catholic, as you must every
individual Protestant when you wish to ascertain what is
opinion and practice.
Our standards speak for themselves; and in determining what
Catholicity enjoins or allows, you must consult them, and them

Mr. Bacon and his brethren have as free access to our standards
as we ourselves have, and they must remain under the charge of
dishonestly misrepresenting us, or prove by our standards that
the church offers or authorizes or does not forbid her children
from offering divine worship to the Blessed Virgin. Their
surmises, their conjectures, their inferences from what they see
among Catholics, but do not understand, must be thrown out as
inadmissible testimony. There are the standards: if they sustain
you, well and good; if not, you are convicted, and judgment must
go against you. This is the case presented by the tract, and
which Mr. Bacon and his friends are to meet fairly and squarely.

Now, the tract shows from the standards, from the Council of
Trent, which is plenary authority in the case, that the
accusation against Catholics of "putting the Blessed Virgin or
the saints in the place of God or the Lord Jesus Christ," is an
accusation so manifestly untrue that no one can honestly make it.
Here also is the catechism, which the church teaches all her
children. "_Q. Does this commandment [the first] forbid all
honor and veneration of saints and angels?_ No; we are to
honor them as God's special friends and servants, but not with
the honor which belongs to God." The Council of Trent declares
that "it is good and useful to ask the saints who reign together
with Christ in heaven, to pray for us," "or to ask favors for us
from our Lord Jesus Christ, who alone is our Redeemer and
Saviour." We ask the saints in heaven, as we ask our friends on
earth, to pray for us. Here is the whole principle of the case.
The Council of Trent, Sess. 22, c. 3, defines that, "though the
church is accustomed to celebrate masses in honor of the saints,
yet she teaches they are never to be offered to them, but to God
alone." _Non tamen illis sacrificium offerri docet, sed Deo
soli, qui illos coronavit._ Now, with Catholics the
distinctively divine worship, the supreme worship due to God
alone, and which it would be idolatry to offer to any other, is
sacrifice, the highest possible sacrifice, the sacrifice of the
Mass, which our priests offer every day on the altar; the one
unbloody sacrifice which was offered in a bloody manner on
Calvary. This is offered to God alone; all else that is offered
to God in worship, prayer, praise, love, veneration, may, in kind
at least, be offered to men. We honor the chief magistrate,
whether called king or emperor, president or governor; we honor
the prelates whom the Holy Ghost has placed over us in the
church; we pray to or petition rulers and men in authority; we
chant the praises of the great and the heroic; we love our
country, our family, and friends; we venerate the wise and the
good, who, in services to the cause of truth, morals, and
religion, prove themselves godlike. That Protestants, who have no
sacrifice, no priest, no altar, no victim, should mistake the
nature of our _cultus sanctorum_, is not surprising, for
they have nothing in kind to offer God that we do not offer to
the saints, especially to the queen of saints, the Blessed Mother
of God. But this is their fault, not ours; for it is easy for
them to know--for our standards tell them so--that we as
Catholics place the supreme act of worship in the sacrifice of
the Mass--holding that only God is an adequate offering to God,
and that the sacrifice of the Mass is never offered to the saints
or to any but God alone.
There is a marked difference between our _cultus sanctorum_
and that with which men like Mr. Bacon, of Brooklyn, seek to
identify it. The heathen offered sacrifices, the highest form of
worship they had, to their idols, their demigods and heroes; we
offer the highest worship which we have--and we have it only
through God's goodness--to the one, living, true God only. This
proves that the accusation against Catholics of putting the
Blessed Virgin and the saints, as objects of worship, in the
place of God, is a false accusation, so well known or so easily
known to be false, that no one of ordinary intelligence can
honestly make it.

But the preacher supposes that Catholics, in other respects, put
them in the place of God. This is impossible. Catholics hold that
the saints, with the Blessed Virgin at their head, are men and
women--creatures whom God has made, has redeemed with his own
blood, and has elevated, sanctified, and glorified by his grace,
and therefore they cannot identify them with him or substitute
them for him. We hold that Mary is the Mother of Christ, and that
he is her Lord as well as ours, and that it is through his merits
alone, applied beforehand, that she was conceived without
original stain; and can anybody, so believing, mistake her for
her Son, in any respect put her in his place, or assign to her
his mediatorial work? The very fears expressed by our Protestant
friends that we do or are liable to do so, prove that even they
are able to discriminate between her and her Son; why not then

The reverend gentleman continues:

  "We are invited to several inquiries. First: Is it true that
  the prayers that are offered by Roman Catholics to departed
  saints, and especially to that holy woman whom we with them in
  all generations unite to call the blessed, are only of such a
  nature as we might offer to a fellow-Christian here upon the
  earth in soliciting his prayers in our behalf? Secondly: Are
  these supplications only for favor and influence, or are they
  for the direct gift of blessing and salvation? Do they put Mary
  into the place of Christ, the one Mediator between God and man;
  making of the All-Merciful Saviour who inviteth all to come
  unto him, an inaccessible object of dread and terror, whom we
  dare not approach except through the mediation of Mary? Do they
  ascribe to her the glory due to Christ, the only name given
  under heaven among men whereby we may be saved? Do they profess
  faith in her alone for salvation? Do they put the saints in the
  place of the Holy Ghost, by supplicating from them directly the
  divine gift of holiness and the renewal of the sinful heart?"

We have answered these questions by anticipation. It is probable
that Catholics believe somewhat more distinctly and more firmly
in "the one mediator of God and men, the man Christ Jesus," than
do the sects, and are less likely to forget it, seeing that all
their practical devotions, public and private, the great honors
given to Mary and the saints are founded on it and tend directly
to keep us from forgetting it. Catholics do not pray to Mary
because they regard the All-merciful Saviour as inaccessible, or
as an object of dread and terror; nor because she comes in
between them and him, represents him, or enables them to approach
him through her, as is evident from the fact that we not
unfrequently directly beseech him to grant that she and other
saints may pray for us. We honor her as the mother of God in his
human nature. We pray to her to pray to him for us, not only
because she is our mother as well as his, but because she is dear
to her Son our Lord, and he delights to honor her by granting her
For a like reason we invoke the saints, that is, ask them to pray
for us. We must then be more ignorant and stupid than even our
sectarian ministers believe us, if, in praying to them because as
his friends they are dear to him, we substitute them for him from
whom what we seek can alone come. If we believe they themselves
give it, why do we ask them to pray him to grant it? Cannot our
acute and ingenious doctor see that the invocation of saints
renders the error he supposes Catholics fall into utterly
impossible in the case of the most ignorant Catholic, and that it
tends to fix the mind and the heart directly on the fact that
every good and every perfect gift is from above and cometh down
from the Father of lights? Can he not see that the intercession
we invoke is a clear confession of the truth he thinks it
obscures or obliterates? If we think the good comes from them,
why do we ask them to intercede with Christ to bestow it? Why not
ask it of them? But is it true, as the tract affirms, that we ask
nothing of Mary and the saints in heaven that it would be
improper to ask of our fellow-Christian? This is not precisely
what the tract asserts. It asserts that asking their prayers and
influence is exactly of the same nature, that is, the same in
principle, with what Christians do when they ask the pious
prayers of one another. To this the preacher replies:

  "I hold here a volume of 800 pages, almost every one of which
  contains an answer to these questions, so far as I honestly
  read it, in the affirmative. It is _The Glories of Mary_,
  by St. Alphonsus Liguori, approved by John, Archbishop of
  New-York. I scarcely know where to begin quoting, or to cease.

  "'O Mary, sweet refuge of miserable sinners, assist me with thy
  mercy. Keep far from me my infernal enemies, and _come
  thyself_ to take my soul and present it to my eternal
  Judge.' 'All the mercies ever bestowed upon men have come
  through Mary.' 'Mary is called the gate of heaven, because no
  one can enter heaven if he does not pass through Mary, who is
  the door of it.' 'As we have access to the eternal Father only
  through Jesus Christ, so we have access to Jesus Christ only
  through Mary.'

  "'Mary is the peacemaker between sinners and God.' 'My Mother
  Mary, to thy hands I commit the cause of my eternal salvation.
  To thee I consign my soul; it was lost, but thou must save it.'
  'Thou art the advocate, the mediatrix of reconciliation, the
  only hope, and the most secure refuge of sinners.' 'I place in
  thee all my hopes of salvation.' 'She is the advocate of the
  world and the true mediatrix between God and man.' 'Blessed is
  he who clings with love and confidence to those two anchors of
  salvation, Jesus and Mary.' 'Deliver me from the burden of my
  sins; dispel the darkness of my mind; banish earthly affections
  from my heart.' 'O Lady, change us from sinners to saints.'"

Tastes differ, and not every Catholic would employ every
expression used by St. Alphonsus in his _Glories of Mary_;
but none of these expressions convey to the Catholic mind what
they do to the Protestant mind; for Catholics have a key to their
meaning in their faith in the incarnation. The strongest of them
is justified by the relation of Mary to that great mystery in
which centres and from which radiates the whole of Christianity.
From her was taken that flesh, that human nature, in which God
redeems and saves us; and being taken from her, she has a
relation to God, our Saviour, and consequently to our redemption
and salvation, which no other woman, no other creature, has or
can have. This relation explains the passages in the Litany of
our Lady of Loretto, and those passages of St. Alphonsus and
other Catholic writers which assert that all mercies and graces
come from God through her. They all come from God in his human
nature; and as that nature was taken from her, they must in some
sense come through her.
They come through her, because they come from God as born of her.
They also come through her, because God, her divine Son, who
gives them, loves her as his mother, and delights to honor with
the highest honor a creature can receive; he therefore confers
the favors mortals pray for only through her intercession. But as
all the special honor done to her is done only in consequence of
her relation as his mother, the higher we carry that honor the
more clear, distinct, and energetic our conviction of the fact of
the incarnation, and the more impossible it must be for us to put
her in the place of the Incarnate Word, or to substitute her for
her Son, who is the one mediator of God and men, the man Christ
Jesus. To do so would be not only to rob him of his glory, but to
deny her title to that very honor given to her as the mother of
God. Catholics are not capable of anything so illogical and

The key to the other expressions objected in St. Alphonsus is in
this same relation to the incarnation and the confidence of the
Saint in the power and efficacy of Mary's prayers or intercession
for us with her divine Son. He confides to Mary, leaves in her
hands the cause of his eternal salvation, as the client confides
his cause to his advocate or counsel. "My soul," he says, "was
lost, but thou must save it"--by thy intercession with thy Son,
who will deny thee nothing thou dost ask, because thou canst
never ask but what he inspires thee to ask, and what is agreeable
to his will, and he delights to honor thee before heaven and
earth by granting thy requests. In the same way understand the
expressions, "the advocate," "the mediatrix of reconciliation,"
and all the rest. The term mediatrix is not the best possible,
because it is liable to mislead not a Catholic, but a
non-Catholic, who believes little in the incarnation, and refuses
to interpret the language of Catholics by the official teaching
of their church. The Catholic always knows in what sense it is
said, and for him the explanations are never necessary; still
less are they necessary for Him who sees and knows the thoughts
and intents of the heart before they are even formed. It is the
duty of non-Catholics to consult the standards of the church and
to explain what seems to them difficult or inexact in the warm
and energetic expressions of Catholic love and devotion by them;
and it is not honest to found a charge against Catholics on such
expressions without having done so. The preacher continues:

  "'Is IT HONEST to accuse Catholics of putting the Blessed
  Virgin or the saints in the place of God or of the Lord Jesus
  Christ? You have the answer. You know the place which God
  claims for himself the 'honor which He will not give to
  another.' You have heard from the very words of the Roman
  Catholics themselves the place to which they exalt the spirits
  of departed men and women."

Yes, you have the answer such as your minister gives; and we have
shown that his answer misinterprets facts which he does not
understand; that it refuses to interpret them by the key
furnished in the official teaching of the church; that it
contradicts itself, and proves, if anything, the falsity of the
very charge it undertakes to establish, and therefore clears
neither him nor you, if you accept it, from the charge of
dishonestly bringing false accusations against the church of God.


  "Is IT HONEST _to assert that the Catholic Church grants any
  indulgence or permission to commit sin_--when an
  'indulgence,' according to her universally received doctrine,
  was never dreamed of by Catholics to imply, in any case
  whatever, any permission to commit the least sin; and when an
  indulgence has no application whatever to sin until after sin
  has been repented of and pardoned?"

The preacher has the air of conceding that this charge is
unfounded, and says, "If it is made, it does not appear to be
sustained  yet he maintains that indulgences really remit the
punishment due to sins committed after the indulgence has been
bought and paid for; for they are alleged to preserve the
recipient in grace till death, in spite of subsequent sins." And
he cites the case of Tetzel, in the sixteenth century, in proof
He adduces what purports to be a form of absolution published by
Tetzel, and offered for sale in the market-places of Germany. The
form of absolution alleged is manifestly a forgery, and a very
stupid forgery; and besides, absolution and indulgences are very
different things, and the indulgence affects only a certain
temporary punishment that remains to be expiated after the
absolution is given or the eternal guilt is pardoned, and is
rather a commutation than a remission of even that temporary
punishment, which, if not commuted or borne here, must be
expiated hereafter in purgatory. There is no _form_ of
indulgence; there are _conditions_ of gaining an indulgence;
but there is no certificate given to the effect that we have
obtained it. If we have sincerely complied with the conditions
prescribed by the pope, we gain it; but whether we have gained it
neither we nor the church can know in this life without a special
revelation. Every Catholic knows that to offer money for it would
argue a disposition on his part that would render it impossible,
while he retained that disposition, to gain an indulgence. No one
can gain an indulgence while in a state of sin, and hence
indulgences are not at any price profitable things to purchase.
That Tetzel exaggerated the virtue of indulgences was asserted by
Luther and his friends; but that he offered them for sale in the
market-places, was never, we believe, even pretended until after
his death--was and never has been proved. Luther and his friends
complained that he was causing a scandal, and procured his arrest
and imprisonment in a convent of his order, where he died two
years after, without the matter, owing to the troubles of the
times, even undergoing a judicial investigation. As for Luther's
own testimony, in a case touching his hatred against Rome, it is
of no account.

  "The only sense," continues the preacher, "in which the Roman
  Church has ever sold licenses for crime, has been in this, of
  announcing (not in America, in this century) a tariff of
  cash-prices at which (_with_ contrition) all evil
  consequences of certain sins, whether in this world or the
  world to come, would be cancelled. The price-current in Germany
  in the sixteenth century, ranged as follows: for polygamy, six
  ducats; for sacrilege and perjury, nine ducats; for murder,
  eight ducats. In Switzerland, at the same period, the price was
  for infanticide, four francs; for parricide or fratricide, one

This seems to us quite enough. The Catholic will perceive that
our learned friend is not very well posted on Catholic matters.
He evidently confounds sacramental absolution with indulgences,
and indulgences with the dispensations which the church grants in
particular cases, not from the law of God, nor the law of nature,
but from her own ecclesiastical law; and supposes that the fees
paid to the chancery for the necessary legal documents in the
various causes that come before it, are the fees paid by the
faithful for indulgences and the pardon of their sins. [Footnote
A man who speaks of matters of which he knows nothing is liable
to say some very absurd things. Nevertheless, the preacher says
expressly, and we doubt not means to concede the point made by
the tract, that indulgences are not licenses to commit sin, but
he has labored to make his concession as little offensive to his
Protestant brethren as possible. Still he concedes it. "I think,
therefore," he says, "that the author of this tract is right in
claiming that it is not just to assert that the Catholic Church
grants any indulgence or permission to commit sin." No, she does
no such thing, she only "intimates beforehand her willingness, if
such and such crimes are committed, to make it all right with the
malefactor both in this world and the world to come, for
penitence--and CASH." He who should offer cash to pay for
absolution would receive for answer, "Thy money perish with

    [Footnote 53: For a full proof of the forgery of the above
    passage in the book called _Tax-Book of the Roman
    Chancery_, see Bishop England's Letters to Dr. Fuller,
    Works of Bishop England, vol. iii. p. 13.]

  "Is IT HONEST _to repeat over and over again that Catholics
  pay the priests to pardon their sins_--such a thing is
  unheard of anywhere in the Catholic Church--when any
  transaction of the kind is stigmatized as a grievous sin, and
  ranked along with murder, adultery, blasphemy, etc., in every
  catechism and work on Catholic theology?"

The preacher thinks it is very honest, because, if the church
prohibits and punishes it as simony, it is very evident that it
sometimes happens. If the offence had never been committed, the
church would never have had occasion to legislate on the matter.
It was argued that for a long time the crime of parricide was
unknown at Rome, because there was no law prohibiting and
punishing it. This is his answer, and a proof, we suppose, of his
candor of which he boasts, of his readiness to die rather than
knowingly repeat a false charge against the church! The real
accusation against the church, which the tract denies can be
honestly made, is that Catholics are required to pay, or that the
priest can lawfully exact pay, for the pardon or absolution he
pronounces in the sacrament of penance. It does not necessarily
deny that the thing may sometimes be done, but, if so, it is
unlawfully, is a sin, and ranked along with murder, adultery,
etc. The sin of simony, in one form or another, has in the
history of the church often been committed, and those who
committed it are, in general, favorites with Protestant
historians, who seldom fail to brand as haughty tyrants and
spiritual despots the noble and virtuous popes who struggled
energetically against it, and did their best to correct or guard
against the evil. But honest men will not hold the church
responsible for the misdeeds of unprincipled men, which she
prohibits and exerts all the power of her discipline to prevent
and punish. The case is too plain to need argument. Penance, the
church teaches, is a sacrament, of which absolution is a part,
and to sell any sacrament or part thereof is simony, a grievous
sin; and though there is no sin that may not have been committed,
yet the fact of a priest, however depraved, demanding pay for
sacramental pardon or absolution is not known to have ever
occurred. The church prohibits it, indeed, but only in
prohibiting simony, and we are not aware that she has ever passed
any special law against this particular species of simony, and
therefore the argument of the preacher falls to the ground, and
for aught he shows, it is true to the letter that the thing is
unheard of.


  "Is IT HONEST _to persist in saying that Catholics believe
  that their sins are forgiven merely by the confession of them
  to the priest, without a true sorrow for them, or a true
  purpose to quit them_--when every child finds the contrary
  distinctly and clearly stated in the catechism, which he is
  obliged to learn before he can be admitted to the sacraments?
  Any honest man can verify this statement by examining any
  Catholic catechism."

"Nothing," says the preacher, "could be more conclusive than this
logic, if we could constantly presume that the belief and
practice of the people always coincide exactly with the teaching
of the catechism." If the coincidence were perfect, there would
be no sins to confess, no need of the sacrament of penance, and
no question as to the condition of ghostly absolution or pardon
could ever be raised. But as the preacher finds nothing to object
to under this head in the teaching or official practice of the
church, we must presume that he finds the logic of the tract,
whatever may be the deceptions, if any, practised upon the
priest, is quite conclusive, and he certainly concedes quite
enough to show that the accusation against the church which the
tract repels, cannot be honestly repeated. We would remind the
preacher that no one is forced against his will to go to
confession, and the very fact of one's going is presumptive proof
of sincere sorrow for his sins, and a resolution, weaker or
stronger, God helping him, to forsake them. Why should he seek to
deceive the priest, when he knows that if he seeks to do so, he
would not only receive no benefit from the absolution, but would
commit the grievous sin of sacrilege by profaning the sacrament?

  "Is IT HONEST _to say that Catholics believe that man, by his
  own power, can forgive sin_--when the priest is regarded by
  the Catholic Church only as the agent of our Lord Jesus Christ,
  acting by the power delegated to him, according to these words,
  'Whose sins you shall forgive, they are forgiven them, and
  whose sins you shall retain, they are retained?' St John xx.

The preacher has offered no reply, or, if he has, we have
overlooked it, to this grave accusation; perhaps he has none to
make. The journals, however, attempt a reply, the purport of
which is, that, though the tract states truly the official
teaching of the church, yet Catholics practically believe, as
every one knows who has had intercourse with them, that it is the
priest, not God, who they believe pardons sin. This, too, is in
substance the reply of Mr. Bacon throughout. The tract states the
doctrine of the church correctly on all the points made, but then
that, it is pretended, is not the doctrine of the Catholic
people, the practical doctrine of Catholics, and gives no clue to
the practical workings of the Roman system--a clear confession
that they really have nothing to object to Catholic doctrine and
practice, though they have much to object to in what is no
doctrine or teaching or practice of the church. The reason of
this, we suppose, is, that they have no conception of the church.
Now, we think it is very likely that there are many Catholics who
cannot define very scholastically the distinction between
efficient cause and instrumental or medial cause; but put the
question to the most ignorant Catholic you can find. "Do you
believe the priest as a man in confession pardons your sins?" as
soon as he gets hold of what you are driving at, he will answer:
"No; he pardons or absolves them as a priest." This answer means
that the priest does not absolve by a virtue in him as a man, but
by virtue of his priestly office, to which he is appointed by the
Holy Ghost; that is, as the minister, or as the tract says, the
agent of our Lord Jesus Christ. All Catholics unhappily do not
conform their life to their faith; but you will find that the
faith of the people is that of the church, that which the church
officially teaches; and there is no room for the distinction
which non-Catholic ministers and journals, try, as their best
resort in self-vindication, to make between Catholicity in the
formularies of the church and the Catholicity that works
practically in the faith and lives of the Catholic people,
whether learned or unlearned.
All this talk about the practical workings of the system is
moonshine, at least outside of the record, to which no Catholic
is bound to reply. We are required to believe and defend only
what the church teaches and requires of her children:

8. The tract concludes with the question,

  "Is IT HONEST _to make these and many other similar charges
  against Catholics_--when they detest and abhor such false
  doctrines more than those do who make them, and make them too,
  without ever having read a Catholic book, or taken any honest
  means of ascertaining the doctrines which the Catholic Church
  really teaches? AMERICANS LOVE FAIR PLAY."

In spite of all that sectarian preachers and journals can say,
the unprejudiced and fair-minded American will answer, to each
question the tract puts, No! it is not honest, but gravely
dishonest; for every one is bound to judge Catholics by the
standards of the church, open to all the world. And these
manifestly disprove the accusations.

We have attempted no defence in this article of our holy religion
itself. We have only attempted to show our Protestant accusers
that their efforts to prove themselves honest, in their false
charges against the church and her faithful children, are
unsuccessful. They have not successfully impeached the tract in a
single instance, nor vindicated themselves from a single one of
its charges; nor can they do it. Many things may be said against
the immaculate spouse of Christ; the daughters of the
uncircumcised may call her black, may rail against her, and call
her all manner of hard names; but she stands ever in her
loveliness, all pure, and dear to her Lord, who loves her, and
gave his life for her, and dear to the heart of every one of her
loving children, and all the dearer from the foul aspersions cast
upon her by the ignorant, the foolish, and the malicious.

We have not taken much notice of the professions of candor and
independence of the preacher; for we have never much esteemed
professions which are contradicted by deeds; nor are we easily
won by fine things said of individual Catholics by one who in the
same breath calumniates the holy Catholic Church. Few sermons
have we read that show a more decided hostility to our religion
than these of the Rev. Leonard W. Bacon, of Brooklyn, which are
unredeemed from their low sectarian character by any depth of
learning, extent of historical research, force of logic, richness
of imagination, flow of eloquence, or sparkle of wit. We have
found them very commonplace and dull; we have found it a dull
affair to read and reply to them; and we fear that our readers
will find our reply itself very dull, for dulness is contagious.



        Magas; or, Long Ago.

      A Tale Of The Early Times.

     Chapter IX.

"She is bewitched, my lord," said her attendants to Magas, as he
stood the next day by the bedside of Chione, and she knew him
not. "She is bewitched. Chloe and two or three others heard the
spell muttered just before she fell."

Magas looked incredulously, yet half-believing what they said.
"Why, who can have bewitched her?"

"The Christians, my lord; there were many present, and they came
on purpose. They failed the first time, but they did it the

Magas gazed at Chione, as she lay, for the most part insensible,
yet at intervals uttering incoherent words which alarmed them
all. He said softly, "Chione?"

She started up and gazed fiercely at him. "Begone!" she said,
"you have lost me my soul for ever; begone!" And she struck him a
violent blow.

"It is ever thus, my lord," said an attendant consolingly, "when
people are thus attacked by the furies; they hate those most that
they loved the best."

"What makes you think the Christians have bewitched her?"

"They are practising magic all over, and playing all kinds of
tricks throughout the country."

"But why should they attack your mistress?"

"Why, my lord--" And the woman hesitated.

"Well, what?"

"Well, my lord, they do say she was once one of them; and when
any one leaves them, they never forgive them--they torment them
for ever."

"Pshaw! what nonsense is this?"

"I did not make the story, my lord; more than one says so."

"Let those in this house beware of ever saying it again then,
unless they are fond of being scourged." And Magas turned away.
He was but half satisfied, however. He remembered the meeting
with the bishop, as he had afterward discovered him to be. He
knew, too, that Lady Damaris was accounted a Christian, and that
Chione always shrank from naming her. The Christians had a great
name for magic: but Dionysius and the Lady Damaris were of the
highest families. Magas paced for many hours the sacred grove to
which he had wandered, then suddenly betook him to the bishop's

He was admitted, courteously received; but it was some time
before he returned the bishop's greeting. Dionysius waited his
pleasure with the courtesy for which he was remarkable.

At length Magas said: "I cannot think you have done it."

"Done what, my son?"

"Bewitched Chione; made her mad."

"Is Chione ill?"

"She is very ill, she is raving and insensible by turns."

"Your words seemed just now to imply I was concerned in her

"Her attendants think--think--tell me, noble Dionysius, is it
true that Chione was ever a Christian?"

"Why do you ask?"


"Because it is important that the Christians should know that, if
they have bewitched her in revenge for her leaving them, they
must undo the spell at once, or brave my vengeance."

"This much, at least, I may tell you--the Christians have not
bewitched her."

"Yet she fainted at some words uttered close to her, and that was
the _second_ interruption of the evening."

"My son, you must not make me responsible for the interruptions;
I was not present at your meeting."

"No, but some Christians were; that has been ascertained."

"Even so; each one must answer for himself."

"You did not send them there?"

"I did not!"

"Now, will you tell me, was Chione ever a Christian?"

"I would rather that she answer for herself."

"She is not in a state to answer for herself, and your answer may
prevent some suffering; if she was never a Christian, those
slaves shall be scourged who affirm she was."

Magas had hit on the right method, as he intended; the bishop
answered at once: "Spare the poor slaves, my son. I baptized
Chione myself."


"Yes, admitted her within the pale of the church by washing away
all sin; by that she became a Christian."

"How long ago?"

"About fifteen months before she was missing from Corinth."

When did she leave your society?"

"I suppose when she left Corinth; I have not spoken with her

"Is her present illness connected with her Christianity?"

"How can I possibly tell, my son? I have not seen her; mental
agitation may have caused it, and her leaving her religion may
have caused that; how can I tell?"

"But has magic been used upon her?"

"Not by Christians, decidedly; and I should think, not at all.
Her brain is probably over-worked, and she has been suffering
from over-excitement: these will frequently cause derangement."

"And you think religion has nothing to do with it?"

"I did not say that, my son; to profess one thing and believe
another must occasion uneasiness, until the conscience is dead. I
should say, from your account, that Chione is suffering from
mental disturbance, brought on by her unfaithfulness to her own
convictions. Once a Christian, she must still feel its influence;
and unwilling to yield to its teachings, she writhes under its

"That is it, that is what her nurses say; she is under the power
of the Christians--bewitched by them. Now, that spell must be

"If it is in her own mind, caused by her own act, _no one_
can undo it, as long as _her_ will remains perverse."

"What does this mean?" said Magas.

"It means this, my friend: Christianity links the soul to the
living God from which it sprang. To become a Christian is not a
myth, not a mere intellectual conviction, not an adoption of
philosophical tenets: it is an _act_, a solemn act of
_surrender_; it is an acknowledgment that the world has been
disturbed by influences foreign to the true God; it is a
renunciation of those influences, a solemn reunion of the soul
with the Eternal Soul, the Creator, the Upholder, the Redeemer;
it is positive.
A soul so linked by her own free consent, placed under
influences unknown to those outside, must, so long as conscience
speaks at all, suffer from the conflict she is undergoing, in
breaking loose from a personal intercourse with her Maker, as
also from a revelation of truth, beauty, and goodness, to plunge
anew into the darkness of human guesses."

"You speak in enigmas, my lord! I presume one must be initiated
to understand you. Meantime, tell me, can you do anything for

"I am somewhat of a physician, although no professor of magic. I
will see your patient, if it will give you comfort."

Magas bethought him: the visit of a Christian bishop to his house
would be too remarkable. What was he to do? Suddenly he said:
"What could possess Chione to make herself a Christian?"

"I believe it was the love of truth and beauty. She sought a key
to the mysteries of life, and Christianity offered her one."

"And yet she left it!"

"It is by no means clear that she has left it, otherwise than by
act. She is an unfaithful member, but she still believes, or it
would have no power over her."

"I wonder is it religion that is making her so ill? My Lord
Dionysius, among her former companions, do you know one whose
discretion you could trust to take care of her for a day or two,
who would be competent to discover whether Christianity is
disturbing her?"

"I know an amanuensis who might perhaps be willing to oblige you;
we will see." They left the house by a side-door. The bishop led
the way through a narrow path for some distance, till they came
to a villa. Here he made a signal at the gate; it was opened by
an old servitor, who bowed profoundly as he admitted him and his
companion. Dionysius whispered a word in his ear, and the old man
tottered on before to a side entrance, which he left open. They
entered, and very shortly another door opened into a small
library. A lady was writing there; they saluted her, and Magas
recognized Lotis.

The bishop quickly made known the purport of his visit, and Lotis
willingly offered her services. Magas, however, demurred. "Is it
possible," said he; "are you really a Christian?"

"I have that happiness," replied Lotis.

"Why, how can it be? how is it that lofty minds like yours and
Chione's can ally yourselves with such a drivelling set?"

Lotis smiled as she observed, "I think, Lord Magas, that the
illustrious Dionysius, who stands beside you, will scarcely feel

Magas blushed and apologized. "Forgive me," he said; "I am so
fairly confounded to-day, I do not know what I am saying."

Dionysius said smilingly, "You do not know what Christianity is,
and therefore stand excused beforehand. Do you wish Lotis to
accompany you to Chione?"

"The more, as I think she will scarcely be suspected of--" Magas
hesitated. The bishop filled up the gap for him--"of belonging to
such a drivelling set. No; and Chione even does not know it; so
your secret will be doubly safe. You may confide in Lotis

      Chapter X.

Lotis took her place by the bedside of her friend, but she found
her situation almost a sinecure. Though Chione did not recognize
her, she was very uneasy in her presence. "Take those large black
eyes away from me," she would say.
Finally Lotis found herself reduced to watching in the next room,
as Magas still desired her to stay and direct proceedings; and to
beguile the hours, she occupied herself in what had become almost
a business with her, in transcribing the gospels and apostolic
papers for the use of the different churches. Magas often visited
her, and would have shared her watch, had she permitted it; but
this she would not hear of; so he was obliged to be content with
frequent visits to inquire after the progress of Chione, and by
degrees to study the parchments on which Lotis was engaged.

Ashamed to manifest the interest he felt, he took them to his own
apartment, and studied first, then secretly copied the writings
with his own hand. Weeks went on; Chione's health improved, but
her insanity did not pass away. Lotis proposed she should be
removed to a dwelling in the neighborhood of Lady Damaris' abode,
and be there tended.

"Two influences are about her here," she said, "counteracting
each other. There all will be in unison." Magas assented. "I am
no longer afraid of Christians," he said; "but how any one
_once_ believing what is here written," continued he,
producing the gospel he had written out with his own hand--" how
any one, once believing, can fall away, is a mystery. I would
give all my possessions to have the faith, the confidence in God,
herein described. Faith seems to mean the creature's power in
God, derived from God. Could I once feel that God is my Father in
the sense the gospel has it, I would bid adieu to philosophy for
ever, and be at rest."

"Then you are not angry that Chione is a Christian?" said Lotis.

"I am angry that she has acted a lie, and imposed upon me," he

"It was love of you that constrained her. Forgive her, Magas."

"_Love_ of me! Did she not know I love truth? I can never
believe her again."

Lotis left the apartment and proceeded to superintend the removal
of Chione.

Magas went to the bishop, to make arrangements for Chione's
maintenance; he wished to settle revenues on her ere he departed.

"Depart! are you about to leave Athens, my son?"

"Yes, father; it has become hateful to me, since I no longer love

"You do not intend to desert her?"

"I leave her in good hands; what can I do more?"

"Her whole being is bound up in you; through you she sinned."

"That is the worst of it; I cannot look at her without feeling
that; but yet, I knew not she was a Christian, nor did I know how
sublime the Christian faith is. I cannot forgive her for
abandoning her faith."

"But you are not a Christian, Magas?"

"No! I am waiting for the manifestation of God. I am going to the
apostle who has heard and seen, who works miracles in the name of
Jesus; I am going to ask of this Jesus the _power_ of

"What do you mean by the power of faith, Magas?"

"The power of becoming a son of God, of being free, with the
freedom of old Merion, who is more free amid his chains than the
young worldlings with their power and wealth. Free from my own
passions, which master me and blind me; free from false
knowledge, which misleads me; free from the power of habit, which
enslaves me.
I want power to endure that crucifixion which dying to these
objects will occasion me. I feel my own nature rebelling against
my aspiration, and I want power to conquer it. The apostle says
the gospel is power unto salvation, and that power is needed
where life must be one combat, as mine must be for the time to

Dionysius, too modest to arrogate to himself the gifts which
daily experience proved him to possess, of working miracles to
attest the power of God, simply said, "The holy apostle Paul is
even now at Corinth; you cannot do better than seek him there; I
myself will shortly do the same."

    Chapter XI.

Two years have passed; such years! Magas has left Athens, has
become a Christian--nay, a Christian preacher. His property has
been more for others than himself; for he has renounced wealth,
pomp, earthly power, to follow the footsteps of that wondrous
convert who was brought to Christ by being struck down to earth
by excess of light--blinded by glory--by seeing the heavenly
vision with the unprepared eyes of earth. By St. Paul confirmed
in the faith, Magas was, through the same apostle, set apart for
the ministry through the laying on of hands. Magas has so
completely changed his nature, his very features seem altered.
The young Athenian noble, proud of a long line of ancestry, but
seeks to devote his days to the one Master who shares his
undivided heart.

Yet he returned to Athens, and his voice was heard by Chione.

All night she listened; in her short slumbers she dreamed of him;
In the morning her wandering senses had returned. Lotis entered
her room with her breakfast; and the wild light in Chione's eyes
had subsided. She looked around; she inquired, "Where am I?
Lotis, why are you here?"

"I am here to tend you, dear Chione; you have been ill."

"Ill!" said Chione, passing her hand over her brow; "Ill! I've,
had a long, strange dream! Where's Magas?"

"I do not know," said Lotis.

"He was here last night," said Chione. "I heard his voice; all
night I watched for him; why did he keep away?"

"I cannot tell you," answered Lotis.

"Cannot tell! Is not this his house? is he not at home?"

"No! this is not his house," said Lotis; "he has been away from
Athens, and he left you here to be taken care of. Now you must
ask no more questions, but take your breakfast. I will send to
Magas to tell him you are better."

Lotis left the room and summoned another attendant, charging her
to be careful of her speech, lest the newly returned reason
should again fail, she herself sought the bishop to let him know
of the change.

It required some care to break to Chione the tidings that she was
in the house of the Lady Damaris; that for two years she had been
a prey to a most cruel malady of the brain, during which time
Lotis had taken every possible care of her; and that Magas had
been, during that time, away. Reawakened reason almost tottered
again on its throne. Chione's pride was evidently hurt.

"Two years! two years! was that the end of my triumph? Magas! a
mad woman! What has Magas been doing?"

"He will tell you that best himself; he will be here shortly."

"Two years! two long years! O Magas!"



"They met! But is this Magas? is this Chione? The long, lank
hair, eyes almost starting from their sockets; and that form, so
shrunken, so bereft of its former beauty, can this be the Venus
Urania? And Apollo! will you recognize him in that weather-beaten
form, coarsely clad, and mien so humble, though an intellectual
manliness still sat upon the brow?

"Is this Magas? the same, and yet so changed? Magas, speak to

"You are then recovering at last, Chione?"

"At last! yes! I knew not of my illness till I recovered. Strange
thing, this mind is, Magas! I lived on you: you were absent--I
died; your voice brought me back to life."

"Nay, you were ill before I left you, Chione. It was a higher
voice speaking to you, to which you turned a deaf ear, that
caused your illness."

"What mean you?"

"That the remorse you felt for your abandoned faith upset your
mental energies. Venus Urania should not have been enacted by a

"You have discovered my secret then; but I am a Christian no

"Oh! do not say that, Chione; say, rather, you will repent, do
penance. Chione, you cannot at will cast away faith. The effect
those words produced on you show that you still believe."

"The devils believe and tremble," muttered the unfortunate woman;
"yet it is not faith they have."

"But you are not yet a reprobate--are not yet beyond recall.
Chione, I, Magas, entreat you, do not lie to your God. You cannot
deceive him, and for his power, does not your past illness make
you tremble for the future?"

"What means this altered tone, Magas?" said Chione bitterly. "Are
you turned against me? Ah! I see how it is! Two years of absence,
two years of illness, have done their work. Man's constancy is of
a summer day; the winter comes, he freezes with the cold; for the
love within no longer glows, no longer sends the blood rushing
through the veins with a warmth that defies exterior cold. Some
other form fresher than this frame impaired by sickness hath
replaced Chione in your heart. You come to bid me farewell.
Farewell, Magas."

Deceived by her feigned calmness, Magas rose. "Again, Chione, I
entreat you to return to the religion you have abandoned."

"And do penance at the church door in sackcloth and ashes? Is
that your meaning? Will you be there to see me beg the prayers of
the faithful as they pass in to the mysteries from which I am

This was said with an inconceivable mixture of sarcasm and

"Love could sweeten even such an act as that," said Magas;
"surely, even that is better than apostasy."

"And who are you that dare to twit me with apostasy? False one,
wearied of thy old love, seeking another," (here she seized the
arm of Magas,) "tell me," she said fiercely, "what is the name of
the fair one for whom you abandon me?"

"Why would you know?" asked Magas.

"That I might tear her limb from limb!" said the frenzied woman.

"That is beyond your power, Chione. Him I love sits enthroned in
the heavens. I have no earthly love. Chione, farewell. Remember,
Magas blesses you--blesses you as he leaves you. You will not see
him soon again, for Magas is a Christian priest."


He left her.

No, the energies did not depart as she started to her feet on
hearing the last words--"a Christian priest!" "Magas! Oh! had I
known, could I have guessed! The love of Magas without losing my
religion! Can I regain it? Yes; by penance, Chione, doing
penance! Faugh! Chione standing in the cold, clothed in
sackcloth, exposed to the derision of the faithful. 'Twould be
easy to love, he said. Did he say so? Love must be boiling hot
indeed to sweeten such an act as that; and my love, ah! ah! love
for religion, such a religion as that, ah! ah! ah!"

The poor woman raved, but alas! there was too much method in her
madness. Wilfully she shut out faith; wilfully she turned to hate
all that heretofore she had held dear; but she acted for a while
with an earthly prudence that deceived those around her.

She staid with the Lady Damaris until she had recovered health
and strength, until she had made herself sure of the independence
Magas had settled on her. Then she left, and opened a school of
philosophy, which was soon filled. Her former reputation did her
much service in that respect, and that she had escaped from the
enchantments of the Christians, who had tried to destroy her,
added to the interest she inspired. She soon recovered her former
beauty, and she studied now, studied deeply, how to thwart the
Christians, how to demonstrate that whatever was beautiful in
their religion they had stolen from the muses; that whatever was
mystical came to them from Hindostan, the seat of mysticism; that
whatever was reasonable and ethical they had learned from
philosophy. It was a splendid success in Athens, that
philosophical school of Chione; for it flattered the passions
while it shed the grace of eloquence and refinement over them.
All beauty, taste, and melody were made to yield their utmost
sweetness there. Her disciples were of the rich, the great, the
noble. They could practise the elegant course of study
alternating with ease that she prescribed: "To enjoy is the aim
of existence, refinement, cultivation, a correct system of ethics
makes perfect enjoyment. Science gives interest, lifts one above
the vulgar. Art ennobles and civilizes, and Athens is still the
central point of art, science, and philosophy." So said Chione.

    Chapter XII.

"Indeed, Lotis, you must give me more hope than that; you must
not bid me despair."

The words were spoken somewhat louder than was intended. They
were heard by one who was passing by. The speaker was Magas; the
passer-by was Chione. Magas was lamenting over the account he had
heard of Chione's continued resistance to grace. Chione applied
to the words another meaning; she ascribed them to a passion felt
for Lotis, and her heart burned with rage and jealousy.

"Magas was then returned to Athens. What was he doing?" She set
spies on his steps. He was often at the bishop's house, often in
the Christian assembly; but also often had interviews with Lotis.
This fact, which might have been easily explained by the
occupation of Lotis, who supplied copies of books, and kept
various accounts for the church, was otherwise interpreted by the
misled woman, and she resolved on the destruction of Lotis.
If she could not regain the love of Magas, at least she would not
have a rival. She had influence in the city. Nero's persecution,
though but little felt in the colonies, could be brought to bear.
Lotis should not live to triumph over her by a Christian
marriage. The idea was insupportable.

Up to this point, Chione had kept herself unfettered from human
ties since Magas had departed. She had loved Magas, and though
many had made her offers of marriage, she could not resolve to
accept them. Magas was alike elegant and profound. Who was worthy
to succeed him? Athenian after Athenian paid court to her; gay,
witty, and attractive to all, Chione accepted none. This was a
matter of great wonder in so licentious a city as Athens.

But a greater wonder still was to ensue. A new Roman praetor
arrived. A rude barbarian he seemed to the fashionables of
Athens: certainly he was not distinguished for refinement, for
learning, or for elegance; but it was soon observed that Chione
held him enthralled, and, what was more remarkable, that she
seemed to favor him.

How it happened, people could hardly tell, but a different spirit
seemed animating Athens. The Christians, from being despised were
becoming feared, and at length hated. When Nero's edict had been
first made known, it made little impression; but gradually a
voice was found, to proclaim that there were Christians in Athens
practising magic to the detriment of all good citizens.

A few poor slaves were seized and brought before the praetor;
they were ruthlessly condemned on acknowledging themselves
Christians. People were startled, but poor slaves have few
friends, and the matter blew over. Suddenly the praetor grows
more religious, decrees foreign to the usual spirit of Athenian
government are enacted; a test is instituted, and several free
citizens of Athens have to abide the scrutiny; executions follow,
and Chione's reputation suffers, for it is currently reported
that it is she who instigates the inquiry and persecutes the new

The Roman praetor evidently takes counsel of her. But there comes
one concerning whom even he hesitates; a young lady, daughter of
a philosopher, one beloved for her private virtues, is brought
before the judge. "Sacrifice to the genius of the emperor." "I
cannot." "Why not?" "I am a Christian." How often have the words
been repeated; they are so simple, yet so fraught with
consequence; how many perished under that simple interrogatory!
Lotis undergoes it; she is remanded; the praetor seeks to release
her; he is sick of his office when it hits upon the young, the
innocent, the lovely; the outside interests him, he cannot see
the soul. Faith, ever young, has sustained many an aged slave,
wrinkled with age; has adorned many a worker embrowned and
toil-worn, bearing marks on his frame that his life has not been
spent in uselessness; but these excited only a passing interest,
if any--they were common people (would that the toiling saints
were more common!) they went to their doom, by fire or by the
headsman, unmarked by men and unpitied, though Heaven assumed
their souls with hymns of joy, dressed them in white garments,
crowned them with brilliants, endowed them with perpetual youth
and with beauty that never will fade. But here comes a lady. The
praetor understands that she has slaves to wait upon her, every
luxury attends her; she may lead a life of indolence, if she
pleases. These are the exterior signs, the signs that awaken
commiseration. The praetor hesitates.
Chione does not hesitate. The prisoner is not only a Christian,
she is a member of a conspiracy just laid open to Chione's
apprehension. She has lived in the city longer than the praetor,
she knows its dangers. This Lotis is a dangerous person, she is a
personal enemy to Chione; she must die; nay, Chione names the
manner of her death; she is to die by fire. The praetor,
infatuated by his passion for the guilty woman who prescribes to
him the sentence he is to pronounce, submits, gently hinting that
he looks for his reward. "Reward!" says Chione to herself, "is
not a smile from me reward enough for a barbarian like him?" And
in her egotism, she really believes she is speaking the simple

The sentence is pronounced; horror seizes the city; to-morrow the
flames are to consume the conspirators, who are many in number;
and Lotis is among them; there is no escape.

The ancient bishop contrives, however, to visit his condemned
flock, bearing consolation, courage, and, above all, the blessed
sacrament, with him. To each and all he addressed himself
according to their needs; if he, too, staid a little longer with
Lotis than with the others, it arose out of a previous
conversation, and because he wished to promote a holy work.

"My daughter, do you know who has stirred up this accusation
against you?"

"I rather guess than know it, father. What have I done to draw
down Chione's hatred?"

"She is jealous of Magas in your regard. She cannot appreciate
the depth of Christian devotedness; she can understand selfish
aims alone."

"Poor Chione!"

"Do you, from your heart, forgive her?"

"I have not thought about forgiveness; I pity her too much."

"Do you remember the conversation we had years ago?"

"About laying down my life for her? Father, I do."

"Are you willing to do so now?"

"If I thought it would save her soul, I am more than willing."

"Pray for her, then, my daughter."


'Twas a wild shriek that rang through the streets that morning,
as Magas arrived just in time to see the procession set forth, to
recognize Lotis, to hear Chione's name as the one who had
procured her condemnation. "Stop, stop!" he had cried to the
Roman soldiery; "stop! It is all a mistake; stop! In a few
minutes it will be rectified. Stop for a short time, in the name
of all that is holy!" Had Magas donned his patrician's dress and
scattered largess, as in times of yore, his words would have been
heeded; a few minutes would have been granted. Even now, his air,
his manner, his authoritative gestures occasioned a slight pause;
but his weather-stained appearance caused him to be considered as
a plebeian, and the pause was not long. He flew rather than ran
to Chione's abode. "Come," said he, "it seems you are omnipotent
in Athens; come and prevent a murder." He dragged her with him to
the praetor's house, but the great man was absent. A bright flame
lit up the sky! "My God, if we are too late!" he cried. Almost
carrying Chione in his arms, Magas hurried through the streets,
till they came to a place set apart for the execution. It was
already commenced; singing hymns of glory to God, one soul after
another departed homeward. Magas paused opposite to Lotis; she
made a sign of recognition. Magas turned to Chione. "Are you a
devil," he shrieked, "that you have dared to do this?" "Forgive
her, Magas, as I forgive her," said the dying Lotis. "Farewell,
Chione! Friends we were in youth, and we shall yet meet in
heaven." Lotis was gone.


"Meet in heaven! meet in heaven! meet in heaven! I and Lotis meet
in heaven! meet in heaven! Magas, tell me, Magas, can it be?"

The brain of Magas was on fire with excitement, and he held a
murderess in his arms; but he was a Christian priest, and he
answered solemnly:

"God is merciful; Christ died for sinners. Do penance; it may be


Very many years have passed away, and if the dignity of person is
considered, a more solemn martyrdom than the last we have
commemorated is to take place. The venerable bishop and his
companions, some priests, some laymen, are to lay their heads
upon the block--among them Magas. A woman veiled, bearing but few
remains of beauty or of youth, was also there; but not a
prisoner; she was there to kneel at the bishop's feet, to pray
for his blessing. That morning, for the first time for long, long
years, had that woman knelt within a Christian church--had
received the adorable sacrament of the body and blood of our
Lord, after years of penance heroically, _lovingly_
performed at the entrance to the building. That morning she had
been absolved, that morning communicated. Ere he went to his home
in heaven, the venerable bishop, who had sustained the fainting
and often faltering soul through so many years of expiation, had
thought fit to pronounce her purified, to command that she should
again take her place among the faithful. She came to thank him;
to accompany him--him and Magas! Consoled, the procession moved
along. Chione--such was the name of the penitent--knelt as the
victims knelt. The bishop, ere he surrendered himself, gave his
blessing to all the assembly. Magas preceded him to the block.
When the axe fell, the woman fell also. Magas and Chione stood
together before the judgment-seat of God.


     Translated From Le Correspondant.

       Abyssinia And King Theodore.

         By Antoine D'Abbadie.

A Spanish bull having accidentally strayed on a railroad, which
spoiled the beauty of his beloved country, met a locomotive. The
king of the pasture-lands, fired with anger at the violation of
his right, and listening only to the voice of his courage,
lowered his head and butted with his horns so accustomed to
victory against the mail-clad invader of his verdant fields. This
battle is an image of that which is going to take place between
England and Theodore, King of the Kings of Ethiopia. It is plain
that it is not Theodore who represents the locomotive.


Before explaining the true motives of the costly English
expedition to Abyssinia, it may be well to look at the physical
and moral condition of the country which is to be the scene of
conflict, and where I passed more than ten years of my youth.

The whole extent of territory from Suez and Aquabah to the Strait
of Mandeb, or _affliction_, along the shores of the Red Sea,
is barren and desolate. The small, scattered towns in this region
owe their existence to commercial travelling; and even in the
most favored portions of the land it takes a two or three days'
journey from the salt water into the interior, before meeting
cultivated fields.

The only deep bay in the south of the Red Sea is that of Adulis,
which the natives designate by the "Gulf of Velvet," perhaps on
account of the smoothness of its waters, sheltered by the
palisades which guard it on the eastern side. The English, who
are fond of baptizing territories before conquering them, have
called this part of the sea, "The bay of Annesley." This name is
said to be that of the family of Lord Valentia, who, little
versed in geography, imagined that he had discovered in 1809
those celebrated districts anciently frequented by Egyptian
merchants in the time of the Ptolemies. The island of Desa,
formed by a row of schistous hills, shelters the entrance to the
bay of Adulis, which we call by this name in memory of that
flourishing city of Adulis, which stood by its waves up to the
sixth century of our era. The natives still show the site of that
Grecian city, and inform the traveller that it was swallowed up
by an earthquake. Of its past greatness, there remain but a small
number of carved capitals in the lava of the environs, and some
sculptured marbles which seem to display the Byzantine style.
Near these ruins is the large village of Zullah, which contained,
in 1840, two hundred and fourteen cabins, and a population of
about one thousand souls. It is from Zullah that the shortest
route lies to the plains and highlands of Ethiopia, or, as the
English call it, Abyssinia.

Except during January and February, when the weather is still
warm, Zullah suffers from the frightful heat which pervades the
whole of that stretch of low land called Samhar, which lies along
the sea. Wishing to take a bath during the summer, I could not,
by reason of the seeming excessive coldness of the water. But
placing a thermometer in it, I found the temperature 36 degrees,
while in the shade the air was at 48 degrees. I found it at 65
degrees in the between-decks of a French steamer; and when
evening brings a refreshing breeze to cool this burning
atmosphere, one is tempted to say with a Frenchman after having
escaped during the bloody "reign of terror:" "I have done a great
deal, for I have managed to live."

Travellers at this season start at midnight, and traverse, on
their way into Ethiopia, a plain as barren as desolation itself.
Sometimes they encounter the _Karif_, an atmospheric column
of a red brick color, which appears on the horizon like a living
phantom. This column seems to increase in volume as it
approaches, the air that drives it along roaring like a
whirlwind. Man and beast are obliged to turn their backs to it,
and it covers them with a dry, black cloud, as with a mantle of
horror. In a few minutes the _Karif_ passes away; and men
are glad to be out of its hideous gloom, even though it be but to
wander again through that intense but quiet heat which broods
over the Samhar. Sometimes, also, the _Harur_, which the
Arabs call the _Simoom_ or _paison_, surprises the
This wind comes without any previous sign of warning, belching
out burning death like a furnace. The patient camel then puts his
head on the ground, rejoiced to find relief even in the relative
freshness of the scorching earth; the strongest of the natives
succumb; and such is the sudden and complete prostration of human
strength during the simoom, that in the open country I have been
unable to hold up a small thermometer, to learn at least the
temperature of this strange wind, which science has as yet failed
to explain. This Harur lasted five minutes. They say that men and
beasts die if it lasts a quarter of an hour.

After crossing those desert plains, the traveller finds the
country gradually assume an undulating character. A stream is
met. Mountains rise up before him, and deep, verdant valleys
extend among them.

I often visited those valleys with, the vain hope of seeing a
phenomenon very rare in Europe. During the summer season caravans
repose or march in perfect safety under a serene sky, when
suddenly the practised ear of a native hears a strange noise in
the distance, rapidly increasing in loudness. He cries out, "The
torrent!" and climbs breathlessly up the nearest height. In less
than half a minute after, the whole valley disappears under a
broad and deep stream, which carries with it trees, pieces of
rock, and even wild beasts. Rising in an instant, those torrents
vanish in a day, and leave no trace of their passage, save ruins
of all sorts, and pools of stagnant water in the indentations of
the soil. The general nakedness of the mountains explains these
strange phenomena. From the bottom of the funnel in which the
traveller stands when he is in one of those valleys, he cannot
see the small clouds which let fall their liquid burdens with an
abundance unknown out of the tropical climates. There is very
little loam, and still less of roots of trees to absorb this
sudden rain; so that it rolls from rock to rock, as on a roof,
rushes through every little valley, and mingles in one common
river, as frightful as it is transitory. One day, as I arrived
just too late to behold it in all its grandeur, I found a
solitary individual, who, with a stupefied look, regarded the
still humid earth. "God save you," said I, "what news have you?
Where are your arms? Can a man like you remain without lance or
buckler?" "May you live long and well!" he replied. "The torrent
has carried away my lance, my buckler, my ass, my camel, and my
whole substance, my wife and my children. Woe is me! Woe is me!"
I then turned to my guide and asked him: "Does thy brother speak
truly?" "Doubtless," answered he, "and if the torrent came at
this moment, unless we were warned of its approach by the small
noise of which I have spoken, it is not the most swift-footed,
but the most lucky, who would be saved." Then turning toward the
son of his tribe--"May God console thee, my brother!" We all
repeated this pious wish, and continued our route, without being
able to give anything to this wretched man, for we had neither
victuals nor money; and from the summit of the neighboring hills
we could hear him repeating for a long time, "Woe is me! Woe is

For more than two centuries the civilization and native wealth of
Ethiopia have been concentrated around Lake Tana. Just on its
shores stands Quarata, the largest city of oriental Africa--proud
of its sanctuary and its twelve thousand inhabitants. A little
further on is Aringo, the Versailles of the dusky kings.
Near it is Dabra Tabor, the capital, or rather the camp of the
last chiefs, as well as of the actual sovereign; and finally, on
a spur of mountain which projects to the south, appears
Gondar--the famous Gondar, which I have seen, still powerful,
although reduced to eight thousand inhabitants, only a fourth of
its former population. Of all the faults of King Theodore, that
which the Ethiopians will be least ready to forgive is his having
systematically burned the city of Gondar. Of seventeen churches,
only two have escaped this cool and useless cruelty of the

The Ethiopians are a people of very mixed origin. Languages,
institutions, usages, and prejudices, even the shades of color
and the formations of the human body, are placed in strange
juxtaposition with one another. Except the Somal, who afford
instances of tall stature, the Ethiopians are of medium height,
have thick lips, white and well-formed teeth, and are of slender
frame. Their hair is curly; but straight hair, though rare, is
sometimes seen. The Semites have often the aquiline nose of the
Europeans. As to the color of the skin, all degrees, from the
copper color of the Neapolitan to the jet black of the negro, are
found. This latter color is often allied to European features.
There is an unconscious and natural grace in all the movements
and actions of the Ethiopians. Our sculptors might study their
gestures and drapery with profit.

On the coast, to the north of Zullah, live the Tigre, whose
language, traditions, and customs entitle them to be considered
among the descendants of Sem, like the Hebrews and Arabs. The
same must be said of the Tigray, who inhabit the neighboring
plateau, and speak a kindred idiom to that of the Tigre. The
Amaras, more lively, more intelligent, and more civilized, live
in the interior, and use a language of Semitic origin, yet
modified by associations with the sons of Cham. This is the
language used by most European travellers, for it is commonly
employed by the merchant, by the learned, and in diplomacy. The
Giiz, or Ethiopian, closely connected with the Tigre, is the dead
language, the Latin of those distant countries. It is used in
quotations, in philosophical and religious discussions, and
sometimes to conceal the sense of a conversation from the vulgar.
From Tujurrah to the environs of Zullah, a common language,
entirely different from those which we have mentioned, unites all
the fractions of the Afar nation, often called Dankalis, but
improperly, for the Dankalas, the Adali, etc., are only tribes of
the Afar. The Sahos, who are the most numerous among the
inhabitants of Zullah, and extend along all the slopes of the
neighboring plain, consider themselves as strangers to the Afar,
and speak a distinct but affiliated dialect. Another idiom much
more important by the number of the nations who use it, has also
the same origin as the Afar tongue. We mean the Ylmorma used by
the Oromos, whose name in war is Gallei or Galla, and who, by
reason of their conquests, have extended their sway from the Afar
country as far as to the still unknown regions of interior
Africa. Called Gallas by all the Christians of Ethiopia, the
Oromos threaten, by their proximity, the stronghold of Magdala,
where the English prisoners have been awaiting for four years the
arrival of their avenging countrymen.

A serious calculation of the population of any African nation has
never been made. As to the centres of population, a fatigued and
disgusted traveller, looking at them from a distance and but for
a moment, might state the census of such or such a city to be ten
thousand souls.
An optimist, on the contrary, might gravely affirm that at least
thirty thousand should be admitted as the correct number. It is,
in fact, almost impossible to form a proper estimate of the
population of Ethiopia. Considering its extent of territory, I
should say there are three or four millions in it, though if some
other traveller were to maintain that it contains six or eight
millions I could not refute his opinion, owing to the fact that I
do not know the proportion between the inhabited and the desert
portions of the country.


The Jews were formerly numerous in Abyssinia. There are not
eighty thousand of them left now, and they are gradually
disappearing under the influence of the powerful civilization of
the Amara.

The origin of the Ethiopian Jews probably dates from the time of
the prophet Jeremias, when commerce was carried on between
Alexandria and Aksum. At a later period, similar facilities
brought to Ethiopia the first Christian missionaries. This
happened in the beginning of the fourth century, when the
inhabitants of Gaul, or France, were still plunged in the
darkness of paganism. The truth, however, progressed slowly in
Abyssinia; for the local Judaism, though notably separated from
that of the Hebrews, preserved its political power during five or
six hundred years, notwithstanding the wonderful efforts of
native missionaries, whose feasts and martyrdoms are still
celebrated in the country. Even up to the 14th century there were
pagans in it; and there are, very probably, some there still.

After the Mussulman invasion of the fifteenth century, Islamism
filtered through Egyptian society. The Christianity of the
country became corrupt, and we can liken it to nothing better now
than to those lepers who abound in this part of Africa, whose
bodies are at first attacked in their extremities, and fall away
piecemeal. In the same way, her Christianity perished on the
frontiers of Ethiopia. Twenty years before our arrival among the
Tigre, they were Christians, or rather they lived in the
recollection of their faith; but without baptism or sacrifice,
and guided in their prayers by the descendants of their last
priests. They became Mussulmans under our eyes, with the
exception of their principal chief, who said, with a touching and
proud respect for ancient usages, that "a king ought to die in
the faith of his fathers." One becomes irritated on reflecting
that two or three fervent missionaries could have, at the
beginning of this century, rolled back the tide of advancing
Mohammedanism, by evangelizing or rather reviving that ancient
Christianity whose history goes back as far as St. Athanasius,
and which we have seen expire after ages of agony.

If we study Christianity in the centre of Ethiopia, we find a
somewhat confused schism, but of all schisms the one least
removed from Catholic orthodoxy. The only dogmatic points which
we regret in this schism are the _one_ procession of the
Holy Ghost, which has been condemned among us only at a late
period, and the belief in only _one_ nature in Jesus Christ,
which is publicly professed by the African schools. But the term
in the Abyssinian vernacular which we translate by _nature_,
has such a vague and obscure signification that, if the word
could be destroyed, the schism would no longer exist.
It must be remembered that the Ethiopians do not understand the
art of defining; and when I restricted this ambiguous term
according to our method, they understood the dogma exactly as we,
and congratulated themselves on being, without knowing it,
attached to the same faith as Rome, that seat of St. Peter which
always commands their respect.

What particularly distinguish their Christianity from ours, are
vicious or irregular practices. Like many of the Eastern
Christians, they allow the marriage of the clergy; but in the
abbeys, where there are professors, they allow no priest to say
Mass who is not a celibatarian by vow. "Among you," said an
Ethiopian who had visited Europe, "the important practice is to
go to church." "And among you," I answered, "the one thing
necessary is to prolong your fastings." One is tempted to say
that the active people of the West, and the slow and
repose-loving nations of the East, have made the principal merit
of a Christian to consist in _those pious exercises which cost
the least trouble_.

It is impossible to leave this subject without saying a word
about the Dabtara, or secular clerics. They were organized by a
king who found himself, like many of his royal brethren in
Europe, very much embarrassed by those mixed questions, in which
the spiritual power seems to invade the domain of the temporal.
To keep the balance, between them, he created an intermediary
body, called the Dabtara. This order is filled from all classes
of society; and it possesses the usufruct of all the churches. It
alone takes charge of the temporal affairs of the church, and
frequently its members act as parish priests, which is a purely
temporal office in Abyssinia. The Dabtara hire by the month,
rebuke or dismiss the priest who says Mass. Their essential
function consists in singing in choir. This duty requires a
certain education. In Europe the music of our church hymns may be
changed, the words remaining unaltered. The contrary is the case
among the Ethiopians. Their music is traditional and sacramental,
and in every well-ordered church, the rhymed words of every hymn
are specially composed for every festival. The twelve Dabtara of
every church display their piety, wisdom, and especially their
wit in these productions. They use hymns learnedly ambiguous, to
criticise the bishop, to give a lesson to the head of the monks,
and even political hints to the sovereign. By recalling an act of
some personage of the Old Testament, they find occasion to
criticise the government of the city, to praise some Maecenas who
is expected to be present at the service, or even, if necessary,
to satisfy a personal grudge. When a Dabtara advances into the
choir to whisper into the ear of the principal chanter the hymn
which has just been written by the Dabtara, and which the singer
must know by heart, the other Dabtaras surround the composer,
examine the sense of the rhyme, and no matter what may be the
result of their investigation, they always congratulate the happy
author. Sometimes it is discovered that the hymn has not been
made by a member of the order, but by some young candidate in
distress, who, for a measure of meal, often sells to the wealthy
the fresh inspirations of his genius.

After the teacher of plain-chant, the most important professor is
he who teaches grammar, the roots of the sacred language, its
dictionary, and particularly the art of composing
After the lesson, the pupils spread over the lawn before the
church, repeat the precepts just heard from their professor, and
essay to make rhymes or compose hymns, which they afterward
recite to him in order to obtain the benefit of his criticism. As
in our middle ages, these scholars ask alms and live in misery;
often they are the only servants of their preceptors. Lively and
frolicsome, like our collegians, they play many tricks on their
fellow-students, but never on their teacher, whom they love and
almost worship. Having once chanced at Gondar to describe how my
college-fellows in France had eaten the dinner of their
professor, and left a sermon on fasting and patience on his
plate, I was met with such a torrent of invective, that I never
ventured on a repetition of the scandal.

In Abyssinia, education is essentially public and gratuitous. As
all explanations must be made in the vernacular, which I spoke
but poorly in the beginning, I was obliged to have recourse to a
private tutor, and when I wished to recompense him for his
trouble, I was answered that science should not be sold like any
other vile merchandise, and that the honor of the teaching body
required knowledge to be transmitted gratuitously, just as it had
been acquired. The Ethiopian students are generally very
diligent. If they play truant, their parents bring them into the
church where the school is being held, and tie their feet
together with an iron chain. Sometimes this disciplinary measure
is ordered by the professor, and pupils are often seen who,
distrusting themselves, ask for those chains, which are not
considered symbols of dishonor. They are rarely worn by the
higher scholars.

The university course of the Ethiopians is composed of four
branches, which might be compared to the four faculties of our
own. A fifth branch, devoted to astronomy and replete with
traditional ideas, has not been cultivated for some time past. I
knew the last professor of this science, who had only one pupil.
The other classes are occupied with the study of the New
Testament, the fathers of the church, civil and canon law, and
the Old Testament. This last requires an effort of memory of
which few Europeans are capable; for I have never heard but of
one man in the West who knew the whole Bible by heart. No one can
be a teacher in Ethiopia without knowing by heart the text of the
book he is to explain, the variations of four or five
manuscripts, and especially the ingenious commentary, sometimes
even learned, but always traditional and purely oral, on the
text. The degree of bachelor is unknown in that country; that of
doctor is given to the student who is chosen by his professor as
capable of explaining in the evening to his comrades the lessons
given in class in the morning. In the case of a doubt of his
capacity, the teacher is consulted, and his affirmation is
considered a sufficient diploma. Great attention and much
perseverance are required to make this system of unmethodical
education profitable. An aged professor informed me that he had
learned to read in three years. He spent two years afterward in
learning the liturgical chant, and five years in studying grammar
and in composing hymns. He learned how to comment on the New
Testament in seven years; and spent fifteen years on the Old
Testament, for the strain on his memory was very great.

I have dwelt somewhat on the Ethiopian colleges because M. Blanc,
one of the English prisoners of Magdala, says expressly in his
narration: "The Abyssinians have no literature; their
Christianity is only a name; their conversational power is very
To this testimony, altogether negative, I oppose the statement
first made, and which I could prove and extend farther. I will
merely add that in Gojjam, as well as at Gondar and elsewhere, I
have held disputes with native. Christians, on religious,
philosophical, and other scientific subjects, and found them as
well informed as if they had been brought up in Paris or at

With rare exceptions, the regular clergy alone has preserved its
virtues and its _prestige_. The secular priests have lost a
great part of their importance by the singular institution of the
Dabtara. Yet the Ethiopians, jealous of their political
independence, and capable of preserving it by the natural
influence of their traditional customs, wish to keep religious
authority powerful and undivided. To avoid schisms, and as
several bishops can consecrate others, they recognize only one,
who must be of white race and a stranger to the country. He has
always been consecrated by the schismatical patriarch of
Alexandria; but, since the last consecration, I was assured that
the Abyssinians would make application elsewhere for the future.
The title of their bishop is abun. The last abun or aboona was
Salama, who having only a semi-canonical appointment, and besides
being addicted to all kinds of vice, had very little influence
over the inferior clergy or the people. Suspected by the
professors and hated by the Dabtara, he planted more thorns than
blessings in the hearts of his subjects. A Copt by birth, he at
first frequented the English Protestant school at Cairo, and
carried afterward to the convent where he made his vows such
doctrines of disobedience and incredulous opinions, that the
Patriarch of Alexandria thought it would be wise to exile him to
Ethiopia as abun, though he was under the canonical age. In fact,
the abun was more anxious for money than for the faith. He
received the 36,000 francs, which are usually given as a present
at the investiture of the Abyssinian bishop; and the patriarch
thus delivered up distant Ethiopia, too much despised by the
Copts, to the vices and vague doctrines of Salama. This ornament
of the episcopacy had no sooner arrived in his diocese, than he
devoted himself to commerce, especially to the traffic in slaves,
which is most profitable. His vices were such that our pen cannot
describe them. He told me himself that by mistake he had ordained
priest a boy only ten years old, and laughed heartily at the
trick played on him in his case. Having learned from Monseigneur
de Jacobis the cases which annul an ordination, I told them to
the professors of canon law. They kept silence in public; and
when I pushed them with questions, they all gave me this answer:
"Your objections are true; only, in the name of God, do not
scatter them among the Dabtara. Except the Masses said by old
priests ordained by the preceding abun, there are none valid, and
there is no holy sacrifice in Ethiopia; but the ignorance and
strong faith of the faithful will suffice before God for their
salvation." Abun Salama, busied with intrigues, in which he
thought himself very skilful, was nevertheless, only the tool of
the princes, who attached him to them in order to help their
political combinations. It was he who consecrated King Theodore,
who, after frequently insulting his consecrator, finally cast him
into prison, where he lately died.



No matter what the English prisoners may say to the contrary, the
Ethiopian soldiers are very brave, and fight fiercely if they are
well commanded. As in Europe during the middle ages, the flower
of their army is composed of cavalry. The battle is begun by the
fusiliers, who shoot well; but their importance had not yet been
comprehended by the native chiefs in my time. Soon the charge is
sounded, the cavalry rushes to the conflict, the victory is
quickly won, and the infantry, badly furnished with blunt sabres,
lances, and bucklers, hardly does anything but make prisoners.
Every soldier keeps all the spoils of those he may vanquish,
except the guns and blood-horses, which by right belong to the
general. During this latter phase of the victory, the
commander-in-chief, deserted by his eager soldiers, is left
almost unattended. In speaking with Ethiopian officers, I often
mentioned to them, but always in vain, how important it is to
have a body-guard for the commander. The first victory of Kasa,
now King Theodore, attracted attention to this necessity
afterward. Let us say a word here about the mother of this chief,
since she is involuntarily one of the remote causes of the
English expedition. This good old woman once did me a great
service, and in 1848, notwithstanding the recent elevation of her
son to royalty, she was still so polite as to rise at my
approach. She was then courted as a power behind the throne. But
a short time previously, she was the despised mother of Kasa, an
obscure rebel, living in misery, and reprobated by all. His poor
mother, in her old age, joined a religious order, and put on the
little white bonnet which is its distinctive sign. But she was
penniless. The convents had been robbed, and every one shunned
the mother of a rebel. She was finally compelled to turn vendor
of _koso_, a drug which the Ethiopians take six times a
year, to kill the tape-worm, with which most of the inhabitants
are afflicted.

Kasa, the rebel of Quara, grew more powerful day by day, and the
proud Manan grew angry. Manan was the mother of Ali, the most
powerful prince of Central Ethiopia, and the real mayoress of the
palace of that _fainékant_ king who ruled at Gondar, only
within the precincts of his dwelling. Manan, desiring to be
called _ytege_, or queen, an exclusive title in that
country, caused the nominal king to be dethroned by her son, and
placed her husband, _Yohannis_, or John, in his stead. This
prince was an estimable man, and honored me with his friendship.

In 1847, war was waged against the rebel Kasa. The soldiers of
Manan insulted their adversary. One gasconading cavalier
exclaimed, at a review: "Manan, my great queen, depend on my
valor, for I shall lead before you in chains this fellow; this
son of a vendor of _koso!_" But Kasa won the battle, and
chained the boaster in a hut, where, after a fast of twenty-four
hours, he received the following message from Kasa, delivered
verbally by a waggish page: "How hast thou passed the night, my
brother? How hast thou passed the day? May God deliver thee from
thy chains! May the Lord grant thee a little patience! Be sad
with me, for yesterday mamma remained at market all day, and
could not sell a single dose of _koso_. I have therefore no
money to buy bread for thee or for me. May God grant thee
patience, my brother! May God break thy chains! It is Kasa who
sends thee this message." The next day the officer received the
same message. On the third day the irony of the conqueror was
slightly changed.
After the usual salutations, the page joyfully informed the
captive that "Mamma had succeeded in selling a dose of
_koso_, and bought a loaf, which Kasa sends him."

A few days after, I heard these details at Gondar. The
news-mongers praised the mockery; but they only half-smiled, for
the flower of society had fallen into misfortune. Then they
regretted the good king Yohannis, and suspected the still
undeveloped wickedness of the character of Kasa, the adventurous
rebel of Quara. I saw Kasa, or Theodore, frequently at Gondar in
1848. He was dressed as a simple soldier, and had nothing, either
in his features or language, which presaged his high destiny. He
loved to speak of fire-arms. He was about twenty-eight years old;
his face rather black than red; his figure slim; and his agility
seemed to arise less from his muscular power than from that of
his will. His forehead is high and almost convex; his nose
slightly aquiline, a frequent characteristic of the pure-blooded
Amaras. His beard, like theirs, is sparse, and his thin lips
betray rather an Arabian than an Ethiopian origin. Kasa conquered
all his competitors, became King of Ethiopia, and was consecrated
by the abun, taking the name of Theodore, to verify an old
prophecy current among the Jews and Christians, that a king of
this name should rule over the ancient empire of Aksum. But the
Ethiopians, like all people of mountainous regions, tenacious of
their independence, and accustomed to liberty, did not yield at
once to an upstart usurper, who owed his success less to ability
and valor than to good luck.

In the beginning of his reign he acted with much clemency, owing,
it is said, to the happy influence exercised over him by his
first wife. When she died, he caused her body to be embalmed,
according to the custom of the Ethiopian princes of the race of
Solomon. Her coffin was carried after Theodore everywhere he
marched. A special tent was erected in the camp for her remains,
and the conqueror of Ethiopia was often seen entering it to
meditate on his past happiness, and ask of God, as it was said,
prudence and wisdom for the future. It is at this time that he
had real thoughts, though always eccentric, of a good government.
Civil divorce, and the consequent confusion of marriage, are the
plague-spot of Abyssinian society. They uproot the foundations of
the family, and are opposed to all ideas of order and stability.
Without understanding that a radical change in society cannot be
effected by a mere proclamation, Theodore decreed the obligation
of regular marriages, and the abolition of divorce. An able
statesman would have sought to destroy gradually, abuses of such
long standing. Another of his decrees did him equal honor, and
might have succeeded better, for he revived the old law of the
Ethiopians against the slave-trade.

But the heart of man is fickle. Prince Wibe, falling into the
hands of the conqueror, recommended his daughter to the Dabtara
and monks of Darasge, his favorite abbey, where he had his family
burial vault. One day the faithful guardians of the spot saw a
band of soldiers rushing toward them. They thought it was Tissu,
a recent rebel. They immediately concealed the sacred vessels,
and for safety shut up the daughter of Wibe in the vault. Their
surprise was great when they found it was Theodore himself, who
was, according to custom, marching over his kingdom in quest of
He wanted to see everything; and when they refused to open the
cavern for him, maintaining that a tomb prepared for Wibe, who
was still a chained captive, could have no interest for his
conqueror, Theodore suspected some plot, and caused the stone of
the sepulchre to be removed. His surprise was great when, instead
of a coffin, he beheld a beautiful girl, bathed in tears, and in
the attitude of prayer. Theodore forgot his first love. He set
Wibe at liberty, and married his daughter. This union was not
happy. The _ytege_, or queen, having interceded to save the
life of a rebel whom she had known at the court of her father,
Theodore refused at first her request, and becoming angry,
finally struck her. In order to humiliate her the more, he made a
common camp follower his concubine. From this moment his decree
on Christian marriage became a dead letter, and the slave-trade
was renewed. Men must have stronger virtue than that of King
Theodore, that their good thoughts may bear full fruit.


Let us here give some account of the English missions in
Ethiopia; for they have helped to bring about and inflame the war
now pending. M. Gobat, a Swiss Protestant, went as far as Gondar
about forty years ago, and acquired a knowledge of the language
of the country. After his return to Europe, he published a book
of such seeming good faith, that it deceived me at first, as it
must have deceived the English projectors of the missions.
Charity obliges me to write that M. Gobat, in giving an account
of his sermons to the people, has rather described what he
desired to say and the answers he would like to hear, than what
he actually said or heard. Without citing other witnesses of this
fact, that of an educated Dabtara will suffice, who was ignorant
of the existence of the Protestant missions. "Samuel Gobat," said
he, "was a prepossessing person, who deceived one at first. I,
who followed him, can affirm that he was really an unbeliever, or
that he pretended to be so. He proposed frightful doubts and
objections in matters affecting the Christian religion, but under
the form of hypotheses. He always began his strange assertions by
an _if_. Could he express them boldly? If he had, you know
that in Gondar, at least, he would not have been allowed to
continue, and he would have been denied a residence in our city."

The missionary societies in England did not know this condition
of the Ethiopian mind, and influenced by the specious arguments
of M. Gobat, they sent him a re-enforcement of three ministers,
whom he left to return to Europe. They preached much more
honestly and openly than he in Adwa and Tigray, where they were
established. They were expelled in 1838, fifteen days before my
arrival in the country. Two of them then went to Suria, from
which they were also driven. With a perseverance worthy of a
better cause, they returned again to Tigray, and again to Suria.
Always exiled, they had at last the prudence, in 1855, to make no
further attempt at evangelizing the country.

Seventeen years before this last date I met at Cairo a young
Lazarist priest, whom I persuaded to accompany me into Ethiopia,
to found a Catholic mission. He preceded me, went to Adwa about
eight days before the first expulsion of the Protestant
missionaries; and as my project seemed to him sensible, requiring
only time and patience to realize it, I brought letters from him
to Europe in 1838.
His holiness, Gregory XVI., favored our attempt, and sent two
missionaries to Ethiopia under the charge of Monseigneur de
Jacobis, who soon became known all through that region by the
name of Abuna Ya'igob. In spite of some imprudence, inevitable,
perhaps, in a country where there are such strange contrasts, he
succeeded beyond my most sanguine hopes, and when I left the
country in 1849, there were twelve thousand Catholics in it, and
many of the priests were natives. Last year an English account
gives the number as sixty thousand; for the influence of true
doctrines could not fail to be extended among a people so
intelligent as are the Abyssinians. Monseigneur de Jacobis helped
much to obtain this result, by his unchangeable mildness, and by
that personal influence which is always exercised by a priest
devoted to incessant prayer.

The fate of the Protestant missions was different. The ministers,
instead of attributing their want of success to themselves, have
blamed the Catholics as the movers of their expulsion from
Ethiopia. Even the English Consul Plowden in his official report
says that Theodore, after perusing the history of the Jesuits in
Abyssinia, decided to allow no Catholic priest to teach in his
states. The English are fond of decrying the memory of the
Jesuits who taught in Ethiopia up to 1630. It is, however, very
singular that I never heard of this history, and that the most
learned anti-Catholic professors at Gondar never mentioned it to
me in our controversies. On the contrary, they spoke of Peter
Paez and his co-laborers with admiration mingled with regret, and
quoted touching legends concerning them. A little further on in
his account, Plowden, who seems ignorant of the fact that sermons
are unknown in Ethiopia, adds that Theodore prohibited all
preaching contrary to the Copt Church. We cannot expect that an
English soldier, more or less Protestant, should comprehend fully
religious questions; but although he was a mere soldier, he ought
to have known that Theodore was attached to one of the three
national sects, and had forbidden all other creeds, and condemned
Catholics as well as Protestants.

It was in consequence of this decree that Monseigneur de Jacobis
was compelled to leave Gondar in 1855. This pious bishop went to
Musawwa, and there continued to govern his mission, which has
been left almost undisturbed by the natives for almost thirty
years. The chief proselytes of Gondar retired also to the shores
of the Red Sea, and the Protestant ministers, always on the
watch, imagined they had at length found a good opportunity to
teach in the capital. They went thither under the guidance of M.
Krapf, who, in default of other qualities, has at least uncommon
activity and persistence, but which have been so far sterile of
results. At their first expulsion in 1838, the four Protestant
missionaries left but _one proselyte in the whole of
Ethiopia_. This was a quondam pilgrim. He was going to
Jerusalem with an Ethiopian priest, who, falling short of money,
sold his companion into bondage. M. Gobat having ransomed him,
had no difficulty in inspiring him with hatred of the priests,
and of all their doctrines. We can only regard this single
convert as an apostate induced to desert his faith by resentment
and a spirit of revenge. Another young and intelligent Ethiopian,
after studying for years in the Protestant schools of Europe,
when asked, answered me frankly that the numerous dissensions in
religion witnessed by him among Protestants, had destroyed all
religious belief in his mind.
Religious England always believing, though erroneously, ought to
be startled by the consideration that her missionaries, real
mercenaries as they are, only succeed in propagating doubt and
incredulity instead of spreading the gospel.

M. Gobat, who was somewhat of a diplomatist, in writing to King
Theodore, did not state his object to be the foundation of a
Protestant mission. He merely announced that skilful mechanics,
desiring to improve the physical condition of the country, wished
to settle in it. King Theodore, who was desirous of obtaining
blacksmiths, gunners, and engineers, to make cannon and mortars,
and build bridges and roads, gave his consent. M. Gobat hinted
that the workmen wanted the free exercise of their religion.
Theodore referred the matter to the abun, who, knowing the tricks
of his old teachers, bluntly told Mr. Sterne, one of the
missionaries, who spoke of his intention to convert the Talasa,
or native Jews, as the sole object of his coming to Gondar, "This
mission to the Jews is only a pretext to plot against the faith
of the Christians." Pretending not to take the hint, Mr. Sterne
repeated his assertion, and the king consented to receive the
English mechanics, who were to be the instruments in the hands of
the pious missionaries in "evangelizing" the barbarous
Ethiopians. But on the testimony of Mr. Sterne himself, and that
of other Protestants, the scheme was a complete failure. Many of
the "mechanics," or "pious laymen," became as immoral as any of
the natives. Besides, in violation of their solemn promise made
to the abun, the missionaries distributed, as Plowden informs us,
"hundreds of Bibles, and taught the great truths of salvation to
many pagans and Christians." We extract these facts from the work
of the Rev. Mr. Badger, considered a most trustworthy witness in
official circles in England. [Footnote 54] After a short stay at
Gondar, Mr. Sterne went to London, was made bishop, and published
a wordy volume containing but one fact worth noticing, namely,
the intrinsic proof that the author was ignorant of the most
ordinary customs of Ethiopia. By an imprudence which has cost him
dear, Mr. Sterne related the story of the vender of _koso_
in his book. A former student of the English missionaries
informed Theodore of the fact, and the Protestants had reason to
feel bitterly that a man's friends often prove to be his greatest

    [Footnote 54: _The Story of the British Captives in
    Abyssinia_, 1863, 1864. By the Rev. George Percy Badger.]


The English government was indignant that its agent Plowden, as
it is known, should have been massacred on the highway near
Gondar. Theodore avenged his death, however, by the barbarous
slaughter of its authors and their associates. But the party of
the "saints" in England was not satisfied with this reparation.
Theodore was weak, and no match for England. It was safe,
therefore, to insult him. Had he been as powerful as the United
States, England would have been as loath to touch him as she is
afraid to refuse satisfaction to America for the ravages of the
Alabama on the high seas. She, however, suppressed the consulship
of Gondar, and sent Captain Cameron as her consul to Massowah,
under the protection of the Turkish flag. Captain Cameron was a
brave officer who had served in the Crimea, but he was no
We all know that, as much from lack of this quality as from the
semi-barbarous habits of King Theodore, who thinks himself
all-powerful because he has been so successful in conquering
rebels in his own kingdom, Cameron and five other English
subjects, among them M. Rassam--another unskilful English
agent--and two Germans, were imprisoned at Magdala on the 8th of
July, 1866.

Magdala, where the prisoners still remain, is a stronghold in the
Abyssinian highlands, 3,000 feet above the level of the sea, and
the climate there is less warm than in most parts of the torrid
zone. There are a church, a treasury, a prison, and huts in the
place, and a population of about three or four thousand persons,
of whom four hundred are prisoners of every description; a
garrison of six hundred sharpshooters and as many common soldiers
armed with lance and shield. Although this fortress is considered
strong by the natives, one of the prisoners writes that a single
shell would suffice to blow up a place which the Ethiopians have
looked upon as impregnable for three centuries.

Besides the European prisoners at Magdala, Theodore keeps
fourteen others, mostly German mechanics, near his own quarters.
These artisans, exported at the expense of a Protestant
missionary society as "_pious laymen_" began their
evangelical labors as messengers of peace in a very extraordinary
fashion, by fabricating mortars and other engines of war. As for
the spiritual welfare of the Christians of Ethiopia, they looked
well to it by distilling bad brandy; and as for the temporal,
they drove the profitable trade of slave-mongers. This is what M.
Rassam, an Arabian, who turned Protestant to get employment from
the English government, tells us. He was nine years at Aden as
_lieutenant-governor_, and is considered one of the ablest
English agents in the East, if we are to believe the
parliamentary eulogium passed on him in a recent debate in the
House of Commons. The last account heard from this unfortunate
ambassador does not warrant the belief in his ability. The abun,
Salama, having died, M. Rassam advises the English to choose
another abun in Egypt, and put him at the head of the invading
army as a kind of palladium! This advice, if put into execution,
would be as absurd as if, on the death of Pius IX., Premier
Disraeli, imitating the policy of Pitt, and wishing to restore
the Marches to the Holy See, should send an army against the
Sardinians, with a pope at its head elected at Canterbury or
elsewhere, Jansenist or Catholic, no matter which, and should
expect all the Italians to respect him as sovereign pontiff.


England has undertaken the Abyssinian expedition to preserve her
_prestige_ in the East, and she is determined to gain her
point. The dusky King Theodore, pretended descendant of Solomon,
cannot complain that he has not received diplomatic notice. When
the German who brought him the British ultimatum, told him that
if he did not deliver up the prisoners he would have both the
armies of England and France against him--"Let them come," said
Theodore, "and call me a woman if I do not give them battle." We
know not if there be more of folly or of intrepid valor in this
proud answer. In fact, notwithstanding the narrations of some
travellers, naturally suspected of exaggeration, the Ethiopians
have no idea of the military power of the Western nations, and
their king may believe that he is a match for them.


The Bay of Adulis, usually so silent, is now swarming with ships.
There were in it, a short time ago, seventy vessels, without
counting those of the Arabians and East-Indians. The English have
built two quays to assist the debarkation of troops. The English
have the Snider gun, which they pretend to be superior to the
Chassepot rifle. They have even forty elephants to frighten
Theodore. One of them, an elephant of good sense if ever there
was one, behaved himself so badly at the debarkation of the
troops, that he was sent back to Hindostan.

England is determined to succeed. Instead of borrowing, she has
levied a tax of ten millions of dollars. She will need at least
six times that amount before the end of the war. Every English
prisoner to be freed will cost at least ten millions. But her
object is not merely the freeing of the prisoners, though she
asserts that it is. She has to provide water for sixty-five
thousand men and many beasts on the plains of Zullah, where, in
default of natural fresh water, the troops drink a distillation
of sea water. They need every day one hundred and eighty thousand
quarts to drink; and this quantity has been provided at the
enormous cost of twenty thousand dollars for every twenty-four
hours. To transport the munitions of war, mules were bought and
brought to Zullah from Egypt, Turkey, Spain, and France. The
English soldiers, not knowing at first how to manage them, tied
them with hay ropes. Many of the mules ate the ropes, escaped
into the desert, and were lost. A railroad has been built,
running from the sea to Sanafe, the first border station of
Ethiopia, a distance of almost one hundred miles.

The line of march has been well chosen. The English could have
crossed the plains of Tigray, which are level and oppose no
obstacle; and then crossed through Wasaya without meeting any
noteworthy difficulty except the river Takkaze, and Mount
Lamalmo. Farther on, at Dabra Tabor, where Theodore usually
resides, they might have chosen either the plains of the Lanige,
or the cool and verdant hills of the Waynadaga territory as the
sites of their encampment. But this route is not the shortest.
Besides, the Wasaya begins to be unhealthy in the month of May,
and there is no forage as far as Wagara.

The shorter route, which the English have taken, is by Agame and
Wag. On those elevated plateaux they may keep all their energy,
and they will find a territory less ravaged by civil war, and
good pastures. The distance from Zullah to Magdala is about the
same as from Paris to Lyons. But artillery is with difficulty
transported over many of the gullies on the route; and perhaps
for the elephants it will be found impracticable. But the leader
of the expedition, Sir Robert Napier, will not balk at these
details. He will push rapidly on to Delanta before the rainy
season, which begins about the 10th of July. According to the
prisoners, if he should invest Magdala at the beginning of May,
the want of water would soon force the garrison to surrender. If
the first rains have fallen before his arrival, the English will
occupy Tanta among the Wara Haymano, and from that point open
fire on Magdala. Soldiers living in huts, without casemates or
caverns, could not stand a day against the English guns. In, any
case, Magdala, the great Ethiopian fortress, will be taken, and
it will remain to be seen whether the troops will march to Dabra
Tabor to burn the camp of King Theodore, and kill him, or make
him prisoner.
Nevertheless, the use of diplomacy will not be despised. When
Theodore put M. Rassam in prison, with great protestations of
friendship, he promised him his liberty on the arrival of certain
machines and expert workers. England sent both to Massowah, but
required first the liberation of the prisoners without having
used any of those forms which render a contract binding in the
eyes of the Abyssinians. On his side, Theodore did not understand
the value of a simple signature. Besides, he had been deceived by
Plowden, who denied his character of consul, and cheated by the
denials of the Protestant missionaries as to their attempts to
proselytize the native Christians. He did not, therefore, believe
the protestations of the English. The want of a sensible agent
caused the failure of this negotiation, which might have
succeeded if more skilfully conducted. Moreover, the English
army, on entering the Tigray, issued a proclamation, of which the
_Times_ published a literal copy, as ridiculous in
_Amariñña_ dialect as in English. Besides, the language used
is almost unknown in Agama, where this document has been
published. The English officers do not seem to have known that a
proclamation is never published in Ethiopia in a written form.
But what will King Theodore, the pretended descendant of Solomon,
do? It is difficult to answer this question. The natives report
that Theodore is often out of his senses when he drinks brandy,
which the "_pious laymen_" of the Protestant mission
zealously manufacture for his _spiritual_ comfort. From the
very beginning of his reign, Plowden informs us that he
manifested symptoms of insanity. The English prisoners tell us
more explicitly that Theodore himself informed them that his
father was insane, and that he believed himself attacked with the
same disorder. Several traits in his conduct toward the
prisoners, and the massacre of one hundred of his own soldiers in
his camp, on mere suspicion, give gravity to the assertions. If
this be true, England has declared war against an adversary
unworthy of her dignity. In case of defeat, the only refuge for
Theodore is to retreat to his native province of Quara, on the
border of a terrible desert, breathing pestilence on all the
region around. Woe to the English soldiers if they attempt to
follow him thither!

Of all the ancient empire of Yasu the Great, that Ethiopian Louis
XIV., Theodore has only Quara, that he can call his own. His
governors of the Tigra have been expelled by rebels, or have made
themselves independent of his authority. Gojjan has proclaimed
its independence; Wag also has risen in arms; Suria is free, and
gives asylum to all refugees. Yet these are regions but recently
subjected to the conquering arms of Theodore. Tissu Gobaze rules
the lower Tigray, Wasaya, Walguayt, Simen, Wazara, and as far as
Dambya, where Gondar stood before Theodore destroyed it.

What then is left to this unfortunate tyrant, resisted at home by
numberless insurgents, and threatened by foreign force with
destruction? The Awamas, whose rights he has respected because
they know how to defend themselves, but who will seize the first
opportunity to rebel; Tagusa, Acafar, Alafa, and Meca stretching
along the Tana, but which he has made solitudes by his systematic
pillage; and finally Bagemdir, that beautiful portion of the
country, which obeys him with regret.
A disease, a slight cheek, or a courageous peasant, would be
sufficient to destroy Theodore, that royal meteor, which, after
shining for a few years, will soon be extinguished in the night
of oblivion. Considering the greatness of the English
preparations, we are led to suspect that she has the intention of
holding Northern Ethiopia after conquering it. Appearances seems
to favor this conjecture, and no matter what the English journals
may say, the idea is not of French origin. Plowden urged its
realization in his official letters thirteen years ago; Cameron
is in favor of it; and General Coghlan timidly hints its
practicability in his military monograph on Ethiopian affairs.
The English have been masters of Aden for the last thirty years,
and they wish to make the Red Sea an English lake. They desire
Ethiopia; for from it they could invade Egypt, where "King
Cotton" would rule in all his glory. They allege the case of
Algiers annexed to France in justification of their project. But
let it be observed that Charles X., who ransomed at his own
expense, the Greek slaves sold in the markets of Constantinople
and in Egypt, could not allow the Dey of Algiers alone to keep
French, Spanish, and English Christians in bonds; while the
English have never done anything to prevent the slave-trade in
Abyssinia. Many Christian slaves are annually bought within
gunshot of the British ships on the Red Sea, to be brutalized in
Mussulman harems. _England has never made an effort to stop the
traffic there_. Can we blame King Theodore then, who,
according to his degree of intelligence and power, wished to put
an end to this inhuman commerce, for saying with at least as much
modesty as her majesty's government has at command, "Which of us
two is the greater barbarian?"


      New Publications.

  St. Columba, Apostle of Caledonia.
  By the Count de Montalembert, of the French Academy,
  New York: Catholic Publication House,
  126 Nassau street. 1868.

Irish ecclesiastical history is something unique in the world,
and presents to us the spirit of Christianity run into an
entirely new and original mould. The Celtic race, whose most
perfect and completely actualized type exists in the people of
Ireland, is a singular specimen of humanity, as it used to be in
the primitive ages just after, and perhaps long before the flood,
preserved, continued, and apparently incapable of being destroyed
or changed, in the midst of other races of totally opposite
character. The sudden and entire conversion of this people to
Christianity, and the invincible tenacity with which it has clung
to its first faith, together with the marked individuality of the
expression which it has given to the Christian idea, form a
phenomenon in history which cannot be too much studied or
admired. It was a happy moment for Ireland when that Chevalier
Bayard of Catholic literature, the Count de Montalembert, felt
his chivalrous soul moved by the story of her ancient princely
monks and dauntless, adventurous apostles, and set himself to the
task of writing a work which unites all the romantic, poetic
charm of the lyric strains of her bards, with the accuracy and
minuteness of her monastic chronicles.
His narrative, partly owing to the nature of his subject, and
partly to his own genius, is like the _Scottish Chiefs_ and
the _Waverley Novels_. The most striking, original, and
grand of all the characters depicted by him in that part of the
_Monks of the West_ which is devoted to Ireland, is St.
Columba or Columbkill. This great man, who was by birth heir to
the dignity of Ard-righ, or chief king of Ireland, the founder of
Iona, and the apostle of Scotland, is the favorite saint of the
Irish people after St. Patrick. He is a more thoroughly Irish
saint than the great apostle of Ireland, who was the father and
founder of the Irish people as a Christian nation, but was
himself, probably, by birth and extraction a Gallo-Roman. A
warrior, a poet, a chieftain, a monk, a statesman, an apostle,
and, it is supposed, a prophet; the most intensely devoted and
patriotic lover of his native island, perhaps, that ever lived;
and yet sentenced by his stern old hermit confessor to perpetual
banishment from it; the life of Columba overflows with all the
materials of the most romantic and heroic interest.

The Life of Columba, whose title is placed at the head of this
notice, is, as we have implied already, a monograph extracted
from the great work on the _Monks of the West_, by
Montalembert. It is a small book of only 170 duo-decimo pages,
and therefore readable by almost everybody who ever reads
anything better than newspapers and dime novels. It is, above all
others, a book for every one, young or old, who has
Celtic-Catholic blood in his veins. It is time now to use that
English language which was forced by the haughty conqueror upon
the Irish people, from a cruel motive which God has overruled for
their glory and his own, as the means of diffusing the treasures
hidden hitherto, so to speak, under a _cromlech_. Those who
put this unwilling people into a compulsory course of English,
little thought what a keen-edged weapon they were placing in
their hands, and training them to use. They could not foresee
what use would be made of it by Curran, O'Connell, Thomas Moore,
Bishop Doyle, and Father Meehan. The possession of the English
language places the Irish people in communication with the whole
civilized world, without depriving them of their rich patrimony
of traditional lore, legend, and song. It is incumbent on all who
love the faith, and sympathize with the wrongs and hardships, of
the Irish people, to strain every nerve to increase the number
and diffuse the circulation of books, in which this religious and
patriotic tradition may be perpetuated. Wherever the Irish people
are, in Ireland, England, America, Australia, they are deriving
their intellectual nutriment more and more from English books;
and thus, in proportion as they become readers, are coming under
the influence of writers who write in the English language. It is
most important, therefore, for those who are charged with the
responsibility of watching over their religious, moral, and
intellectual culture, to see to it that their minds are not
flooded with an excess of purely secular literature, which has in
it no mixture of the Catholic tradition. The greatest danger and
misfortune of our rising generation of Catholics in America is
the lack of this tradition in historical, poetic, and romantic
literature. Even those who are the descendants of parents and
progenitors of the old Catholic stock, must necessarily lose by
degrees all vivid sentiment of any other nationality than the
American, and be more influenced by the _genius loci_ than
by any other genius, whether Celtic or Teutonic. The danger to be
guarded against is a peril of becoming so much Americanized as to
be reduced to a _caput mortuum_ in the process. An American
citizen, without faith and religion, even though he may be born
and live in Boston, is involved in the consequences of original
sin as well as others. It is no gain to transform a poor, simple,
believing, fervent Catholic immigrant, in the second or third
generation, into an intelligent, well fed, healthy animal, with a
comfortable farm and the elective franchise, but with no more
soul than the man with the muck-rake in the _Pilgrim's
Progress_, or those dirty heathen in the suburbs of the holy
city of New York, who spend their Sundays in weeding cabbages.
This deleterious change must be prevented, not only, by purely
spiritual means, but also by preserving and fostering as much as
possible the natural bonds which connect our youth of Catholic
origin with the traditions of their ancestry. Hence, we are in
favor of multiplying and circulating as much as possible those
books which relate the history of the Catholic Church of Ireland,
of her saints and prelates, her gallant chieftains and noble
martyrs, her sufferings and persecutions. The English Catholic
tradition, and the Scottish, are unfortunately broken. A dreary
gap of three centuries intervenes between the present and the
Catholic past; but in Ireland the continuity is perfect from the
fifth century to the present moment. This is the great artery of
life to the Catholic Church of the British empire and its
colonies, and it must not be severed. There is an intense
sympathy between the people of the United States and the people
of Ireland. This is chiefly a sympathy with their oppressed
condition as a people, and with their just demands for expiation
and redress for the wrongs they have suffered from the hands of
the British government. It would be prudent for the gentlemen of
the English parliament to take note of this, and to be wise in
time, by conceding all those rights and privileges at once with a
good grace, which Ireland is sure to obtain sooner or later,
whether parliament is willing or unwilling. This merely political
sympathy will, we trust, prepare the way for a higher and holier
sympathy with the faith, the constancy, the invincible fortitude
of the Irish people as a Catholic nation, the Spartans of a
sacred Thermopylae, who have immolated themselves to save the
faith. It is time that the American public should learn what is
the _Irish Version of the History of the Reformation_. This
presupposes a previous knowledge of the first planting and
cultivation of Christianity. When it is seen that the Irish
fought and died for the very same religion which was planted
among them by their first apostles, it will be easy to judge of
the claims which the religion of Elizabeth and Cromwell had upon
their submission. The labors of Montalembert are therefore
invaluable, as bringing to light the hidden treasures of Irish
ecclesiastical history, and in all his great work there is no
chapter to be found more charming than the biography of the great
patriarch of Iona. We conclude with the eulogium which Fintan, a
contemporary monk, pronounced upon St. Columba in an assembly of
wise and learned men, and which is justified by the history of
his life. "Columba is not to be compared with philosophers and
learned men, but with patriarchs, prophets, and apostles. The
Holy Spirit reigns in him; he has been chosen by God for the good
of all; he is a sage among all sages, a king among kings, an
anchorite with anchorites, a monk of monks; and in order to bring
himself to the level even of laymen, he knows how to be poor of
heart among the poor; thanks to the apostolic charity which
inspires him, he can rejoice with the joyful, and weep with the
unfortunate. And amid all the gifts which God's generosity has
lavished on him, the true humility of Christ is so royally rooted
in his soul that it seems to have been born with him."


  Ecce Homo. By the Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone.
  Strahan & Co., London. G. Routledge & Sons,
  416 Broome street, New York. 1868.

On the day of writing this notice, Mr. Gladstone is introducing
his motion for overthrowing that monstrous iniquity, the Irish
Establishment. We feel, consequently, especially well-disposed
toward him. Nevertheless, with all our respect for his talents
and character, we cannot help being reminded of his illustrious
countryman, that great ornament of the sea-faring profession.
Captain Bunsby. Our English brethren, when they take up solid
topics, appear to think laborious dulness and tedious obscurity
the evidence of deep learning and sound judgment. Their essays
are like those of collegians, who affect to write on political or
philosophical subjects in an extremely old-mannish,
old-cabinet-minister-like style.
This is remarkably the case with the venerable university dons
who advocate rationalistic opinions. The style of arguing adopted
by these worthy and dignified gentlemen bears a striking
resemblance to the movements of one who is carefully wending his
way among eggs. As an instance, we may cite the _Essays and
Reviews_, perhaps the dullest book ever written, unless the
_Treatises on Sacred Arithmetic and Mensuration_, by Dr.
Colenso, may be thought worthy to compete for the prize. The
_Ecce Homo_ is not to be placed in precisely the same
category. It is, nevertheless, in our humble opinion, a very
vague, wearisome, and unsatisfactory book. We cannot account for
its popularity in any other way than by ascribing it to the
restless, sceptical, misty state of the English mind on religious
subjects; the uneasy desire to find out something more than it
knows about Christianity and its author. After eighteen centuries
have rolled by, the question. Who is Jesus Christ? still remains
a puzzle to all those who will not submit to learn from the
teacher commissioned by himself. The author of _Ecce Homo_
has endeavored to throw himself back to the time and into the
period of the disciples of Christ, to examine with their eyes his
words and actions, and from these to abstract a mental conception
of his true character. What that conception is, remains as much a
puzzle as the gospels themselves are to a rationalist, or the
Exodus to Dr. Colenso. The language of _Ecce Homo_ is
certainly irreconcilable with the definitions of the Catholic
Church respecting the divine personality of Christ. Some of its
statements respecting the nature of the work accomplished by him
on the earth, and the evidence thereby furnished of his divine
mission, are forcible and valuable, and perhaps to rationalists,
Unitarians, and doubters, the work may be useful. No one,
however, who understands Catholic theology, and believes in the
true doctrine of the Incarnation, can read it without a strong
sentiment of repugnance and dissatisfaction. Mr. Gladstone,
nevertheless, although professing to accept the Catholic doctrine
of the Incarnation, undertakes the defence of the book, and even
apologises for its most offensive passages. By doing this he
shows that he himself does not grasp the full meaning of the
formulas to which he gives his assent; and although he is not a
rationalist, yet, from perpetual contact with them, and the
influence of that halting, inconsequent state of mind produced by
Anglicanism, he has acquired something of that dark-lantern style
of which we have spoken above. There are gleams of light and
passages of beauty here and there, especially on those pages
where the author treats of the Greek Mythology as an imperfect
effort to realize the idea of Deity incarnate in human form. As a
whole, the essay, which is a mere review of another book, was
well enough for a magazine article, but not of sufficient
importance to warrant its publication in book form. Every person
who acknowledges the true divinity of Jesus Christ while
rejecting the authority of the Catholic Church, stands in a
position logically absurd, and is therefore incapable of
adequately advocating the cause of Christ and Christianity
against the infidelity of the age. No one but a Catholic, endowed
with genius, and fully imbued with the spirit of Catholic
theology, can ever write in a satisfactory manner upon the Life
of Christ, so as to meet that demand which causes the abortive
efforts of unbelievers and half-Christians to find such an
extensive circulation.


  On the Heights. A Novel.
  By Berthold Auerbach.
  Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1868.

This volume, professing to be a translation from the German, is
most thoroughly permeated with German _mysticism_; one can
hardly give it the dignified name of theology. It carries one
back in its bewildering metaphysics to the days of _The
Dial_, when every girl of eighteen belonging to a certain
clique, was devouring Bettina's correspondence with Goethe, and
listening with rapt soul to lectures on "Human Life," from the
oracular lips of a favorite seer; discourses utterly beyond the
comprehension of the maiden's papa, but which she understood


We are led to wonder, in our republican ignorance, if people in
court life converse and act in the stilted, theatrical manner in
which they are here represented; every person being what in these
days would be called "highly organized." In this particular, and
in the tedium and repetition of court detail, we were forcibly
reminded of the voluminous works of Miss Mühlbach, with this
difference, that _On the Heights_ makes no historical claim.

There are, however, very many sweet touches of nature in the
book, gems of thought; and now and then a rare pearl of good
counsel, near which, in reading, one involuntarily draws a
pencil-line, that they may be found again. Maternal love is
beautifully portrayed, both in high and low life, in the queen,
and in the foster-mother of the prince.

The author evidently, knows but little of the Catholic faith, and
less of its results, since the life of the _religieuse_ is
continually referred to (with a slight sneer) as "_a life in
which nothing happens_."

We close this volume with a sensation of weary sadness; there
seems to run through its pages "the cry of that deep-rooted pain,
under which, thoughtful men are languishing," like the distant
tones of an AEolian harp wafted on the night breezes. There is a
reaching forth in these mystic yearnings for the good, the true,
and the _enduring_, which the priceless gift of faith alone
brings to the weary and heavy-laden, in submission to God's
appointed teacher, the church.

The mechanical execution of the work is excellent, the type
clear, and the double-columed pages furnish a vast amount of
reading in a small compass.


  Chemical Change in the Eucharist.
  From the French of Jacques Abbadie.
  By John W. Hamersley, A.M.

Jacques Abbadie was born in Switzerland, in 1654; "studied at
Saumur," writes Mr. Hamersley in his preface, "was doctorated at
Sedan, and installed pastor of the French (Huguenot) Church of
Berlin, at the instance of Count d'Espence."

He left his pastorate, became chaplain to Marshal Schomberg, and
came to England with William of Orange in 1688. After Schomberg's
death, in the battle of the Boyne, Abbadie was presented to the
deanery of Killaloo, in Ireland, where he died in 1727.

His book against transubstantiation in the Eucharist, is such as
might be expected from the literary leisure, taste, learning, and
piety of one of Schomberg's exemplary camp-followers. We read the
book with the hope of finding some objection in it worth a
refutation; but we have found nothing but the stale, oft-refuted
arguments of Protestants against the real presence. Led by the
title of the work, _Chemical Change in the Eucharist_, we
expected to meet some profound chemical discoveries that should
at least seem to contradict Catholic belief. But there is not
one. There is not even an allusion which would show the author to
be conversant with chemistry or any of the natural sciences.
Abbadie argues against the Catholic exegesis of the sixth chapter
of St. John, and against the words of consecration, "This is my
body," in the usual Protestant way. He insists that Christ's
words are to be taken figuratively; while Catholics claim that
they are to be taken literally.

One general answer will do for all heterodox interpretations of
Scripture on this and on other points. If Protestants urge that
private reason is the supreme judge of Scripture, how can they
deny to Catholics the right to use it? And if the private
judgment of Catholics finds that Christ spoke of a real presence
in the Holy Eucharist, and that his words are to be taken in
their plain, literal signification, why should Protestants
object? In point of fact, Catholics do admit private judgment,
properly understood, in the interpretation of Scripture. They
affirm that the interpretation of the church or of the fathers is
identical with the rational exegesis.
The interpretation of Protestants is _not_ a rational
interpretation, and does not give the true sense of Scripture.
They misinterpret the Scriptures by an _abuse_ of private
judgment. They gratuitously assume that Catholic interpretation
is contrary to the rational sense of the Bible; while Catholics
hold that their interpretation alone is rational. As a prudent,
sensible man, when he meets with a difficult passage in Homer or
Sophocles, consults the best commentators to aid him in
discovering the true sense; so, for a much greater reason, should
a Christian seek an authoritative explanation of those hard
passages of Holy Writ "which the unstable and unlearned wrest to
their own destruction." One who denies that there are difficult
texts in Scripture can never have read it. From the first text of
Genesis to the last in the Apocalypse, the Scripture is replete
with difficulties, which even the most learned commentators do
not always succeed in explaining.

All Abbadie's scriptural arguments against the real presence may
be, therefore, met with one remark. He explains certain texts in
a figurative sense. Catholics, however, interpret them to mean
what they plainly and literally express. Catholics do not need in
this case to appeal to the authority of the church or to the
fathers. Christ says, "This is my body;" Catholics believe him.
Christ says, "My flesh is meat indeed;" Catholics believe his
words. Abbadie and his sect admit that Christ says, "This is my
body;" that he affirms his flesh to be meat indeed; yet they will
not believe him. Who authorizes them to contradict the express
words of Christ? We ask _impartial_ reason to judge between
Catholic and Protestant in this controversy.

But where Abbadie shows his complete ignorance of the first
elements of the higher sciences is in "Letter Fourth" of his
book, p. 98. We quote from Mr. Hamersley's translation. "_All
our ideas of faith rely solely on sense;_ and their value to
us is measured by its certainty; and to faith, which is a
conviction of divine truth, there are four essentials: God
exists; he is truthful; he has revealed himself; each mystery of
our faith appears in such revelation. Sir--it is noteworthy--that
the _senses are the sole channels of all those truths, and
their_ SOLE _vouchers_." Again, "Thus the _senses are
the media of all evidence_." (P. 99.) The materialism of
d'Holbach, Cabanis, Helvetius, and Condillac is identical with
this doctrine of the doughty dean of Killaloo. If the senses
"_are the sole channels of truth_," instead of being the
mere occasions of reflection, then the whole order of
intelligible ideas, the ideas of God, spirit, and cause, are
illusions. The senses can only tell us the sensible or
phenomenal. Now, as the ideas of God, cause, spirit, truth,
justice, goodness, substance, etc., are all supersensible, they
cannot come from the senses. If the senses "_are the media of
all evidence_," the only things we can know are modes or
phenomena, colors, forms, sounds, etc. The senses tell us nothing
more. We must, therefore, deny the existence of God, of truth, of
goodness, cause, substance, etc.; and turn atheists, pantheists,
sceptics, or materialists, as all who logically follow out
Abbadie's or Locke's metaphysics really become. The philosophy of
the warlike chaplain of Schomberg's army is thus shown to be
essentially immoral.

Did Mr. Hamersley know this when he translated the book? We think
not, for he is evidently too innocent of logic and too ignorant
of truth to be able to understand fully even the arguments of the
superficial dean of Killaloo.

We shall make good our assertion by quoting a few of Mr.
Hamersley's own references: "In 1845, the pope made the
Immaculate Conception a part of the Roman creed and a condition
of salvation." (P. 113.) The gentleman probably was thinking of
the pope's decree of 1852.

"A.D. 597, Gregory I. instructs St. Augustine to accommodate the
ceremonies of the church to heathen rites." (P. 125.).

"The Maronites, _originally Monothelites_, protected by the
Emperor Heraclius, are now incorporated in the church of Rome."
(P. 126.)


"A.D. 1295, Boniface VIII. confines ex-pope Celestine V. in _a
cell about the size of his body_, lest he may elect to resume
the pontificate he has resigned--guards him night and day with 6
knights and 30 soldiers. Celestine dies of cruelty." (P. 129.)

"Gregory VII. threatens to anathematize all France, unless King
Philip _abandons simony_. (P. 135.) This was one of
Gregory's _crimes_ in the judgment of Mr. Hamersley.

"Alexander VI. (Borgia) is elected pope--his Holiness is
forthwith _adored by the cardinals_:" (P. 143.) What

"_Penance--a sacrament by which venial sins, committed after
baptism, are forgiven._" (P. 146.)

"The Nestorians were excommunicated A.D. 431, for holding, among
other views, two natures of Christ."

"The Council of Chalcedon, A.D. 451, confirmed the doctrine of
the two natures of Christ, which the church had repudiated." (P.

As instances of schisms in the church, the _learned_
translator cites the following: "Dominicans and Franciscans--on
immaculate conception." "Thomists and Scotists--efficacy of grace
and immaculate conception." "Jesuits and Jansenists--on the
doctrine of grace." (P. 150.)

"Dec. 17, 1866, the _leading Romanists of the Council of
Baltimore_ invite the pope by letter to visit the United
States." (P. 157.)

"Jesuit pestilence." (P. 159.) "_Plague-spots--Roman Catholic
churches and institutions_." (P. 160.) This is a good instance
of Mr. Hamersley's rhetoric.

"The Papal Church in the United States _has recently adopted
the title of Roman Catholic_." Evidence: "It appears in large
iron gilt letters over the gate of the asylum in Fifth avenue,
New York--_Roman Catholic Male Orphan Asylum_." (P. 160.)
_This is one of the plague-spots_!

These are but a few of the literary beauties to be found in Mr.
Hamersley's additions to Abbadie. A Catholic could afford to
smile at both the original and his translator, if, unfortunately,
there were not found many persons so credulous as to believe
their falsehoods. The original work of Abbadie is tolerable. He
attempts to argue; and we have no doubt his military logic was
satisfactory enough to the square-headed soldiers of Schomberg's
army. Besides, when Abbadie wrote, civilization had not arrived
at such a degree of progress as it has now attained. But Mr.
Hamersley writes his falsehoods _now_. His ignorance and
fanaticism, of which we have culled but a few of the many
instances in his book, _are of our own day_. We cannot
understand why he should repeat them, since there is hardly any
moderately educated Protestant who does not know that most of his
allegations are false. If there be any so dull or fanatical as to
believe them, we feel for them more of pity than contempt.

In conclusion, we regret that the translator does not show as
much good sense or taste in choosing the subject as the
publishers manifest in the binding and printing of the work. We
are sorry to see such fine print wasted on a bad, worthless book.
Mr. Hamersley could have found nobler themes in foreign
literature, even though they might be the productions of
Protestants, to exercise those talents as a translator which he
has failed to show as a lover of truth, a logician, or a man of
good sense.


  Life in the West; or, Stories of the Mississippi Valley.
  By N. C. Meeker, Agricultural Editor of the New
  York _Tribune_. New York: Samuel R. Wells.

"A long residence in the Mississippi Valley, frequent journeys
through its whole extent, and years of service as the Illinois
correspondent of the New York _Tribune_, have furnished the
materials for the following stories." Hence, it is almost
unnecessary to state that their claim to our careful
consideration rests upon something more substantial than the fact
of their being pleasingly told, varied in incident, and
unobjectionable in tone. Their real worth, and it is not slight,
arises from this, that they are made the agreeable medium of
conveying much valuable information concerning "life in the
West;" no less the hardships unavoidably to be endured by the
emigrant, the difficulties to be overcome, and the dangers to be
encountered, than his almost assured ultimate triumph.


Of general interest, but designed especially for those intending
to emigrate, is the appendix, containing a brief description of
the soil, climate, products, area, and population of each State
and territory lying in the great Valley of the Mississippi; and
also the locations of the several land-offices where application
must be made and all needful information can be obtained.


  Mozart: A Biographical Romance.
  From the German of Heribert Rau.
  By E. R. Sill. New York: Leypoldt & Holt. 1868.

A poor translation of a frothy production. On the first page, the
child, Mozart, is called a "three-years-old son." Mr. Sill
evidently does not know that a three-year-old is English for
colts and heifers. Mozart's sister is also denominated a
"seven-years-old." The writer, if Mr. Sill has translated him
correctly, is exceedingly ignorant, or worse. On page 54 we read:
"They sought the pope's chair," (that is, the worshippers
crowding to St. Peter's for the services on Maundy-Thursday,)
"partly because it was the fashion, partly because they wanted to
be on hand to see everybody else do it, and partly because, to an
Italian, a hundred days' absolution in advance is always a
pleasant and convenient thing to have." The recitation of the
Tenebrae, in the evening, is called, on page 58, "the performance
of Mass." Would it not be well for our enterprising publishers in
this enlightened country, to employ a proof-reader who has
received a passable education?


  The Great Day; or, Motives and Means of Perseverance
  after First Communion.
  Translated from the French by Mrs. J. Sadlier. New York, 1868.

A pretty and good little volume, intended for a gift to children,
as a memento of the happy day of their first communion. We have
only one criticism to make, which is, that its tone of thought is
too foreign. We wish that the accomplished translator had made
use of the original French only, as matter from which to compile
a delightful little book under this title, (a task which she
could so admirably perform,) suitable, in the freshness of its
thought, to the minds of American children. In lieu, however, of
the wished-for better book of Mrs. Sadlier's, we heartily
recommend this present volume to the attention of all pastors,
parents, and superintendents of Sunday-schools, who will find in
it, we are sure, just what very many of them have long desired to
procure as a worthy memento for "The Great Day."


  Tales from the Diary of a Sister of Mercy.
  By C. M. Brame.
  New York: Catholic Publication Society. 1868.

We all remember _Passages from the Diary of a Late
Physician_, by Dr. Warren, and the intense interest everybody
felt in these sketches of the tragic scenes with which the
persons whose profession leads them among the sick, the
suffering, and the dying are familiar. This book is on a similar
plan, and is composed of graphic descriptions of what a Sister of
Mercy may be supposed to see and observe in her charitable
ministrations. The light of the Catholic religion thrown in among
these painful, tragic scenes, relieves their shadows, and leaves
a more healthful impression on the mind; in short, becoming their
pathetic effect. Those who love sensation stories will find their
taste gratified in this volume, and, at the same time, may be
able to derive from it some good moral and religious lessons.


We regret that a notice of _The First Report of the Catholic
Sunday-School Union_ was crowded out of the columns of this
number. It will appear in our next.--Ed. C. W.



         The Catholic World.

   Vol. VII., No. 39.--June, 1868.


         Edmund Campion.

In the spring of 1580, Elizabeth being then queen of Great
Britain, and England being in the midst of the turmoil which
accompanied the final establishment of Protestantism as the
religion of the realm, two expeditions set out from Rome, to
restore the faith in the British isles. One consisted of two
thousand armed soldiers, enlisted as a sort of crusaders, and
animated by the papal blessing and the promise of indulgences,
not to speak of the visions of worldly glory and profit which
even soldiers who fight under consecrated banners are apt to find
alluring. The other was composed of less than a score of
missionaries, Jesuits, secular priests, and others, whose most
enticing prospect was one of martyrdom. The soldiers were to land
in Ireland and help the rebellion of the Geraldines. The
missionaries were to penetrate in disguise into England, and
exercise the ministry of the proscribed and persecuted faith in
the secrecy of private houses and hidden chambers.

Looking at the history of those times in the light of subsequent
experience, it seems hard to account for the policy which could
imperil not only the lives of the missionaries, but the cause of
the church, by complicating the peaceful embassy of the priests
with the mission of war and insurrection. For it was no secret
that the troops came from Rome, and that large subsidies from the
Roman treasury were sent with them. Associated with them, too,
went an eminent ecclesiastic. Dr. Saunders, with the functions of
a legate. We must remember, however, that the accession of
Elizabeth had never been popularly acquiesced in. Her legitimacy
had never been generally acknowledged. Her reign thus far had
been a series of rebellions. The party which opposed her had a
fair title to the character of belligerents, and the continental
powers which espoused their cause were only doing what, by the
customs of the age, they had a perfect right to do. The pope had
issued a bull, excommunicating the queen, absolving her subjects
from their oath of allegiance, and even forbidding them to obey
her; and although he had afterward so far modified the bull as to
permit the English people to recognize her authority, _rebus
sic stantibus_, "while things remained as they were," he had
never ceased, in conjunction with other European powers, to
promote attempts in Ireland and elsewhere to overthrow her and
place the Queen of Scots upon the throne.
At this distance of time, with a line of successors to ratify
Elizabeth's title to the crown, and the fact of their failure
arguing against the insurgents, it is easy to condemn the papal
policy; but we must remember that affairs bore a different aspect
then; that Elizabeth's right to the throne was open to question;
and that the Catholic faith which she was striving to suppress
was still the faith of a large majority of the English people.

We have little to do, however, with this Irish expedition. It was
a miserable failure, and its only effect was, to aggravate the
sufferings of the Catholics and expose the missionaries to
increased danger. Our purpose in this article is rather to trace
the history of the more peaceful and strictly religious embassy,
so far as it bore upon the life of the illustrious martyr from
whom it derives its chief renown.

Edmund Campion, [Footnote 55] the son of a London bookseller, was
born on the 25th of January, 1539, (O. S.,) the year which
witnessed the commencement of the English persecution, of which
he was destined to be a victim, and the solemn approval of the
Society of Jesus, of which he was to be the first English martyr.
At St. John's College, Oxford, where he was educated and obtained
a fellowship, he was so much admired for his gift of speech and
grace of eloquence, that young men imitated not only his phrases
but his gait, and revered him as a second Cicero. It was the year
after he obtained his fellowship that Queen Mary died and
Elizabeth succeeded to the throne. The new sovereign allowed but
a few weeks to pass before she manifested her preference for the
Protestant doctrines; yet there was no attempt at first to force
the heresy upon the university of Oxford, her Majesty wisely
trusting to the insidious influences of time, persuasion, and
high example to bring the students and professors over to her
views. It is no great wonder, perhaps, that Campion, intoxicated
by the incense of adulation and enervated by the worldly comfort
of his position, shut his eyes to the dreadful gulf of heresy
into which the English Church was drifting, and seemed hardly to
realize the necessity which was being forced upon him of choosing
between God and the queen. He was not required for some years to
take any oath at variance with his fidelity to the church. So he
gave up the study of theology, to which he had hitherto devoted
himself, and applied his mind to secular learning. He was a
layman, and controversy might be left to the priests. When he
took his degree in 1564, he was induced to subscribe to the oath
against the pope's supremacy, and by the statutes of his college
he was also compelled to resume the study of divinity; yet he
still managed to stave off important questions and to confine his
reading to the old settled dogmas which had no direct bearing
upon the questions of the day.

    [Footnote 55: _Edmund Campion: A Biography_.
    By Richard Simpson. 8vo, pp. 387. London:
    Williams & Norgate. New York:
    The Catholic Publication Society.]


The time came, at last, when the theological neutral ground had
been thoroughly explored, and Campion turned to the Fathers. In
their venerable company he seemed to grow more thoughtful and
conscientious. The problem of his life now was not how he could
postpone serious considerations, and shake off religious
responsibility, but how he could reconcile true principles with
false practice; how he could remain in the Established Church of
England, and yet hold to all the old Catholic doctrines which the
Establishment denied. His position, in fact, was almost identical
with that of the modern Tractarians, and his college at Oxford
was the home of a party which entertained nearly the same
opinions. There was one of the Elizabethan bishops, Cheney of
Gloucester, who, having retained a good deal of the orthodox
faith, sympathized heartily with Campion's aspirations and
perplexities. He was the actual founder of the school represented
in later times by Newman and Pusey, and he had fixed upon Campion
to continue and perfect the work after he himself had passed
away. The bishop persuaded our young scholar to take deacons'
orders, so that he might preach and obtain preferment. But the
effect of this step upon Campion was such as Cheney little
anticipated. Almost immediately troubles beset his mind. He found
his new dignity odious and abominable. The idea of preferment
became hateful to him. He wished rather to live as a simple
layman, and in 1569 he resigned his appointments at the
university and went to Dublin, where it seemed that a more
agreeable career awaited him. A project was then afoot for
restoring the old Dublin university founded by Pope John XXI.,
but for some years extinct. The principal mover in the matter was
the Recorder of Dublin and Speaker of the House of Commons, James
Stanihurst, a zealous Catholic, and the father of one of
Campion's pupils. In his house Campion received a generous
welcome, and there he remained for a while, leading a kind of
monastic life, and waiting for the opening of the new seminary,
in which he hoped to find congenial employment. The scheme fell
through, however, and the chief cause of its failure was the
secret hostility of the government to Stanihurst, and the
Lord-Deputy, Sir Henry Sidney, who were most actively concerned
in it, and to Campion, who was to have the principal share in its
direction. Campion was not yet reconciled to the church, but he
was already distrusted as a papist, and only saved from arrest by
the protection of Sidney. Such protection, however, could not
avail him long. The rebellion of some of the English Catholic
nobles, the publication of the pope's bull against Elizabeth
which Felton had posted on the Bishop of London's gates, and the
designs of the king of Spain upon Ireland, had roused a
persecution, and Campion was one of those especially designated
to be arrested. The Lord-Deputy found means to warn him a few
hours before the officers arrived, and he saved himself by
flight. For two or three months he dodged the pursuivants about
Ireland, lurking in the houses of his friends, and working, in
the intervals of the pursuit, at a _History of Ireland_,
which he had begun while lodging with Stanihurst. At last, seeing
that he must soon be captured if he remained on the island, and
fearing to compromise the friends who gave him shelter, he
resolved to return to England, and accordingly, in the disguise
of a lackey, took ship at the little port of Tredagh, near
Dublin. The officers came on board to search for him, and
questioned everybody on the vessel except the fugitive himself.
They seized the manuscripts of his history, and then went away,
cursing "the seditious villain Campion." He reached England in
time to witness the trial of Dr. Storey, who was executed for the
faith in June, 1571.
We are told nothing of the progress of his conversion after he
left Oxford, but by this time it was complete, and he had
resolved to repair to the English college at Douai, there to fit
himself for more effective labors in the Catholic cause. In
mid-channel the ship in which he had taken passage was overhauled
by an English frigate, and Campion, having no passport, and
being, moreover, suspected and denounced by his fellow-passengers
as a papist, was taken off and carried back to Dover. The captain
appropriated all his prisoner's money, and then set out to
conduct him to London. It was soon evident, however, that the
officer cared more for the purse than the captive; and without a
word being said on either side, Campion understood that he might
run away provided he said nothing about the money. This was
enough. He escaped in one direction while his guard pretended to
pursue him in another; and having obtained a fresh supply of
money from some of his friends, succeeded at last in making his
escape over to France.

He staid long enough at Douai to complete his course of
scholastic theology and to be ordained sub-deacon. After the
lapse of a little more than a year, he resolved to go to Rome
with the purpose of becoming a Jesuit. His biographers generally
attribute this determination to the remorse which he still felt
on account of his Anglican deaconship; but Mr. Simpson is
inclined to lay rather more stress upon a disagreement between
Campion and Dr. Allen, the president of Douai College, upon
political questions. The friendly and even affectionate relations
of these two eminent men were never interrupted; but Dr. Allen
had many opinions which his disciple could not share. Campion,
devoted as he was to the church and the Holy See, was always
loyally obedient to the civil powers of his native country, save
when the laws were in conflict with his conscience. Allen, who
had been many years in exile, was a devoted servant of Philip of
Spain, and was thick in the plots for the overthrow of Elizabeth
and the various schemes for foreign invasion. It is not
impossible that a divergence of sentiment on some such point as
this may have influenced Campion's decision, if not wholly, at
least in part. However it was, the two friends bade each other an
affectionate farewell, and the future martyr, in the guise of a
poor pilgrim, set out afoot for Rome. In shabby garments, dusty
and footsore, he entered the holy city in the autumn of 1572,
only a few days before the death of St. Francis Borgia, third
general of the Society of Jesus. A successor to the saint was not
chosen until April, 1573, and meanwhile Campion had to wait. He
was the first postulant admitted by the new general. Father
Mercurianus, and soon afterward he was sent to Brünn in Moravia
to pass his novitiate. In a letter which he wrote to his brethren
there, after he had taken his vows, we find a pleasing picture of
the humble and happy life which he spent in that retreat. "O dear
walls!" he exclaims, "that once shut me up in your company!
Pleasant recreation-room, where we talked so holily! Glorious
kitchen, where the best friends--John and Charles, the two
Stephens, Sallitzi, Finnit and George, Tobias and Gaspar--fight
for the saucepans in holy humility and charity unfeigned! How
often do I picture to myself one returning with his load from the
farm, another from the market; one sweating stalwartly and
merrily under a sack of rubbish, another under some other toil!
I have been about a year in religion, in the world thirty-five;
what a happy change if I could say I had been a year in the
world, in religion thirty-five!" There is something very touching
and instructive in the record of his first years in the Society
of Jesus; and the chroniclers of his order, who reckon it among
the chief glories of the brotherhood in Bohemia that the English
martyr received his religious training among them, and taught
them at the same time by his illustrious example, have set down
that record with careful and affectionate minuteness. How the man
whom Oxford had revered as a guide was content in a moment to
become the humblest of pupils; how he by whom the young nobility
of England had set the fashion of their thought, their reading,
their elocution, their very walk and manner, was happy in the
privilege of being allowed to put on a dirty apron, roll up his
sleeves, and scour saucepans in the scullery--these are the chief
points in the story of his life at Brünn, and afterward at
Prague, whither he was sent to teach rhetoric. It is a strange
life to read about, yet it probably differed little from the
ordinary life of his brethren in religion, and hundreds of Jesuit
houses to-day exhibit no doubt the same model of industry,
devotedness, and humility. For a certain number of hours daily he
was in the class-room; when his pupils went to play, he went to
wash dishes in the kitchen. He was called upon for poems,
orations, and sacred dramas, to celebrate the college festivals;
for funeral discourses on the death of great persons. He taught
catechism to the children; he visited the hospitals and prisons;
he preached; he heard confessions; he spent incredible pains in
preparing the young Jesuits for the work of disputing
successfully with heretics when they should be sent out to their
various fields of duty. His brethren were amazed that any one man
should have strength to carry so many burdens. He seems, however,
to have borne up well under them. "About myself," he writes to
Father Parsons, "I would only have you know that from the day I
arrived here I have been extremely well--in a perpetual bloom of
health, and that I was never at any age less upset by literary
work than now, when I work hardest. We know the reason. But,
indeed, I have no time to be sick, if any illness wanted to take
me." It was while Campion was thus occupied at Prague, that Sir
Philip Sidney, who had known him at Oxford, came over from
England as ambassador. The young nobleman had many an interview
with his old friend, and seems to have awakened in Campion a
strong hope of his conversion--a prospect to which his friends
and political associates were by no means blind; for they watched
him so closely that the interviews between the ambassador and the
Jesuit were not managed without a great deal of difficulty.
Campion writes to one John Bavand, commending "this young man, so
wonderfully beloved and admired by his countrymen," to the
earnest prayers of all good Catholics. He saw what an effect upon
the faith in England the conversion of a nobleman of Sidney's
brilliant parts and distinguished position must have, and the
re-establishment of the faith in his native island was something
which he had especially at heart. His letters are full of anxiety
on this score. He speaks of catching and subduing his recreant
countrymen "by the prayers and tears at which they laugh;" but we
find no political allusions, and it is plain enough that, in the
various schemes for Catholic insurrections and for foreign
invasions, he had neither share nor heart.
He had been between five and six years at Prague when he was
summoned to Rome to take part in the mission about to be sent
forth for the conversion of England. The little band of heroes
comprised Dr. Goldwell, Bishop of St. Asaph, who had long been
residing on the continent, several English secular priests, old
men who had been in exile, and young men fresh from their
studies, a few zealous laymen, and three Jesuits, Campion,
Parsons, and a lay brother named Ralph Emerson. To assist them in
their labors, collect alms for them, and find safe hiding-places,
a Catholic Association had just been organized in England by
George Gilbert, a young man of property, whom Father Parsons had
converted in Rome the preceding year. The Jesuits were furnished
with a paper of instructions for their guidance.

Father Parsons was a younger man than Campion, and had been a
shorter time than he in the Society; yet there were good reasons
why he should be appointed the superior in the mission. He was
not only zealous and devout, but he had a good knowledge of men
and affairs, he was well versed in the ways of cities; he was
adroit, versatile, and prudent; and he was somewhat familiar with
the schemes of the pope and other Catholic powers against the
government of Elizabeth. A knowledge of these secret designs
would have been but a sorry safeguard had he fallen into the
hands of the authorities of the crown, and the consciousness must
have heightened his sense of the danger incurred in the
expedition; but Parsons had all the courage of a martyr, though
he did not win a martyr's crown. The party left Rome on the 18th
of April, 1580, and were not more than fairly started on their
journey when the English Secretary, Walsingham received from his
spies a full description of them and a list of their names.

Passing through Geneva, they resolved to have an interview with
Theodore Beza; and the account of it gives a curious picture of
the state of society in those times, and of the manner in which
theological controversy mingled with the ordinary affairs of
life. The travellers made no secret of their religion, though
they disguised their persons and calling. Campion dressed himself
as an Irish servant, waiting on Mr. John Pascal, a lay gentleman
of their party, and the only one who failed in the final day of
trial. Sherwin, one of the secular priests, used to relate with
uncontrollable merriment how naturally Campion played his part.
Beza, under one pretext or another, got rid of them as politely
as possible, and promised to send to their inn an English scholar
of his, the son of Sir George Hastings. Instead of young
Hastings, there came his governor, Mr. Brown, and a young
Englishman named Powell, and we have a strange account of the
priests disputing hotly in the streets of Geneva with the two
Protestants until almost midnight, and challenging Beza to a
public controversy, with the proviso that he who was justly
convicted in the opinion of indifferent judges should be burned
alive in the market-place! Powell had known Campion at Oxford, so
the _soi-disant_ servant kept out of his sight, and when the
former gentleman offered to accompany the missionaries a little
way on their road next morning, Campion was sent forward in
advance. But meeting on the road a minister studying his sermon,
the temptation was too strong for the enthusiastic Jesuit, and he
buckled with him at once.
The rest of the party came up while they were still at it, hammer
and tongs, and Powell recognized Campion, and saluted him with
great affection. After that, the missionaries made a pilgrimage
of eight or nine miles over difficult paths to St. Clodovens in
France, by way of penance for their curiosity.

We have said that Parsons was privy to some of the political
expeditions against England; but he had no knowledge of the one
which set out about the same time that he did, and the news,
which he learned on his arrival at Rheims, filled him with
dismay. The queen had issued a proclamation which plainly
indicated a purpose to proceed against the Catholics with
increased severity, and the peril of the undertaking had become
greater than ever. It does not appear, however, that one of the
company faltered. Dr. Goldwell had been obliged to turn back and
defer his voyage--which, indeed, he never made at all; but others
joined the mission, and among them was a fourth Jesuit, Father
Thomas Cottam. At Rheims, the party broke up to find their way
across to England by different routes. Campion, Parsons, and
Brother Ralph Emerson were to go by way of St. Omer, Calais, and
Dover. Parsons crossed first, disguised as a soldier returning
from the Low Countries, and in his captain's uniform passed
inspection so easily and was so well treated by the searcher at
Dover that he bespoke that officer's courtesy for his friend,
"Mr. Edmunds, a diamond-merchant," who was shortly to follow him.
He reached London without trouble; but his dress was outlandish,
and people were unusually fearful and suspicious, so he was
turned away from the inns. He knew of a Catholic gentleman,
however, who was held in the Marshalsea prison for his faith, and
he applied to see him. Through him he was brought into
communication with George Gilbert and the Catholic Association,
who had a