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Title: The Catholic World, Vol. 06, October, 1867 to March, 1868.
Author: Various
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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 [Transcriber's note:  This text is derived from
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  Page numbers are shown in curly braces, such as {123}. They have been
  moved to the nearest sentence break.]


{i}

The Catholic World.

A Monthly Magazine

Of

General Literature And Science


VOL. VI.


October, 1867, To March, 1868.


New York:
The Catholic Publication House,
126 Nassau Street.
1868.

{ii}



John A. Gray & Green,
Printers,
16 And 18 Jacob Street, New York.


{iii}

Contents.

A Royal Nun, 106.
Aimée's Sacrifice, 156.
A Winged Word, 257.

Basher's Sacrifice, and what came of it, 124.
Baby, 227.
Bellini's Romance, 408.
Bethlehem: A Pilgrimage, 462.
Bunyan, John, and Plagiarism, 535.
Bartoleme Las Casas, 829.

Christian Schools and Scholars, 44.
Carlyle's Shooting Niagara, 86.
Cartesian Doubt, The, 234.
Composer's Difficulty, The, 251.
Christianity in France, Present Condition of, 275, 360.
Catholic Congress at Malines, The Third, 289.
Conscript, the Story of, 310, 441, 607, 732.
Cornelius, Peter, the Master of German Painting, 391.
Comedy of Convocation, The, 554.
Catholic Congress of Malines, Bishop Dupanloup's Speech at, 587.
Couture's Book, 653.
Canada Thistles, 721.
Composers, The Rival, 758.
Church and her Attributes, The, 788.

Double Marriage, The, 776.

Faith and the Sciences, 330.
Forget Me Not, 639.

Indians, What shall we do with the, 403.
Irish in America, The, 765.
Italy, Affairs in, 814.

Jesuits in North America, The, 192.
Justification, The Catholic Doctrine of, 433.
Joseph Görres, 497.

Kings of England, The Title of, 257.

Learned Women and Studious Women, 24, 209.
Labor Question, The, 472.
Libraries--Family, Parish, and Sunday-School, 546.
Lacordaire, Inner Life of, 689.

Manager's Dilemma, The, 20.
Martyrs of Gorcum, The, 71.
Meadowbrook Adventure, My, 346.
Magas; or, Long Ago, 666, 804.
Miscellany, 709.
Nature and Grace, 509.

Our Boy Organist, 64.
Old Guide to Good Manners, An, 98.
Old Religion, The, 622.
Old Roman World, The, 751.

Protestants, A Few Thoughts about, 132.
Paris Impious--and Religious Paris, 577.
Philosophy not always Vain, 680.
Paris, The Pre-Historical Congress of, 703.

Rome and the World, 1.
Ritualism and its True Meaning, 375.
Reign of Law, The, 595.

Sayings of the Fathers of the Desert, 92, 171, 421, 700, 851.
Subjective in Religion, Function of the, 175.
Stage-Coach, The Inside of, 412.
Sandal of His Holiness, The Ceremonial, 471.
Sacrifice and the Ransom, The, 485.

Temporal Power of the Popes, The, 528.
The Pre-Historical Congress of Paris, 703.

Women, Learned and Studious, 24, 209.
Washington, Unpublished Letters of, 145.
What Doctor Marks died of, 824.

------

Poetry.

All Souls' Day, 172.
Abscondita, 731.

Beati Mites, Quoniam Ipse Possidebunt Terram, 606.

Divine Loadstone, The, 757.

In Memoriam, 43.
Imogen, 190.

Joy and Grief, 358.

Love of the Pardoned, The, 823.

Mater Filii, 484.
Matin, 527.

Our Lady, 62.

Per Liquidum AEthera Vates, 327.
Providence, 701.

Ran Away to Sea, 103.

Seventy-Three, 266.
Seven Sleepers, The Legend of the, 544.
Sub Umbra, 638.

With Christ, 19.

------

{iv}

New Publications.


Aner's Return, 430.
Alexis, the Runaway, 575.

Battle-Fields of Ireland, The, 288.
Blessed Margaret Mary, History of, 287.
Bohemians of the Fifteenth Century, 144.
Breaking Away, 575.
Blessed Eucharist, The, 859.

Clergy and the Pulpit, 139.
Catholic Crusoe, 430.
Climbing the Rope, 575.
Childhood, Happy Hours of, 576.
Coral Island, The, 717.
Catholic Poets, Selections from, 718.
Claudia, 719.
Comedy of Convocation, The, 719.
Catholic Almanac, 720.
Cromwellian Settlement of Ireland, The, 859.

Day's Synthesis and Art of Discourse, 425.
Dotty Dimple, 576.
Daughter of an Empress, The, 713

Essays on Religion and Literature, 141.
Extracts from the Fathers, 144.

Froude's Short Studies on Great Subjects, 428.
Folks and Fairies, 860.

Galin Method of Musical Instruction, The, 430.
Golden Truths, 716.

Heiress of Killorgan, The, 432.
Haldeman's Affixes, their Origin and Application, 432.
Holy Kings, The Three, 573.
Hildebert, The Hymn of, 574.
Holly and Mistletoe, 576.
Home Fairy Tales, 860.

Irish Reformation, Dr. Brady on the, 571.
Ireland, an Illustrated History of, 855.
Ireland, Legends of the Wars in, 858.

Katrina, Holland's, 285.

Lacorclaire's Letters to Young Men, 144.
Life of St. Aloysius Gonzaga, The, 288.
Little Pet Books, 288.
Life of Curran and Grattan, The, 576.
Layman's Breviary, The, 717.
Lovers' Dictionary, 860.

Modern History, Fredet's and Kearney's, 144,
Meditations of St. Thomas, 431.
My Prisons, 575.
Marie Antoinette and her Son, 713.
Morgan Rattler, 717.
Manual of Physical Exercises, 860.

Napoleon and Queen of Prussia, 713.
Newman's Verses on Various Occasions, 858.

Preston's Lectures on Reason and Revelation, 710.
Poems, 711.

Queens of American Society, The, 719.

Recamier, Madame, Life of, 430.
Rome and the Popes, 718.

Swetchine, Madame, Life of, 429.
Saint Ignatius and the Society of Jesus, 431.
Saint Gwendoline, Ye Legend of, 573.
Shamrock and Thistle, 574.
Saint Vincent de Paul, The Spirit of, 718.
Saint Francis of Assisi, Life of, 718.
Seek and Find, 720.
Strickland's Queens of England, 860.

Two Thousand Miles on Horseback, 715.
Tommy Hickup, 720.

Uberto, 286.
Ungava, 717.

Votary, The, 286.

Whitney on Language and the Study of Language, 423.
Women, The Friendships of, 852.

Young Fur Traders, The, 717.

------

{1}

The Catholic World

Vol. Vi., No. 31.--October, 1867.

------

    Rome And The World.


Under the head _Rome or Reason_ we showed in THE CATHOLIC
WORLD for last month that Catholicity is based on reality, and is
the synthesis, so to speak, of Creator and creature, of God and
man, of heaven and earth, nature and grace, faith and reason,
authority and liberty, revelation and science, and that there is
in the real order no antagonism between the two terms or
categories. The supposed antagonism results from not
understanding the real nexus that unites them in one dialectic
whole, and forms the ground of their mutual conciliation and
peace, expressed in the old sense of the word "atonement."

Christianity is supernatural, indeed, but it is not an
after-thought, or an anomaly in the original plan of creation.
Our Lord was the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world; the
Incarnation is included in creation as its completion or
fulfilment; and hence many theologians hold that, even if man had
not sinned, God would have become incarnate, not, indeed, to
redeem man from sin and death which comes by sin, but to ennoble
his nature, and to enable him to attain to that supernatural
union with God in which alone he finds or can find his supreme
good or perfect beatitude. Christianity, whether this be so or
not, must always be regarded as teleological, the religion of the
end--not accidentally so, but made so in the original plan of the
Creator. It enters dialectically, not arbitrarily, into that
plan, and really completes it. In this view of the case the
Creator's works from first to last are dialectical, and there is
and can be no contradiction in them; no discrepancy between the
natural and supernatural, between faith and reason, nature and
grace, the beginning, medium, and end, but all form integral
parts of one indissoluble whole.

But, if there is and can be no antagonism between Rome and
Reason, there certainly is an antagonism between Rome and the
World, which must not be overlooked or counted for nothing, and
which will, in some form, most likely, subsist as long as the
world stands. Rome symbolizes for us the catholic religion, or
the divine order, which is the law of life.
{2}
The Catholic Church in its present state dates only from the
Incarnation, out of which it grows, and of which it is in some
sort the visible continuation; but the Catholic religion, as the
faith, as the law of life, dates from the beginning. The just
before the coming of Christ were just on the same principles, by
the same faith, and by obedience to the same divine law, or
conformity to the same divine order, that they are now, and will
be to the end; and hence the deist Tindal expressed a truth which
he was far from comprehending when he asserted that "Christianity
is as old as the world." Tindal's great error was in
understanding by Christianity only the natural law promulgated
through natural reason, and in denying the supernatural.
Christianity is that and more too. It includes, and from the
first has included, in their synthesis, both the natural and the
supernatural. The human race has never had but one true or real
religion, but one revelation, which, as St. Thomas teaches, was
made in substance to our first parents in the garden. Times
change, says St. Augustine, but faith changes not. As believed
the fathers--the patriarchs--so believe we, only they believed in
a Christ to come, and we in a Christ that has come. Prior to the
actual coming of Christ the Church existed, but in a state of
promise, and needed his actual coming to be perfected, or
fulfilled, as St. Paul teaches us in his epistle to the Hebrews;
and hence none who died before the Incarnation actually entered
heaven till after the passion of our Lord.

Now, to this divine order, this divine law, this catholic faith
and worship symbolized to us by Rome, the visible centre of its
unity and authority, stands opposed another order, not of life,
but of death, called the world, originating with our first
parents, and in their disobedience to the divine law, or
violation of the divine order established by the Creator,
conformity to which was essential to the moral life and
perfection of the creature, or fulfilment of the promise given
man in creation. The order violated was founded in the eternal
wisdom and goodness of the Creator, and the relations which
necessarily subsist between God as creator and man as his
creature, the work of his hands. There is and can be for man no
other law of life; even God himself can establish no other. By
obedience to the law given or conformity to the order established
man is normally developed, lives a true normal life, and attains
to his appointed end, which is the completion of his being in
God, his beatitude or supreme good. But Satan tempted our first
parents to depart from this order and to transgress the divine
law, and in their transgression of the law they fell into sin,
and founded what we call the world--not on the law of life, but
on what is necessarily the law of death.

The principle of the world may be collected from the words of the
Tempter to Eve: "Ye shall not surely die, but shall be as gods,
knowing good and evil." These words deny the law of God, declare
it false, and promise to men independence of their Creator, and
the ability to be their own masters, their own teachers and
guides. "Ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil;" that is,
determining for yourselves, independently of any superior, what
is right or wrong, good or evil, or what is or is not fitting for
you to do. You shall suffice for yourselves, and be your own law.
Hence, as the basis of Rome is the assertion of the divine law,
conformity to the divine order, or submission to the divine
reason and will, that is, humility, the basis of the world is the
denial of the divine order, the rejection of the law of life and
the assertion of the sufficiency of man for himself, that is,
simply, pride.
{3}
Rome is based on humility, the world on pride; the spirit of Rome
is loyalty and obedience, the spirit of the world is disloyalty
and disobedience, always and everywhere the spirit of revolt or
rebellion. Between these two spirits there is necessarily an
indestructible antagonism, and no possible reconciliation.

The radical difference between Rome and the world is the radical
difference between the humility of the Christian and the pride of
the Stoic. All Christian piety and virtue are based on humility;
the piety and virtue of the stoic are based on pride. The
Christian is always deeply impressed with the greatness and
goodness of God; the stoic with the greatness and strength of
himself. The Christian submits to crosses and disappointments, to
the sufferings and afflictions of life, because he loves God, and
is willing to suffer anything for his sake; the stoic endures
them without a murmur, because he disdains to complain, and holds
that he is, and should be, superior to all the vicissitudes and
calamities of life. The Christian weeps as his Master wept at the
grave of Lazarus, and finds relief in his tears; the stoic is too
proud to weep; he wraps himself in his own dignity and
self-importance, and, when his calamities are greater than he can
bear, he seeks relief, like Cato, in suicide, thus proving his
weakness by the very means he takes to conceal it. The Christian
throws his burden on the Lord, and rises above it; the stoic
insists on bearing it himself, and at last sinks under it. The
world despises humility, and tramples on the humble. To it the
Christian is tame, passive, mean-spirited, contemptible. It has
no sympathy with the beatitudes, such as, Blessed are the poor in
spirit; blessed are the pure in heart; blessed are the meek;
blessed are the peacemakers. It understands nothing of true
Christian heroism, or of the greatness of repose. It sees
strength only in effort, which is always a proof of weakness, and
the harder one strains and tugs to raise a weight, the stronger
it holds him. We may see it in the popular literature of the day,
and in nearly all recent art. The ancients had a much truer
thought when they sculptured their gods asleep, and spread over
their countenance an air of ineffable repose. The Scriptures
speak of the mighty works of God, but represent them as the
hiding of his power. All the great operations of nature are
performed in silence, and the world notes them not. The
Christian's greatness is concealed by the veil of humility, and
his strength is hidden with God. He works in silence, but with
effect, because he works with the power of Him to whom is given
all power in heaven and in earth.

Mr. Gladstone thinks he finds in Homer the whole body of the
patriarchal religion, or the primitive tradition of the race, and
he probably is not much mistaken; but no one can study Homer's
heroes without being struck with the contrast they offer to the
heroes of the Old Testament. The Old Testament heroes are as
brave, as daring, and as effective as those of Homer; but they
conceal their own personality, they go forth to battle in
submission to the divine command, not seeking to display their
own skill or prowess, and the glory of their achievements they
ascribe to God, who goes with them, assists them, fights for
them, and gives the victory. What is manifest is the presence and
greatness of God, not the greatness and strength of the hero, who
is nothing in himself. In Homer the case is reversed, and what
strikes the reader is the littleness of God and the greatness of
men.
{4}
The gods and goddesses take part in the fray, it is true, but
they are hardly the equals of the human warriors themselves. A
human spear wounds Venus, and sends Mars howling from the field.
It is human greatness and strength, human prowess and heroism,
without any reference to God, to whom belongs the glory, that the
poet sings, the creature regarded as independent of the Creator.
In reading the Old Testament, you lose sight of the glory of men
in the glory of God; in reading Homer, you lose sight of the
glory of God in the glory of men. Abraham, Joshua, Gideon,
Jephtha, David, the Maccabees fight as the servants of the Most
High; Agamemnon, Ajax, Diomed, Achilles, even Hector, to display
their own power, and to prove the stuff that is in them.

Perhaps no author, ancient or modern, has so completely embodied
in his writings, the spirit of the world, the Welt-Geist, as the
Germans say, as Thomas Carlyle. This writer may have done some
service to society in exposing many cants, in demolishing
numerous shams, and in calling attention to the eternal verities,
of which few men are more ignorant; but he has deified force, and
consecrated the worship of might in the place of right. Indeed,
for him, right is cant, and there is no right but might. He
spurns humility, submission, obedience, and recognizes God only
in human ability. His hero-worship is the worship of the strong
and the successful. Ability, however directed or wherever
displayed, is his divinity. His heroes are Woden and Thor,
Cromwell, Frederick the Great, Mirabeau, Danton, Napoleon
Bonaparte. The men who go straight to their object, whether good
or bad, and use the means necessary to gain it, whether right or
wrong, are for him the divine men, and the only thing he censures
is weakness, whether caused by indecision or scruples of
conscience. His hero is an elemental force, who acts as the
lightning that rives the oak, or the winds that fill the sails
and drive the ship to its port. Old-fashioned morality, which
requires a man to seek just ends by just means, is with him a
cant, a sham, an unreality, and the true hero makes away with it,
and is his own end, his own law, his own means. He is not
governed, he governs, and is the real being, the real God; all
else belong to the unveracities, are mere simulacra, whose end is
to vanish in thin air, to disappear in the inane. The man who
recognizes a power above him, a right independent of him, and in
submission to the divine law, and from love of truth and justice,
weds himself to what is commanded, espouses the right and adheres
to it through good report and evil report, takes up the cause of
the oppressed, the wronged and outraged, the poor, the
friendless, and the down-trodden, and works for it, gives his
soul to it, and sacrifices his time, his labor, and his very life
to advance it, when he has no man with him, and all the world
unheeds, jeers, or thwarts him, is unheroic, and has no moral
grandeur in him, has no virtue--unless he succeeds. He is a hero
only when he carries the world with him, bends the multitude to
his purpose, and comes out triumphant. The unsuccessful are
always wrong; lost causes are always bad causes; and the
unfortunate are unveracious, and deserve their fate. The good man
struggling with fate, and holding fast to his integrity in the
midst of the sorest trials and temptations, and overborne in all
things save his unconquerable devotion to duty, is no hero, and
deserves no honor, though even the ancients thought such a man
worthy of the admiration of gods and men.
{5}
Carlyle forgets that there is an hereafter, and that what to our
dim vision may seem to be failure here may there be seen to have
been the most eminent success. The Christians conquered the
world, not by slaying, but by being slain, and the race has been
redeemed by the Cross. Indeed, pride is always a proof of
meanness and weakness, is an unveracity; for it is born of a lie,
and rests on a lie: all real magnanimity and strength for men
spring from humility, which is not a falsehood, but a veracity;
for it is conformity to the truth of things.

The principle of opposition to the church is always and
everywhere the same, invariable in time and place as the church
herself, and has a certain consistency, a certain logic of its
own; but it varies its form from age to age and from nation to
nation, and is enraged at the church because she does not vary
with it. It is always at bottom, whatever its form, the
assumption that the creature does or may suffice for itself: "Ye
shall not surely die, but shall be as gods, knowing good and
evil." This primitive falsehood, this satanic lie, underlies all
the hostility of the world to the church, or of the world to
Rome. Analyze what is called the world, and you will find that it
is only a perpetual effort or series of efforts to realize the
promise made by the serpent to Eve in the garden, when coiled
round the tree of knowledge. The world labors to exalt the
dignity and glory of man, not as a creature dependent for his
existence, for all he is or can be, on the Creator, which would
be just and proper, but as an independent, self-acting, and
self-determining being, accountable, individually or socially,
only to himself for his thoughts, words, and deeds--subject to no
law but his own will, appetites, passions, natural propensities,
and tendencies. He is himself his own law, his own master, and
should be free from all restraint and all control not in himself.

It is easy, therefore, to understand why, with the world and with
men filled with the spirit of the world, Rome is held to be the
symbol of despotism, and the church to be inherently and
necessarily hostile to the freedom of thought and to all civil
and religious liberty. The world understands by liberty
independence of action, and therefore exemption from all
obligation of obedience, or subjection to any law, not
self-imposed. It holds the free man to be one who is under no
control, subject to no restraint, and responsible to no will but
his own. This is its view of liberty, and consequently whatever
restricts liberty in this sense, and places man under a law which
he is bound to recognize and obey, is in its vocabulary
despotism, opposed to the rights of man, the rights of the mind,
the rights of society, or the freedom and independence of the
secular order. Liberty in this broad and universal sense
obviously cannot be the right or prerogative of any creature, for
the creature necessarily depends for all he is or has on the
creator. Hence M. Proudhon, who maintained that property is
robbery, with a rigid logic that has hardly been appreciated,
asserts that the existence of God is incompatible with the
assertion of the liberty of man. Admit, he says, the existence of
God, and you must concede all the authority claimed by the
Catholic Church. The foundation of all despotism is in the belief
in the existence of God, and you must deny, obliterate that
belief, before you can assert and maintain liberty. He was right,
if we take liberty as the world takes it. Liberty, as the world
understands it, is the liberty of a god, not of a creature.
{6}
Rome asserts and maintains full liberty of man as a creature; but
she does and must oppose liberty in the broad, universal sense of
the world; for her very mission is to assert and maintain the
supremacy of the divine order, the authority of God over all the
works of his hands, and alike over men as individuals and as
nations. She asserts indeed, liberty in its true sense; but she,
does and must oppose the liberty the world demands, the liberty
promised by Satan to our first parents, and which, in truth,
should be called license, not liberty, and also those who strive
for it as disloyal to God, as rebels to their rightful sovereign,
children of disobedience, warring against, as Carlyle would say,
the veracities, the eternal verities, the truth of things, or
divine reality. There is no help for it. The church must do so,
or be false to her trust, false to her God, false to the divine
order; for, let the world say what it will, man is not God, but
God's creature, and God is sovereign Lord and proprietor of the
universe, since he has made it, and the maker has the sovereign
right to the thing made. Here is no room for compromise, and the
struggle must continue till the world abandons its false notion
of liberty, and submits to the divine government. Till then the
church is and must be the church militant, and carry on the war
against the world, whatever shape it may assume.

With the ancient Gentiles the world rather perverted and
corrupted the truth than absolutely rejected it, and fell into
idolatry and superstition rather than into absolute atheism. The
Epicureans were, indeed, virtually atheists, but they never
constituted the great body of any Gentile nation. The heathen
generally retained a dim and shadowy belief in the divinity, even
in the unity of God; but they lost the conception of him as
creator, and consequently of man and the universe as his
creature. By substituting in their philosophy generation,
emanation, or formation for creation, they obscured the sense of
man's dependence on God as creator, and consequently destroyed
the necessary relation between religion and morality. No moral
ideas entered into their worship, and they worshipped the gods to
whom they erected temples and made offerings, not from a sense of
duty or from the moral obligation of the creature to adore his
Creator and give himself to him, but from motives of interest, to
avert their displeasure, appease their wrath, or to render them
propitious to their undertakings, whether private enterprises or
public war and conquest. They asserted for man and society
independence of the divine order as a moral order. Severed from
all moral conceptions, their religion became a degraded and
degrading superstition, an intolerable burden to the soul, and
their worship the embodiment of impurity and corruption. Such was
the effect of the great Gentile apostasy, or Gentile attempt to
realize the freedom and independence promised by Satan. The
promise proved a lie.

When the church in her present state was established, the world
opposed her in the name of the liberty or independence of the
temporal order, which implies as its basis the independence of
the creature of the creator, and therefore resting on the same
satanic promise, "Ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil."
When our Lord was brought before Pontius Pilate, and Pilate was
about to dismiss the charges against him and to let him go, the
Jews changed his purpose by telling him, "If you let this man go,
you are no friend to Caesar."
{7}
The heathen persecutions of the Christians were principally on
the ground that they were disloyal to the empire, inasmuch as
they rejected its worship, and asserted the immediate divine
authority of their religion and its independence of the state or
civil society, holding firmly always and everywhere the maxim,
"We must obey God rather than men." All down through the
barbarous ages that followed the downfall of the Roman empire of
the West, through the feudal ages, and down even to our own
times, the state has claimed supreme authority over the church in
regard to her temporal goods and her government, and has
constantly sought to subject her to the civil authority, which in
principle is the same with subjecting God to man. The world
represented by Caesar has constantly struggled to subvert the
independence of religion, and to exalt the human above the
divine. This is the meaning of the mediaeval contests between the
pope and the emperor, as we have heretofore shown. There is not
at this day, unless Belgium be an exception, a single state in
Europe where the temporal power leaves religion free and
independent, or where the church has not to struggle against the
government to maintain the independence of the divine order she
represents. Fidelity to God is held to be treason to the state,
and hence Elizabeth of England executes Catholics at Tyburn as
traitors.

The age boasts of progress, and calls through all its thousands
of organs upon us to admire the marvellous progress it has made,
and is every hour making. It is right, if what it means by
progress really be progress. It has certainly gone further than
any preceding age in emancipating itself from the supremacy of
the law of God, in trampling on the divine order, and asserting
the supremacy of man. It has drawn the last logical consequences
contained in the lying promise of Satan, "Ye shall be as gods,
knowing good and evil." There is no use in denying or seeking to
disguise it. The world as opposed to Rome, ceases entirely to
regard man as a creature, and boldly and unblushingly puts him in
all respects in the place of God. God, when not openly denied to
exist, is denied as creator: he is at most _natura
naturans_, and identical with what are called the laws of
nature. Hundreds of _savans_ are busy with the effort to
explain the universe without recognizing a creator, and to prove
that effects may be obtained without causes. Science stops at
second causes, or, rather, with the investigation and
classification of phenomena, laughs at final causes, and, if it
does not absolutely deny a first cause, relegates it to the
region of the unknowable, and treats it as if it were not. The
advanced philosophers of the age see no difference between moral
laws and physical laws, between gratitude and gravitation. The
heart secretes virtue as the liver secretes bile, and virtue
itself consists not in a voluntary act of obedience, or in
deliberately acting for a prescribed end, but in force of nature,
in following one's instincts, and acting out one's self, heedless
of consequences, and without any consideration of moral
obligation. Truth is a variable quantity, and is one thing with
me and another with my neighbor. There is no providence, or
providence is fate, and God is the theological name given to the
forces of nature, especially human nature; there is no divinity
but man; all worship except that of humanity is idolatry or
superstition; the race is immortal, but individuals, are mortal,
and there is no resurrection of the dead.
{8}
Some, like Fourier and Auguste Comte, even deny that the race is
immortal, and suppose that in time it will disappear in the
inane.

But, without going any further into detail, we may say generally
the age asserts the complete emancipation of man and his
institutions from all intellectual, moral, and spiritual control
or restraint, and under the name of liberty asserts the complete
and absolute independence of man both individually and
collectively, and under pretence of democratic freedom wars
against all authority and all government, whether political or
ecclesiastical. It does not like to concede even the axioms of
the mathematician or the definitions of the geometrician, and
sees in them a certain limitation of intellectual freedom. To ask
it to conform to fixed and invariable principles, or to insist
that there are principles independent of the human mind, or to
maintain that truth is independent of opinion, and that opinions
are true or false as they do or do not conform to it, is to seek
to trammel free and independent thought, and to outrage what is
most sacred and divine in man. The mind must be free, and to be
free it must be free from all obligation to seek, to recognize,
or to conform to truth. Indeed, there is no truth but what the
mind conceives to be such, and the mind is free to abide by its
own conceptions, for they are the truth for it. Rome, in
asserting that truth is independent of the human will, human
passions and conceptions, one and universal, and always and
everywhere the same, and in condemning as error whatever denies
it or does not conform to it, is a spiritual despotism, which
every just and noble principle of human nature, the irrepressible
instincts of humanity itself, wars against, and resists by every
means in its power.

We have shown that the world, as opposed to Rome, rests on the
satanic falsehood, and this conception of liberty, which Rome
rejects and wars against, has no other basis than the satanic
promise, "Ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil," or be your
own masters as God is his own master, and suffice for yourselves
as he suffices for himself. The world is not wrong in asserting
liberty, but wrong in its definition of liberty, or in demanding
for man not the proper liberty of the creature, but the liberty
which can exist only for the Creator. By claiming for man a
liberty not possible for a dependent creature, the world loses
the liberty to which it has, under God, the right, and falls
under the worst of all tyrannies. Liberty is a right, but, if
there is no right, how can you defend liberty as a right? If
liberty is not a right, no wrong is done in violating it, and
tyranny is as lawful as freedom. Here is a difficulty in the very
outset that the world cannot get over. It must assert right,
therefore the order of justice, before it can assert its liberty
against Rome; and, if it does assert such order, it concedes what
Rome maintains, that liberty is founded in the order of justice,
and cannot transcend what is true and just. The world does not
see that, in denying the spiritual order represented by Rome, it
denies the very basis of liberty, and all difference between
liberty and despotism, because it is only on the supposition of
such order that liberty can be defended as a right, or despotism
condemned as a wrong.

It is alleged against Rome that she opposes modern civilization.
This is so or not so, according to what we understand by modern
civilization.
{9}
If we understand by modern civilization the rejection of the
divine order, the supremacy of spiritual truth, and the assertion
of the divinity and independence of man, Rome undoubtedly opposes
it, and must oppose it; but, if we understand by modern
civilization the melioration of the laws, the development of
humane sentiments, the power acquired by the people in the
management of their temporal affairs, and the material progress
effected by the application of the truths of science to the
industrial arts, the invention of the steam-engine, the
steamboat, the railway and locomotive, and the lightning
telegraph, the extension of commerce and increased facilities of
international communication, though probably a greater value is
attached to these things than truth warrants, she by no means
opposes or discourages modern civilization. Undoubtedly she
places heaven above earth, and is more intent on training men for
eternal beatitude than on promoting temporal prosperity of this
life. The earth is not our end, and riches are not the supreme
good. She asserts a higher than worldly wisdom, and holds that
the beggar has at least as good a chance of heaven as the rich
man clothed in fine linen and faring sumptuously every day. She
would rather see men intent on saving their souls than engrossed
with money-making. The experience of modern society proves that
in this she is right. We live in an industrial age, and never in
any age of the world did people labor longer or harder than they
do now to obtain the means of subsistence, and never was the
honest poor man less esteemed, wealth more highly honored, or
mammon more devoutly worshipped; yet the church never opposes
earthly well-being, and regards it with favor when made
subsidiary to the ultimate end of man.

Yet certain words have become sacramental for the world, and are
adopted by men who would shrink from the sense given them by the
more advanced liberals of the day; and these men regard Rome,
when condemning them in that extreme sense, as condemning modern
civilization itself. We take the Encyclical of the Holy Father,
issued December 8, 1864. The whole non-Catholic world, and even
some Catholics, poorly informed as to their own religion or as to
the meaning of the errors condemned, regarded that Encyclical as
a fulmination against liberty and all modern civilization. Nobody
can forget the outcry raised everywhere by the secular press
against the Holy Father, and what are called the retrograde
tendencies of the Catholic Church. The pope, it was said, has
condemned all free thought and both civil and religious liberty,
the development of modern society, and all modern progress. Yet
it is very likely that four fifths of those who joined in the
outcry, had they been able to discriminate between what they
themselves really mean to defend under the names of liberty,
progress, and civilization, and what the more advanced liberals
hold and seek to propagate, would have seen that the pope in
reality condemned only the errors which they themselves condemn,
and asserted only what they themselves really hold. He condemned
nothing which is not a simple logical deduction from the words of
the arch-tempter, the liar from the beginning and the father of
lies, addressed to our first parents. All the errors condemned in
the Syllabus are errors which tend to deny or obscure the divine
existence, the fact of creation, the authority of the Creator,
the supremacy of the divine or spiritual order, to undermine all
religion and morality, all civil government, and even society
itself; and to render all science, all liberty, all progress, and
all civilization impossible, as we have shown over and over again
in the pages of this Magazine.

{10}

The numbers who embrace in their fullest extent the extreme views
we have set forth, though greater than it is pleasant to believe,
are yet not great enough to give of themselves any serious alarm,
and hence many able and well-meaning men who have not the least
sympathy with them attach no great importance to them, and treat
them with superb contempt; but they are in reality only the
advance-guard of a much larger and more formidable body, who
march under the same drapeau and adopt the same counter-sign. The
Archbishop of Westminster, than whom we can hardly name an abler
or more enlightened prelate in the church, has said truly in a
late Pastoral,

  "That the age of heresies is past. No one now dreams of
  revising the teaching of the church, or of making a new form of
  Christianity. For this the age is too resolute and consistent.
  Faith or unbelief is an intelligible alternative; but between
  variations and fragments of Christianity men have no care to
  choose. All or none is clear and consistent; but more or less
  is halting and undecided. Revelation is a perfect whole,
  pervaded throughout by the veracity and authority of God, the
  Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. To reject any of it is to reject
  the whole law of divine faith; to criticise it and to remodel
  it is to erect the human reason as judge and measure of the
  divine. And such is heresy; an intellectual aberration which in
  these last ages has been carried to its final analysis, and
  exposed not only by the theology of the church but by the
  common sense of rationalism. We may look for prolific and
  antichristian errors in abundance, but heresies in Christianity
  are out of date."

The great body of those outside of the Catholic communion, as
well as some nominally in it, but not of it, who are still
attached to the Christian name, adopt the watchwords of the
extreme party, and are tending in the same direction. Mazzini and
Garibaldi are heroes with the mass of Englishmen and Americans,
who wish them success in their anti-religious and anti-social
movements. The universal secular press, the great power in modern
society, with the whole sectarian press, has applauded the
nefarious measures of intriguing Italian statesmen, demagogues,
and apostates by which the Holy Father has been stripped of the
greater part of his temporal possessions, the church despoiled of
her goods, religious houses suppressed, and the freedom and
independence of religion abolished throughout the Italian
peninsula. The only non-Catholic voice we have heard raised in
sympathy with the pope is that of Guizot, the ex-premier of Louis
Philippe. Guizot, though a Protestant, sees that the papacy is
essential to the Catholic Church, and that the Catholic Church is
essential to the preservation of Christian civilization, the
maintenance of society and social order. Our own secular press,
so loud in its praise of religious liberty, applauds the Mexican
Juarez for his confiscation of the goods of the church in the
poor, distracted republic of Mexico. The sympathy of the world,
of the age, is with every movement that tends to weaken the power
of the church, the authority of religion, and even the authority
of the state. The tendency with great masses who believe
themselves Christians, a blind tendency it may be, is to
no-religion or infidelity, and to no-governmentism. It is this
fact that constitutes the danger to be combated.

The difficulty of combating it is very great. The mass of the
people are caught by words without taking note of the meaning
attached to them.
{11}
Where they find the consecrated terms of faith and piety, they
naturally conclude that faith and piety are there. But to a great
extent the enemies of Christianity oppose Christianity under
Christian names. It is characteristic of this age that infidelity
disguises itself in a Christian garb, and utters its blasphemy in
Christian phraseology, its falsehoods in the language of truth.
Satan disguises himself as an angel of light, comes as a
philanthropist, talks of humanity, professes to be the champion
of science, intelligence, education, liberty, progress, social
amelioration, and the moral, intellectual, and physical elevation
of the poorer and more numerous classes--all good things, when
rightly understood, and in their time and place. We cannot oppose
him without seeming to many to oppose what is a Christian duty.
If we oppose false intelligence, we are immediately accused of
being opposed to intelligence; if we oppose a corrupt and baneful
education, we are accused of being in favor of popular ignorance,
and lovers of darkness; if we oppose false liberty, or license
presented under the name of liberty, we are charged with being
the enemies of true freedom; if we assert authority, however
legitimate or necessary, then we are despots and the advocates of
despotism. The press opens its cry against us, and the age votes
us mediaeval dreamers, behind the times, relics of the past, with
our eyes on the backside of our heads, and the truth is drowned
in the floods of indignation or ridicule poured out against us.
Our success would be hopeless, if we could not rely on the
support of Him whose cause we seek to the best of our ability to
defend, and who after all reigneth in the heavens, and is able to
make the wrath of man praise him, and can overrule evil for good.

It is alleged that the church opposes democracy, and is leagued
with the despots against the people. The church herself leagues
neither with democracy nor with monarchy. She leaves the people
free to adopt the form of government they prefer. She opposes
movements pretendedly in favor of democracy only when they are in
violation of social order and opposed to legitimate authority,
and she supports monarchy only where monarchy is the law, and it
is necessary to uphold it as the condition of maintaining social
order, and saving civilization from the barbarism that threatens
to invade it. In the sixteenth century and the beginning of the
seventeenth century the contrary charge was preferred, and the
Church was condemned by the world on the ground of being hostile
to kingly government; for public opinion then favored absolute
monarchy, as it does now absolute democracy. We believe our own
form of government the best for us, but we dare not say that
other forms of government are not the best for other nations.
Despotism is never legitimate; but we know no law of God or
nature that makes democracy obligatory upon every people, and no
reason for supposing that real liberty keeps pace with the
progress of democracy. Democracy did not save France from the
Reign of Terror and the most odious tyranny, and it certainly has
not secured liberty and good order in Mexico. With us it is yet
an experiment and we can pronounce nothing with certainty till we
have seen the result of the crisis we are now passing through. We
owe to it a fearful civil war and the suppression of a formidable
rebellion, but the end is not yet. Still, there is nothing in our
form of government in discord with the Catholic Church, and we
firmly believe that, if maintained in its purity and integrity,
she would find under it a freer field for her exertions than has
ever yet been afforded her in the Old World.
{12}
At any rate, there is no room for doubt that the country needs
the church to sustain our political institutions, and to secure
their free and beneficial workings.

But the world does not gain what it seeks. It does not gain
inward freedom, freedom of soul and of thought. It is difficult
to conceive a worse bondage than he endures who feels that for
truth and goodness he has no dependence but himself. One wants
something on which to rest, something firm and immovable, and no
bondage is more painful than the feeling that we stand on an
insecure foundation, ready to give way under us if we seek to
rest our whole weight on it, and that our constructions, however
ingenious, can stand only as we uphold them with might and main.
The man with only himself for support, is Atlas bearing the
weight of the world on his shoulders in a treadmill. He is a man,
as we know by experience, crossing a deep and broad river on
floating cakes of ice, each too small to bear his weight, and
sinking as soon as he strikes it. He must constantly keep
springing from one to another to save his life, and yet, however
rapidly he springs, gains nothing more solid or less movable. The
world in its wisdom is just agoing to get on to something on
which it can stand and rest, but it never does. Its castles are
built in the air, and it spends all its labor for naught. All its
efforts defeat themselves. Its philanthropy aggravates the evils
it would redress, or creates others that are greater and less
easily cured. In seeking mental freedom, it takes from the mind
the light without which it cannot operate; in seeking freedom
from the king, it falls under the tyranny of the mob; and, to get
rid of the tyranny of the mob falls under that of the military
despot; disdaining heaven, it loses the earth; refusing to obey
God, it loses man.

All history, all experience proves it. Having rejected the
sacredness and inviolability of authority in both religion and
politics, and asserted "the sacred right of insurrection," the
world finds itself without religion, without faith, without
social order, in the midst of perpetual revolutions, checked or
suppressed only by large standing armies, while each nation is
overwhelmed with a public debt that is frightful to contemplate.
This need not surprise us. It is the truth that liberates or
makes free, and when truth is denied, or resolved into each one's
own opinion or mental conception, there is nothing to liberate
the mind from its illusions and to sustain its freedom. The mind
pines away and dies without truth, as the body without food. It
was said by one who spake as never man spake, that he who would
save his life shall lose it, and experience proves that they who
seek this world never gain it. "Ye shall not eat thereof, nor
touch it, lest ye die." This command, which Satan contradicts, is
true and good, and obedience to it is the only condition of life,
or real success in life. In seeking to be God, man becomes less
than man, because he denies the truth and reality of things. It
is very pleasant, says Heinrich Heine, to think one's self a god,
but it costs too much to keep up the dignity and majesty of one's
godship. Our resources are not equal to it, and purse and health
give way under the effort. Falsehood yields nothing, because it
is itself nothing, and is infinitely more expensive than truth.
Falsehood has no support, and can give none; whoever leans on it
must fall through. And if ever there was a falsehood, it is that
man is God, or independent of God.

{13}

The whole question between Rome and the world, turn it as we
will, comes back always to this: Is man God, or the creature of
God? He certainly is not God: then he is a creature, and God has
created him and owns him, is his Lord and Master. He, then, is
not independent of God, for the creative act of God is as
necessary to continue him in existence and to enable him to act,
to fulfil his destiny, or to attain his end or supreme good, as
it was to call him from nothing into existence. God is the
principle, medium, and end of our existence. Separation from God,
or independence of him, is death; for we live, and move, and have
our being in him, not in ourselves. The universe, when once
created, does not go ahead on its own hook or of itself without
further creative intervention; for the creative act is not
completed in relation to the creature, till the creature has
fulfilled its destiny or reached its end. God creates me and at
each moment of my existence as much and as truly as he did Adam,
and the suspension of his creative act for a single instant would
be my annihilation. So of the universe. He creates me, indeed, a
second cause and a free moral agent; but even in my own acts or
causation I depend on him as my first cause, as the cause of me
as a second cause, and in my own sphere I can cause or act only
by virtue of his active presence and concurrence. When I attempt
to act without him, as if I were independent of him, as our first
parents did in following the suggestions of Satan, I do not cease
to exist physically, but I die morally and spiritually, lose my
moral life, fall into abnormal relations with my Creator, and am
spiritually dead; for my moral and spiritual life depends on my
voluntary obedience to the law of all created life: "Ye shall not
eat thereof, or touch it, lest ye die."

Here is the basis of the divine dominion. God is sovereign lord
and proprietor because he is creator, and man and nature are the
work of his hands. Hence the Mosaic books insist not only on the
unity of God, but even with more emphasis, if possible, on God as
creator. The first verse of Genesis asserts creation in
opposition to emanation, generation, or formation: "In the
beginning God created the heavens and the earth." All through the
Old Testament, especially in the hagiographical books and the
prophets, there is a perpetual recurrence to God as creator, to
the fact that he has made the world and all things therein, and
hence the call upon all creatures to sing his praise, so often
repeated in the Psalms. Indeed, it was not so much by belief in
the unity of God as in the fact that God is sole and universal
creator, that the Jews were distinguished from the Gentiles. It
may be doubted if the Gentiles ever wholly lost the belief in the
existence of one God. We think we find in all heathen mythologies
traces of a recognition of one God hovering, so to speak, over
their manifold gods and goddesses, who were held to be tutelar
divinities, never the divinity itself. But the Gentiles, as we
have already said, had lost, and did in no sense admit, the fact
of creation. We find no recognition of God as creator in any
Gentile philosophy, Indian, Persian, Chaldean, Egyptian, Chinese,
Greek, or Roman. The Gentiles were not generally atheists, we
suspect not atheists at all; but they were invariably pantheists.
Pantheism is the denial of the proper creative act of God, or,
strictly speaking, that God creates substances or existences
capable of acting from their own centre and producing effects as
second causes.
{14}
The Jews were the only people, after the great Gentile apostasy,
that preserved the tradition of creation. God as creator is the
basis of all science, all faith, all religion; hence the first
article of the Creed: "I believe in one God, maker of heaven and
earth, and of all things visible and invisible." In this fact is
founded the inviolable right of the Almighty to govern all his
works, man among the rest, as seems to him good. We cannot deny
this if we once admit the fact of creation; and if we deny the
fact of creation, we deny our own existence and that of the
entire universe.

But the right to govern implies the correlative duty of
obedience. If God has the right to govern us, then we are bound
to obey him and do his bidding, whatever it may be. There is
nothing arbitrary in this, it is founded in the relation of
creator and creature, and God himself could not make it otherwise
without annihilating all creatures and ceasing to be creator. God
could not create existences without giving them a law, because
their very relation to him as his creatures imposes on them an
inflexible and invariable law, which, if created free agents,
they may, indeed, refuse to obey, but not and live. Here is the
whole philosophy of authority and obedience. We must not confound
the symbols employed in Genesis with the meaning they symbolize.
The command given to our first parents was simply the law under
which they were placed by the fact that they were creatures, that
God had made them, and they belonged to him, owed him obedience,
and could not disobey him without violating the very law of their
existence. They cannot but die, because they depart from the
truth of things, deny their real relation to God, and go against
the divine order, conformity to which is in the nature of the
case their only condition of life. So Rome teaches in accordance
with our highest and best reason. The world, listening to the
flattering words of Satan and the allurements of the flesh,
denies it, and says, "Ye shall not surely die;" you may sin and
live, may become free and independent, be as gods yourselves,
your own master, teacher, and guide. Hence the inevitable war
between Rome and the world, she striving to secure the obedience
of men and nations to the law of God, and it striving to maintain
their independence of the law, and to make them believe that they
can live a life of their own, which in the nature of the case is
not life, but death.

Other considerations, no doubt enter into the worship of God
beside the simple fact that he is our Creator, but that fact is
the basis of our moral obligation to obey him. This obligation is
obscured when we seek for it another basis, as in the intrinsic
worth, goodness, or excellence of God. No doubt, God deserves to
be adored for his own sake, to be loved and obeyed for what he is
in and of himself, but it is not easy to prove to men of the
world that they are morally bound to love and obey goodness.
These higher views of God which convert obedience into love, and
would enable us to love God even if he did not command it, and to
desire him for his own sake without reference to what he is to
us, may in some sense be attained to, and are so by the saints,
but there are few of us perfect enough for that. The law
certainly is an expression of the goodness and love of the
Creator, as is creation itself, but this is not precisely the
reason why it is obligatory.
{15}
It is a good reason why we should love the law and delight in it,
but not the reason why we are bound to obey it. We are bound to
obey it because it is the law of our Creator, who has the
sovereign right to command us, and hence religion cannot be
severed from morality. No act of religion is of any real worth
that is not an act of obedience, of submission of our will to the
divine will, or which is not a frank acknowledgment of the divine
sovereignty and the supremacy of the moral law. There must be in
it an act of self-denial, of self-immolation, or it is not a true
act of obedience, and obedience is better than any external
offerings we can bring to the altar.

Here is where the world again errs. It is ready to offer
sacrifices to God, to load his altars with its offerings of the
firstlings of flocks and herds, and the fruits of the earth, but
it revolts at any act of obedience, and will not remember that
the sacrifices pleasing to God are an humble and contrite heart.
It would serve God from love, not duty, forgetting that there is
no love where there is no obedience. The obedience is the chief
element of the love: "If ye love me, keep my commandments." We
show our love to the Father by doing the will of the Father.
There is no way of escaping the act of submission, and walking
into heaven with our heads erect, in our own pride and strength,
and claiming our beatitude as our right, without ever having
humbled ourselves before God. We may show that the law is good,
the source of light and life; we may show its reasonableness and
justness, and that there is nothing degrading or humiliating in
obeying it; but, whatever we do in this respect, nothing will
avail if the act of obedience be withheld. Till the world does
this, submits to the law, no matter what fine speeches it may
make, what noble sentiments it may indulge, what just convictions
it may entertain, or what rich offerings it may bring to the
altar, it is at enmity with God, and peace between it and Rome is
impossible.

God is in Christ reconciling the world to himself, but there can
be no reconciliation without submission. God cannot change, and
the world must. No humiliating conditions are imposed on it, but
it must acknowledge that it has been wrong, and that the law it
has resisted is just and right, and, above all, obligatory. This
is the hardship the world complains of. But what reason has it to
complain? What is demanded of it not for its good, or that is not
demanded by the very law of life itself? The world demands
liberty, but what avails a false and impracticable liberty? True
liberty is founded in justice, is a right, and supported by law.
We have shown, time and again, that the church suppresses no real
liberty, and asserts and maintains for all men all the liberty
that can fall to the lot of any created being. It demands the
free exercise of human reason. In what respect does the church
restrain freedom of thought? Can reason operate freely without
principles, without data, without light, without any support, or
anything on which to rest? What is the mind without truth, or
intelligence in which nothing real is grasped? We know only so
far as we know truth, and our opinions and convictions are worth
nothing in so far as they are false, or not in accordance with
the truth that we neither make nor can unmake, which is
independent of us, independent of all men, and of all created
intellects. What harm, then, does the church do us when she
presents us infallibly that truth which the mind needs for its
support?
{16}
Society needs law, and how does the church harm it by teaching
the law of God, without which it cannot subsist? Men need
government. What harm does the church do in declaring the supreme
law of God, from which all human laws derive their force as laws,
and which defines and guarantees both authority and liberty,
protects the prince from the turbulence of the mob, and the
people from the tyranny of the prince?

As sure as that man is God's creature and bound to obey God,
there is for him no good independent of obedience to the law of
God; and equally sure is it that obedience to that law secures to
him all the good compatible with his condition as a created
existence. The mystery of the Incarnation, in which God assumes
human nature to be his own nature, gives him the promise of even
participating in the happiness of God himself. This happiness or
beatitude with God in eternity is the end for which man was
created, and is included in the creative act of which it is the
completion or fulfilment. In estimating the good which is sure to
us by conformity to the divine order and obedience to the divine
law, we must take into the account our whole existence from its
inception to its completion in Christ in glory, and include in
that good not only the joys and consolations of this life, but
that eternal beatitude which God through his superabundant
goodness has provided for us, and remember that all this we
forfeit by obeying the law of death rather than the law of life.
We can fulfil our destiny, attain to the stature of full-grown
men, or complete our existence only by conforming to the divine
order, by adhering to the truth, and obeying the law of life.
Instead, then, of regarding the church as our enemy, as opposed
to our real good, we should regard her as our true friend, and
see in her a most striking proof of the loving-kindness of our
God. In her he gives us precisely what we need to teach us his
will, to make known to us the truth as it is in him, and to
declare to us in all the vicissitudes and complexities of life
the requirements of the law, and to be the medium of the gracious
assistance we need to fulfil them.

No good thing will God withhold from them that love him. And he
gives us all good in giving us, as he does, himself. Nor does he
give us only the goods of the soul. He that will lose his life in
God shall find it. "Seek first the kingdom of God and his
justice, and all these things"--the things which the Gentiles
seek after--"shall be added to you." They who lay up the most
abundant treasures in heaven have the most abundant treasures on
earth. The true principle of political economy, which the old
French Economists and Adam Smith never knew, is self-denial, is
in living for God and not for the world, as a Louvain professor
has amply proved with a depth of thought, a profound philosophy,
and a knowledge of the laws of production, distribution, and
consumption seldom equalled. "I have been young, and now I am
old, but never have I seen the righteous forsaken, or his seed
begging bread." No people are more industrious or more bent on
accumulating wealth, than our own, but so little is their
self-denial and so great is their extravagance that the mass of
them are, notwithstanding appearances, really poor. The realized
capital of the country is not sufficient to pay its debts. We
have expended the surplus earnings of the country for half a
century or more, and the wealth of the nation is rapidly passing
into the hands of a few money-lenders and soulless mammoth
corporations, already too strong to be controlled by the
government, whether State or General.
{17}
If it had not been for the vast quantities of cheap unoccupied
lands easy of access, we should have seen a poverty and distress
in this country to be found in no other. The mercantile and
industrial system inaugurated by the Peace of Utrecht in 1713,
and which is regarded as the crowning glory of the modern world,
has added nothing to the real wealth of nations. But this is a
theme foreign to our present purpose, and has already carried us
too far. We will only add that the true Christian has the promise
of this life and of that which is to come.

Now, no one can estimate the advantage to men and nations that
must have been derived and continue to be derived from the church
placed in the world to assert at every point the divine
sovereignty, and to proclaim constantly in a clear and ringing
voice that the Lord God omnipotent reigneth, and his law is the
law of life, of progress, and of happiness both here and
hereafter, the great truth which the world is ever prone to
forget or to deny. We ought, therefore, to regard her existence
with the most profound gratitude. She has done this work from the
first, and continues to do it with unabated strength, in spite of
so many sad defections and the opposition of kings and peoples.
Never has she had more numerous, more violent, more subtle, or
more powerful enemies than during the pontificate of our present
Holy Father, Pius the Ninth. Never have her enemies seemed nearer
obtaining a final triumph over her, and they have felt that at
last she is prostrate, helpless, in her agony. Yet do they reckon
without their host. The magnificent spectacle at Rome on the 29th
of last June of more than five hundred bishops, and thousands of
priests from all parts of the world, from every tongue and nation
on the earth, gathered round their chief, and joining with him in
celebrating the eighteen hundredth anniversary of the glorious
martyrdom of Peter, the prince of the apostles, whose succession
in the government of the church has never failed, proves that
their exultation is premature, that her veins are still full of
life, and that she is as fresh and vigorous as when she first
went forth from Jerusalem on her divine mission to win the world
to her Lord. The indication by the Holy Father of his resolve at
a near day to convoke a universal council, a grand assembly of
the princes of the church, proves also that she is still a fact,
a living power on the earth, though not of it, with whom the
princes of this world must count. Before her united voice,
assisted by the Holy Ghost, her enemies will be struck dumb, and
to it the nations must listen with awe and conviction, and most
of the errors we have spoken of will shrink back from the face of
day into darkness and silence. Faith will be reinvigorated, the
hearts of the faithful made glad, and civilization resume its
march, so long and so painfully interrupted by heresy,
infidelity, and the almost constant revolutions of states and
empires. We venture to predict for the church new and brilliant
victories over the world.

Heresy has well-nigh run its course. It is inherently
sophistical, and is too much for infidelity and too little for
religion. In no country has it ever been able to stand alone, and
it acquires no strength by age. The thinking men of all civilized
nations have come, or are rapidly coining, to the conclusion that
the alternative is either Rome or no religion, or, as they
express it, "Rome or Reason," which we showed last month is by no
means the true formula. The real formula of the age is, Rome or
no religion, God or Satan.
{18}
The attempt to support anything worthy of the name of religion on
human authority, whether of the individual or of the state, of
private judgment or of the Scriptures interpreted by the private
judgment of the learned, has notoriously, we might say
confessedly, failed. Old-established heresies will no doubt
linger yet longer, and offer their opposition to Rome; but their
days are numbered, and, save as they may be placed in the
forefront of the battle with the church, the active non-Catholic
thought of the age makes no account of them, and respects them
far less than it does Rome herself. They live only a galvanic
life. We are far from regarding the battle that must be fought
with the scientific no-religion or dry and cold unbelief of the
age as a light affair. In many respects the world is a more
formidable enemy than heresy, and the Gentilism of the nineteenth
century is less manageable than that of the first, for it retains
fewer elements of truth, and far less respect for authority and
law. It has carried the spirit of revolt further, and holds
nothing as sacred and inviolable. But it is always some gain when
the issue is fairly presented, and the real question is fairly
and distinctly stated in its appropriate terms; when there is no
longer any disguise or subterfuge possible; and when the
respective forces are fairly arrayed against each other, each
under its own flag, and shouting its own war-cry. The battle will
be long and arduous, for every article in the creed, from "Patrem
omnipotentem" to "vitam aeternam," has been successively denied;
but we cannot doubt to which side victory will finally incline.

Tertullian say, "the human heart is naturally Christian," and men
can not be contented to remain long in mere vegetable existence
without some sort of religion. They will, when they have nothing
else to worship, evoke the spirits of the dead, and institute an
illusory demon-worship, as we see in modern spiritism. The
Christian religion as presented by Rome, though it flatters not
human pride, and is offensive to depraved appetite or passion, is
yet adapted to the needs of human nature, and satisfies the purer
and noble aspirations of the soul. There is, as we have more than
once shown, a natural want in man which it only can meet, and, we
may almost say, a natural aptitude to receive it. Hence, we
conclude that, when men see before them no alternative but Rome
or no religion, downright naturalism able to satisfy nobody, they
will, after some hesitation, submit to Rome and rejoice in
Catholicity. Nature is very well; we have not a word to say
against it when normally developed; but this world is too bleak
and wintry for men to walk about in the nakedness of nature; they
must have clothing of some sort, and, when they are fully
convinced that they can find proper garments only in the wardrobe
of the church, they cannot, it seems to us, long hold out against
Rome or refuse submission to the law of life.

We here close our very inadequate discussion of the great subject
we have opened. Our remarks are only supplementary to the article
on Rome or Reason in THE CATHOLIC WORLD for September last, and
are intended to guard against any false inferences that some
might be disposed to draw from the doctrine we there set forth.
We hold, as a Catholic, the dogma of original sin, and that our
nature has been disordered by the fall and averted from God. We
have not wished this fact to be overlooked, or ourselves to be
understood as if we recognized no antagonism between this fallen
or averted nature and Rome.
{19}
Our nature is not totally depraved. Understanding and will, if
the former has been darkened and the latter attenuated by the
fall, yet remain, and retain their essential character; but
disorder has been introduced into our nature, and the flesh
inclines to sin; its face is turned away from God, and it stands
in need of being converted or turned to him. The church brings to
this disordered and averted nature whatever is needed to convert
it, heal its wounds, and elevate it to the plane of its destiny.
But after conversion, after regeneration, the flesh, "the carnal
mind," remains, as the Council of Trent teaches, and, as long as
it remains, there must be a combat, a warfare. This combat, or
warfare, is not, indeed, between reason and faith, revelation and
science, nor between nature and grace, but between the law of God
accepted and served by the judgment and will, by the inner man,
and the law of sin in our members, the struggle between holiness
and sin, an internal struggle, of which every one is conscious
who attempts to lead a holy life. We have not only wished to
recognize the fact of this struggle as an interior struggle in
the individual, but also as passing from the individual to
society, and manifesting itself in the perpetual struggle between
Rome and the world, which ceases, and can cease, only in
proportion as men and society become converted to God, and
voluntarily submissive to his law.

------

      With Christ.

    "Having a desire to be dissolved and be with Christ--
    a thing by far the better."

  To die and be with Christ! far better 'tis
    Than all this world of sin and strife can give,
    Whose highest boon to those who easiest live
  Compares not with one moment of heaven's bliss!
  And to earth's suffering ones, whose hearts are torn
    With anguish, while their bodies writhe in pain,
    What joyous sounds are these: "To die is gain!"
  To leave a world where weary souls forlorn
  In sinful murmuring wish they ne'er were born.
  To be with Christ! O words of solemn power
    To hush the heart-cry! let me hold them fast.
    If haply I may reach thee, Lord, at last,
    And, this strange world with all its sorrows past,
  May learn the meaning deep of each sad, suffering hour!

------

{20}

         The Managers Dilemma.


"I Tell you, child, you can do it; and I say you shall!"

The speaker was the fat hostess of a hotel in one of the
principal streets of Naples; the time was the summer of 1812. The
lady waddled back and forward with an air of importance, her
hands on her hips. The person she addressed was a lad apparently
sixteen years of age, and very tall and stout for his years. His
beardless chin and boyish features, combined with a shuffling
bashfulness in his deportment, did not tend to inspire confidence
in any great achievement to be expected from him.

"But, buona mia donna--" he began deprecatingly.

"I am a judge!" persisted the hostess. "Master Benevolo shall
find you a treasure, and the jewel of his company! Such a
company! The princess is magnificent! Did not the Duke of
Anhalt--swear she was ravishing in beauty as in acting, with eyes
like diamonds, and a figure majestic as Juno's?"

"Superb!" exclaimed the lad.

"And such an admirable comic actor; a figure that is one laugh,
and a wit like Sancho Panza's; a genius, too, for the pathetic;
he weeps to enchantment, and will bring tears to your eyes after
a convulsion of mirth. An unrivalled troupe! a coronet of
gems--wanting only an actor of tragedy!"

The boy sighed, and cast his eyes on the ground.

"And you must travel," pleaded the landlady. "You are not safe
here in Naples. You may be taken, and carried back to the
conservatorio."

This last argument had effect. The lad sprang to his feet.

"Back to school, to be punished for a runaway--when you might do
such wonders! Come, you are ready, I see. There is no time to be
lost."

She took the boy by the hand and led him into the grand salon of
the hotel. Here sat the manager of an Italian theatrical company,
in absolute despair. He and his troupe were to leave Naples in an
hour. For three days he had staid beyond his time, seeking what
the city did not afford--an actor of tragedy; and he was now
bitterly lamenting to his landlord the ill luck that would compel
him to depart for Salerno destitute of so important an adjunct.

"What shall I do?" cried the impresario, wringing his hands,
"without a Geronimo or a Falerio?"

"You may yet find an actor," suggested the good-natured host.

"He must drop, then, from the clouds, and at once! My friends at
Salerno have twice put off the performance, waiting for me. Saint
Antonio! to think of losing so much money!"

The corpulent hostess had entered the room, the bashful youth a
few paces behind her.

"I have found you a tragedian, Master Benevolo," she cried; "a
capital fellow. You have fatigued yourself running over Naples in
search of one--and he has been waiting for you here since last
evening."

"What do you mean!" exclaimed both manager and landlord.

{21}

"You shall have your tragedian. All the rest is my secret. Oh! he
is a great genius! If you had heard him last night! All the maids
were in tears. Had he a robe and poniard, he would have been
terrific. He sang droll songs, too, and made us laugh till my
sides ached. I should have told you of him before, but you went
out so early."

"At what theatres has he appeared?" asked the manager, much
interested.

"He has never been on the stage; but he will make his way. Such
genius--such passion! He has left home to embrace the
profession."

The impresario mused. "Let me see him," he said.

The landlady took the lad by the hand and pulled him forward. He
stood with eyes cast down, in the most awkward attitude.

"A mere boy!" exclaimed the disappointed director. "He--fit for
an actor!" And with a look of contempt he surveyed the youth who
aspired to represent the emperors of Rome and the tyrants of
Italian republics.

"Everything has a beginning!" persisted the dame. "Louis, come
forward, and show the maestro what you can do."

The overgrown lad hung his head bashfully; but, on further
urging, advanced a pace or two, flung over his arms the frayed
skirt of his coat to serve as a drapery, and recited some tragic
verses of Dante.

"Not bad!" cried the manager. "What is your name?"

"Louis," replied the lad, bowing.

"Louis--what?"

"Louis only for the present," interposed the hostess, with an air
of mystery. "You are not to know his family name. You see--he
left home--"

"I understand: the runaway might be caught. Let me hear him in
_Otello_."

Louis, encouraged, recited a brilliant tragic scene. The manager
followed his gestures with hands and head, and, when he had
ended, applauded loudly, with flashing eyes.

"Bravo! bravo!" he cried, rubbing his hands. "That is what I
want! You will make a capital Moor, set in shape a little! I
engage you at once, at fifteen ducats a month: and here is the
first month's pay in advance for your outfit--a suit of clothes
to make you look like a gentleman. Go, buy them, pack up to go
with us; and I will have a mule ready for you."

While the impresario made his preparations for departure, the
delighted hostess assisted Louis in his. He had spent two or
three days roaming about Naples before he came to the hotel, and
had some debts to pay. These liquidated, his bill paid at the
hotel, and a new suit purchased, nothing remained of his fifteen
ducats. In less than two hours the troupe was on its way out of
Naples.

At Salerno the manager had advertisements struck off, announcing
the _début_ of a new tragic actor--a wonderful
genius--presented to the public as a phenomenon--in a popular
part. Curiosity was soon excited to see him. In the evening the
theatre was crowded. The director walked about, rubbing his hands
in ecstasy, and counting the piles of gold as they accumulated.
Louis, arrayed in an emperor's costume of the middle ages, was
practising behind the scenes how to sustain the part of a
sovereign. A pretty young girl--one of the chorus--who may be
called Rosina, stood watching him, and commenting freely on his
performance.

{22}

"Oh! that will not do at all, your majesty!" she cried, as he
made an awkward movement. "What an emperor! This is your style!"
And she began mimicking his gestures so provokiagly that Louis
declared he would have his revenge in a kiss. He was presently
chasing her around the scenes, to the disorder of his imperial
robes.

The sound of voices and an unusual bustle startled him; he
fancied the curtain was going to rise, and called lustily for his
sword. But the noise was outside the private door of the theatre.
It was flung open, and the lad's consternation may be imagined
when he saw advancing toward him the vice-rector of his school,
followed by six _sbirri_. The manager was there, too,
wringing his hands with gestures of grief and despair. Louis
stood petrified, till the officer, laying a hand on his shoulder,
arrested him by an order from the King of Naples. The whole
company had rushed together, and were astonished to hear that
their tragedian was forthwith to be taken back to the
"Conservatorio clella Pieta dei Turchini," to be remanded to his
musical studies under the great master Marcello Perrino.

The emperor _in petto_ forgot his dignity, and burst into
tears; Rosina cried for sympathy, and there was a general murmur
of dissatisfaction.

The manager strove to remonstrate. "Such a genius--tragedy is his
vocation!" he pleaded.

"His vocation just now is to go back to school," said the
vice-rector gruffly.

"But, signer, you are robbing the public."

"Has not the graceless boy been robbing his majesty, who was
pleased to place him in the conservatorio after his father's
death?"

"He is in my service; I have paid him a month in advance."

"You were wrong to engage a raw lad whom you knew to be a runaway
from his guardians. Come, Louis!"

The _sbirri_ roughly removed the imperial robes from the
blubbering lad. The impresario was in an agony, for the assembled
audience began to give signs of impatience.

"Let him only perform in this piece," he urged.

"Away with him!" answered the vice-rector.

Louis wiped away his tears. "Dear Master Benevolo," he said, "I
will yet be revenged. I will be a tragedian in spite of them!"

"And my losses--my fifteen ducats cried the director.

"I will make them up, I promise you." The vice-rector laughed
scornfully, and the men forced the lad away. Rosina ran after
him, "Stay, Louis!" she cried, putting her handkerchief into his
hands, "You forgot this." Louis thanked her with a tender glance,
and put the keepsake in his bosom.

When the party had disappeared, the manager went to pacify his
impatient audience. He was consoled by the reflection that the
vagabond had left his trunk behind. It was very large and heavy,
and, before causing the lock to be broken next morning, Signor
Benevolo called some of his friends to make an inventory of its
contents. It was found filled with sand! The young
_débutant_ had resorted to this trick, that the servants at
the inns where they stopped might believe the trunk contained
gold and treat him with respect accordingly.

The impresario was in a towering passion. He railed at Louis,
showering on him abusive epithets as a cheat and an impostor. He
could only retaliate for the loss of his fifteen ducats by
writing him a letter full of furious invectives, assuring him
that so base a thief need never aspire to the honors of tragedy!
The letter was read quietly by Louis, who made no answer, but
applied himself diligently to his musical studies.
{23}
His progress was so rapid that his masters declared he bade fair
to rival Bohrer on the violoncello and Tulon on the flute. As a
reward for his efforts, a hall in the conservatorio was arranged
for the private representations of the pupils.

----

In the autumn of 1830, Ex-Manager Benevolo chanced to be in
Paris. The beautiful Rosina was then noted as an admired singer.
She had many conversations with the Italian, who was disgusted
with the French actors, and declared that the best days of tragic
art were past.

One day there was no small excitement at the announcement of the
tragic opera of _Otello_. It was given out that a new artist
of great reputation would appear at the Théâtre Italien. His
progress through the Italian cities had been a continued triumph.
On his first appearance in Paris the connoisseurs had been
determined to show him no favor. As he came on the stage, his
grand, imposing figure and good-humored countenance were
pre-possessing; but, when his magnificent voice rose swelling
above the orchestra, there was a burst of rapturous applause.
Powerful and thrilling, penetrating to the depths of pathos, that
voice carried all before it; and he was voted by acclamation the
first _basse-taille_ of the age.

"You _must_ hear him!" said Rosina, as the ex-manager
protested that he did not care for it. He would be sure to
condemn what pleased those fantastical Parisians.

"You must hear him in _Otello_!" persisted the fair singer.
"Here is an invitation for you, written by himself."

"Why should he have sent this to me?" asked the gratified
Italian.

"As a friend of mine," replied the singer, "he wished to show you
attention. You will go with me."

In the evening they went to the theatre. There was a thunderburst
of applause as the colossal form of the actor moved across the
stage. "A noble figure for tragedy!" exclaimed Benevolo. "Ha! I
should like him for the tyrant in _Anna Bolena!_" When the
superb tones of his voice, full of power, yet exquisite in
melody, filled the house with the rich volume of sound, the
Italian gave up his prejudices. In the deeper passion of the part
he was carried away by enthusiasm like the audience. "Stupendo!
Tragico!" he exclaimed, wiping his eyes, while the curtain
descended.

"You must speak with him!" insisted Rosina. And she drew Benevolo
through the door leading behind the scenes. The great artist came
to meet them. Benevolo gazed upon him in awe and astonishment;
then, recovering himself, faltered forth the expression of his
surprise and delight. It was "the king of tragedy" whom he had
the honor of greeting!

"I am rejoiced to see you at last, my good master Benevolo!"
cried the artist. "Tell me if you have really been pleased. Shall
I ever make a tragic actor?"

"You are wonderful--the first in the world!" cried the enraptured
ex-manager. "And Rosina says you are an Italian! I am proud of my
countryman!"

"Ah! mio fratello! but you had once not so good an opinion of me!
Do you not recognize your old acquaintance--the runaway Louis?"

Benevolo stared in astonishment.

"I have grown somewhat since the affair at Salerno," said the
artist, laughing, and clapping his stout sides. "Ah! I forgot;
you had good reason for being displeased with me.
{24}
The fifteen ducats--and that heavy trunk of mine--that gave you
trouble for nothing! It ought to have been ransomed long ago; but
I waited to do it with my pay as a tragedian. I wanted to prove
your prediction untrue! He drew out a paper from his pocket-book,
and presented it.

"Here is an order for twelve hundred francs."

Signor Benevolo stammered a refusal. He could not accept so large
a gift.

"Take it, friend. It is your just due! Principal and interest you
know. My fortune has grown apace with my _embonpoint_."

"You are a noble fellow!" cried the ex-manager, grasping his
hand. "Now, do me another favor, and tell me your real name. The
one you act under is assumed, of course!"

"No, it is the same--Lablache."

"Lablache! Are you a Frenchman, then?"

"My father was a Frenchman: he fled from Marseilles at the time
of the revolution. I was born in Naples. Are you satisfied?"

"I thought from the beginning," said Benevolo, "you were a
nobleman in disguise. I know you, now, for a monarch in art."

Lablache thanked him cordially. "Now you must come home and sup
with me, in the Rue Richelieu," he said. "I have invited a few
friends to meet you, and they will be waiting for us."

------

  Translated from Le Correspondant.

  Learned Women And Studious Women.

  By Monseigneur Dupanloup.


  [The following treatise by Monseigneur Dupanloup is given
  entire, notwithstanding that some portions of it bear a more
  direct application to French civilization than to our own. The
  attentive reader will see that the fundamental principle on
  which the argument rests applies to incomplete mental
  development in every country; and those who take an interest in
  foreign habits and manners will enjoy the lifelike pictures of
  French society, so graphic, shrewd, and free from
  exaggeration.--_Trans_.]


Dear Friend: Several months ago, in a volume [Footnote 1] of
letters addressed to men of the world concerning studies adapted
to their leisure hours, I published a few pages offering
suggestions also to Christian women living in the world upon
intellectual labor suitable for them. This advice I tried to
adapt and proportion especially to the exigencies of their mode
of life.

    [Footnote 1: _Letters to Men of the World concerning
    Studies suitable for them and Advice to Christian Women_,
    Paris: Douniol.]

I endeavored to show how necessary it is for a woman to acquire
habits of serious thought; all the more so because modern
education seldom inculcates them; and I maintained that such
habits could easily find a place in the life of women of the
world.

{25}

I next indicated grave and noble studies, solid and interesting
courses of reading, historical, artistic, even philosophical,
but, above all, religious, to which they could devote themselves.

Then followed a few practical details concerning the method and
conditions of good study, useful reading, and serious
composition.

Various observations were addressed to me _à propos_ of this
publication; eager contradictions coming side by side with the
most favorable expressions of approbation. This did not surprise
me. In an age like ours, such counsel could hardly be given with
impunity. In the land of Molière an appeal to women to study, to
educate themselves, to cultivate letters and the fine arts, could
not be allowed to pass unreproved.

Allow me, then, to have recourse to the _Correspondant_,
that my various opponents may be answered at one stroke. The most
considerate and the most serious among them supported themselves,
not upon Molière, but, strange to say, upon M. de Maistre. It is
M. de Maistre, then, with the quotations made from his works and
the objections raised in his name, who demands my first
consideration.


            I.

  M. De Maistre's Opinion.

Some of M. de Maistre's letters to his daughters form a veritable
treatise upon the humble destiny of woman here below, and the
sumptuary laws that should regulate her acquirements and
education.

"A woman's great defect," he writes, "is being like a man, and to
wish for learning is to wish to be a man. Enough if a woman be
aware that Pekin is not in Europe, and that Alexander the Great
did not demand a niece of Louis XIV. in marriage."

Also M. de Maistre allows her in scientific matters to follow and
"understand the doings of men." This is her most perfect
accomplishment, her _chef-d'oeuvre_.

He permits women, moreover, to love and admire the beautiful; but
what he does not permit is, that they should themselves seek to
give it expression. When his eldest daughter, Mademoiselle Adele
de Maistre, avowed a taste for painting, and when the youngest,
Mademoiselle Constance, confided to her father her ardent love
for literary pursuits, M. de Maistre, in, alarm, taking shelter
behind the triple authority of Solomon, Fénélon and Molière,
declared that women should not devote themselves to pursuits
opposed to their duties; that a woman's merit lies in rendering
her husband happy, in educating children, and in making men;
that, from the moment she emulates man, she becomes an ape; that
women have never achieved a _chef-d'oeuvre_ of any kind;
that a young girl is insane to undertake oil-painting, and should
content herself with pencil-sketches: that, moreover, science is
of all things the most dangerous for women; that no woman must
occupy herself with science under pain of being ridiculous and
unhappy; and, finally, that a coquette is far easier to marry
than a scholar. In virtue of this last argument, which embraces
the preceding ones, M. de Maistre recommends them all to return
to their work-baskets, conceding, however, the consecration of a
few hours to study by way of distraction.

{26}

But let them beware of wishing to enlarge their intelligence and
undertake great things. They would be nicknamed _Dame
barbue_.

Moreover, "it is not in the mediocrity of education that their
weakness lies:" it is their weakness that makes "mediocrity of
education" inevitable. In one word, they are radically incapable
of anything great or serious in the way of culture.

Perhaps it would be presumption to contest assertions so firm and
uncompromising. I shall not attempt it. I shall beg leave to
inquire--for this is the most important point now--whether or
not these principles lead us logically and imperiously to the
conclusion of M. de Maistre; if a woman, "who would make her
husband happy, educate her children well, and not transform
herself into an ape in order to _emulate_ man," must
therefore renounce not only the exercise of all creative faculty
in art and literature, but also of serious self-culture, and turn
to her work-basket with no better consolation than the assurance
that "Pekin is not in Europe, and that Alexander did not ask in
marriage the hand of a niece of Louis XIV."


            II.

  The Question Fairly Stated.

Before grappling with a subject, one should clearly define its
significance.

Let us set aside the name of learned women, so strangely misused
since the days of Molière. We Frenchmen are too apt to settle
great questions with a jest; sending silly prejudices down to
posterity to be nourished and perpetuated for centuries with idle
railleries. In the first place, is there not a just distinction
to be made, lest we commit the error of confounding in the same
anathema studious women with learned women, cultivated women with
absurd women, women of sense, reflection, and serious habits of
application with pedants?

Is it not evident that Molière, in his _Femmes Savantes_,
attacked neither study nor education, but pedantry, as in his
_Tartuffe_ he attacked hypocrisy, not genuine devotion?

Did not Molière himself write this beautiful line?

  "Et je veux qu'une femme ait des clartés de tout"

With these preliminary words, I enter on the question. The whole
theory of M. de Maistre is reduced to this assertion: that women
should confine themselves to their own domain and not invade that
of men. Agreed! but let us see what is man's peculiar domain. Is
man by divine right the sole proprietor of the domain of
intelligence? God has reserved to him physical force, and I agree
with M. de Maistre that, notwithstanding Judith and Joan of Arc,
women should not presume to bear arms or to lead armies. But is
intelligence measured out to them in the same exact proportions
and with the same limitations as physical strength? I have never
thought so. The pen seems to me as well placed in the hand of St.
Theresa as in that of M. de Maistre; and I select her name with
the intention of citing many more in the following pages, because
the name of St. Theresa alone suffices to refute the argument
that women should not write for the reason that they have never
shown superior ability in writing. St. Theresa is one of the
greatest, if not the greatest, prose-writer of Spain, and she
even cultivated poetry occasionally.

Beyond discussion, a woman's great merit, her incomparable honor,
lies in rearing her children wisely and in making men; as her
dearest privilege and her first duty lies in making her husband
happy. But precisely in order to make men, and to ensure the
virtue and happiness of her husband and children, a woman must be
strong in intelligence, strong in judgment and character,
assiduous, industrious, and attentive.
{27}
In the words of Scripture, that look, that beauty, that goodness,
which adorn and embellish a whole household, must be illumined
from on high; (_sicut sol oriens mundo, sic mulier??
[Transcriber's note: Illegible] bona species in ornamentum domus
ejus._) The hand that holds the distaff and manages household
matters should be guided by a head capable of conceiving and of
governing. The portrait sketched by Solomon is not that of a
woman engrossed solely with material life; it is that of an able
woman; and, if her children rise up and call her glorious and
blessed, it is because she has an elevated sense of the affairs
of life, a provident care for the future, and a solicitude for
souls; because she stands on a level with the noblest duties and
the most serious thoughts; in one word, because she is an
intelligent companion worthy of a spouse who sits at the gates of
the city upon the most exalted bench of justice.

I could quote other passages from Holy Scripture proving that
natural science, art, sacred literature, poetry, and eloquence
were not foreign to the education of Israelitish maidens or to
the career of Jewish women. Was it not the mother of Samuel who
proclaimed God the Lord of knowledge and the Giver of
understanding? Was it not Miriam, the sister of Moses, who taught
music and sacred canticles to the young Israelites?

But it is especially since the enunciation of the gospel that the
intellectual and moral dignity of woman has been elevated, and
that Christian women have taken so noble a place in human
society. What I demand is, that absurd prejudices, coarse names,
and worn-out jests should not drag them down from the exalted
rank assigned to them by the gospel into frivolity and
materialism.

Let me be clearly understood. I desire, above all, not _femmes
savantes_, but, for the sake of husbands, children, and
households, intelligent, attentive, and judicious women,
well-instructed in all things necessary and useful for them to
know as mothers, heads of households, and women of the world;
never disdainful of practical duties, but knowing how to occupy
not only their fingers, but their minds, understanding the
cultivation of the whole soul. And I add that we ought to dread
as disastrous evils those frivolous, giddy, self-indulgent women
who, in idleness, ignorance, and dissipation, seek for pleasure
and amusement; who are hostile to exertion and to almost every
duty, incapable of study or of continuous mental effort, and
therefore unfitted to exercise any important influence over the
education of their children, or over the affairs of their
household or of their husbands.


           III.

On these conditions I willingly resign the name of learned woman,
claiming it for no one. And yet before laying it aside, I would
remark that ages more Christian than our own were far from
disdaining it. The disciple and biographer of the illustrious St.
Boniface plainly tells us that St. Boniface loved St. Lioba for
her solid erudition, _eruditionis sapientia._ This admirable
virgin, in whom the light of the Holy Ghost enhanced an
enlightenment laboriously acquired from study, united to purity
and humility (those virtues which preserve all things in a heart)
a knowledge of theology and canon law that became one of the
glories of the new-born German church. And, moreover, St.
Boniface, far from despising his spiritual daughter's efforts to
rise to intellectual pursuits, sometimes robbed the apostolate of
hours which he deemed well spent in correcting the literary
compositions and Latin verses of Lioba, and in answering her in a
similar style; poetic messages carried across seas by confessors
and martyrs.

{28}

And if, going back to earlier ages, we closely examine the
records of history, we find that, after the establishment of
Christianity, feminine names are constantly met with on the
literary monuments most revered by posterity; as, for instance,
the celebrated Hypatia, who had Clement of Alexandria for a
disciple; the illustrious St. Catharine, teacher of Christian
philosophy; and, again, St. Perpetua, who wrote the acts of her
own martyrdom and recorded the glory of her companions.

When peace was restored to the church, and the age of doctors
commenced, succeeding the age of martyrs, who were more
celebrated for the gravity of their minds and the extent of their
knowledge than the Paulas, the Marcellas, Melanias, and
Eustochiums, with many other saints and noble Christian women?
Remember St. Marcella, in whom St. Jerome found so powerful an
auxiliary against heresy; and St. Paula, who inspired St. Jerome
to undertake his noblest and most important works, the Latin
translation of the Bible from the Hebrew text, and a complete
series of commentaries upon the prophets.

Nothing is finer than St. Paula's letter to St. Marcella. There
we see all that Marcella had done to elevate the souls and the
intelligence of women and maidens who called her their mother;
there we comprehend the intelligence and the eloquence of St.
Paula. [Footnote 2]

    [Footnote 2: We read with great interest in _The History of
    St. Paula_, just published by M. l'Abbé F. Lagrange, those
    chapters devoted to the studies in Holy Scripture of Roman
    ladies in St. Jerome's school, and to those of St. Paula made
    at Bethlehem, under the direction of the same saint.]

Who does not know what Theresa was in the following century to
St. Paulinus, whose reputation is as much the glory of Aquitaine
as the name of Ausonius? Who does not know that Elpicia (the wife
of Boëthius) composed hymns adopted by the Roman liturgy?

In the midst of barbarism education was one of the first
conditions imposed on Christian virgins. Those who evinced an
aptitude for literary pursuits were dispensed from manual labor,
according to the precept of St. Cesarius, that they might devote
themselves exclusively to intellectual work. In most monasteries
we hear of them engrossed in study, writing, translating,
copying, or deciphering without interruption.

St. Radegonde, not content with attracting to Poitiers one of the
last Roman poets, induced him to give so complete a training to
her nuns as to form among them writers who soon eclipsed their
master. Classic elegance and purity are revived in the writings
of Bandonovia. All the charm of Christian inspiration is revealed
in the hymn improvised by a nun of Poitiers at the moment of
Radegonde's death, and one of the earliest flowers of the new
poetic era blooms over the grave of this holy queen who so loved
letters.

The monasteries of England, Ireland, and France were nurseries
for erudite and devout women.

"It is proved beyond dispute by numerous and well-authenticated
witnesses," says M. de Montalembert, "that literary studies were
cultivated in female monasteries in England during the seventh
and eighth centuries, with no less assiduity and perseverance
than in communities of men; perhaps with even more enthusiasm.
Anglo-Saxon nuns did not neglect the occupations proper for their
sex. But manual labor was far from satisfying them.
{29}
They willingly left distaff and needle, not only to transcribe
manuscripts and adorn miniatures according to the taste of the
day, but still oftener to read and study holy books, the fathers
of the church, or even classic authors." [Footnote 3]

    [Footnote 3: _Monks of the West_, vol. v. This fifth
    volume, and the two preceding ones, written during a cruel
    and persistent malady, astonish us by the powerful impulse,
    the tenderness and loftiness of sentiment which they breathe;
    showing how steadily a valiant, Christian soul can hold
    itself erect amid the most grievous physical and moral
    trials. These are books that I would gladly see in the hands
    of everyone; today especially, when we are overwhelmed with a
    malaria-tainted literature.]

St. Gertrude, under Dagobert's guidance, learned the Holy
Scriptures entirely by heart and translated them from the Greek.
She sent beyond seas to Ireland for masters to teach music,
poetry, and Greek to the cloistered virgins of Nivelle. From all
these glowing centres issued shining lights; as, for instance,
Lioba, foundress of the abbey of Richofsheim; Roswitha, and St.
Bridget. It was by St. Edwiga that the study of Greek was
introduced into the monastery of St. Gall. And the enlightenment
of the learned Hilda was so highly esteemed in the Anglo-Saxon
church that more than once the holy abbess, screened behind a
veil, was present at the deliberations of bishops assembled in
synod or council, who craved the advice of one whom they regarded
as especially illumined by the Holy Ghost.

It would make a list too long to record the examples of all the
women in whom sanctity was accompanied by a gift of luminous
science.

We may name here a daughter of William the Conqueror, Cecilia,
abbess of a monastery at Caen; the illustrious Emma, abbess of
St. Amand; and, above all, Herrade, who astonished her
contemporaries by learned cosmological works, comprising all the
science of her day.

In the twelfth century, St. Hildegarde received revelations
concerning the physical constitution of our globe, and wrote
treatises upon the laws of nature, anticipating modern science.
Nothing surpasses the elevation and nobility of intellect
revealed in the various works of this illustrious woman.

It was St. Elizabeth, of Thenawge, who wrote the admirable page
quoted in the logic of Père Gratry. St. Hildegarde and St.
Elizabeth both lived in monasteries on the banks of the Rhine,
where women wrote, painted, and worked; where they did wonderful
things, says Père Gratry.

"What can we say of St. Catharine of Siena, who shares the glory
of the great writers?" asks Ozanam.

M. de Maistre maintains that _a young girl is insane to think
of painting._ And yet saints have had this mania. St.
Catharine of Bologna was a celebrated miniaturist. She wrote
learned treatises and painted _chef-d'oeuvres_; she composed
sacred music and perfected musical instruments; even on her
death-bed she played on instruments whose conception and
execution belong to her. It is for this reason that she is
represented over altars holding the lyre or viola invented by
herself.

Following all these names claimed by the arts as well as by
literature comes that of St. Theresa, already cited above. Here
M. de Maistre is vanquished. Yes, genius has descended upon a
feminine intellect, endowing it with a gift as brilliant as any
that can be cited. One might dread the guilt of profanation in
using the words _chef-d'oeuvre_ and human genius in speaking
of those sublime pages penetrated with a divine light, those
marvellous echoes of heaven that stir our souls even on earth.
But where can we find the beautiful realized with more vividness,
more simplicity, more nature and grandeur?

{30}

If all these names have been the names of saints whose aim and
supreme inspiration was religion, why wonder? I have already said
that women had been elevated by Christianity, heart, soul, and
understanding. They owed to Christianity the homage of all the
gifts it had bestowed upon them, and that homage they rendered.

To complete this hasty outline of the history, not so much of
learned as of intelligent women, women of mind and heart, of
faith and Christian virtue, I will mention that, in times more
nearly approaching our own, Christina Pisani wrote admirable
memoirs of Charles V., in which we find great moral elevation as
well as a charming style.

Let me name, also, Elizabeth of Valois and Mary Stuart, who
carried on a Latin correspondence for several years concerning
the advantages of literary studies. Elizabeth Sarani, one of the
most religious painters of the Bolognese school in the
seventeenth century; Helena Cornaro, in the sixteenth century,
was made doctor at Milan, and died in the odor of sanctity. And
then what a charming writer was the Mère de Chaugy in the
beginning of the seventeenth century!

In conclusion, I will mention Mademoiselle de Légardière, who
wrote a work esteemed by M. Guizot as "the most instructive now
extant upon ancient French law." It was a woman, then, who
consecrated a life, in which severe labor and charitable actions
alone found place, to the execution of the first work that opened
the way to new discoveries of modern science, a work of
prodigious erudition, _The Political Theory of French Laws_.
This _savante_, for so we must call her, lived in an
isolated chateau, where her piety was an example to all who knew
her, and left a memory venerated by her countrywomen.

Many other examples could be cited to reestablish the epithet
_learned woman_; but I promised to resign it, and resign it
I do quite willingly.

M. de Maistre concludes his dissertation by saying: "Women have
never created masterpieces!" Does he mean to assert that their
intellectual efforts have been, and that they always will be,
sterile? We have seen, and history proves, to what point the
exertions and the acquirements of women have contributed to the
preservation of ancient literature. It is a hard measure to expel
them from the ship they have helped to rescue from the storms of
barbarism. Moreover, one need not create masterpieces to prove
the possession of talent. God sends dew to little flowers as well
as to great trees. Humble works may receive the fecundity of a
good action. The success of our adversaries must be our
encouragement. If women of talent have done so much mischief,
then Christian women must struggle on the same ground. There are
a great many books, and one book more is but a drop in the
ocean--true! All are not destined to distinction and
immortality. Some must console a few souls only, and, like daily
bread, meet the day's requirements, without enduring until the
morrow.

"If you work for God and for yourself," says St. Augustine, "the
better to heed the utterance of the Word within you, there will
always be a few beings who will understand you."

These words are an encouragement for all humble works, for all
faithful efforts, that, while developing the faculties received
from God, know not to what purpose they are destined. Let each
one cultivate her natural faculties. Intelligence is one of the
noblest of gifts, and in the field of the father of the family no
laborer must stand unoccupied, useless, without toil and without
recompense.

{31}

But, it may be argued, most of the examples brought forward prove
only that women are especially fitted for Christian learning. I
recognize the fact. Inspiration, descending into their souls,
rises again more directly toward God. Their talents must be
intimately allied with virtue, and shine forth like those pure
rays that are filled with the light and warmth of the centre
whence they emanate.

But, alas! one must recognize also the fact that women born with
talents and for works of the first order have too often never
found this supreme source. M. de Maistre, after discharging his
unjust spleen against Madame de Staël, calling her discourteously
"Science in petticoats, and an impertinent _femmelette_"
whose works he qualifies as "gorgeous rags," confesses, finally,
in one of those impetuous contradictions so familiar to him, that
Madame de Staël needed only the torch of truth to raise her
"immense abilities" to the highest grade. "If she had been a
Catholic," he says later, "she would have been adorable instead
of being famous." What would he have said of the female writers
of our own day?

What intellectual ruins! What grief it is that talents like those
of Madame de ---- and Madame ---- should be lost to the good
cause!--souls that in their fall bear still the impress of the
divine ray; crumbling temples that seem to be struggling to rise
from their ruins, uttering from the depths of their desolation
plaints like these:

  "O my greatness! O my strength! you have passed like a
  storm-cloud; you have fallen upon the earth to ravage it like a
  thunderbolt. You have smitten with barrenness and death all the
  fruits and all the blossoms of my field. You have made of it a
  desolate arena, where I sit solitary in the midst of my ruins.
  O my greatness! O my strength! were you good or evil angels?

  "O my pride! O my knowledge! you rose up like burning
  whirlwinds scattered by the simoom through the desert; like
  gravel, like dust you have buried the palm-trees, you have
  troubled and exhausted the water-springs. And I sought the
  stream to quench my thirst, and I found it not; for the
  insensate who would cut his way over the proud peaks of Horeb
  forgets the lowly path that leads to the shadowy fountain. O my
  pride! O my knowledge! were you the envoys of the Lord? were
  you spirits of darkness?

  "O my religion! O my hope! you have swept me like a fragile and
  wavering bark over shoreless seas, through bewildering fogs,
  vague illusions, dimmest images of an unknown country; and
  when, weary with struggling against the winds, and, groaning,
  bowed down beneath the tempest, I asked you whither you led me,
  you lighted beacons upon the rocks to show me what to avoid,
  not where to find safety. O my religion! O my hope! were you a
  dream of madness, or the voice of the living God?"

No; these impulses toward heaven, this need of God, this
strength, this pride, this greatness, were not bad angels; they
were great and noble faculties, sublime gifts. But they should
not have been deluded! They should not have been misled into
vanity and falsehood! They should have been employed for good
ends, and not turned into spirits of darkness.

{32}


            IV.

           Duty.


The rights of women to intellectual culture are not merely
rights, they are also duties. This is what makes them
inalienable. If they were only rights, women could sacrifice
them; but they are duties. The sacrifice is either impossible or
ruinous.

This is the point of departure for all I have to say. I declare
unhesitatingly that it is a woman's duty to study and educate
herself, and that intellectual labor should have a place reserved
among her special occupations and among her most important
obligations.

The primordial reasons of this obligation are grave, of divine
origin, and absolutely unanswerable; namely:

In the first place, God has conferred no useless gifts; for all
the things he has made there is a reason and an aim. If the
companion of man is a reasonable creature; if, like man, she is
made in the image and likeness of God; if she, too, has received
from her Creator the sublimest of gifts, understanding, she ought
to make use of it.

These gifts, received from God for an especial purpose, must be
cultivated. Scripture tells us that souls left to waste, like
fallow ground, bring forth only wild fruits, _spines et
tribulos_. And God did not make the souls of women, any more
than the souls of men, to be shifting, barren, or unhealthy soil.

Moreover, every reasonable creature is to render to God an
account of his gifts. Each one in the judgment day will be dealt
with according to the gifts he has received and the use he has
made of them.

God has given us all hands, (which, according to the
interpreters, signify prompt and intelligent action,) but on
condition that we do not bring them to him empty. Again, he has
categorically explained his intentions in the parable of the
talents, where he declares that a strict account must be rendered
to him, talent by talent. I do not know a father of the church or
any moralist who has ever asserted that this parable did not
concern women as well as men. There is no serious distinction to
be made. Each must give an account of what he has received; and
good human sense, like good divine sense, plainly indicates that
one sex has no more right than the other to bury or to waste the
possessions granted by Heaven to be employed and increased.

In short, I say with St. Augustine, no creature to whom God has
confided the lamp of intelligence has a right to behave like a
foolish virgin, letting the oil become exhausted because she has
neglected to renew it; letting that light die out that was to
have enlightened her path and that of others too, if only, as in
the case of some wives and mothers, that of her husband and
children.

The generality of books relating to the merits, the destinies,
and the virtues of woman, far from considering her as a being
created in the image of God, intelligent, free, and responsible
to her Creator for her actions, treat of her as a possession of
man, made solely for him, and whose end he is. In all these
books, a woman is only a blooming creature meant to be adored,
but not respected--a being essentially inferior whose existence
has no other aim than to secure the happiness of man, or bend to
his most frivolous purposes; dependent, above all, upon man, who
alone is her master, her legislator, and her judge--absolutely,
as if she had no soul, no conscience, no moral liberty; as if God
were nothing to her; as if he had not endowed her soul with
cravings, faculties, aspirations, in one word, with rights that
are at the same time duties.

{33}

The world declaims, and with reason, against the futility of
women, against their love of approbation, and what is called
their coquetry. But is not this futility produced and propagated
by the fear of making them learned, of too fully developing their
intelligence?--as if such a thing were possible, as if that true
development through which one better understands duty, and learns
to calculate consequences, could be injurious. Are not women who
have serious tastes obliged to hide them or make excuses for them
by every means in their power, as if they were concealing a
fault?

Or if, indeed, a woman is allowed to educate herself, it is only
within very restricted limits, and merely, according to the
wishes of M. de Maistre, that she may understand the conversation
of men, or that she may be more amusing, and set off her trilling
talk in a more piquant fashion by mingling it with odds and ends
of wisdom. With such a dread does the learned woman inspire idle
and frivolous men who will neither work themselves nor let any
one else work.

In plainer terms still: does not the present system of education
create and foster coquetry and a love of admiration, by making
man the only end of woman's destiny? It is vain to tell her that
she is destined for one alone, and that all others should be to
her as if they existed not. This is perfectly true from a
Christian point of view, which embraces at once all rights and
all duties; but apart from Christian virtue, when that one proves
tedious, vicious, and absolutely unworthy of affection, and when
temptation presents itself under the traits of another, a
superior being, (or one who seems to be superior,) for whom alone
she believes herself created, how, I ask, can you persuade her to
fly from the latter and live only for the former? Imprudent and
fatal guide that you are, you have taught her that she is an
incomplete being, who cannot suffice to herself, who must lean
upon the superiority of another; and then you complain because,
when she meets this support, this other and truer half of
herself, she clings to it, and cannot fly from the fatal
attraction! Undeniably she violates the holiest of obligations;
but have you not yourselves been blind and guilty? Are you not so
still?

I have no hesitation in asserting that only Christian morality
can teach a woman with absolute and decisive authority her true
rights and her true duties in their necessary correlation.

Until you have persuaded a woman that she is first created for
God, for herself, for her own soul, and in the second place for
her husband and children, to value them next to God, with God,
and for God, you will have done nothing either for the happiness
or the honor of families.

Of course, husband and wife are two in one, and their children
are one in them. But, if God is not the foundation of this
providential union, Providence will be avenged, and the union
dissolved. This is the misfortune, almost always irreparable,
that so often meets our eyes. [Footnote 4]

    [Footnote 4: Does the reader believe these warnings uncalled
    for in American society? We once explained to a Frenchman the
    system in vogue in many of our States, of divorce followed by
    a second marriage. "Ah!" said he, "in France we call that a
    _liaison_" _Trans_.]

This excessive absorption of the _personality_ of a wife
into her husband's existence was useful, perhaps, for the
preservation of the antique matron. Such moral and intellectual
restrictions were reasonable, perhaps, at a period when duty had
no sanction sufficiently strong. The seclusion of the gynaeceum
may have served to preserve the domestic circle from frightful
disorder.
{34}
But a Christian woman is conscious of a different destiny. For
her gynaeceum and harem are useless. She loves the being to whom
God has united her with a tenderness and devotion rarely met with
in pagan times, if one may judge by the eulogiums lavished on
those who approached most nearly the standard we see realized
every day. The Christian woman regards herself as her husband's
companion, as his assistant in earthly as in heavenly things,
_socia, adjutorinm;_ as bound to console him and make his
happiness; but she thinks, too, that they should help each other
to become better, and that, after having educated together new
_elect_, they should share felicity together through all
eternity. For such destinies, a woman's education cannot be too
unremitting, too earnest, or too strong.

The contrary system rests upon a pagan appreciation of her
destiny, or, as has been said with reason, upon the idleness of
men who wish to preserve their own superiority at small expense.
The pagan conception consists in believing women to be merely
charming creatures, passive, inferior, and made only for man's
pleasure and amusement. But, as I have already said, Christianity
thinks differently. In Christianity a woman's virtue, like a
man's, must be intelligent, voluntary, and active. She must
understand the full extent of her duties, and know how to draw
conclusions from divine teaching for herself, her husband, and
her children.

This prejudice against the intellectual development of women is
one of the most culpable inventions of the eighteenth century,
that age of profligacy and impiety. The Regent and Louis XV. have
fostered it more than Molière, as they have created more
prejudices against religion than _Tartuffe_. It was useful
to all unprincipled husbands to have wives as worthless as
themselves, who should be incapable of controlling their
disorderly lives.

A superior woman obliges her husband to depend upon her. He is
forced to submit to the control of an intelligent spirit, and
does not feel free to follow his own caprices. This is why
vicious husbands need ignorant wives.

Molière struck a blow as severe at frivolity, in the
_Précieuses Ridicules_, [Footnote 5] as at pedantry in the
_Femmes Savantes_. The eighteenth century retained merely a
prejudice convenient to itself, which the regency established as
a law, and finally licentious men surrendered the honor of their
familie rather than find in a wife an inconvenient judge, a
living conscience, an ever-present reproach. They preferred to
have wives as vain and frivolous as themselves, and to make of
marriage a contract in which fortunes and titles only were
considered, and where affection on either side went for nothing.
The world saw with affright the corruption that speedily engulfed
French society.

  [Footnote 5: It is also to be observed that Molière's learned
  women had only the affectation and not the reality of science,
  just as the _précieuses_ merely affected the fine language
  and manners of the court. The former were ignorant women
  playing the part of _savantes_ the latter provincial women
  aping Paris fashions.]

Why did not M. de Maistre, who saw the remains of this corruption
and the chastisements it had merited, understand that the
degraded position assigned to women was one of its causes, and
that prejudice against the intellectual elevation of women was
the work of vice?


             V.

  The Dangers of Repression.

The very nature of things speaks plainly enough. Human nature in
all its faculties demands instruction, enlargement,
enlightenment, elevation.
{35}
From my own observation I must assert that nothing is more
dangerous than smothered faculties, unanswered cravings,
unsatisfied hunger and thirst. Thence comes the perversion of
passions, created for noble ends, but turned against truth and
virtue. Thence issue those distorted, crooked, and perverse ways
into which we are drawn by an ignorance incapable of choice,
judgment, or self-restraint: _conversi dirumpent vos_, says
the sacred writer. There lies the secret of many falls, many
scandals, or, at least, of much wretched levity among women! If
these rich and ardent powers had been cultivated, we need not now
deplore their ruin; we should not have to sigh over the pitifully
incorrect intellectual standard, the mental weakness of so many
women of distinguished nature, called to be ornaments to the
world and to do honor to their families, but of whom education,
checked in its development, has made elegant women perhaps, at
thirty years of age, but frivolous, commonplace and useless.
Surely no one can seriously contradict me in these assertions.

Again, and this is a very important consideration:

M. de Maistre would make a woman humble and virtuous in the
aridity of her occupations, without anything to raise and console
her beyond the knowledge "that Pekin is not in Europe," and so
on.

This is impossible. She will not remain in this humble sphere. If
we do not give her intellectual interests to recreate her from
the material duties, often overwhelming, that weigh her down, she
will reject these very duties, which humiliate her _when they
come alone_, and seek relief from _ennui_ in frivolity.
Do not we see this every day? Let us not deceive ourselves.

The duties of the mistress of a household, ever recurring with a
thousand matter-of-fact details--the responsibilities of domestic
life are often wearisome and excessively wearisome. Where shall a
woman find consolation? who will give a legitimate impulse to her
sometimes over-excited imagination? Who will offer to her
intelligence the rightful satisfaction it demands, and prevent
her from feeling that she is a mere domestic drudge?

I have no hesitation in saying--and how many experiences have
contributed to fortify my conviction!--that there are times when
piety itself does not suffice! Work, and sometimes very serious
intellectual work, is required. Drawing and painting are not
enough, unless the painting be of a very elevated character. What
the hour calls for is a strong and firm application of the
understanding to some serious work, literary, philosophical, or
religious. Then will calmness, peace, serenity be restored. Let
us acknowledge the truth. Rigid principles and empty occupations,
devotion combined with a purely material or worldly life, make
women destitute of resources in themselves, and sometimes
insupportable to their husbands and children.

But allow a woman two hours of hard study every day, during which
the faculties of her soul can recover their balance, perplexities
assume their true proportions, good sense and judgment resume
their sway, excitement subside, and peace reenter the soul: then
she will lift up her head once more; she will see that the
intellectual life to which she aspires, in accordance with a
craving implanted in her being by God himself, is not denied to
her. Then she will be able to fall on her knees and accept life
with its duties, and bless the divine will.

{36}

This is the fruit of genuine work performed in the presence of
God. It renders her soul submissive, sometimes more so than
prayer itself. It restores her to order and good sense,
satisfying within her a just and noble desire.

I have sometimes heard mothers say that they dreaded for their
children faculties overstepping ordinary proportions, and that
they should endeavor to repress them. "What use are they?" it is
said: "How can a place be found for these great abilities in that
real life, with its narrow, cramped limits, which begins for
women at the close of their earliest youth?" These remarks have
secretly shocked me. What! would you check the expansion of that
fairest of divine works, a soul where God has implanted a germ of
ideal life? You respect this gift in men, provided that it be
employed in practical life, and that it serve to make money or
create a social position. But, since the utility of great gifts
is less lucrative among women, they had better be repressed! Then
lop off the branches of the plant that craves too much air and
room and sunlight; check the redundant sap. But the plant was
intended to be a great tree, and you will make of it a stunted
shrub. Take care lest the mutilation do not kill it utterly while
torturing it. To extinguish a soul designed by God to shine is to
bury therein the seed of an interior anguish that you will never
cure, and which may exhaust the soul with vague, exaggerated
aspirations. There is no torture comparable to the sense of the
beautiful when it cannot find utterance, to the interior agony of
a soul which, perhaps unconsciously, has missed its vocation.
That word, expressive of a call from on high, of a solemn and
irresistible claim, applies to women as well as to men, to the
ideal life as much as to the external life. The soul is a thought
of God, it has been said. There is a divine plan with regard to
it, and our exertions or our languor advance or retard the
execution of that plan, which exists none the less in God's
wisdom and goodness, and must appear one day as our accuser if we
fail to execute it.

And to secure its accomplishment, the development of the whole
soul, mind, and heart is necessary.

It is difficult to discover in advance to what God destines his
gifts; but none the less true is it that he destines them to an
especial end, and that this providential vocation, faithfully
answered, turns aside the dangers we dread to meet in its
fulfilment.

Individual natures should be consulted, that we may develop them
according to their capacities. I would not create factitious
talents by a culture which nature does not demand, but neither
would I leave uncultivated those she has bestowed. Nothing is
more dangerous for a woman than incomplete development,
half-knowledge, a half-talent that shows her glimpses of broader
horizons without giving force to reach them, makes her think she
knows what she does not know, and fills her soul with trouble and
bewilderment, combined with a pride that often betrays itself in
sad misconduct. When equilibrium is not established between
aspiration and the power to realize it, the soul, after making
fruitless struggles to attain its ideal, becomes discontented
with common life, and, craving some excitement of mind and
imagination, seeks it in emotions and pleasures always dangerous
and often culpable.

If you do not direct the flame upward, it will feed upon the
coarsest earthly aliment. A superior person once said to me: "In
art, mediocrity is to be above all things feared. A great talent
escapes many dangers. The impetus once given, one must reach the
goal; otherwise, who can say how low one may fall?"

{37}

Terrible examples of this I have seen, showing me what becomes of
smothered faculties and of a rich nature rendered abortive.
[Footnote 6]

    [Footnote 6: I know a woman endowed with a creative faculty
    which her education has tended to crush. One feels in her
    incomplete and suffering nature a sort of interior discord.
    Ill at ease with herself, she seeks excitement in dress and
    in frivolous distractions. People attribute these defects to
    her artistic nature. On the contrary, she would not suffer if
    she possessed the plenitude of her faculties. She has not
    been allowed to cultivate fully the talent bestowed by God;
    she has never arrived at the genuine power of production or
    reached the repose of legitimate interior satisfaction.]


              VI.

  Fatal Results of Ignorance and Levity in Women.

We complain of the vanity of women, of their luxury and coquetry;
but for what else do we prepare them, what else do we inculcate
in their education? We leave them no other resource on earth. Far
from elevating, developing, strengthening, and ennobling them, we
dissipate, enervate, and debase them; nor am I speaking of the
most fatal kind of debasement. Far from forming in them a taste
for serious things or even for subjects worthy of interest, we
teach them to ridicule those who have such tastes. We reduce them
to coquetry, gossip, every kind of mediocrity and _ennui_.
The world is positively irritated against those who sometimes
remind women what they are in the estimation of God, what they
are capable of doing, what they owe to God, to society, to
France, to their husbands and sons, and to themselves; against
those who dare to assert that it is for them, daughters of that
Eve to whom humanity owes the chastisement of toil, to accept and
make others accept this fruit, which, though perhaps a little
bitter, is expiatory, honorable, and salutary; that it is for
them to follow its holy practices from infancy, and, later, to
inspire in others a taste for it, or, at least, courage to endure
it; that it is for them to speak that noble language of reason
and of faith which calls labor the primordial law of humanity, at
once a dominion and a reward.

The world is angry with those who teach women that they should
use the gift of _influence_ with which they are endowed, not
to become queens of the ball-room, and shine beneath the
candelabra of a drawing-room or behind foot-lights, but to become
in their own homes skilful and patient advocates of everything
noble, just, intellectual, and generous; not to _futilize_,
if I may so express myself, the spirits of men, already too
inclined to futility, but to remind them constantly that life is
composed of duties, that duty is serious, and that happiness is
only found in the performance of duty.

Instead of this, what are they? Stars of a day, meteors too often
fatal to the repose, the fortune, and the honor of families. We
may say that these women who have the brilliancy and the passing
influence of comets exercise also their sinister power. Instead
of enervating them with nonsense, tell them that they will not
always remain twenty years old, and that they will soon need
other resources than their own beauty and caprices. Tell them
that, even supposing they can always rule their husbands so
easily, this sophistical authority will never gain a hold upon
their children; and yet it is a woman's true aim, her first duty,
often, alas! her sole happiness, to possess influence over her
children and _especially over her sons_. But to obtain that,
she needs not only goodness, tenderness, and patience, but
reason, reflection, good sense, and enlightenment. To obtain
these, real instruction, attentive study, serious education are
necessary.

{38}

But there are few women who are capable of rendering solid
service to their husbands and children.

"As a usual thing," wrote to me a woman of the world, of very
general interests, but exceedingly intelligent--"as a usual thing
we know nothing, absolutely nothing. We can talk only about
dress, fashions, or steeple-chases--nonsense all of them! A woman
knows who are the famous actors and horses of the day; she knows
by heart the _personnel_ of the opera and the Variétés; the
stud-book is more familiar to her than the _Imitation_; last
year she voted for _La Tonque_, this year for
_Vermouth_, and gravely assures us that _Bois-Roussel_
is full of promise; the grand Derby drives her wild, and the
triumph of _Fille de l'Air_ seems to her a national victory.
She can tell who are the best dressmakers, what saddler is most
in vogue, what shop is most frequented. She can weigh the
respective merits of the equipages of Comte de la Grange, Duc de
Morny, and M. Delamarre. But, alas! turn the conversation to a
matter of history or geography; speak of the middle ages, the
crusades, the institutions of Charlemagne or St. Louis; compare
Bossuet with Corneille, Racine with Fênélon; utter the names of
Camoëns or Dante, of Royer-Collard, Frédéric Ozanam, Comte de
Montalembert, or Père Gratry; the poor thing is struck dumb. She
can only amuse young women and frivolous young men; incapable of
talking of business, art, politics, agriculture, or science, she
cannot converse with her father-in-law, with the curé, or any
other sensible man. And yet it is a woman's first talent to be
able to converse with every one. If her mother-in-law visits
schools and poor people, and wishes to enroll her in charitable
associations, she understands neither their aim nor their
importance, for compassion and kindness of heart do not suffice
in a certain class for the execution of good works. To acquire
influence and give to a benefit its true worth, its whole moral
significance, one needs an intelligence only to be acquired by
study and attentive reflection."

And, now, I must go further, and indicate the fatal results of
the present condition of things to domestic life, to society, and
to religion; and I will tell the entire truth.

I know, I have seen, and thanked God in seeing, the sway
exercised in her family by a Christian wife and mother; the
pursuits introduced under her guidance; the ideas, at first
indignantly rejected, adopted to please her; thoughts of
religion, of charity, of devotion, resignation, and forgiveness;
but more rarely, I must confess, principles of industry.

It is a painful fact that education, not excepting religious
education, rarely gives a serious taste for study to young girls
or young women. Envoys from God to the domestic hearth, guardians
of the holy traditions of faith, honor, and loyalty, women, even
devout Christian women, seem to be the adversaries of work
whether for their husbands or their children, but especially for
their sons. I have seen women who found it difficult not to
regard the time given to study as stolen from them. Is this for
want of intelligence or aptitude? I think not. I attribute this
prejudice, first, to the education we give them, light,
frivolous, and superficial, if not absolutely false; and,
secondly, to the part assigned to them in the world, and the
place reserved for them in families, and even in some Christian
families.

{39}

We do not wish women to study; they do not wish those about them
to study. We do not like to see them employed; they do not like
to see others employed, and they succeed only too well in
preventing their husbands and children from working. This is an
immense misfortune, a most fatal influence. It is useless to say
to men, "Work, accept offices, occupy your time." While women
seek to destroy the effect of our advice, it will never produce
results. So long as mothers advise their daughters not to marry
men in office; so long as the young wife uses her whole art to
disgust her husband with employment, and the young mother fails
to inculcate in her children the necessity of self-culture, of
training the mind and talents as one cultivates a precious plant,
so long will the law of labor remain, with rare exceptions,
unobserved.

In the present stage of customs and manners, home life being what
it is, women only can effectively protect a spirit of industry;
make it habitual; inculcate, foster, facilitate, and even enforce
it upon those around them; early preparing the way for it,
rendering it possible and easy, according to it esteem,
encouragement, and admiration.

Now, on the contrary, children are placed as soon as possible
_en pension_; that is the word; or for the boys a tutor is
appointed, for the girls a governess. The mother, out of love of
amusement, deprives herself as early as possible of the supreme
happiness of bestowing upon her children the first gleam of
intellectual and spiritual life--she who gave them corporeal
existence. The children then go to college or to a convent, and
what becomes the mother's chief care? That they should not work
too hard! If there is a tutor or governess, the case is far
worse. The mother often appears to be the born adversary of both,
bent upon finding fault, upon alienating her children from them,
and extorting privileges, walks, exemptions, and incessant
interruptions. The only dream of this weak and blind mother, her
only idea of _occupation_ for her son, is to plan hunting
parties for him, gatherings of young people, hippodromes, plays,
watering-places, and balls, where she follows him with her eyes,
enchanted with his triumphs in society, which should perhaps
rather make her sigh. No longer daring to be vain for herself,
she is vain for him. What defects does she blame? An ungraceful
gesture, an unrefined expression, or the omission of some
courtesy. She never says to him: "Aim at higher things; cultivate
your mind; learn to think, to know men, things, yourself; become
a distinguished man; serve your country; make for yourself a
name, unless you have one already, and in that case be worthy to
bear it."

Few mothers give such counsel to their children--still less,
young wives to their husbands. They seem to marry in order to run
about in search of amusement or of the principle of perpetual
motion. Country places, city life, baths, watering-places, the
turf, balls, concerts, and morning calls leave not a moment's
rest for them day or night. Willingly or unwillingly, the husband
must share this restlessness. He yawns frequently, scolds
sometimes, but no matter for that; he must yield, longing for the
blessed moment when he can shake off the yoke and take refuge at
his club. The young wife employs every gift of art and nature,
everything that God bestowed upon her for better purposes, grace,
beauty, sweetness, address, fascination, to make him yield. Oh!
that she would employ half these providential resources to prove
to her husband that she would be proud to be the wife of a
distinguished man; that she longs to see him cultivated, clever,
worthy of his name, worthy one day to be held up as an example to
his son; to persuade him either to take some office, or to live
upon his estates and exercise a righteous influence, protecting
elective places, gaining the confidence and esteem of his
fellow-citizens, setting a noble example, and thus serving God
and society!

{40}

But far from behaving thus, if the poor husband ventures to take
up a book and seek repose from the whirlwind he is condemned to
live in, madam makes a little face, (considered bewitching at
twenty, but one day to be pronounced insufferable;) she flutters
about the literary man, the rhetorician, the scholar, retires to
put on her hat, comes back, seats herself, springs up again,
flits back and forth before the mirror, takes her gloves, and
finally bursts out into execrations against books and reading,
which are good for nothing except to making a man stupid and
preoccupied. For the sake of peace the husband throws down his
book, loses the habit of reading, suffers gradual annihilation by
a conjugal process, and, having failed to raise his companion to
his own level, sinks to hers.

Here we have a deplorable vicious circle. So long as women know
nothing, they will prefer unoccupied men; and so long as men
remain idle, they will prefer ignorant and frivolous women. Men
in office are no less persecuted than others. Many women torment
a magistrate, a lawyer, a notary, making them fail in exactitude
and in application to business, instead of encouraging a strict
and complete fulfilment of duty. They consider punctuality a bore
and assiduity insufferable. When they succeed in accomplishing
the neglect of an appointment or of some important occupation,
one would think they had achieved a victory. The case is worse
still for certain careers generally adopted by rich men or by
those whose families were formerly wealthy, such as the army and
navy. An officer must remain unmarried, or marry a girl without
fortune. Otherwise, in discussing the marriage, the first thing
demanded is a resignation. Every young lady of independent
fortune wishes her husband to _do nothing_. In view of this
ignorant prejudice, this conjugal ostracism, even sensible
mothers hesitate about recommending their sons to adopt careers
which will make marriage possible to them only at the expense of
a noble fortune; or else they say in words too often heard: "My
son will serve for a few years, and then resign. A married man
_cannot pursue a career_."

And young men are asked to work with this perspective before
them! How can one love a position which is to be abandoned on
such or such a day in accordance with a caprice? What zeal, what
emulation, what ambition can a man have who is to leave the
service at twenty-five or twenty-eight years of age, when he is
perhaps captain of artillery or lieutenant of a ship, that is to
say, when he has worked his way through the difficulties that
beset every career at its outset?

I have known mothers fairly reduced to despair at seeing a son,
just on the point of attaining an elevated position, forced to
renounce the thought merely in accordance with the
_exigence_ of a young girl and the blindness of her mother,
who ought to foresee and dread the inevitable regrets and
inconveniences of idleness succeeding to the charm of an occupied
life, of the monotony of a _tête-à-tête_ coming after the
excitements of Solferino, or the perpetual _qui vive_ of our
Algerian garrisons, or the adventurous and almost constantly
heroic life of the navy.

{41}

It is the duty of an intelligent Christian wife or mother to
point out the dangers of idleness and stultification; the social
and intellectual suicide resulting from standing aloof from every
office and all occupation; the political and religious necessity
of occupying responsible places, distinguishing one's self in
them, and holding them permanently in order to exercise one's
influence in favor of morals and religion. This is a vital matter
which will never be understood until mothers teach it with the
catechism to their little children. This is the commentary which
every mother and every catechist must give, in explaining the
important chapter on sloth, one of the seven deadly sins. And the
same ideas must be inculcated in instructing their daughters
until they are twenty years old; teaching them to be reasonable
and capable, showing them the evil consequences of idleness in a
young husband, the difficulty of amusing him all day long, of
pleasing without wearying him, of averting _ennui_,
ill-humor, and monotony. And let the teacher never fail to add
the truth so often proved that it is impossible to induce a son
to work after having dissuaded his father from working. Of
course, there are moments of pain in an occupied life. It is hard
to see a husband embark for two or three years, going perhaps to
Sebastopol or to Kabylia. But it is sadder still to see a husband
bored to death, and thinking his wife tedious, his home
unbearable, his affairs drudgery; and this is not uncommon. I
have heard wives who had consented to necessary separations say
that the trial had its compensations; that the consciousness of
duty fulfilled was a source of inestimable satisfaction; that the
agony was followed by a joy that obliterated the memory of
suffering; that as the time of return drew near, as the regiment
or the ship appeared in sight, they experienced a happiness
unknown to other women. It must be so; God leaves nothing
unrewarded; every sacrifice has its compensation, every wound its
balm. I am told that the most admirable households are to be
found in our seaport towns, our great manufacturing centres, and
even in our large garrison towns in spite of the bustle,
agitation, and dissipation reigning there. I can easily believe
this--every one is busy in such places. A husband who has spent
the day in barrack or factory (still more, one who has been at
sea a long time) thirsts for home, longs to be again by his own
hearth, enjoying domestic life. The wife on her side, separated
for several hours from her husband, reserves for him her most
cheerful mood and her pleasantest smile. She saves him from the
thousand annoyances of the day, the household perplexities, the
little embarrassments of life, the children's romping. The little
ones run to meet their father, and recreate him after his work
with caresses and prattle. This is the way in which men enjoy
children; as a necessity of every day and all day, they dread
them.

But without rising so high, I ask simply what can be more
agreeable, even for a husband who spends his life in hunting or
anywhere else out of his own house, than to find on coming home
his wife cheerful and good-tempered, because after getting him a
good dinner she has amused herself with painting a pretty
picture, or studying with genuine interest a little natural
history, or trying some experiment in domestic chemistry, or even
solving a problem in _géométrie agricole_, instead of
finding her languid and melancholy, a _femme incomprise_,
with some novel or another in her hand.

{42}

If I persist in preaching industry to men and women, it is for
very urgent reasons, not only domestic and political, but social.
Who does not see that we verge on socialism at present? The
masses will not work, they detest labor. Salaries have been
raised again and again; for many trades they go beyond necessity,
and so the workman, instead of giving six days in the week to his
trade, gives but four, three, or even two days. It is for the
higher classes who are supposed to understand their duties and to
feel the import of their responsibilities, it is for them to
reinstate labor in popular estimation. In this as in all other
things, example must come from above; for here, as in religion
and morals, the higher classes owe to society and to their
country some expiation. The eighteenth century, with its
corruptions, its scandals, and its irreligion, hangs upon us with
the weight of a satanic heritage. Like original sin, these errors
have been washed in blood; it is the history of all great errors.
It remains for us to expiate the idleness, the inaction,
inutility, annihilation to which we have hitherto surrendered
ourselves, setting a fatal example to those around us.

Our generation must be steeped in labor. There and only there is
to be found our safety, and mothers must be convinced of this
truth. The mother is the centre of home, everything radiates from
her--on one condition, that she is a mother worthy of the name
and mission--and such mothers are rare.

We know what is in general the education of women. Add to it the
indulgence and weakness of parents, the species of idolatry they
have for their daughters, the premature pleasures lavished upon
young girls, the pains taken to praise them, to adorn them from
their earliest infancy, and afterward to show them off and make
them shine in a sort of matrimonial exhibition. How can we hope
to find earnest mothers of families among those whose youth has
been spent in balls, _fetes_, and morning visits? Alas! it
is not possible. Reasonable ideas rarely come to them until age
or misfortune has withdrawn their surest means of influence.

And the greatest sufferers from this calamity are society and
religion; it cannot be otherwise. A little drawing, a little more
music, enough grammar and orthography to pass muster, sufficient
history and geography to know Gibraltar from the Himalaya and to
recognize Cyrus as King of Persia, but not enough to avenge noble
memories outraged or to rectify erroneous estimates; of foreign
languages a slight smattering, enough to enable one to read
English and German novels, but not to appreciate the glorious
pages of Shakespeare, Milton, or Klopstock; no literature,
nothing of our great authors, unless a few fables of La Fontaine
and perhaps a chorus out of Esther learned in childhood; of
religious knowledge a sufficiency to allow of being admitted to
first communion, not enough to answer the most vulgar objections,
the most notorious calumnies, not enough to understand one's
position and duties, to impose silence on the detractors of
religion, or the adversaries of reason and Christian evidence, to
refute the grossest sophistry, to lead back to faith and holy
practices a young husband or perhaps an aged father; with such an
education what influence can a young woman exercise?

If the poor young creature so insufficiently prepared by
education never reads, or reads only romances, where will she
find arms to defend her against error and blasphemy? In spite of
sincere piety, she must, useless and timid soldier that she is,
desert the holy cause of God and truth for fear of compromising
it by an ignorant defence.
{43}
And yet it is a noble cause, and one that belongs especially to
her, for it is the cause of the weak and defenceless, and only
asks in its service a sincere conviction, a devout heart, and a
little knowledge. But the knowledge is wanting. Because she has
acquired neither a habit of reflection nor of seeking in good
books necessary information, she must be silent, and, while God
and his faith are outraged in her presence with impunity, drop
her eyes upon her worsted work and sigh.

Yes, sigh--that is right; and sigh not only for the poor men who
read such wretched books and intoxicate themselves with vile
poisons, but also for the fact that there is no one to open their
eyes, to lead these misled hearts back into the right path, or,
at least, to excite a doubt in their perverted minds and warped
consciences; no mother, sister, daughter, wife, no intelligent,
enlightened, educated woman to fulfil woman's essential mission.
No one else can do the work. If women are not the first apostles
of the home circle, no one else can penetrate it. But they must
render themselves thoroughly capable of fulfilling their
apostleship. Nowadays, when all the world reasons or rather
cavils, when everything is discussed and proved, when even light
and life must be demonstrated, it is necessary that women should
participate in the general movement. To speak without reserve--in
the face of a masculine generation who graft on to the
_hauteurs_ which especially belong to them feminine
indifference, affectation, idleness, frivolity, and
weakness--women must show themselves serious, thoughtful, firm,
and courageous. When men copy their defects, it behooves them to
borrow a few manly virtues. "It is time," nobly says M. Caro,
"that minds possessed of any intellectual claims awoke to full
vitality. Let every being endowed with reason learn to protect
himself against literary evil-doers and to repulse their attacks
upon God, soul, virtue, purity, and faith."

  To Be Continued.

--------

  In Memoriam.

  When souls like thine rise up and leave
    This Earth's dark prison-place,
      'Tis foolishness to grieve:
  Or think thou dost thy life regret,
  And would return if God would let
    Thy feet their steps retrace.

  'Tis he who ends thy banishment,
  And by an angel's hand has sent
      A merciful reprieve.

--------

{44}

  The Early Christian Schools and Scholars.  [Footnote 7]

    [Footnote 7: _Christian Schools and Scholars_; or,
    Sketches of Education from the Christian Era to the Council
    of Trent. By the author of _The Three Chancellors_, etc.
    Two vol. London: Longmans, Green & Co.]

The history of the schools and scholars of the early ages of the
church is not only interesting as forming an important chapter in
the history of the church itself, but is full of most remarkable
facts and valuable suggestions bearing on the as yet apparently
unsolved problem of education. It is replete with matter well
worthy the profound attention of all who consider the proper
training of youth one of the gravest and most important of public
questions; and one which, in this age of advanced enlightenment,
still remains the subject of many crude and conflicting opinions.
Not only do we recommend its perusal to the Catholic teacher, who
is manfully overcoming the peculiar obstacles presented in our
unsettled community, as a source of consolation and
encouragement; but we call it to the notice of those gentlemen
who spend so much of their time during summer vacations debating
on the quantity and quality of discipline necessary to enforce
the time-honored authority of the teacher, and in endeavoring to
define the exact minimum of moral training required to be
administered to the secular student to fit him for the proper
discharge of the duties of life. We do this in all sincerity; for
with this latter class of persons we are not inclined to find too
much fault. Many of them are men of intelligence and good
intentions; but, groping as they are in utter darkness, and
bringing to their deliberations a lamentable ignorance of the
essential principles of Christian education, it is not wonderful
that their counsels should be divided, and their labors as
unprofitable as that of Sisyphus. Disguise it as we may, it
cannot be doubted that the state colleges and schools of our
country, after a very fair trial, have not answered the
expectations of even those who profess themselves their warmest
admirers. There is a feeling in the public mind, as yet partially
expressed, that there is something lacking in our method of
dealing with the ever-constant flood of young hearts and minds
which is daily looking to us for direction and guidance. It is
becoming more and more painfully apparent that the mere intellect
of the children who attend our public institutions is stimulated
into unnatural and unhealthy activity, while their moral nature
is left wholly uncultivated and undeveloped. Conducted, as such
institutions must necessarily be, by persons unqualified or
unauthorized to administer moral instruction, it cannot, of
course, be expected that the souls for a time entrusted to their
care can be fortified by wise counsels and that moral discipline
which was considered in past ages and in all nations as the
fundamental basis of all Christian education.

Even in a worldly sense, it ought to be a source of our greatest
solicitude that the generation which is to hold the honor and
integrity of the nation in its keeping should be schooled in the
principles of justice and rectitude upon which all true
individual and national greatness must depend. If, then, we have
exhausted the wisdom of the present, with all its examples before
our eyes, to no good purpose, let us turn reverently to the
experience of the past, and see if we cannot find something fit
for meditation in the varied pages of the history of the
Christian church, in her struggles against ignorance and false
philosophy.

{45}

From the very beginning the church had to contend against three
distinct elements, positively or negatively, opposed to her
teachings. In the East, as then known, what was called the Greek
civilization, superimposed on the Roman, denied all particular
gods while worshipping many, and culminated either in refined
atheism or the deification of man himself: proud of its
disputants, its arts and literature, it affected to feel, and
perhaps actually felt, a contempt for the simple doctrines of
Christianity, accompanied, as they were, by self-denial, poverty,
and lowliness. Over continental Europe and many of its islands
the wave of Roman conquest had swept irresistibly and receded
reluctantly, leaving behind it the sediment of an intelligence
which served only to nourish the latent weeds of ignorance and
paganism; while in the far West existed a people with a peculiar
and, in its way, a high order of civilization, untouched, it is
true, by Roman or Greek pantheism, but completely shut out from
the light of the gospel.

To overcome the scattered and diversified opposition thus
presented, to overturn false gods and uproot false opinions, to
bend the stubborn neck of the barbarian beneath the yoke of
Christian meekness, and to mould whatever was brilliant and
intellectual in mankind to the service of the true God, was the
task assumed by the church through the means of education.

During the first three centuries of our era schools were
established at Alexandria, Jerusalem, Edessa, Antioch, and other
centres of Eastern wealth and learning; of these, that at
Alexandria, founded by St. Mark, A.D. 60, was the most
celebrated, and had for its teachers and scholars some of the
most learned men of the period. They were catechetical in their
nature, and at first were confined to oral instructions on the
chief articles of the faith and the nature of the sacraments; but
in process of time their sphere of usefulness was greatly
enlarged, and the character of the studies pursued in them
assumed a wider and higher tone, till not only dogmatic theology
and Christian ethics, but human sciences and profane literature,
were freely taught. Thus we read that, toward the close of the
second century, St. Pantaeus, a converted Stoic of great
erudition, and Clement of Alexandria, who is said to have
"visited all lands and studied in all schools in search of
truth," taught in the school of St. Mark, with an eloquence so
convincing, and a knowledge of Grecian philosophy so thorough,
that multitudes of Gentiles flocked to hear them, astonished to
find the doctrines of the new faith expounded in the polished
language of Cicero, and the very logic of Aristotle turned
against the pantheistic philosophy of Greece. Their successor,
the celebrated Origen, whose reputation has outlived all the
attacks of time, in a letter to his friend St. Gregory, gives us
some idea of the course of instruction pursued in his time, in
this school, in regard to the study of the human sciences. "They
are to be used," he writes, "so that they may contribute to the
understanding of the Scriptures; for just as philosophers are
accustomed to say that geometry, music, grammar, rhetoric, and
astronomy, all dispose us to the study of philosophy, so we may
say that philosophy, rightly studied, disposes us to the study of
Christianity.
{46}
We are permitted, when we go out of Egypt, to carry with us the
riches of the Egyptians wherewith to adorn the tabernacle; only
let us beware how we reverse the process, and leave Israel to go
down into Egypt and seek for treasure; that is what Jeroboam did
in olden time, and what heretics do in our own." Here we find
expressed, at so early a day, the beautiful idea of the church
respecting education; that enduring pyramid which she would build
up, whose base is human science, and whose apex is the knowledge
of God.

The episcopal seminaries, intended exclusively for the training
of ecclesiastics, were coeval with, if not anterior to, the
catechetical schools, for we find the germ of the system in the
very earliest apostolic times. They originally formed but part of
the bishops' households; and the students were taught by him
personally, or by his deputy. When the community life became more
general and the number of ecclesiastical pupils increased, the
seminaries assumed more extensive proportions, the school being
held in the church attached to the bishop's house, but the
scholars still living under his roof. Great care was always
manifested by the early fathers of the church in the moral and
intellectual training of ecclesiastical students. Thus, Pope St.
Siricius, in his decretal, A.D. 385, to the Bishop of Tarragona,
lays down the following rules to be observed in preparing
candidates for the priesthood. He orders that they shall be
selected principally from those who have been devoted to the
service of the church from childhood. At thirty years of age they
are to be advanced through inferior orders to subdiaconate and
diaconate, and after five years thus spent they may be ordained
priests. In several provincial councils held in the early
centuries we find the greatest stress laid on the importance of
the careful culture of seminarians, and the second council of
Toledo, A.D. 531, fixes the ordination of subdeacons at twenty,
and of deacons at twenty-five years of age. As to the course of
studies pursued, besides the reading of the Scriptures, the
Psalter, and a knowledge of the duties of the holy offices,
Latin, Greek, and generally Hebrew were taught, together with the
liberal sciences, and sometimes even law and medicine.

Thus did the church gradually but firmly lay the foundation of
her system. First, by giving to the adult neophyte such
instruction as befitted his age and condition, to enable him to
become a worthy member of her fold; and next, by providing, under
the direct inspection of each bishop, a school where children,
disciplined in his household, taught from his mouth and by his
example lessons of piety, humility and self-control, and armed
with all the resources of sacred and profane learning, were at
mature years sent forth to convert a gentile world, and in turn
become teachers of men.

While the catechetical schools were flourishing in the East and
the episcopal seminaries assuming form in Spain and Gaul, the
bloody persecutions which prevailed intermittingly at Rome
retarded for a long time education in that city. Many of her
first citizens, it is true, regardless alike of family
considerations and imperial edicts, were to be daily found by the
side of her humblest bondmen, listening, through the gloom of the
catacombs, to the teachings of the gospel; and to this day their
places can be pointed out beside the rough hewn seat of their
teachers. The Roman pontiffs also labored in their own dwellings
to educate their young priests, many of whom, like St.
Felicitanus, passed only from their care to testify their
devotion to the faith by a glorious martyrdom.
{47}
When the Emperor Constantine was converted, the palace of the
_Laterni_ became the residence of the popes, and here was
established the Patriarchium, or seminary, which for several
centuries gave so many distinguished occupants to the chair of
Peter. The schools of the empire were also thrown open to the
Christians, who largely availed themselves of their superior
advantages to become acquainted with the old authors. But the
professors of the imperial academies were but semi-christianized,
and, though conforming outwardly to the new order of things, they
retained not a little of their old ideas and customs. Hence, we
find a variety of opinions entertained by contemporary
authorities as to the propriety of Christians studying in them.
In most cases, however, where the danger of contamination was not
imminent, or where, as in the case of Victorinus, the
academicians were _bona-fidè_ Christians, the practice was
permitted, so eager were the fathers to encourage learning.

Tertullian was of opinion that, while Christians could not
lawfully teach in the schools with pagans, they might be
listeners, without, however, taking part in idolatrous
ceremonies. St. Basil, who studied for a time in them, and who
was a devoted lover of classical learning, entertained much the
same views, comparing the student to a bee who sucks honey out of
the poisoned flower. St. Chrysostom, who cannot be accused of any
antipathy to education in all its most elegant branches, but who
had in his own person experienced the dangers which beset the
young Christian in the academies, after great deliberation, and
with evident reluctance, decided against the public schools as
then conducted. His words have a significant sound, even in these
days. He writes:

  "If you have masters among you who can answer for the virtue of
  your children, I should be very far from advocating your
  sending them to a monastery. On the contrary, I should strongly
  insist on them remaining where they are. But, if no one can
  give such a guarantee, we ought not to send our children to
  schools where they will learn vice before they learn science,
  and where, in acquiring learning of relatively small value,
  they will lose what is far more precious, their integrity of
  soul. ... 'Are we, then, to give up literature?' you will
  exclaim. I do not say that; but I do say that we must not kill
  souls. ... When the foundations of a building are sapped, we
  should seek rather for architects to reconstruct the whole
  edifice, than for artists to adorn the walls. In fact, the
  choice lies between two alternatives a liberal education, which
  you may get by sending your children to the public schools, or
  the salvation of their souls, which you secure by sending them
  to the monks. Which is to gain the day, science or the soul? If
  you can unite both advantages, do so, by all means; but, if
  not, choose the most precious."

The character of the academies must have soon changed for the
better; for, when Julian some time after closed them to the
Christians, ostensibly with a view to the purity of morals, but
actually to deprive Christian students of the benefit of any
education, St. Gregory, who quickly saw through the Apostate's
designs, protested in the strongest terms against the injustice.
"For my part," he says, "I trust that every one who cares for
learning will take part in my indignation. I leave to others
fortune, birth, and every other fancied good which can flatter
the imagination of man.
{48}
I value only science and letters, and regret no labor that I have
spent in their acquisition. I have preferred, and ever shall
prefer, learning to all earthly riches, and hold nothing dearer
on earth next to the joys of heaven and the hopes of eternity."
The decree was afterward revoked by the Emperor Valentinian at
the request of St. Ambrose, and the academies gradually fell into
decay; and, growing dim in the light of the new Christian
foundations of other countries, finally ceased to be objects of
discussion.

Perhaps the greatest good that resulted from the evils complained
of by St. Chrysostom was the establishment of the Benedictine
order; an organization destined to exercise for centuries a
controlling influence over the educational system of Christendom.
In the year A.D. 522, a poor solitary named Benedict, while
engaged at his devotions in the grotto of Subiaco, was visited by
two Roman senators, who desired him to take charge of the
education of their sons, Maurus and Placidus. He consented, and
other children of the same rank, whose parents feared the
contagion of the imperial schools, were soon after placed in his
care. For their government he established a rule, and from this
apparently slight foundation sprang the numberless monasteries
which were the custodians and dispensaries of learning in the
middle ages. In 543, St. Maurus carried the Benedictine rule into
Gaul, where under his charge and that of his successors
monasteries multiplied with great rapidity. We have seen that at
first this illustrious order was designed only for the education
of the children of the rich, who were to be instructed "_non
solum in Scripturis divinas, sed etiam in secularibus
litteris;_" but so great did its reputation become that, in a
short time, we find the doors of its schools thrown open to all
classes.

It was not, however, in the polished circles of the cities of
Greece and her colonies, nor even in the future centre of
Christendom, that the church was destined to achieve her most
substantial triumphs. The civilization of the East, long in a
state of decay, waned with the decline of the Empire, and its
opulent cities and elaborate literature became part of the
_débris_ of the colossal ruins of that once stupendous
power. The soil in which the seeds of education had been planted
by St. Mark and St. Basil, Origen and Cassian, was already
exhausted, and incapable of producing those hardy plants and
gigantic trees which defy time and corruption. We must,
therefore, look to Western Europe as the proper field wherein
were to be sown the germs of a more enduring growth.

The monastic system, more or less defined, was introduced into
Gaul long before the advent of St. Maurus, and the education, not
only of monks, was attended to with care, but of the laity also.
From the earliest times we find traces of the exterior schools
attached to the monasteries for the training of children not
intended for a clerical life. The rules of Saints Pachominus and
Basil, then generally followed, were careful to provide that
children should be taught to read and write, and instructed in
psalmody and such portions of the Holy Scriptures as were suited
to their comprehension. They were to live in the monastery and be
allowed to sit at table with the monks, who were strictly
cautioned not to do or say anything that could disedify their
young minds. With a tenderness truly paternal, the young scholars
were allowed a separate part of the building for themselves, and
plenty of time for amusement.
{49}
On the subject of punishment, we recommend the following advice
of St. Basil to modern teachers, believing that juvenile human
nature is much the same now as it was sixteen or seventeen
centuries ago. "Let every fault have its own remedy," says this
experienced teacher, "so that, while the offence is punished, the
soul may be exercised to conquer its passions. For example: Has a
child been angry with his companion? Oblige him to beg pardon of
the other and to do him some humble service; for it is by
accustoming him to humility that you will eradicate anger, which
is always the offspring of pride. Has he eaten out of meals? Let
him remain fasting for a good part of the day. Has he eaten to
excess and in an unbecoming manner? At the hour of repast, let
him, without eating himself, watch others taking their food in a
modest manner, and so he will be learning how to behave at the
same time that he is being punished by his abstinence. And if he
has offended by idle words, by rudeness, or by telling lies, let
him be corrected by diet and silence."

The early Gallican bishops showed as great a desire to encourage
learning among their clergy as did those of Spain, and were never
tired of enforcing the necessity of the attentive study of the
Scriptures and the cultivation of letters, even in religious
houses occupied by women. The result of this zealous spirit is to
be found in the establishment of the schools of Tours and Lyons,
Grinni and Vienne, the abbey of Marmontier and the more famous
one of Lerins, which produced thousands of missionaries, and such
scholars as Apollinaris of Lyons, Maumertius, the author of
_The Nature of the Soul_, and the poets, Saints Prosper and
Avitus. The "Academy of Toulouse," of disputatious memory, is
claimed to have had a very ancient origin, but was probably not
in existence until the sixth century.

But the first period of literary culture on the continent of
Europe was fast drawing to a close. At the end of the fifth
century heresy and schism; the converted Ostrogoths of Northern
Italy were subdued by the semi-paganized Lombards; the Roman
empire existed but in name; and civil war broke out in Gaul,
desolating her fields and laying in ruins her churches and
schools. Darkness succeeded light, and anarchy and barbarism
prevailed on both sides of the Alps. But the cause of Christian
learning was not lost. Driven from the mainland, the Christian
scholars had already taken refuge in the adjacent islands, where
they rekindled their torches, and kept them burning with an
effulgence unknown in the palaces of kings or the schools of the
empire. The providence of God, which permitted the ravages of war
and heresy to prevail for a time in Gaul, Spain, and Italy,
ordained that a newer and more secure asylum should be provided
for the handmaid of the faith, whence were to issue, when the
storm passed over, of hosts of zealous and learned men to
reconquer for the church her desolated and darkened dominions.

Ireland and England were destined to be this asylum, and, even
humanly speaking, no choice could have been more propitious. The
qualities which distinguished the people of these islands, and
which characterize them even at this day, admirably adapted them
for missionary life. The Anglo-Saxon genius, mollified by contact
with the more imaginative mind of the Briton, developed a strong,
unconquerable will, great tenacity of purpose, vast powers of
cooperation, and a capacity for solid attainments; while the
Celts of the sister island, who had never known a conqueror,
exhibited the indomitable zeal of a free-born people united to an
insatiable love of learning and fine arts, and a subtility of
mind which easily grasped the most beautiful and abstruse dogmas
of Christian philosophy.

{50}

The earliest monastic schools of England were destroyed by the
Saxon invaders about the middle of the fifth century, and what
remained of their teachers were driven with the remnant of the
Britons into the mountains of Wales. Yet even before the invasion
many of her youth found their way to the continent, and there
obtaining an education, returned to their native country to teach
their compatriots. Thus St. Ninian, who had studied at Rome under
Pope St. Siricius and had visited Tours, established his
episcopal seminary and a school for the neighboring children at
Witherne, in Galloway, about the beginning of that century. He
was, says his biographer, St. Aelred, "assiduous in reading." St.
Germanus of Auxerre and St. Lupus of Troyes followed in 429, and
established at Caerleon, the capital of the Britons, seminaries
and schools, in which they lectured on the Scriptures and the
liberal arts. Stimulated by their example, monastic schools
sprang rapidly into existence, the most successful of which were
those at Hentland; Laudwit, among whose first scholars was the
historian Gildas; Bangor on the Dee, in which, according to Bede,
there were over two thousand students; Whitland, where St. David
studied; and Llancarvan, founded by St. Cadoc. This latter saint
was educated by an Irish recluse named Fathai, who was induced to
leave his hermitage in the mountains to take charge of the school
of Gwent, in Monmouthshire.

We must not be surprised to find an Irish teacher at that early
period in Wales; for already the wonderful exodus of Irish
missionaries and teachers had commenced. The twenty years'
missionary labors of St. Patrick and his disciples had literally
converted the entire people of Ireland, and, following the
lessons taught him at Tours, Rome, and Lerins, that saint studded
the island with seminaries and monastic schools. His own, at
Armagh, founded A.D. 455, doubtless formed the model upon which
the others were built. "Within a century after the death of St.
Patrick," says Bishop Nicholson, "the Irish seminaries had so
increased that most parts of Europe sent their children to be
educated there, and drew thence their bishops and teachers." So
numerous, indeed, were the schools of Ireland founded by the
successors of St. Patrick that it is impossible even to enumerate
their names in the limits of an article. The most celebrated were
those of Armagh, which at one time furnished education to seven
thousand pupils; Lismore; Cashel; Aran, "the Holy;" Clonard, the
_alma mater_ of Columba the Great; Conmacnois; Benchor, of
which St. Bernard speaks in such terms of admiration; and
Clonfert, founded by St. Brendan the navigator. When we remember
the disturbed condition of the continent during the sixth and
seventh centuries, and the almost profound peace which prevailed
in Ireland during that time, we cease to be astonished at the
influx of foreigners which thronged her schools. St. AEngus
mentions the names of Gauls, Romans, Germans, and even Egyptians
who visited her shore; and St. Aldhelm of Westminster, in the
seventh century, rather petulantly complains of his countrymen
neglecting their own schools for those of Ireland. "Nowadays," he
remarks, "the renown of the Irish is so great that one sees them
daily going or returning; and crowds flock over to their island
to gather up, not merely the liberal arts and physical sciences,
but also the four senses of Holy Scripture and the allegorical
and tropological interpretation of its sacred oracles."

{51}

As to the course of study pursued in the Irish monastic schools,
there is reason to believe that not only were theology, grammar,
that is, languages, and the physical sciences taught, but poetry
and music also received special attention. The bardic order were
the first to embrace Christianity, and their love for those two
beautiful arts was proverbial. Latin and Hebrew were studied, but
the sonorous language of Homer and Cicero seems to have been most
in favor, probably on account of its remarkable resemblance, in
euphony at least, to the vernacular Gaelic. Mathematics and
astronomy ranked first on the list of the sciences, and
geography, as far as then known, must have been familiar to St.
Brendan and his adventurous companions.

But, as we have said, the missionary labors of the Irish had
already commenced. Obedient to a law beyond human control, the
pent-up zeal of the people had burst its boundaries and
overflowed Europe. Of the devoted men destined to roll back the
tide of paganism, the first in point of greatness, if not in
time, was St. Columba, the founder of the schools of Iona, A.D.
563. Amid all the Irish missionaries, this saint stands out in
the boldest relief. Of proud lineage and dauntless spirit,
passionately fond of books, yet sharing willingly with his monks
the toils of the field, we fancy we can almost see his tall,
austere figure stalking amid the unknown and unheeded perils of
the barbarous Hebrides and the mountains of North Britain, with
his staff and book, overawing hostile chiefs and princes by his
very presence, and winning the hearts of the humble shepherds by
his sweet voice and gentle demeanor. "He suffered no space of
time," says Adamnan, "no, not an hour to pass, in which he was
not employed either in prayer, or in reading or writing, or
manual work."

Leaving Ireland forging the weapons of spiritual and intellectual
combat, and the Albanian Scots to the care of Columba and his
monks, we turn again to England, which, with the exception of
Wales, was up to the end of the sixth century sunk in the
grossest paganism. In the year 596, when, to use the words of
Pope Gregory, "all Europe was in the hands of the barbarians,"
that pontiff conceived the idea of converting the Saxons of
England. He accordingly despatched St. Augustine and some monks
from Monte Cassino, lately reduced to ruins. St. Augustine
brought with him a Bible, a psalter, the gospels, an apocryphal
lives of the apostles, a martyrology, and the exposition of
certain epistles and gospels, besides sacred vessels, vestments,
church ornaments, and holy relics. He forthwith established a
seminary and school at Canterbury, which afterward attained great
celebrity. But the schools of Lindisfarne, founded by St. Aiden,
A.D. 635, eclipsed all lesser luminaries. Aiden was a worthy
descendant of Columba, and brought to his task all the learning
and discipline of Iona. "All who bore company with Aiden," says
the Venerable Bede, "whether monks or laymen, were employed
either in studying the Scriptures or in singing psalms. This was
his own daily employment wherever he went." In the south of
England, Maidulf, also an Irish missionary, founded the schools
of Malmsbury; Wilfred, a student of Lindisfarne, the abbey and
school of Ripon, introducing the Benedictine rule into England;
while Archbishop Theodore, a native of Tarsis, and Adrian,
described as a "fountain of letters and a river of arts,"' gave a
wonderful impetus to the study of letters in Canterbury.
{52}
These latter added to St. Augustine's library the works of St.
Chrysostom, the history of Josephus, and a copy of Homer. The
studies pursued at Canterbury consisted of theology, Latin and
Greek, geometry, arithmetic, music, mechanics, astronomy, and
astrology. The most illustrious pupil of the early schools of
Canterbury were St. Aldhelm, who was thoroughly familiar with the
classical authors, himself a writer of no mean order, and who
afterward became teacher at Malmsbury; St. Bennet Biscop, who
founded schools at Monk Wearmouth, Yarrow, and various other
places, endowing them with valuable books which he had collected
on the continent. He first introduced the use of glass in
England.

In the school at Yarrow, Bede commenced his studies. This
extraordinary man, besides attending to his duties as a
missionary and teacher, found time to compose forty-five books on
the most diverse subjects, including commentaries on the Holy
Scriptures, works on grammar, astronomy, the logic of Aristotle,
music, geography, arithmetic, orthography, versification, the
computum or method of calculating Easter, and natural philosophy,
besides his _Ecclesiastical History_ and _Lives of the
Saints_. He was well versed in the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew
languages, and, for his success in reducing the barbarous
Anglo-Saxon tongue to something like grammatical rules, he has
been justly styled the father of the English language. For the
immense knowledge which he displayed in his various writings, he
was indebted, doubtless, to the valuable libraries collected by
St. Bennet, who, like a true son of Iona, seized upon a book
whenever or wherever an opportunity was afforded. At the
beginning of the eighth century, the schools of York attained
general notoriety under the management of Egbert, who taught the
seven liberal sciences, chronology, natural history, mathematics,
and jurisprudence. Here Alcuin, the adviser and friend of
Charlemagne, received his first lessons.

Nor are we to suppose that the great schools above mentioned
occupied the entire attention of the hierarchy of England. On the
contrary, every bishop had his own seminary; and every monastery,
of which there were hundreds in the seventh and eighth centuries,
had its _interior_ or claustral, and its _exterior_
school for the education of the children of its neighborhood. In
England, as elsewhere, wherever a monastery was built, no matter
how remote the situation or how barren the soil, people flocked
round it not only to hear the gospel preached, but to learn the
mechanical arts and the laws of agriculture. Besides this, parish
priests, or, as they were called in the Anglo-Saxon, "mass
priests," were obliged to open and sustain parochial free schools
for the children of the peasantry and serfs.

It is acknowledged by all writers, no matter how sceptical they
may be on other points, that the church was the first to raise
woman to her true place in society. In pagan times woman was
treated much the same as she now is in Mohammedan countries, and
only the very vilest of the sex enjoyed any freedom of speech or
action; but Christianity not only threw its aegis around her, but
provided for her education with a care only second, if indeed not
fully equal, to that bestowed on ecclesiastics.
{53}
We find by the correspondence between St. Boniface and his
relative Lioba, that the nuns of England at that time understood
and could write the Latin language, and were well versed in the
Scriptures and the writings of the fathers. Nunneries were, in
fact, in the middle ages almost as numerous as monasteries, and
in their sphere as powerful agents in the advancement of religion
and education.

By the close of the eighth century England had reached the zenith
of her first period of literary glory. Not only were her people
thoroughly instructed according to their degree and rank, but the
island abounded in saints and scholars, many of whom, like those
of Ireland, went forth, from time to time, to repay to benighted
Europe a portion of the debt contracted two centuries earlier.

It were an interesting study, if space permitted, to trace the
divergent paths pursued by Irish and English scholars on the
continent, in what may be called their initial campaigns against
ignorance. We find the Irish invading France, Switzerland, Italy,
and even Spain, while the Anglo-Saxons, with a like affinity for
race and habits, preferred the northern part of Europe, the
cradle of their ancestors. St. Columbanus, whose rule, next to
that of St. Benedict, was the most generally adopted in the
continental monasteries, founded the schools of Luxeuil in
Burgundy and of Bobbio in Italy; St. Gall, one of his companions,
laid the foundation of the famous schools of that name in
Switzerland; St. Cathal of Lismore became the patron saint of
Tarentum, and Donatus and Frigidan were bishops of Fiesole in
Tuscany and Lucca.

St. Winifred, or, as he was afterward called, Boniface, the first
great English missionary to the continent, achieved great
successes in the north about 723, and, being desirous of training
up a native priesthood to perpetuate his works, invited several
of his countrymen to Germany to take charge of the seminaries of
the different bishoprics he had founded. Among those who accepted
the invitation were his two nephews, one of whom, Willibald,
established a college at Ordorp. The seminary of Utrecht owes its
origin to one of his earliest pupils, Luidger, a direct
descendant of Dagobert II., who also built several seminaries and
monastic schools in Saxony. Another of St. Boniface's students,
Strum, laid the foundation of the celebrated abbey and school of
Fulda in 744; and, to complete the work of regeneration, thirty
nuns were brought over from England, who established religious
houses innumerable, and introduced among the rude Germans the
learning and refinement which marked the nunneries of their
native land. St. Boniface, having been appointed papal legate and
vicar with jurisdiction over the bishops of Gaul and Germany,
applied several years of his life to the reformation of abuses
and the establishment of strict rules of life among the clergy of
both countries. To this end we are told that in every place where
he planted a monastery he added a school, not only for the
benefit of young monks, "but in order that the rude population by
whom they were surrounded might be trained in holy discipline,
and that their uncivilized manners might be softened by the
influence of humane learning." His grand work having been
accomplished, he resigned his delegated powers, resumed his
missionary life, and, with nothing but his "books and shroud,"
proceeded to Friesland, the scene of his first labors, where he
suffered martyrdom in 755. This saint was a devoted friend to
education, and that portion of the decrees of the council of
Cloveshoe, held in 747, in which the subject of learning is
treated, is ascribed to his pen.
{54}
The council ordered that "bishops, abbots, and abbesses do by all
means diligently provide that all their people incessantly apply
their minds to reading; that boys be brought up in the
ecclesiastical schools, so as to be useful to the church of God;
and that their masters do not employ them in bodily labor on
Sundays."

While Germany was being reclaimed from its primitive barbarism,
Gaul, which had given so many missionaries to the Western
Islands, was not neglected. For more than two hundred years this
country, once so fertile in pious men and learned institutions,
was the theatre of the most frightful disorders, consequent on
domestic wars and foreign invasions. There were but few
monasteries surviving, but even these were true to the design of
their founders, and in them learning, to use the eloquent remark
of the Protestant historian, Guizot, "proscribed and beaten down
by the tempest that raged around, took refuge under the shelter
of the altar, till happier times should suffer it to appear in
the world." But a memorable epoch had arrived in the history of
France. In 771 Charlemagne became monarch of all the Franks, and
by his extraordinary military successes and political wisdom soon
made himself master of the entire continent north of the
Pyrenees. But great as were his conquests in the field, his
victories in the cause of letters in France were more splendid
and far more durable. Under his long and brilliant sway the evils
of previous centuries were swept away; churches were restored,
monasteries rebuilt, seminaries and schools everywhere opened.
Like all great practical men, the Frankish monarch knew admirably
well how to choose his assistants when grand ends were to be
reached, and in this instance he selected Alcuin of York as his
agent in restoring to his dominions religious harmony and
Christian education. The result showed the wisdom of his choice,
for to no man of that day could so herculean a task be assigned
with better hope of its execution. Trained in the schools of
York, then among the best in England, he united to a solid
judgment profound learning and an energy of mind as untiring as
that even of his royal patron. The Palatine school, though in
existence previous to the reign of Charlemagne, was placed under
the charge of Alcuin, and the emperor and various members of his
family became his first and most attentive pupils. It consisted
of two distinct parts: one, composed of the royal family and the
courtiers, followed the emperor's person; the other necessarily
stationary, in which were educated young laymen as well as those
intended for the cloister; Charlemagne, himself setting the
example of diligent study, managed to acquire, amid the turmoil
of war and the labors of the cabinet, a considerable knowledge of
Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, the liberal sciences and astronomy, of
the latter of which he seems to have been particularly fond.

The first step taken by Alcuin was the correction of the copies
of the Holy Scriptures, which had become almost unintelligible
from the accumulated errors of former transcribers. This he
succeeded in doing about the year 800. He next turned his
attention to the multiplication and replenishing of libraries. "A
staff of skilful copyists was gradually formed, and so soon as
any work had been revised by Alcuin and his fellow-laborers, it
was delivered over to the hands of the monastic scribes."

{55}

The capitulars of Charlemagne in relation to civil affairs and
municipal laws mark him as one of the ablest statesmen of any
age, and are peculiarly his own; but those on education are so
comprehensive, and of so elaborate a nature, that we cannot help
thinking them the fruits of Alcuin's suggestions, embodying, as
they do, in an official form the precise views so often expressed
by him in letters and lectures. By these decrees monastic schools
were divided into _minor_ and _major_ schools, and
public schools, which answered to the free parochial schools of
England. In the minor schools, which were to be attached to all
monasteries, were to be taught the "Catholic faith and prayers,
grammar, church music, the psalter, and computum;" in the major
schools, the sciences and liberal arts were added; while in the
public schools, the children of all, free and servile, were to
receive gratis such instruction as was suitable to their
condition and comprehension. Those monks who, either from neglect
or want of opportunity, had not acquired sufficient education to
enable them to teach in their own monasteries, were allowed to
study in others in order to become duly qualified for the duty
imposed on them. A more complete system of general education
could not well be devised nor more rigidly carried out.

Alcuin ended his well-spent life in 804, and Charlemagne ten
years later; but their reforms lived after them, and were
perpetuated in succeeding reigns with equal vigor, if not with
equal munificence. Theodulph, Bishop of Orleans, not only
established schools in every part of his large diocese, but
compiled class-books for the use of their pupils; the diocese of
Verdun was similarly supplied by the Abbot Smaragdus; Benedict of
Anian, reformed the Benedictine order, and like Leidrade, was a
zealous teacher and a great collector of books; and Adalhard, the
emperor's cousin, became, as it were, the second founder of Old
Corby.

During the ninth and tenth centuries, so fruitful of scholars in
every part of Europe, the monastic schools may be said to have
reached their highest development. Of those north of the Alps we
may mention Fulda, Old and New Corby, Richneau, and St. Gall,
though there were a great many others of nearly equal extent and
reputation.

Fulda, as we have seen, was founded by Strum, a pupil of St.
Boniface, who adopted the Benedictine rule. After its founder,
its greatest teacher was Rabanus, a pupil of Alcuin, who assumed
the charge of the school about 813. His success in teaching was
so great that it is said that all the German nobles sent their
sons to be educated by him, and that the abbots of the
surrounding monasteries were eager to have his students for
professors. He taught grammar so thoroughly that he is mentioned
by Trithemius as being the first who indoctrinated the Germans in
the proper articulation of Latin and Greek. His course embraced
all sacred and profane literature, science, and art; yet he still
found time to compose, and afterward, when Archbishop of Mentz,
to publish his treatise _De Institutione Clericorum_. Among
his pupils were Strabo, author of the _Commentaries on the Text
of Scripture_; Otfried, called the father of the Tudesque, or
German literature; Lupus, author of _Roman History_; Heinie,
author of the _Life of St. Germanus_; Regimus, of Auxerre;
and Ado, compiler of the _Martyrology_. While those great
scholars were teaching and writing, it is worth our while to
inquire what the lesser lights of the monastery were doing. Here
is the picture:

{56}

  "Every variety of useful occupation was embraced by the monks;
  while some were at work hewing down the old forest which a few
  years before had given shelter to the mysteries of pagan
  worship, or tilling the soil on those numerous farms which to
  this day perpetuate the memory of the great abbey in the names
  of the towns and villages which have sprung up on their site,
  other kinds of industry were kept up within doors, where the
  visitor might have beheld a huge range of workshops, in which
  cunning hands were kept constantly busy on every description of
  useful and ornamental work, in wood, stone, and metal. It was a
  scene not of artistic _dilettanteism_, but of earnest,
  honest labor, and the treasurer of the abbey was charged to
  take care that the sculptors, engravers, and carvers in wood
  were always furnished with plenty to do. Passing on to the
  interior of the building, the stranger would have been
  introduced to the scriptorium, over the door of which was an
  inscription warning copyists to abstain from idle words, to be
  diligent in copying books, and to take care not to alter the
  text by careless mistakes. Twelve monks always sat here,
  employed in the labor of transcribing, as was the custom at
  Hirsauge, a colony sent out from Fulda in 830, and the huge
  library which was thus gradually formed, survived till the
  beginning of the seventeenth century, when it was destroyed in
  the troubles of the Thirty Years' War. Not far from the
  scriptorium was the interior school, where studies were carried
  on with an ardor and a largeness of views which might have been
  little expected from an academy of the ninth century. Our
  visitor, were he from the more civilized south, might well have
  stood in mute surprise in the midst of these fancied
  barbarians, whom he would have found engaged in pursuits not
  unworthy of the schools of Rome. The monk Probus is perhaps
  lecturing on Virgil and Cicero, and that with such hearty
  enthusiasm that his brother professors accuse him, in
  good-natured jesting, of ranking them with the saints.
  Elsewhere disputations are being carried on over the Categories
  of Aristotle, and an attentive ear will discover that the
  controversy which made such a noise in the twelfth century, and
  divided the philosophers of Europe into the rival sects of the
  nominalists and realists, is perfectly well understood at
  Fulda, though it does not seem to have disturbed the peace of
  the school. To your delight, if you be not altogether wedded to
  the dead languages, you may find some engaged on the uncouth
  language of their fatherland, and, looking over their
  shoulders, you may smile to see the barbarous words which they
  are cataloguing in their glossaries; words, nevertheless,
  destined to reappear centuries hence in the most philosophical
  literature of Europe." [Footnote 8]

    [Footnote 8: _Christian Schools and Scholars_, pp.
    205-206.]

The school of Old Corby owed its reputation not only to its royal
abbot, but also to its master, Pachasius Radpert, who, like
Strabo, was of humble origin, and was indebted to the nuns of
Soissons for an education. He was one of the most remarkable
scholars of the age, and the author of several books in prose and
verse. His most famous pupil was Anscharius, the first teacher at
New Corby, in Saxony, founded by monks of the parent house in
822, and afterward a missionary to Denmark and Archbishop of
Hamburg. The two Corbys, founded on the same plan, long vied with
each other in the erudition of their masters, the multitude of
their students, and the rarity and number of their books.

But the monastery and schools of St. Gall surpassed in extent and
variety of studies all their contemporaries. For the benefit of
those who affect to believe that the monasteries of the middle
ages were nests of slothfulness and ignorance, as well as for the
beauty of the sketch itself, we transcribe the following
description from the author before us, premising that it is a
faithful condensation of Ekkehard's account of this celebrated
house, of which he was one of the inmates:

  "The first foundation of St. Gall's belongs, indeed, to a date
  far earlier than that of which we are now treating: it owed its
  origin to St. Gall, the Irish disciple of St. Columbanus, who,
  in the seventh century, penetrated into the recesses of the
  Helvetian mountains and there fixed his abode in the midst of a
  pagan population. Under the famous abbot, St. Othmar, who
  flourished in the time of Pepin, the monks received the
  Benedictine rule, and from that time the monastery rapidly grew
  in fame and prosperity, so that, in the ninth century, it was
  regarded as the first religious house north of the Alps.
{57}
  It is with a sigh of irrepressible regret, called forth by the
  remembrance of a form of beauty that is dead and gone forever,
  that the monastic historian hangs over the early chronicles of
  St. Gall. It lay in the midst of the savage Helvetian
  wilderness, an oasis of piety and civilization. Looking down
  from the craggy mountains, the passes of which open to the
  southern extremity of the lake of Constance, the traveller
  would have stood amazed at the sudden apparition of that vast
  range of stately buildings which almost filled up the valley at
  his feet. Churches and cloisters, the offices of a great abbey,
  buildings set apart for students and guests, workshops of every
  description, the forge, the bakehouse, and the mill, or,
  rather, mills, for there were ten of them, all in such active
  operation that they every year required ten new millstones; and
  then the houses occupied by the vast numbers of artisans and
  workmen attached to the monastery; gardens, too, and vineyards
  creeping up the mountain slopes, and beyond them fields of
  waving corn, and sheep specking the green meadows, and, far
  away, boats busily plying on the lake and carrying goods and
  passengers--what a world it was of life and activity; yet how
  unlike the activity of a town! It was, in fact, not a town, but
  a house--a family presided over by a father, whose members were
  all knit together in the bonds of common fraternity. I know not
  whether the spiritual or social side of such a religious colony
  were most fitted to rivet the attention. Descend into the
  valley, and visit all the nurseries of useful foil, see the
  crowds of rude peasants transformed into intelligent artisans,
  and you will carry away the impression that the monks of St.
  Gall had found out the secret of creating a world of happy
  Christian factories. Enter their church and listen to the
  exquisite modulations of those chants and sequences, peculiar
  to the abbey, which boasted of possessing the most scientific
  school of music in all Europe; visit their scriptorium, their
  library, and their school, or the workshop where the monk
  Tutilo is putting the finishing touch to his wonderful copper
  images and his fine altar-frontals of gold and jewels, and you
  will think yourself in some intellectual and artistic academy.
  But look into the choir, and behold the hundred monks who form
  the community at their midnight office, and you will forget
  everything save the saintly aspect of those servants of God,
  who shed abroad over the desert around them the good odor of
  Christ, and are the apostles of the provinces which own their
  gentle sway. You may quit the circuit of the abbey, and plunge
  once more into the mountain region which rises beyond the reach
  of its softening, humanizing influence. Here are distant cells
  and hermitages with their chapels, where the shepherds come for
  early mass; or it may be that there meets you, winding over the
  mountain paths of which they sing so sweetly, going up and down
  among the hills, into the thick forests and the rocky hollows,
  a procession of the monks, carrying their relics, and followed
  by a peasant crowd. In the schools you may have been listening
  to lectures in the learned and even in the Eastern tongues; but
  in the churches, and here among the mountains, you will hear
  those fine classical scholars preaching plain truths in
  barbarous idioms to a rude race, who, before the monks came
  among them, sacrificed to the evil one, and worshipped stocks
  and stones.

  "Yet, hidden away as it was among its crags and deserts, the
  abbey of St. Gall's was almost as much a place of resort as
  Rome or Athens, at least to the learned world of the ninth
  century. Her schools were a kind of university, frequented by
  men of all nations, who came hither to fit themselves for all
  professions. You would have found here not monks alone, and
  future scholastics, but courtiers, soldiers, and the sons of
  kings. The education given was very far from being exclusively
  intended for those aspiring to the ecclesiastical state; it had
  a large admixture of the secular element, at any rate, in the
  exterior school. Not only were the sacred sciences taught with
  the utmost care, but the classic authors were likewise
  explained: Cicero, Horace, Virgil, Lucan, and Terence were read
  by the scholars, and none but very little boys presumed to
  speak in anything but Latin. The subjects for their original
  compositions were mostly taken from Scripture and church
  history, and, having written their exercises, they were
  expected to recite them, the proper tones being indicated by
  musical notes. Many of the monks excelled as poets, others
  cultivated painting and sculpture, and other exquisite and
  cloistral arts; all diligently applied to the grammatical
  formation of the Tudesque dialect and rendered it capable of
  producing a literature of its own. Their library in the eighth
  century was only in its infancy, but gradually became one of
  the richest in the world. They were in correspondence with all
  the learned monastic houses of France and Italy, from whom they
  received the precious codex now of a Virgil or a Livy, now of
  the sacred books, and sometimes of some rare treatise on
  medicine or astronomy.
{58}
  They were Greek students, moreover, and those most addicted to
  the cultivation of the Cecropian muse were denominated the
  'Fratres Ellencini.' The beauty of their native manuscripts is
  praised by all authors, and the names of their best
  transcribers find honorable mention in their annals. They
  manufactured their own parchment out of the hides of the wild
  beasts that roamed through the mountains and forests around
  them, and prepared it with such skill that it acquired a
  peculiar delicacy. Many hands were employed on a single
  manuscript. Some made the parchment, others drew the fair red
  lines, others wrote on the pages thus prepared; more skilful
  hands put in the gold and the initial letters, and more learned
  heads compared the copy with the original text--this duty being
  generally discharged during the interval between matins and
  lauds, the daylight hours being reserved for actual
  transcription. Erasure, when necessary, was rarely made with
  the knife, but an erroneous word was delicately drawn through
  by the pen, so as not to spoil the beauty of the codex. Lastly
  came the binders, who enclosed the whole in boards of wood,
  cramped with ivory or iron, the sacred volumes being covered
  with plates of gold and adorned with jewels."

The English missionary scholars of the eighth century were
followed in the ninth by their Irish brethren in even greater
numbers. St. Bernard, in his _Life of St. Malachi_, notices
this learned invasion, and Henry of Auxerre declares that it
appeared as if the whole of Ireland were about to pass into Gaul.
Virgil, Bishop of Saltzburg, was not only a learned man, but an
ardent promoter of education. Clement, who succeeded Alcuin as
scholasticus of the Palatine school, was an excellent Greek
linguist. Dungal, his companion, opened an academy at Pavia, and
finally died at Bobbio, to which he bequeathed his valuable
classical library. Marx and his nephew Moengall settled at St.
Gall in 840, where the latter became master of the interior
school, and introduced the study of Greek; and finally Scotus
Erigena appeared in the literary firmament, like a comet in
brilliancy, and as portentous of dire strifes and contests.
Erigena, who first came into notoriety by his translation of
_Dionysius the Areopagite_, was unquestionably the most
erudite man of his time, powerful in argument and exceedingly
subtle in discussion, with a perfect knowledge of the learned
languages, science, and the profane literature of both ancients
and moderns. His great gifts, however, were sadly marred by
extravagant vanity and a pugnacity which brought him into
collision with nearly every contemporary of note. He wrote many
books, in which he advanced opinions more remarkable for their
boldness and originality than for soundness; and finally, his
writings having been condemned by several provincial councils, he
was obliged to retire from the Palatine school, of which he had
enjoyed the direction for many years under Charles the Bald.

Let us now return to the country of St. Boniface and of Alcuin,
which we left at the beginning of the ninth century, in the
plenitude of its intellectual greatness. What a change has taken
place in seventy-five years! Churches, monasteries, and schools
in utter ruin; the weeds growing rank over broken altars; the
reptile crawling undisturbed where worked the busy hands of a
thousand monks; and the solitude of the once noisy school
disturbed only by the flutter of the bat or the screech of the
night owl. The fierce Northmen, the barbaric executors of the
Huns and Vandals, had been over the land, and desolation
everywhere marked their foot-prints. "The Anglo-Saxon Church,"
says Lingard, "presented a melancholy spectacle; the laity had
resumed the ferocious manners of their pagan forefathers; the
clergy had grown indolent, dissolute, and illiterate; the
monastic order was apparently annihilated."
{59}
When Alfred had crushed the Danish power at the battle of
Ethandun in 873, and, like a wise prince, proposed to revive
learning in his kingdom, he could not find one ecclesiastic south
of the Thames who understood the divine service, or who knew how
to translate Latin into English. Nevertheless, this king, justly
surnamed the Great, resolutely set himself to work, and, with the
help of the West British scholar, Asser, Grimbald of Rheims, John
of Old Saxony, and other foreign monks, effected many useful
reforms, and to a limited extent provided the means of education
for his benighted subjects, setting the example himself by
diligent and persevering study. He commenced to learn Latin at
thirty-six, and left after him several works, principally
translations from that language.

The grand designs of Alfred were not carried out in his lifetime.
Their execution was reserved for St. Dunstan, a pupil of some
poor Irish monks who had settled in the ruins of the old abbey of
his native town, Glastonbury, and supported themselves by
teaching the children of the neighboring peasantry. How strange a
coincidence that the countrymen of Columba and Aidan were again
to be the instruments, under Providence, of bringing back to
England the light of the gospel, and all that adorns and
beautifies life. St. Dunstan's reforms were of the most sweeping
nature; he introduced the Benedictine rule in all its strictness,
not only at Glastonbury, but in every monastery he restored or
established; and, despairing of effecting any good through the
medium of the secular clergy, he unhesitatingly turned them
adrift, and proceeded to create a new and more intelligent body
out of the young men who surrounded him: an exercise of authority
the right to which he derived from his position as primate and
apostolic legate. Of the assistants of St. Dunstan in his work of
reorganization, the most active were St. Ethelwold, a close
student not only of classics, but of Anglo-Saxon, in which
language he composed several poems; AElfric, author of several
school-books in Latin and Anglo-Saxon, and translator of Latin,
German, and French; Abbo of Fleury came to England and taught for
him in the school of Ramsey; and the monks of Corby, mindful, no
doubt, of their ancient origin, sent him some of their best
students, well versed in monastic discipline. From this time
forth England, despite the occasional inroads of the Danes and
the Norman conquest, advanced steadily in educational progress
until the blight of the "Reformation" long after threw her back
into ignorance and unbelief.

Britain was not the only country which suffered from the greedy
and ubiquitous sea-kings. Ireland, France, Italy, even to the
suburbs of Rome, were ravished by those barbarians during the
tenth century. In some countries, as in Italy and Ireland, they
were eventually expelled or subdued; in others, like France, they
made a permanent lodgment, and were strong enough to dictate
terms to kings. Wherever they appeared, they seem to have been
actuated by the same diabolical lust of plunder and murder, the
monasteries and schools being special objects of hatred, and
favorite places where their ferocity could be gratified at little
risk of opposition. Even the Saracens, taking courage from the
distractions of the times, took possession of accessible points
on the French coast, and added to the general disorder.
{60}
It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that the tenth century is
generally considered the darkest intellectual epoch in our era.
Germany perhaps was the only country comparatively free from
those disturbing causes, and, under the protection of a line of
sagacious kings, the cause of learning, if it did not advance
with rapid strides, certainly did not retrograde. That country
continued to produce great teachers like Adelberon, Bennon,
Notker, and Gerbert, afterward Pope Sylvester II., and to sustain
such schools as St. Gall's, Richneau, and Gorze.

With the opening of the eleventh century we begin to perceive the
gradual decay of the monastic schools, the rise of scholasticism
and the university system, and the consequent evils resulting
from the teachings of irresponsible and sceptical professors.
Heretofore Christian education went hand in hand with religion;
the priest who celebrated the divine mysteries in the morning
taught his assembled pupils during the day; religion became more
beautiful, clothed, as she was, in the garments of science and
art; and education was ennobled by losing its selfishness and
pride in its contact with the faith; humility, order, and
obedience marked the scholar, and disinterestedness and a deep
sense of the greatness of his calling distinguished the master.
Teaching with the monks was a sacred duty, a means by which they
might gain salvation and "shine like stars for all eternity;"
with the scholastics of the eleventh and succeeding centuries it
became a profession like that of law or medicine, in the exercise
of which money and notoriety could be gained, opponents silenced,
and, as was too often the case, vanity gratified and senseless
applause won from the unthinking multitude. The school ceased to
be a holy retreat, and the professor's chair was converted into a
rostrum from which the most absurd and illogical dogmas were
fulminated, alike dangerous to religion, morals, and good
government. In the statement of abuses presented to the Council
of Trent in 1537-63 by the commission appointed by Paul III., it
is declared that "it is a great and pernicious abuse that, in the
public schools, especially in Italy, many philosophers teach
impiety;" and it is a well-recognized fact in history that, from
the time the universities adopted the study of the Roman civil
law, to the exclusion almost of ecclesiastical and common law,
they became the strongest bulwarks of despotic power, and the
pliant tools of absolute princes.

It is true that the change was gradual and almost imperceptible
to its friends and enemies; but, when we come to compare the wild
vagaries of Berengarius, the eloquent but empty harangues of
Abelard, the scepticism of Erasmus, and the revelries which
disgraced such universities as Oxford and Paris, with the moral
spirit and peaceful calm that brooded over the monasteries of St.
Gall, Fulda, and Glastenbury, we can at once perceive to what
monstrous excesses the mind of man is prone when unrestrained by
religion. Many of the old-established monastic schools continued
to flourish, and new ones, like that of Bec and the college of
St. Victor's at Paris, became celebrated. Men distinguished for
piety and learning were numerous during the middle ages,
notwithstanding the growing tendency toward irreligion and
heresy; among whom may be mentioned such theologians as St.
Thomas and Anselm, scholars like Lanfranc and Thomas à Kempis,
great doctors like St. Bernard and John Duns Scotus, devotees of
science such as Albertus Magnus and Roger Bacon, authors of the
calibre of William of Malmsbury, and the almost inspired writer
of the _Following of Christ_, St. Bonaventure, and Peter the
Venerable.

{61}

But the schools of Europe, notwithstanding the examples and
exhortations of those illustrious divines, continued in their
downward tendency toward materialism. The introduction of Eastern
books of philosophy, due to the returned crusaders, the Arabic
symbolism and pretended magic of some of the Spanish schools,
and, finally, the fall of Constantinople and the dispersion of
Greek scholars over Europe: all had their peculiar and decided
influence on the manners and views of the generations which
immediately preceded the Council of Trent. Seminaries had
entirely disappeared, so that ecclesiastical education could only
be obtained in the dissolute and noisy universities, and it
became the fashion with the _dilettanti_ of the great cities
to ridicule and underrate the quiet teachings of the country
monasteries.

The Council of Trent, mindful of the welfare of the children of
the church, took the first great step toward the correction of
those abuses. By its eighteenth chapter, twenty-seventh sessions,
it reestablished the seminaries in every diocese in Christendom,
giving to each bishop authority over the professors, and making
the expense of educating ecclesiastics a charge on the faithful.
In accordance with this decree, an unwonted degree of activity
was observable in Europe. Provincial councils took steps to
enforce it in their special localities; saints, like Charles of
Borromeo, became champions of genuine Christian education, and
the Dominicans, the Franciscans, and the illustrious order of the
Jesuits vied with each other in their devotion to its interests,
and became the inheritors of the glories of the monks of Saints
Benedict and Columbanus.

In looking back for fifteen centuries, and perusing the long and
brilliant catalogue of those holy teachers who, through danger,
degradation, and defeat, never allowed their minds to swerve from
the even tenor of their way; who cared as tenderly for the soul
and intellect of the poor young barbarian as for the nursling of
a palace; who despised death, and braved alike the fury of the
savage and the wrath of princes, that they might win souls to God
and develop the God-given gift of human genius; we are lost in
astonishment at the ignorance or mendacity, or both, of some
modern writers who unblushingly repeat and exaggerate the slander
of the post-"Reformation" writers against the monks of the middle
ages. With a history like that of the _Christian Schools and
Scholars_ before us, so fruitful in incidents and so
suggestive of moral lessons, we are equally at a loss to account
for the tenacity with which people, otherwise sensible, cling to
the idea of education divorced from moral instruction. Whatever
is great in the past, personally or nationally
considered--whatever was pure, unselfish, and heroic, is due, and
only due, to the monk-teachers of the Christian church. They were
not only the custodians of the books which we now prize so much,
but they were the conservators of arts, science, and literature,
and the originators and discoverers of most of the useful
inventions which now adorn life and make men more civilized, and
bring them nearer to their Creator. They were not only all this,
but they were, as soldiers of the church, the guardians of
civilization itself, and without them the darkness that
enshrouded the world would have been as perpetual as the causes
which produced it were active, and, against any other power,
irresistible.

--------

{62}

          Our Lady.



        "Ancilla Domini."


  The Crown of creatures, first in place,
    Was _most_ a creature; is such still:
  Naught, naught by nature--all by grace--
    The Elect one of the Eternal Will.

  She was a Nothing that in Him
    A creature's sole perfection found;
  She was the great Rock's shadow dim;
    She was the Silence, not the Sound.

  She was the Hand of Earth forthheld
    In adoration's self-less suit;
  A hushed Dependence, tranced and spelled,
    Still yearning toward the Absolute.

  Before the Power Eternal bowed
    She hung, a soft Subjection mute,
  As when a rainbow breasts the cloud
    That mists some mountain cataract's foot.

  She was a sea-shell from the deep
    Of God--her function this alone--
  Of Him to whisper, as in sleep,
    In everlasting undertone.

  This hour her eyes on Him are set:
    And they who tread the earth she trod
  With nearest heart to hers, forget
    Themselves in her, and her in God.


             II.

         MATER FILII.


  He was no Conqueror, borne abroad
    On all the fiery winds of fame,
  That overstrides a world o'erawed
    To write in desert sands his name.

  No act triumphant, no conquering blow
    Redeemed mankind from Satan's thrall:
  By _suffering_ He prevailed, that so
    His Father might be all in all.

{63}

  His Godhead, veiled from mortal eye,
    Showed forth that Father's Godhead still,
  As calm seas mirror starry skies
    Because themselves invisible.

  Thus Mary in "the Son" was hid:
    Her motherhood her only boast,
  She nothing said, she nothing did:
    Her light in His was merged and lost.


                III.

    Nazareth; or, The Hidden Greatness


  Ever before his eyes unsealed
    The Beatific Vision stood:
  If God from her that splendor veiled
    Awhile, in Him she looked on God.

  The Eternal Spirit o'er them hung
    Like air: like leaves on Eden trees
  Around them thrilled the viewless throng
    Of archangelic Hierarchies.

  Yet neither He Who said of yore,
    "Let there be light!" and all was Day,
  Nor she that, still a creature, wore
    Creation's Crown, and wears for aye,

  To mortal insight wondrous seemed:
    The wanderer smote their lowly door,
  Partook their broken bread, and deemed
    The donors kindly--nothing more.

  In Eden thus that primal Pair
    (Undimmed as yet their first estate)
  Sat, side by side, in silent prayer--
    Their first of sunsets fronting, sat.

  And now the lion, now the pard,
    Piercing the Cassia bowers, drew nigh,
  Fixed on the Pair a mute regard,
    Half-pleased, half-vacant; then passed by.


    Aubrey De Vere.
    Feast Of The Assumption, 1867.

--------
{64}

         Our Boy-Organist.

    What He Saw, And What Came Of It.


"How was it, doctor, that you first thought about it?"

Well, I suppose I had better tell you the whole story. It may
interest you. Just twenty years ago, on a bright Sunday morning,
I was hurrying along the road home to Tinton, hoping to be in
time to hear the sermon at church. My watch told me that I should
be too late for the morning prayer. Happening to look across the
fields, I was surprised to see little Ally Dutton, our
boy-organist, running very fast over the meadows, leaping the
fences at a bound, and finally disappear in the woods. "What
could possibly take our organist away during church time?
Surely," thought I, "the minister must be sick. And, being the
village doctor, I hurried still faster.

"But what could take our boy-organist in that out-of-the-way
direction at such an hour, and in such haste? Is it mischief?" I
asked myself. But I banished that thought immediately, for Ally
had no such reputation. "There must be something wrong, however;
for he ran so fast, and Ally is such a quiet, old-fashioned lad.
The minister is ill, at any rate," said I to myself, "or Ally
would not be absent." Contrary to my expectations, I found the
minister preaching as usual. I do not recollect any thing of the
sermon now except the text. Rev. Mr. Billups, our minister, had a
fashion of repeating his texts very often, sometimes very
appropriately, and sometimes not. It was Pilate's question to our
Lord: "What is truth?" You will see, after what happened
subsequently, that I had another reason for remembering it
besides its frequent repetition. The sermon ended, the hymn was
sung, but the organ was silent. The silence seemed ominous. I
cannot explain why; perhaps it was one of those strange
presentiments of disaster, but I fancied our boy-organist dead. I
loved Ally very much, and my heart sank within me as I looked up
through the drawn choir-curtains, and missed his slight little
form, perched up as he was wont to be, on a pile of books so as
to bring his hands on a level with the key-board, trolling forth
his gay little voluntary as the congregation dispersed after
service. I missed his voice in the hymn, too; those clear,
ringing tones which were far sweeter to me than any notes that
musical instrument ever breathed. I was so filled with this
presentiment of coming evil that I did not dare to ask any one
the cause of his absence. "Pooh!" said I to myself, "there is
nothing in it. I saw him but just now alive, and well enough, if
I may judge from the way he cleared those fences and the
swiftness of his footsteps as he ran across the meadows." I
thought no more of it until a messenger came two or three days
afterward to my office and said:

"Will you please, doctor, come down to the widow Button's? Ally
is sick."

"I will come immediately," said I to the messenger. "We shall
lose our boy-organist," said I to myself. And so we did; but not
as you suppose. Ally became--but I must not anticipate.

{65}

I found our much loved boy-organist in a high fever. "He has been
constantly raving all night," said his mother, in answer to my
inquiries, "about what he has seen. There has been something
preying on his mind lately," she continued. "He has been very sad
and nervous, and I fear it has helped to make him ill."

In a tone of command, which I find will often elicit a direct
answer from patients whose minds are wandering, I said to him:
"Ally, answer me directly, sir; what did you see?"

With his eyes still staring at the ceiling he answered in a
wondering manner, "God!"

I was sorely perplexed what further question to ask, but,
thinking to lead him on gradually to some more reasonable answer,
as I thought, I asked, "Where?"

"The kneeling people and the priest," he replied dreamily. "And
Jesus said, Neither do I condemn thee." And here he burst into
tears. Then the remembrance of the last Sunday morning came back
to my mind, and I knew what had taken Ally across the fields, and
what he had seen. He was so faint and weak, his pulse fluttered
so unsteadily, that I feared the worst, and the anxious,
searching look of the mother read my tell-tale countenance. She
began to weep violently.

"Mother!" cried Ally.

"Yes, my child," she responded quickly, and bent over and kissed
him.

"Don't cry, mother. God will not let me die till I know what is
true, first."

"That is a strange remark," thought I, "for a boy like him to
make. What can he mean?"

"My darling Ally," said the widow, "you do know what is true. You
always say what is true."

"Why should they say it isn't true, then?" asked Ally.

"What isn't true, my dear?" "God!" answered the boy, turning his
eyes upward to the ceiling again, and looking, as it were, at
some object miles away, "and the kneeling people, and the priest.
It's true, and no lie. This is my body, this is my blood." And he
joined his hot and feverish little hands together as if in
prayer.

"Don't trouble about this," said I to the weeping mother. "I know
what it is. He has been down to Mike Maloney's, in the Brook
woods, and seen the Catholic Mass. Don't refer to it again just
now. I will give him some composing medicine. But I wish," I
added, "that this had not happened. It only tends to weaken him."

Presently I noticed him playing with his fingers on the coverlet
as if he were playing the organ. I thought to take advantage of
this, and said:

"Ally, my boy, get well soon, now, and let us have a grand
voluntary on the organ--one of your very best."

"For God, for Mass, for the kneeling people and the priest," he
murmured.

"Oh! never mind the Mass," said I, "that's nothing to you."

Turning his eyes suddenly upon? me, he cried:

"O doctor! it seems everything to me. I never can forget it. How
could anybody ever forget they had seen Mass. Could you?"

"That I can't say, Ally," I replied; "for I never saw it."

"Never saw it! Why, I've seen, it."

"Often?" I asked.

"Well--I saw it--_one_ Sunday, anyway," answered Ally, with
the air of one who had never been anywhere else all his life.

"What was it like, Ally dear?" asked the mother.

"Like heaven, mother, if the angels had only been there."

{66}

"Angels!" said I contemptuously. "Pretty place to find angels, in
Mike Maloney's shanty! Why, it's like a stable."

Again Ally's eyes went up to the ceiling, and, while his fingers
nervously played an invisible organ on the coverlet, he began to
sing, so plaintively and sadly that it quite unmanned me:

  "He came down to earth from heaven,
    Who is God and Lord of all,
  And his shelter was a stable,
    And his cradle was a stall.
  With the poor, and mean, and lowly,
    Lived on earth our Saviour holy."

The widow and I stood watching and listening long after he had
ceased singing. In a few moments a lucid interval occurred, and,
noticing me, he said:

"Doctor, why can't we have Mass in our church? Oh! wouldn't I
like to play the organ for it always till I died!"

"We couldn't have Mass, Ally," I replied, "because it is only
Catholic priests who can say Mass."

"Is it? I know I'd like to play the organ forever and ever for
the Mass; but I'd rather be a priest. Oh! a thousand, thousand
times rather!" And his pale, sad face lighted up with an
unearthly glow.

Seeing I could not divert his mind from the subject, and fearing
to continue a conversation which excited him so much, I quietly
gave directions to his mother, and left. I had little hopes of
Ally's recovery, but his words made a deep impression on my mind:
"_God will not let me die till I know what is true, first_."
"What truth can he mean?" thought I. "Can he have imagined he
does not know the true religion? What can have made him think
that our Episcopal Church is not true? What strange fancies will
get into some children's heads! I should be sorry to lose Ally,
but I'd rather see him die, I think, than grow up to be a Roman
Catholic. Ugh! and a priest too, perhaps, who knows? God forbid!"
Revolving these disagreeable thoughts in my head as I went down
the street, I met Mr. Billups, our minister. We shook hands, or
rather I shook Mr. Billups's hand while he shook his head, a
manner of his that gave him a general doubting air, somewhat
puzzling to strangers.

"Mr. Billups," said I, "do you know that Ally Button is ill?"

"No, I did not hear it," he replied, emphasizing the word
_did_, as much as to say, "But I hear it now." Although the
negative accompaniment with his head would seem to imply that he
did not quite believe it.

"Yes, and very ill too," I added. "If his mind becomes calmer
than it is, I think it might do good just to drop in and see him.
I fear he has been under some bad influences lately."

"You astonish me, not to say grieve me," rejoined Mr. Billups.
"Ally was always a good, pious boy, and one of our head boys, as
you are aware, in the Sunday-school."

"I mean," said I, "that he has been reading or hearing something
about Catholics and their Mass, and other things; and it really
has made a deep impression on his mind, which ought to be
effaced; that is," I added, "in case he recovers, which I fear is
doubtful."

"Of course, of course, which ought to be effaced," repeated he.
"Not a doubt of it. I remember, now, Mrs. White, his
Sunday-school teacher, telling me that he had asked her in class
what the sixth chapter of St. John meant. I hope he has not been
reading that chapter of the Bible _too_ attentively, for it
is calculated, I am sorry to say, to make a deep, very deep, not
to say, in regard to the popish Mass doctrine, a most alarming
impression upon the mind, especially of a boy like Ally."

{67}

"Well, if you see him," said I, not much relishing this opinion
about the Bible being in favor of Catholic doctrines, "you can
manage to bring the subject up, and easily explain its true
meaning to him."

"Yes, oh! yes! easily explain its true meaning to him," again
repeated Mr. Billups after me, yet looking rather puzzled, as I
thought, and doubtful of success; but perhaps it was only his
manner that gave me that impression. "Would to-morrow, think you,
do, doctor?" he continued, after a pause, "I am quite busy, just
now."

"Better," I replied, "much better; Ally is very low at this
moment." I do not know what made me say it, but Ally's words came
suddenly to my mind again, and I added confidently: "He will not
die just yet. He will surely be better to-morrow."

I bade Mr. Billups good-morning, not at all satisfied. "The sixth
chapter of St. John! the sixth chapter of St. John!" I went on
repeating to myself. Strange! I have never read that chapter with
any thought of the doctrine of Catholics. And yet, to judge from
what the minister said, it might trouble the mind, even of a
child. As I waited in the parlor of a sick lady whom I went to
visit before returning home, I could not refrain from turning
over the leaves of a large family Bible on the centre-table, and
finding the chapter in question. I had not time, however, to read
many verses before I was summoned to the sick-chamber. Attention
to my professional duties drove the subject from my mind during
the rest of the day, and I retired to rest considerably exhausted
and fatigued.

"Now for a good sleep," said I to myself, "and a quick one, for I
shouldn't wonder if I were called up to Ally again before
morning." But I could not sleep. Tossing to and fro in the bed, I
began to question myself about the cause of my sleeplessness; I
soon found it. The thought of Ally had revived the memory of that
sixth chapter of St. John. "Well," said I, "I will remove the
cause by just getting up and reading it, and there will be an end
of it. Then I shall sleep." So I rose and lit my lamp, got out my
Bible, and there, half-dressed, read the troublesome chapter. As
I reflected upon what I was doing, I felt more like a thief, a
midnight robber, or some designing villain laying plans for
murder or housebreaking, than as an honest Christian reading his
Bible; for was I not allowing myself to do what was calculated to
make a deep, not to say an alarming impression on my mind, that
the Catholic religion was true, and the Protestant religion
false?

Now, without vanity I say it, few people know their Bibles better
than I did, and, although I must have read that identical chapter
many times, it seemed to me that I had never read it before. I
thank God for that midnight perusal of my Bible.

One thing I then and there determined, for private reasons of my
own, which was, to be on hand at Mrs. Button's when the minister
called; and there I was. Ally was a good deal better and
brighter. After some commonplace remarks, Mr. Billups said to
Ally:

"You are fond of reading your Bible, are you not, my dear child;
and would you not like me to read a little of the Word to you?"

"Oh! yes, sir," answered the boy eagerly.

"I will read for you, then," continued Mr. Billups, producing a
Bible from his pocket, "a most beautiful and instructive passage
from St. John's gospel, commencing at the sixth chapter."
{68}
He said this in such a church-reading tone that Mrs. Dutton
instinctively responded as far as "Glory be"--but, discovering
her mistake, covered it up with a very loud cough. Mr. Billups
read the chapter, but quite differently from the manner in which
I had read it; slowly and distinctly where I had read rather
quickly, that is, from the beginning to the fiftieth verse; and
quickly where I had read slowly, from that verse to the end.

"That's very beautiful, and very strange," said Ally pensively,
as the minister paused at the end of the chapter. "But, Mr.
Billups, is it all true?"

"The Bible, my dear Ally ought to know, is all true," replied Mr.
Billups.

"And did Jesus give his flesh and blood, as he said he would?"
asked Ally.

"Yes, my child," answered Mr. Billups, "he certainly made all his
promises good."

"I wish I knew where," said Ally inquiringly. "I asked Mrs.
White, and she said she didn't know, and that I asked too many
questions."

"When he died on the cross, and shed his blood for our
salvation," said the minister solemnly, closing the Bible, and
looking at me as if he would say: "There's an end of the whole
matter: you see how easily I have explained it to him." Ally did
not, however, seem so easily satisfied.

"But where can we get it to eat and drink?" asked he. "Jesus said
we must eat and drink it."

Mr. Billups again glanced at me with a look which I interpreted
to mean, "I fear he has been reading this _too_
attentively," and then said:

"You partake of it by faith, my child, but you do not really eat
it."

"I must _believe_ I eat it, and don't eat it after all,"
said Ally explanatorily.

"Yes--no--not precisely," replied Mr. Billups, with some
confusion of manner, and coughing two or three short little
coughs in his hand. "We eat the communion bread, and drink the
communion wine, and then we believe we partake, by faith, of the
body and blood of the Saviour."

"But, then," asked Ally, pushing the difficulty, "don't we eat
and drink what we _believe_ we eat and drink?"

"H'm, h'm," coughed the minister, shifting uneasily in his seat.
"We believe--we think--in short, as I was about to remark, we
have faith in Jesus Christ as our blessed Saviour."

"But don't eat his flesh nor drink his blood?" added Ally.

"Not at all, not at all," replied Mr. Billups decidedly.

"Then I can't see what the Bible means," said Ally, scratching
his head in a disappointed manner: "Except ye eat the flesh of
the Son of Man, and drink his blood, ye cannot have life in you."

"My dear, de-ar child," cried Mr. Billups, quite distractedly,
"what _can_ you have been reading to put this in your head?"

"Only the Bible, sir," replied Ally simply, "what you have read
just now, sir, and the story of the Last Supper; and I heard
Pompey Simpson say it was all true."

"Pompey Simpson," returned Mr. Billups, "is a negro, and I am
sorry," he continued, turning to me, "I should say both grieved
and shocked, to add, doctor, one of those misguided beings
groping in the darkness of Roman idolatry, whose numbers are
increasing to an alarming extent in our country. Have nothing to
do with Pompey Simpson, my dear," again addressing Ally, "or who
knows you might be led away to become a Romanist?"
{69}
An event which Mr. Billups's head intimated at that moment to be
too deplorable to be expressed. "Yes, one of those emissaries of
giant Pope, described so truthfully in Bunyan's _Pilgrim's
Progress_, as you remember. Do not go near them, Ally, for my
sake, for your mother's sake, for the sake of the church of your
baptism, or they will make you like unto them, an idolatrous
worshipper of the host; which, as you have never seen it, I will
tell you, is only a piece of bread. You see what ignorant,
deluded people these Catholics must be. Just to think of it--to
worship a piece of bread!"

"But the Catholic is the old church and the first one, Pompey
said," rejoined Ally, "and the old church ought to know. Besides,
I--I--saw it myself."

"Saw it yourself!" exclaimed Mr. Billups, his hair fairly
standing upright with horror. "My organist dare to enter a popish
Mass-house!" And he frowned very severely at the widow.

"It was only Mike Maloney's," said Ally deprecatingly. "And the
priest in his beautiful robes, and the people all kneeling
around, didn't look mistaken, sir; and I felt so sure that God
was there," continued Ally, trembling, "that I'm all the time
thinking about it. Somehow I can't drive it out of my mind."

"Your son, madam," said the minister, turning to Ally's mother,
"_must_ drive this out of his mind. It would be a fearful
calamity, madam, to have a child whom you have reared, and, I may
add in behalf of the vestry of our church, an organist, whose
salary we have paid, fall into the toils of the man of sin. It
would be well to curb the inquiring mind of your son, madam, and
restrain his wandering footsteps; because, if he is permitted to
worship at a foreign altar, he can no longer exercise the
position of--in short--perform on the organ of our church.
Good-morning." And he rose abruptly, and left the house.

All this nettled me. I had hoped he could easily explain the
doubts in the boy's mind, not to mention my own, and it
exasperated me to see him have recourse to such base means to
silence these doubts, instead of using kindly Christian counsel
and teaching. To deprive Ally of his situation, and the widow of
the support which his salary gave, would be, I knew, to inflict a
heavy loss upon them. Unwilling to depart and leave the widow and
son without some comfort, and yet not knowing what to say, I went
to the window and looked out, flattening my nose against the
glass in a most uncomfortable state of mind, and presenting a
spectacle to the passers-by which must have impressed them with
the conviction of my being subject to temporary fits of
derangement. As I stood there, I heard Ally say to his mother:

"Don't cry, mother. I won't be a Catholic if it isn't true. But
it's better to know what's true than to play the organ or get any
salary, if it's ever so big. Isn't it, mother?"

I assented to this sentiment so strongly with my head that I
nearly put my nose through the window-pane, an action that
elicited a strong stare for my supposed impudence from the two
Misses Stocksup, daughters of the Honorable Washington Stocksup,
who happened to be passing the house at that moment.

"So it is, my dear," answered the widow. "But I'm afraid, my
darling, you are only fancying something to be true that is not
true."

"Doctor!" cried Ally, appealing to me, "isn't it true? Oh! it
must be true!"

{70}

"I can't say I believe it is," I replied, "but I'm very much
afraid it is."

"Afraid!" exclaimed Ally, "what makes you afraid?"

Poor Ally! He could little comprehend how much it would cost him
or me to say we believed it to be true. Excusing myself with all
sorts of bungling remarks, I left the house, my mind torn by many
conflicting doubts and emotions. Ally slowly, very slowly
recovered. In the mean time a new organist, a poor man with a
dreadful asthma, as I recollect, had taken his place. Deprived of
the aid which his salary afforded them, the widow and Ally found
it hard to live.

The minister, it seems, related to his wife what had taken place
at Ally's sick-bed, and it soon got bruited about that both Ally
and his mother were going to turn Catholics. They soon left the
village, and I did not hear of them until several years after. As
for myself, it was not long before I took Ally's way across the
fields to Mike Maloney's shanty, and now you know how I first
came to think about it.

"What became of Ally?"

Well, I'll tell you. One day I happened to be in the city of
Newark. It was the festival of Corpus Christi, and crowds were
flocking to St. Patrick's cathedral to assist at the grand
ceremonies that were to take place. At the gospel the preacher
ascended the pulpit, and what was my surprise to recognize in the
person of the youthful priest my dear boy-organist, Ally Dutton.
He took for his text these words, "This is my body, this is my
blood," and preached a powerful and eloquent sermon. After the
services were concluded I went to the presbytery to call upon
him, but he did not recognize me; so I said:

"Allow me, reverend sir, to thank you for your beautiful sermon.
This doctrine of the real presence which you Catholics hold is a
wonderful and a very consoling doctrine; and what is more, _I
am rather afraid it is true_."

"Afraid!" answered Ally, smiling. "That reminds me of a dear old
friend of mine who once said the same thing, but he was not long
overcoming his fears."

"And the dear old friend is sorry now," added I, looking at him
closely, "that it was even so long as it was."

"Doctor!"

"Ally!"

As I knelt to crave the blessing of our quondam boy-organist, now
a priest of the holy Catholic church, he caught me in his arms
and folded me in a warm embrace.

------
{71}

  Translated from les Etudes Religieuses, etc., etc.

           The Martyrs of Gorcum.


                      I.

We hear it sometimes asked, "Why does the Catholic Church have so
many canonizations, jubilees, and religious displays?" We pity
those who speak in this way, for they do not seem to understand
the destiny of the church. If the church, connected as she is
with the advance of the human race, has her interests to look
after in the revolutions which agitate the world; if, in order to
defend her rights which are attacked or are not recognized, she
is obliged occasionally to interfere in the struggles which arise
between men, this is but one aspect of her history, though it
seems to be the only one which impresses superficial and
unthinking minds. At the same time that she shows this exterior
action of catholicity, there is wrought in her heart a mysterious
work, which reveals the divine illuminations of the faith. It is
an admirable exchange, a divine intercourse between heaven and
earth--the world offering to heaven its supplications, its
atonements, the heroic virtues of its saints, and the merits of
its martyrs; heaven bestowing upon the world its aid for the
combat, its abundant graces, the seeds of sanctity. At certain
eventful periods, when greater perils call forth more generous
sacrifices and more earnest appeals to heaven, the mystery of
this inward life of the church shines forth in marvellous events,
which overturn all preconceived human opinion, and confound the
wisdom of the world. We see, then, a throne, which remains firm
without any apparent support, and on this throne an old, helpless
man, who holds all the powers of revolution in check; we see a
society, against which are unchained all anarchical passions,
face the storm which threatens to overwhelm it, proclaim its
proscribed doctrines without fear, lead nations which had
wandered into the paths of naturalism back to the fold of the
church, and maintain its independence against the coalition of
tyrannies.

Has a pontificate ever shown this divine spectacle of the
struggle of spiritual forces with the powers of materialism
better than that of Pius IX.? To the increasing oppression of
vice the pope does not cease to oppose the miracles of virtue and
the fruits of grace which distinguish the elect of God. To the
insolent cries of error he replies by the calm affirmation of
eternal truth. The assaults of impiety he resists only by the
prayers of pure souls, by the intercession of those saints to
whom he has granted the honors of veneration, and by the aid of
the Blessed Virgin, whose conception he has proclaimed
immaculate. So, when a voice, disturbing the harmony of our love
and gratitude, was lately heard to ask the ill-timed question,
"_Why so many saints?_" what was the reply of the pontiff,
in whom his faithful children venerate the wise man of the
gospel, drawing from his treasure in opportune time the old good
and the new? "They reproach me," said he, with his accustomed
sweetness, "for making too many saints, but I cannot promise to
correct this fault. Have we not more need than ever of
intercessors in heaven, and models of religious virtue in the
world?"

{72}

In 1852, a distinguished prelate, who has since entered into the
repose of the Lord, Mgr. de Salinis, pointed out to the faithful
of the diocese of Amiens, in announcing a jubilee, the
supernatural character which distinguishes the acts of Pius IX.
"You do not ask," he wrote, "the reason of the munificence which
lavishes upon you favors which at other times go forth but rarely
from the treasure of the church. It suffices for us to know that
the Vicar of Jesus Christ receives light from above which is
given only to him. He who holds the keys of the kingdom of heaven
can alone tell the time when it is good to spread over the earth
the waves of divine mercy. He who directs the bark of the church
through the storms of this world can question the winds, and
discover in the horizon the signs which warn him to urge on the
journey of the ship. He who is the common father of all
Christians alone knows the needs of his immense family. His
glance, which watches over every place that the sun shines
upon--his solicitude, which embraces all evil and all virtue--his
heart, which feels all the sorrows of the Spouse of Christ--his
prayers, in which are summed up all the prayers of the church,
the particular inspiration which God reserves for him who holds
his place on earth--all these reveal to him, so far as is
necessary, the proportion which should exist between grace and
misery." [Footnote 9]

    [Footnote 9: _Charges, Pastoral Instructions, and Various
    Discourses of Mgr. de Salinis._ Paris, Vaton. 1856.]

This is the reply that should be made to these _petite
génies_ who presume to criticise the holy see, and put the
counsels of their mean diplomacy in the place of the inspirations
of God. Do these men, whose minds are so enlightened, not see
that they are in the presence of an administration of
supernatural power? Do they not suspect the strength of the
church militant ranged about its chief, and praying with him for
the assistance of the church triumphant? Do they not witness the
pious eagerness of the people to venerate, to invoke, and to
imitate the new patrons which are given them?

The eyes of all the obedient children of the church are now
turned toward Rome. The Catholic world, in a rapture of faith and
piety, is united to the pilgrims of the holy city, to the
bishops, and to the bishop of bishops, celebrating the triumph of
Peter, always living and reigning in his successor, applauding
the glory of the legion of the blessed, that the churches of
Poland, of Spain, of the Netherlands, of Italy, of France, and of
Japan have given to the church of Rome, their common mother, and
to the church of heaven, the lasting city of the elect.

We should have liked, if our space and time allowed, to say
something of the many beautiful subjects that this happy time
suggests; the coming, the episcopate, and the martyrdom of St.
Peter at Rome, the lives and virtues of the saints proposed for
our veneration. We should have taken pleasure in retracing the
sweet picture of that humble child of the people who represents
France in this illustrious group of the Blessed; of that little
shepherdess of Pibrac, whose name will henceforth be popular in
the fatherland of Genevieve and Joan of Arc. [Footnote 10] But
who among us has not heard of Germaine Cousin, her poor and
suffering life, her angelic virtues, the marvellous favors due to
her intercession? And who can add to the glory of this young
saint, who, in addition to the honor of being placed upon our
altars, has had such a historian as M. Louis Veuillot and such a
panegyrist as the Bishop of Poitiers?

    [Footnote 10: _Vie, Vertus et Miracles de la B. Germaine
    Cousin, bergère. Par M. Louis Veuillot. Paris, Palmé. OEuvres
    de M. l'Eveque de Poitiers_, t. ii. p. 109.]

{73}

We propose, then, to follow those saints who are at present less
known among us, but which in the future must not be strangers. It
is a page in the history of the church which should be made
prominent, and in devoting our time to it we are sure of
obtaining the approbation of him whom God has given us to be at
once our Father and our Master.


                 II.

We are aware that even the name of the martyrs of Gorcum was
until recently quite unknown to the greater part of the learned.
Modern historians are not accustomed to eulogize the merits of
the victims of schism and heresy. But the church never forgets
her children who have perished in the cause of God; and God
himself takes care of his servants by multiplying miracles over
their tombs. These nineteen martyrs of Gorcum, who suffered for
the faith on the 9th of July, 1572, were placed in the ranks of
the blessed by Clement X. in 1675, and since that time they have
always been held in the greatest veneration in Belgium and
Holland. It is now almost three years since our Holy Father,
yielding to one of those inspirations of which his life is full,
felt the desire that the supreme honors of the church should be
paid to these noble champions of Jesus Christ; and January 6th,
1865, the day of the Epiphany, his holiness caused a decree to be
read in his presence, ordering the proceedings to be instituted
for their solemn canonization. The preamble of the decree
deserves notice, it says: "Born of the blood of Jesus Christ and
nourished with the blood of martyrs, the Catholic Church will be
exposed to bloody persecutions until the end of the world. And it
is not without a marvellous design of divine Providence that the
cause of these illustrious victims of the Calvinistic heresy of
the sixteenth century is taken up and completed in these unhappy
days, when heretics and false brothers are recommencing a war, an
implacable war, against Jesus Christ, against his holy church,
and against this holy apostolic see." The Holy Father expressed
the same thought in a discourse which followed the promulgation
of the decree. "The Most High," said he, "has reserved for this
time the glorification of these Holland martyrs, to prove to our
century, full of scorn or indifference for the revealed faith and
plunged in the grossest materialism, that the memory of the
martyr is never forgotten in the church of Jesus Christ, that
there are always men ready to shed their blood for that faith,
and a supreme authority which is always ready to recognize their
merits."

The object of the sovereign pontiff is not uncertain; it is to
call the attention of the world to the fact of the continual
recurrence of martyrs in the church; to cite these heroes, who
have sealed the faith with their blood, as an example and a
witness; such has been the special aim in canonizing the martyrs
of Gorcum. Far be it from the holy church to stifle the voice of
blood which has flowed from the veins of her children for
nineteen centuries! This blood, shed in every land from the most
barbarous to the most cultivated, bears witness everywhere that
the mother of martyrs is also the faithful spouse of Jesus
Christ.
{74}
The Catholic Church is peculiarly a _witness_, while the
sects about us are founded on negation and doubt. Our blessed
Lord was the first witness, and the truth of his testimony he has
sealed on the cross and in his cruel passion; the apostles were
witnesses to him who had sent them and the doctrine they were
bidden to teach; they have gone to give their testimony to the
Good Master; and now their faith and prayers sustain their
children even to the extremities of the earth, making them gladly
choose to die sooner than deny that faith which cost the Son of
God his life. This illustrious testimony of blood has never
ceased from the day of Calvary up to the present nineteenth
century; the succession of martyrs is like the church herself,
for it knows no limits of time or space; they are dying today in
Cochin-China and Corea, as they have died in Japan in former
years, as they have died in Europe, when Protestantism swept over
that fair portion of the flock of Christ, and as millions died in
the Roman Empire under the pagan Caesars. Look at what Rome
offers to-day to the world: a noble army of martyrs gathered
about Saints Peter and Paul, the victims of Nero, the valiant
soldiers of such fearless chiefs; the B. Josophat, Archbishop of
Polotsk, slain by followers of the Moscovite schism; B. Peter of
Arbues, murdered by Jews in the church of Saragossa; our nineteen
martyrs of Gorcum, the victims of the assassins of Calvinism; and
two hundred and five who sweetly yielded up their lives for the
faith in Japan.

Schism and heresy are always ready to conceal the blood which
stains so many pages of their annals, and to hide the crimes
which dishonor their ancestors. But, if the living are silent,
the dead are now speaking to us from their tombs; the victims of
Protestantism have risen from their graves to bear witness to the
truth. We cannot thank Pius IX. too much for proposing for the
veneration of the church these champions of the faith, who have
fallen so gloriously in the struggles of modern society, and on
the same battle-field, as it were, where we continue to engage
the foes of our holy mother, the church. Nor can we praise the
historians enough who have consecrated their talent to the sacred
work of writing the account of these persecutions, and showing
forth to Catholic and Protestant the glorious record of these
martyrs of the sixteenth century. The time has now come to count
our slain, that the remembrance of their fortitude may awake
Christian faith and zeal in our souls.

The three centuries that have passed since the impious Luther
first dared to raise the standard of revolt against the holy
church bear a resemblance to the first centuries of the Christian
era. To-day Protestantism is ready to fall to pieces; it is the
"sick man" among the religions of the world, as Turkey is among
the nations; it is the time to present the well-meaning souls
that its myriad sects embrace with a clear view of its origin,
and of what it now teaches in its closing years. The
reestablishment of the hierarchy in England and Holland, the
restoration of the episcopal see of Geneva, the beatification of
F. Canisius, the third centennial anniversary of the council of
Trent, and several other acts of the holy see show us the unity
of the Catholic Church compared with the disorganization of the
Protestant sects, which are now, we can truly say, without faith
or law. We should take care that those who have been misguided
should know the violent means the so-called reformers used to
establish their opinions.
{75}
Their origin was stained with the blood of the faithful, and they
have completed their course by adopting atheism. Such has been
the sad story of Protestantism; a destiny that must ever be the
fate of those who oppose the teaching of the church that our Lord
has bidden to convert the nations.

Vainly do Protestants attempt to evade the shameful acts of the
first "reformers" by showing its own scars and framing a list of
martyrs. No wounds are glorious while the cause they sustain is
an iniquity; and heresy can never be justified in its rebellion
against the church of Christ. If its apologists tell us that
revolution is necessary in order to get liberty, we deny this
theory of the end sanctifying the means, of a bad end sanctified
by unjust means. Let heretics not speak of their martyrs. A
martyr is one who witnesses, not one who protests; a man who
dies, not to sustain a passionate and obstinate denial, nor in
defence of speculative opinions and personal ideas, but as a
witness to seal the traditional teaching, to confirm the faith
which is sustained by unexceptionable evidence. A martyr is not a
conspirator, an instigator, and upholder of civil war; he lives
without reproach, defends the truth without fanaticism, suffers
without vain exaltation, and dies without anger; his memory is
irreproachable before God and man. Would that heresy could point
to such heroes! We are only too proud and happy in presenting to
our friends and foes the picture of such men, in whose holy hands
the church has put the palm of martyrdom.


                III.

In the Low Countries more than elsewhere, Protestantism has
concealed from its posterity its sanguinary and tyrannical
instincts. It has perfidiously taken advantage of the national
sentiment and appears clothed in the cloak of liberty. How many
consider Philip II. a monster, the Duke d'Alba an executioner,
and that they are solely responsible for all the blood shed in
the Low Countries? But the time has come when we should no longer
allow ourselves to be duped by hypocritical declamations against
Catholic reprisals. They who have first taken arms and begun the
war are held responsible for the blood that is shed.

One of the most learned students of modern history, Baron
deGerlache, said, in opening the congress of Malines, on August
24th, 1864: "The history of the sixteenth century, written by
Protestants and copied by Catholics, needs to be rewritten from
beginning to end, from the real statement of the facts, which are
contained in the archives of the church. Then Protestants will
appear as they really are, such as they are now in Ireland and
elsewhere, aggressive, violent, intolerant, inaugurating
persecution when they are powerful enough, and demanding liberty
when they are weak." These words sum up the history of the
pretended reform, acting its double part, the farce of liberty
and the tragedy of blood, according to the number of its
partisans.

The seventeen provinces had unfortunately prepared their country
for the introduction of Protestantism; their nobility was immoral
and their people poorly instructed in their religion, strongly
attached to worldly goods, impatient of the control of the
church, while continual wars kept the people in a state of
excitement, and even the very geographical position of the
country and its commercial relations contributed to open the way
to the new and, as yet, unknown religion.
{76}
The church could not oppose the rapid growth of heresy; there
were but four episcopal sees in the whole territory; and,
although the colleges and abbeys were rich and numerous, they
were subservient to the civil power. The church could neither
guard them from the error, nor act with energy when it had
obtained a foothold in the land. Charles V., who was aware of the
seditious and anarchical character of the "reform," put forth in
vain all the severities of the law against its preachers; he
could not check the torrent. Error can scarcely be repressed by
force when it meets no opposition in the conscience, and when it
has already gained a part of a people.

The severity of Charles V., while it did not prevent the increase
of the heresy, at least kept the dissenters from forming a sect
powerful enough to menace the church or the state. Philip II.
added nothing to the edicts of his father. And this despot, this
tyrant, even made concessions to them that are to be regretted.
Three thousand Spanish troops were in the Netherlands at that
time, and they were sufficient to hold the rebels in check; but,
when they protested against the presence of these soldiers,
Philip recalled them to Spain. Cardinal Granvelle aided the
regent, Margaret of Parma, with his counsel: they protested
against this able and worthy minister, and Philip gave him his
dismissal. Everything served as a pretext for the disturbers; the
hypocritical and ambitious Prince of Orange, William of Nassau,
the chief of the leaders who had taken the name of Gueux,
[Footnote 11] spread discontent and insurrection on every side.

    [Footnote 11: _Gueux_, beggars. The origin of the word
    is as follows: Three hundred Calvinistic deputies were sent
    to Margaret of Parma to protest against the measures of the
    government. She became much alarmed at this demonstration,
    when Count Barleymont said, "_Ce ne sont que gueux_,"
    (they are only beggars,) alluding to the meanness of their
    appearance. This imprudent remark was overheard and at once
    adopted by the insurgents as their title. See Bouillet's
    _Dictionnaire Universel d'Histoire et de Geographie_,
    article Gueux.]

He found fault with all the measures that the government took and
all that he accused it of wishing to take. The creation of
fourteen new bishoprics by the king with the consent of the pope
was looked upon as an outrageous act of tyranny. At last the
government was unarmed, the victims had been sufficiently worked
upon by their leaders, and the Catholics were completely
intimidated: the rage of the sects was now let loose to pervert
and destroy the fair fabric that God had raised in the land. We
shall not attempt to describe the hideous saturnalias of the
"reform;" we leave that to Protestant authors, to Schiller, to
Schoel, to Prescott. We cite from the latter a few lines to give
our readers an idea of what learned Protestants say of their
ancestors: "The work of pillage and devastation was carried on
throughout the country. Cathedrals and chapels, convents and
monasteries, whatever was a religious house, even the hospitals,
were given up to the merciless reformers. Neither monk nor
religious dared to appear in their habit. From time to time,
priests were seen fleeing with some relic or sacred object that
they desired to preserve from pillage. To the violence they did,
they added every outrage that could express their scorn for the
faith. In Flanders, four hundred churches were sacked. The ruin
of the cathedral of Anvers could not be repaired for less than
four hundred thousand ducats. ... One becomes sad in seeing that
the first efforts of the reformers were always directed against
these monuments of genius, erected and made perfect under the
generous protection of Catholicism; but, if the first steps of
the reform have been made on the ruins of art, the good it has
produced in compensation cannot be denied, in breaking the chains
that bound the human mind and opening to it the domains of
science, to which until then all access had been refused." The
readers know how much this _compensation_ is worth.

{77}

And now may we ask, if it be true that Philip took too severe a
vengeance for these outrages, if the Duke of Alva followed the
rebels with an unreasonable severity, if all that is said of them
be multiplied a hundred times, is there a single argument in
favor of that liberty of conscience which makes its way at the
sword's point? Catholicism has never hesitated to disavow and
condemn all violence, and every _coup d'état_ done in her
name; she has always separated from politicians who pretend to
defend her in any other way than she demands; no "compensation"
can disarm her justice against criminal abuses which are excused
for "state reasons." The "reform" which does not feel itself
innocent ventures to proclaim an anathema which falls upon its
own doctrines and disciples. It is more easy for their historians
to turn the anger of posterity upon "the sallow tyrant before
whom the people were filled with terror," or upon the executor of
his vengeance, "the ogre thirsting for human flesh." Such authors
as M. Quinet find material here for their eloquence, (?) and
subjects for such articles as suit the _Revue des Deux
Mondes_. But history will pay but little attention to these
melodramatic effusions. What esteem can scholars demand when they
deliberately calumniate governments and nations in order to
conceal the heinous crimes perpetrated in the name of free
thought; or pamphlet-writers who industriously circulate the
silly stories of the inquisition, and have not a word, a single
word of blame for the sectarians who have covered Europe with
blood and ruins?

To those who desire to know, without seeking far, the judgment of
history upon these facts and persons, we counsel the reading of
Feller, whose opinions always bear the stamp of truth. "The
severity of the Duke of Alva--or, if you wish, his hardness, or
even his inhumanity--was legal, and conformed most scrupulously
to judicial proceeding, and forms a striking contrast with the
chiefs of the rebellion and their tools, whose cruelties had no
other rule than fanaticism and caprice. William of Marck, for
example, the _des Adrets_ of the Low Countries, murdered in
a single year (1572) more peaceable citizens and Catholic priests
than the Duke of Alva executed rebels in the whole course of his
administration." [Footnote 12] To support his statements, Feller
quotes three or four works which recount the atrocities of the
Protestants. We shall content ourselves with a statement of the
death of our nineteen martyrs, which happened in this same sad
year, 1572, and by the orders of this same William of Marck, one
of the most abominable of the wretches who figured in the
revolution of the sixteenth century. In this single example we
shall see the barbarous fanaticism of the "reform," and the
sublime virtues which distinguished these martyrs of the Catholic
faith: error will show its power as a persecutor; truth, the
divine fortitude with which it vests its faithful champions.

    [Footnote 12: _Dictionnaire Historique_, article Tolède,
    Ferdinand Alvarez du, duc d'Albe.]

{78}

                 IV.

The Duke of Alva had quelled the revolt: he had not rooted it out
of the land, for its numerous and powerful ramifications were
only waiting to begin a new life. The Prince of Orange, who had
taken care to avoid the punishment due to his treason by a
voluntary exile, was raising troops, conspiring and intriguing
with the great Iconoclastic sect of Calvin and with the court of
France, then under the influence of the Huguenots. The Admiral de
Coligny advised him to build a fleet and attack the northern
provinces, where the "reformers" were in greater numbers. There
had been Beggars on land, and now there were to be Beggars at
sea; they rivalled each other in massacre and sacrilege, to the
great honor of the "reform" and the "reformers," who by these
means had obtained a partial triumph. We are aware that political
prejudices are complicated with this religious war; but facts
prove beyond doubt that these people were urged on by a deep
hatred of the Catholic faith.

A fleet of about forty sail had been fitted out in the ports of
England, and from thence, under the direction of the ferocious
William of Marck, the Beggars made their course across the North
Sea and along the coast of Flanders. The Duke of Alva complained
to Elizabeth, Queen of England, and as she did not wish at this
time to break with Spain, she gave the corsairs orders to leave
the kingdom. This was in the spring of 1572. An adverse wind
drove them on the isle of Voom, at the mouth of the Meuse; the
neighboring port of Briel was without defenders, and was captured
by these Calvinists on April 1st, 1572. "They pillaged the
convents and churches about the city, broke images, and destroyed
all that bore marks of the Roman Church." [Footnote 13]

    [Footnote 13: _The Delights of the Netherlands_. A
    General History of the Seventeen Provinces. New Edition 1743,
    t iv. p. 121.]

This town was fortified by the pirates, for whom it was a place
of refuge, and afterward the nucleus for insurrection. Three
months after its occupation, Brandt, a captain, ascended the
Meuse as far as Gorcum. As soon as the people saw his vessels,
they sought shelter in the citadel; religious and priests
hurriedly transported the sacred vessels and objects of
veneration to this place of safety. However, the town council and
the body of magistrates began a parley with Brandt, who assured
them that he only desired religious liberty, and that no outrage
would be committed by his followers. They opened the gates. The
band was increased by several of the inhabitants of the town, who
were partisans of this Calvinistic rebellion, and they then
required all the citizens to take an oath of allegiance to
William of Nassau, Prince of Orange, _governor royal_ of the
Holland provinces. During this time that the revolutionary troops
had possession of the city, the commander of the palace still
held out, but was eventually compelled to capitulate because of
the failure of hoped for supplies. Brandt solemnly promised to
spare their lives and give them their liberty; but, scarcely had
they taken possession of the place, when, forgetting their oaths,
they confined their victims as prisoners. The laymen were finally
released in consideration of large sums of money, except a few
who were put to death as firm Catholics and royalists; the
priests and religious, nineteen in number, remained: they could
hope for no deliverance but that of martyrdom.

{79}

Then the scenes that are ever recurring in the church, the scenes
of the passion of our Lord, were reenacted. As our divine Saviour
had to undergo the outrages of a brutal soldiery, so did these
heroes of Gorcum; they, like him, were forced through crowds of
infuriated people, who greeted them with scornful questions, with
blows, and scourges, and mockery, and imprecations, and, last of
all, with the gibbet. In the midst of this display of rage and
hate, our heroes were entirely tranquil, blessing God, praying
for their executioners, encouraging each other to bear their
sufferings with patience, gladly offering their lives as a
testimony to their sincerity in professing the dogmas denied by
the heretics; in one word, they bore themselves as true witnesses
of our Lord should.

The facts of their martyrdom have been told by well-informed
historians. God, who leaves nothing hidden in the lives of those
whom he has determined to honor, raised witnesses to testify to
the merits of those who were such faithful witnesses of his Son.
History celebrated their triumph while waiting for the church to
crown them. One of the most intrepid of the martyrs, Nicholas
Pieck, superior of the Franciscans, had a nephew living at
Gorcum, who was a witness to these events, and who is now known
as the celebrated William Estius, chancellor of the university of
Douai. He collected all the facts that were known, and then wrote
a complete history of their martyrdom, which reflects so much
credit upon his country and family. A young Franciscan novice,
who begged for mercy when he was to be executed, lived to tell of
the firmness of these confessors of the faith; a canon, Pontus
Heuterus, who was also unfaithful to the grace of martyrdom,
wrote the story in Holland verse. It is useless, however, to
detail a list of our authorities; for there are no pages in the
annals of the church more luminous than the acts of these
nineteen martyrs. Surely God has wished to erect from their
heroic virtue a monument to the sanctity of the church and to the
satanic character of this heresy. [Footnote 14]

    [Footnote 14: The work of Estius, _Historic Martyrum
    Gorcomiensium Libri Quatuor_, was first printed in Douai
    in 1603. It was afterward republished, with notes and a
    supplement, by M. Reussen, professor in the university of
    Louvain. A French translation of Estius appeared at Douai in
    1606, under the title, _Histoire Véritable des Martyrs de
    Gorcum en Hollande_, etc. _Acta Sanctorum_, t. xxvii.
    ad 9 Julii, fol. 736-847. _Esquisses Historiques des
    Troubles des Pays-Bas an XVII. Siècle_. Par E. H. de
    Cavrines. Deuxième édit. Bruxelles, Vromant. 1865.]

As we have already said, there was but one way to please these
Calvinistic executioners, and that was to renounce the faith; but
their victims chose rather to endure all the suffering that their
malignant ingenuity could suggest. The martyrs affirmed
successively the right of the church to impose laws in the name
of God, the divine maternity of the Blessed Virgin, and the
veneration which is due to the real presence of Jesus Christ in
the sacrament of the altar and the primacy of the pope.

The first day of their captivity (June 27th) was a Friday. They
had no food offered them but meat, from which they cheerfully
abstained, rather than put in doubt their fidelity to the
precepts of the church. There was but one who thought it
necessary for him to take some nourishment, and he was one of
those who did not persevere to the end.

In the following night, a band of Protestants rushed into their
cell and pretended that they had come to execute them
immediately. "Behold me," said Léonard Vechel, the aged pastor of
Gorcum, "I am ready." His assistant, Nicholas Van Poppel, was
dared to repeat what he had so often preached in the pulpit.
"Willingly," he answered, "and at the price of every drop of my
blood, I confess the Catholic faith; above all, the dogma of the
real presence of Jesus Christ in the holy eucharist."
{80}
They then threw a rope about his neck and began to strangle him;
the superior of the Franciscans was treated in the same way; they
were both choked until they fainted, when the ruffians held their
torches to the faces of their victims, recalling their lives in
this gentle way! "After all," said one of the monsters, "they are
only monks. Of what account are they? Who will trouble themselves
about them?"

On July 2d, the feast of the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin,
Father Leonard was released for a short time, as his friends had
purchased permission for him to say Mass. The courageous pastor,
in an address to his flock, extolled the virtues of our blessed
Lady, and when concluding urged them to remain firm in the faith
of their fathers. This purchased for him increased tortures on
his return to the prison.

John Van Omal, the apostate canon of Liège, was the hero of
another of these pretended executions. He was more than a Judas,
for he was not only a traitor, but it was through his efforts
that the execution finally took place. Enraged at having been
foiled in his attack on Bommel, (July 3d,) he determined to
revenge himself on the priests and religious of Gorcum. At that
time the liberation of the captives was spoken of, as some
members of the town council had been sent to the Prince of Orange
to beg him to release them. The apostate, after reflecting upon
the possibility of their release, concluded that he had better
take them to the Count of Marck, who was at his headquarters in
Briel. In the middle of the night of the 5th, they were hurried,
scarcely clothed and without food, on board of a vessel, which
rapidly descended the Meuse. They reached Dordrecht at nine
o'clock, and Van Omal had an opportunity to satisfy his malice by
exposing the venerable band to the idle curiosity and unfeeling
taunts of a Calvinistic mob. They arrived at Briel in the
evening, but were detained on board the vessel all night, so that
the news of their coining might be well known and their foes
properly prepared to torture them. On the morning of the 7th, the
count, who esteemed himself particularly fortunate in having
these poor monks and religious to torment, ordered them to march
in procession through the town; he chose for himself a most
unenviable position, that of riding behind his unfortunate
prisoners, with a huge whip, and unfeelingly beating them as they
made their way through the throngs of infuriated people. That
nothing should be wanting to this humiliating scene, he commanded
the martyrs to sing: a _Te Deum_ was first intoned, and then
a _Salve Regina_. He sought to turn them into ridicule; but
their heroism made them sublime.

The afternoon of the 7th and the following morning were taken up
by discussions with the ministers in the presence of the count.
The generous soldiers of Christ sustained their belief firmly and
with dignity; they bore witness particularly to the dogma of the
eucharist, and to the supremacy of the Roman pontiff. "Renounce
the pope," said they to Father Leonard, "or you will hang."
"How," answered he, "how can you contradict yourselves in this
way? You are always proclaiming that you wish for religious
liberty, and that no one has the right to prevent the exercise of
your worship. And now you desire to force me to deny my faith! It
is better for me to die than to be untrue to my conscience."

{81}

However, a letter came from Gorcum, in which William of Nassau
ordered the clauses of the convention of June 26th to be strictly
observed in regard to the prisoners. This, of course, only
exasperated the Count of Marck, who saw that his prey might
escape him. As he was going to bed, after one of the orgies which
were habitual with him, he cast his eyes again over the note of
the Prince of Orange. He then for the first time perceived that
Brandt had sent him only a copy of the order, and had preserved
the original. This served as a pretext for a display of his
amiable temper, and he declared that he was master of the place,
and that it was high time for it to be known; an order was issued
at once to take the prisoners and conduct them to Ten Rugge,
[Footnote 15] a convent which he had sacked when he first
captured Briel. The torture began at about two o'clock in the
morning of Wednesday, the 9th of July; it was accompanied by
shameful outrages which we prefer to pass over in silence. Their
captivity had lasted twelve days, of which nine were passed at
Gorcum.

    [Footnote 15: The Catholics of Holland have recently
    repurchased this stolen convent for 16,000 florins. It will
    soon be a place of pilgrimage for the pious people of Holland
    and Belgium.]

Of the nineteen prisoners who were taken from that city, only
sixteen suffered death. Three priests and religious filled the
gaps in their noble band. "A mysterious judgment of Providence,
of which there is more than one example in the history of the
martyrs. There were nineteen called to martyrdom, and the
defection of some did not prevent the number being preserved to
the end." (R. F. Cahier, SJ.) We have mentioned two of these
unhappy deserters, whom God deigned to lead back to himself; the
third entered the service of the Count of Marck, and was hung
three months after for stealing. But apostasy did not always
preserve life, for we read that the curé of Maasdam was put to
death eight days after the martyrs, although he had renounced the
papacy.

William of Marck at last received his reward from a just
Providence; he was bitten by one of his dogs, and died in the
most horrible agony, amid shrieks of rage and despair. It is a
general law; the Neros are plunged in the depths of shame and
despair, while martyrs ascend to their eternal glory. Eighteen
centuries after his crucifixion, Peter receives the honors of a
triumph such as kings have never had; three centuries after their
torment, the nineteen martyrs of Gorcum are venerated in every
corner of the earth where Christianity is known.

We present to our readers the names of these martyrs: Fathers
Nicholas Pieck, superior of the Franciscans; Jerome Werdt;
Thierry Van Emden; N. Janssen; Willehad Danus, a venerable old
man of ninety years who did not cease repeating _Deo
Gratias_ during the twelve days of his confinement; Antony
Werdt; Godfrey Mervel; Antony Hoornaer; Francis de Roye, who was
scarcely twenty-four years of age, being the youngest of the
martyrs; Cornelius Wyk, and Peter Assche. The foregoing were all
Friars Minor. The Dominicans had a representative in the person
of Father John, of the province of Cologne, who was captured
while going to baptize an infant. Father Adrian Beek and his
curate, F. James Lacops, were seized on the night of the seventh
or morning of the eighth of July and sent to Briel, where they
joined those who had come from Gorcum; they were both
Premonstrants. There was a canon of St. Augustine, John
Oosterwyk, who was directing a convent of the order at Gorcum.
{82}
When he heard that his own convent (that of Ten Rugge, the place
of martyrdom) was sacked and the religious put to death, he
exclaimed, "Oh  may our Lord deign to grant that I may die as
they have!" How exactly was his prayer granted! The following
were seculars: Leonard Vechel; Nicholas Van Peppel; Godfrey Van
Duynen, a doctor of theology and formerly rector of the
university of Paris; he had merited by his pure life the crown of
martyrdom that he received when more than seventy years of age;
and, lastly, Andrew Wouters, who was taken near Dordrecht, and
who was the third substitute for those who shrank from the trying
ordeal.


                V.

We are not astonished that God by miracles, and the holy church
by her veneration, has made this episode of the religious
persecution of the Netherlands so prominent. If we will but
reflect, it offers to us the most precious teaching; it presents
one of those striking proofs which are sure to convince the good
sense of the people. A cause which succeeds by such crimes as
this is already judged; we are not called upon to condemn it. And
if this is the cause of a "_reformed_ religion," what need
has any honest man of any further arguments to convince him of
its error? Was Christianity established in the Roman empire by
overturning the government and giving up its inoffensive citizens
to pillage, to outrage, and to murder? Does the "liberty of
conscience" preached by the "reform" resemble the liberty that
the church asked of the Caesars, and which she is asking of
Protestant governments today? The champions of this modern
"liberty" imposed their doctrines upon unwilling people at the
point of the sword, while its opponents gave their blood in
defence of their religious rights. In countries where
Protestantism did not maintain itself by an unrelenting
despotism, the people eagerly returned to the faith of their
fathers, the very violence of the sects causing a healthful
reaction. [Footnote 16] And this was also the case with the
greater part of the provinces of the Netherlands, which gladly
threw off the yoke of William of Orange and returned to their
former allegiance--an example of a wavering faith being revived
by the lawlessness of its opponents. The sectaries retained only
seven of the seventeen provinces, now known as Holland, and which
were inundated with the blood of faithful Catholic priests. The
martyrs of Gorcum were only a little band of this vast army of
Jesus Christ. In the year 1572, there were more martyrs in the
Low Countries than in all the preceding centuries together: the
cradle of the republic of Holland floated in a sea of Catholic
blood.

    [Footnote 16: "France," says a Protestant historian, "after
    having been almost reformed, found herself, in the result,
    Roman Catholic. The sword of her princes, cast into the
    scale, caused it to incline in favor of Rome. Alas I another
    sword, that of the reformers themselves, insured the failure
    of the Reformation." (D'Aubigné, _History of the
    Reformation_, vol. i. p. 86.)]

We wonder what learned and sincere Protestants, such as M.
Guizot, think in their hearts of these bloody pages of their
ancestors? Do they believe in the "compensation" that Mr.
Prescott talks about, and that such dreadful crimes were
necessary to purchase freedom of conscience, which, after all, is
only permission to believe nothing? "Notwithstanding the
disorders it caused," says M. Guizot, "and the faults it
committed, the reform of the sixteenth century has rendered to
modern times two great services." M. Guizot tells the truth; it
has.
{83}
It has given to the Catholic Church a noble army of martyrs, and
confirmed the promise of our Lord to Peter, when he declared "the
gates of hell shall not prevail against the church." "It (the
reform) reanimated, even among its adversaries, the Christian
faith." [Footnote 17] "It has imprinted upon European society a
decisive movement toward liberty." [Footnote 18] Liberty for whom
and liberty for what? For Calvinistic Holland, it was the liberty
of civil war, the liberty to rob unprotected convents, the
liberty to circulate immoral books, the liberty to follow
licentious desires, to desecrate the churches, and, above all,
the liberty to persecute the adherents of Catholicism.

    [Footnote 17: We are at a loss to discover M. Guizot's
    authority for this assertion. Erasmus, one of the most
    learned men of the sixteenth century, says: "Those whom I had
    known to be pure, full of candor and simplicity, these same
    persons have I seen afterward, when they had gone over to the
    gospellers, become the most vindictive, impatient, and
    frivolous; changed, in fact, from men to vipers. . . .
    Luxury, avarice, and lewdness prevail more among them than
    among those whom they detest. ... I have seen none who have
    not been made worse by their gospel." (_Epist. Tractibus
    Germaniae Inferioris_.) "Our evangelists," says Luther,
    "are now sevenfold more wicked than they were before the
    Reformation. In proportion as we hear the gospel, we steal,
    lie, cheat, gorge, swill, and commit every crime. ... The
    people have learned to despise the word of God." (Luther,
    _Werke_, ed. alt. tom. iii. p. 519.)]

    [Footnote 18: _L'Eglise et la Société Chrétiennes en_
    1861. Deuxieme édit. p. 8.]

Error must necessarily persecute, for this is the only way in
which it can predominate; it never feels sufficiently protected
against the truth over which it has obtained a temporary triumph.
It is first the tyranny of the sword, and then the tyranny of the
law. Public opinion has long been imposed upon by followers of
the "reform," for they have cried so lustily for religious
freedom and liberty of conscience that few have taken the trouble
to ascertain the fact that their acts have invariably belied
their words. But history, which has been made an accomplice to
this delusion, is now effectually unmasking it. If we attribute
the introduction of religious toleration to Protestantism, it is
not because it has practised it, but because it has made it
necessary. Truth has tolerated error, while error has continually
sought to exterminate the truth. The principle of religious
toleration was introduced by Catholic governments, where heresy
triumphed; as in England, Sweden, and Holland, the most severe
laws were enacted against the former faith, laws so cruel that we
can say they were written in blood, and that the church has been
for the past three centuries in a state of martyrdom in those
countries. We shall notice briefly some of the enactments of
Holland; but, before we do so, we will briefly refute a sophism
by which the Protestants attempt to palliate their atrocities.
The history of Protestantism is so constituted that, before any
question can be discussed, it is necessary to remove a number of
objections due either to ignorance or prejudice.

Religious intolerance, say they, was a characteristic feature of
the people of the middle ages. The church held its authority to
be a fundamental principle, and, seeing this put in danger, it
forgot the rights of liberty and used force and the arm of civil
power to enforce it dogmas. On the other hand, after liberty
conquered its rights, it unfortunately went beyond its doctrines,
and even embraced the opposite principle. Thus Christians
persecuted each other, until the progress of society led them to
mutual respect. But the illogical position of Protestantism is
apparent: it begins a war in the name of religious liberty, and
finishes by putting the church in a state of siege! The church
was, at least, consistent, for she never said that men were free
to deny their Maker and adopt a religion of their own brain or
that they possessed an imprescriptible right to preach and
disseminate false doctrine.
{84}
An illustrious bishop who lives now among the children of the
reformation, lately showed them on the forehead of their mother
this sign of contradiction, and defended the honorable
consistency which exists between the doctrines and the acts of
the church. "The church distinctly holds that society, as well as
the family, has its duties to Jesus Christ, and that God is
equally the Master and Lord of man, regarded as an isolated
individual, as of man in social relations with his fellows. She
looks back with joy upon the times when, seeing her liberty
protected, she became the inspirer of the Christian republic. ...
But, if she has thankfully received the protection of the sword
which vindicated her justice, and shielded her weakness when she
was forced upon the defensive, she has never wished it to be used
to impose doctrine; faith is not a forced belief, but a free
adhesion of both mind and heart to revealed truth. Liberty of
conscience, in its proper sense, far from being scouted and
condemned by the church, is the essential condition of her
spiritual sovereignty."

It was not enough to attempt to overturn the secular throne of
the spouse of Christ, the queen of European civilization; it must
be put in chains and confined in dungeons. Let us cite some of
the proscriptions of the Protestants in Holland:

  "1596.--The Jesuits are forbidden to enter the country. Whoever
  attends their seminaries or universities shall be banished from
  the country."

  "1602.--1st. The police are ordered to arrest any Jesuit, monk,
  or priest of the papist religion.

  "2d. The people are forbidden to take any oath or make any
  promise to maintain the power of the Pope of Rome. Public or
  private meetings, sermons, or collections in favor of the papal
  superstition are prohibited."

Another placard decrees "that every person in holy orders shall
leave the country in less than six days, under pain of arrest and
being punished as an enemy to the country." It was also forbidden
Catholic teachers to instruct their pupils, if either of the
parents had been of the reformed religion; and to will any money
to any priest, religious, or for any hospital or religious
edifice.

This will be sufficient to give our Protestant readers an idea of
the liberty of conscience which flourished in Holland. Many
endeavor in these times to hide the accusing witness of these
acts, and to conceal entirely the manner in which the religion of
our forefathers has been overcome; but the day is breaking, the
shadows of heresy are fast fading away, and they will not be able
to bring them back again. Pius IX., in an allocution in
consistory on March 7th, 1853, alluded to the lamentable
calamities the church had suffered in the Netherlands. The court
of Holland, as it did not desire to acknowledge the odious acts
of its former government, sent a letter to the Roman court
protesting against these historical allusions. The able minister
of the holy see replied to this effrontery in the following
language: "The pontifical document only pointed out, in passing,
something that is fully told not only by Catholic, but also by
Protestant historians, who are interested in giving impartially
the true history of the facts." [Footnote 19]

    [Footnote 19: Note of his eminence, Cardinal Antonelli.
    "_Ami de la Religion_" t. clxi. No. 5552, July 11,
    1853.]

{85}

There is but one resource for Protestant powers who blush at the
intolerance of those who have preceded them, and this is to
strike from their laws the unjust proscriptions they have
levelled against Catholicism. We owe it to justice to say that,
while several Protestant countries, Sweden, for example, retain
these unjust enactments, Holland is steadily giving up its former
fanaticism, and has fairly entered into the way of religious
liberty.


                      VI.

The persecution of the sword and the law have demonstrated the
cruel and hypocritical character of this heresy, at the same time
it has proved the vigor and stability of the church.

More than once in these nineteen centuries, it has been attempted
to extirpate Catholicism from the heart of a nation, as Russia is
trying to do now: We do not know that they have ever succeeded.
Even under Mohammedan rule, the church has maintained its
existence for more than twelve centuries in Turkey and in
Northern Africa; and though it has suffered one continual
persecution, and lost innumerable multitudes through martyrdom,
it counts to-day in these very countries more than three millions
of faithful children. [Footnote 20] In Japan, where missionaries
had scarcely time to sow the seeds of Catholic truth before a
savage war was waged upon it, its roots are still living, and
show after two centuries an unwavering fidelity to the faith.
[Footnote 21]

    [Footnote 20: See Marcy's _Christianity and its
    Conflicts_, p. 405, and Marshall's _Christian
    Missions_, vol. ii. p. 24, for a more complete statement
    of the church in those countries.--ED. C. W. The
    _Bibliothèque de l'Ecole des Chartes_ for May to June,
    1866, contains an interesting analysis of some curious
    documents on the relations of Popes Gregory VII., Gregory
    IX., Innocent IV., and Nicholas IV., with the Christians of
    Africa.]

    [Footnote 21: "When some Japanese martyrs were added to the
    catalogue of saints a few years ago, there were found to be
    in Japan some thousands of Christians who had preserved their
    faith without any human ministry solely by the aid of their
    good guardian angels."--_Discourse pronounced by the Holy
    Father on the Promulgation of the Decree relative to the
    Beatification, of the 205 Martyrs of Japan_, April 30,
    1867.]

Heresy, inspired with the same fury as paganism and Islamism, has
exhausted every resource to destroy the ancient faith: the young
and flourishing churches of England and Holland proclaim its
failure. The Catholics have vanquished by faith those who
overcame them by force; the blood of martyrs is always the seed
of its liberty and life. Three centuries have passed, and God,
through his vicar, pronounces the word of resurrection:
_Puella, tibi dico, surge._ And she has risen, weak, but
glorious and full of hope; her fair countenance again shines over
the land of St. Boniface and St. Willibrord, making even heretics
tremble at her marvellous life. Poor fanatics! You said formerly,
"Renounce the pope, or you will be hung;" but how has God and the
children of those martyrs revenged your cruelty! The pope yet
rules at Rome; he appoints bishops in your cities to govern your
sees; he places your victims on the altar; your fellow-citizens
venerate these victims. The hour of the complete return of
Holland to Christianity cannot be much longer delayed. The
canonization of the martyrs of Gorcum is an additional element of
strength for Catholics, while it must cause the most bigoted of
its opponents to reflect upon the failure of Protestantism to
overthrow "the abominations of popery." "When Rome," says the
great bishop of Poitiers--"when Rome glorifies the saints of
heaven, she never fails to multiply the saints of earth."

--------

{86}

      Carlyle's Shooting Niagara.


Of the many expressive words with which the English language has
been endowed few are more forcible than the little term "bosh."
For a long time we have in vain tried to discover a synonym with
which to relieve it from too frequent use, and we think that
Carlyle's last "essay" has gratified our patience. Thomas Carlyle
is what the world sometimes calls a philosopher. No one can deny
that he is a man of excellent abilities. Having been an
extraordinarily close observer of men and things from his
earliest childhood--and he is now seventy-two years old--and
having, from his first appearance in _Brewster's
Encyclopaedia_, gone through a literary career of forty-four
years with extraordinary success, the world is naturally
interested in any criticism he may see fit to pronounce upon it.
He will be judged, however, as severely as he judges, by those
who have placed him upon the little pedestal from which he looks
down. People are anxious to know whether in his old age he ought
to be dethroned. Naturally of a serious and taciturn mind, having
been buried from his youth amid the works of the most sombre and
gloomy of Germany's theorizers, and given ever to solitude and
meditation, it was not surprising that his writings ever
displayed excessive bitterness, and a distrust of human nature
more than Calvinistic; but, when we heard that, in the good old
age to which Providence had brought him, he had written his ideas
upon the present state of society, we expected to find a little
more of kindness and of love of truth than had been displayed by
Diogenes Teufelsdröckh, the "Great Censor of the Age." We must
regard _Shooting Niagara_ as the _résumé_ of the
thoughts of Carlyle's life. Coming out of his solitude, as he
tells us, to grapple with the problem of whither democracy is
drifting, and realizing, as he does, "that it is not always the
part of the infinitesimally small minority of wise men and good
citizens to be, silent," we expected, in spite of his modesty, to
meet something interesting and profitable. Interested we have
been, and so would we be at seeing the convulsions of a shark
brought to grief upon the strand. The only profit we have
received is the knowledge of how miserably small prejudice can
make a great mind. In the present paper Carlyle has used to
perfection (?) that curious style for which he has enjoyed
celebrity among many--a celebrity obtained pretty much like that
of certain metaphysicians, whose obscurity makes some give them
credit for profundity. As of two opinions Carlyle always chooses
the more uncharitable, so, of two ways of expressing an idea, he
invariably adopts the more obscure, intricate, and verbose. In
our endeavor to illustrate his position, we have been obliged to
select his more plain and simple passages, with a sacrifice very
often to the strength of our own opinions, which would have been
materially increased had we wished to try the patience of our
readers.

{87}

Paragraph No. 1 is devoted to a kind of clouding over of the
subject matter, in anticipation of the Carlylian thunder to
follow. We can see, however, that there are "three altogether new
and very considerable achievements lying ahead of us;" and the
first is, that Democracy is to complete itself, and run on till
each man is "free to follow his own nose, by way of guide-post,
in this intricate world." If the length of a man's nose indicates
correct perception, and an ordinary power of separating wheat
from chaff, then, though Mr. Carlyle's nose may be a post, it
must be a very small one. The second "achievement" is the
deliquescence and final evaporation of all religions. Such an
"achievement" would be wonderful, but how it can be terrible to
Mr. Carlyle we do not know; for he can have no concern about
future damnation, having been born, it would seem, without a
soul. The third "achievement" is, that "everybody shall start
free, and everywhere under enlightened popular suffrage. The race
shall be to the swift, and the high office shall fall to him who
is ablest, if not to do it, at least to get elected for doing
it."

This is _the_ "achievement." Of all the cuts which the
prescient genius of Carlyle has dealt his gushing heart, this is
the "unkindest cut of all." _Hinc_ those tears, _hinc_
those thunders, _hinc_ all that follows. With the exception
of a few hundred unimportant digressions, the slashing of these
"achievements" is the object of Carlyle's endeavor.

The commencement of paragraph two is characteristic of Mr.
Carlyle, who never omits a chance of showing a knowledge of
classic lore. He flings at once into your face the terrible
Antoninus with the cry, "Who shall change the opinion of these
people?" The quoted prophecy was certainly Greek to Mr. Carlyle,
as he thinks it proves that what, individually taken, is the
human face divine becomes, when collectively regarded, a cheese;
and that, when the human head is regarded in the masses, it has
about as much intellect as a cocoanut. In some of his paragraphs
he tries to prove a point or so, but in this one he plainly shows
that he cannot change the opinion of the masses, erroneous though
it be. He asserts that delusions seize whole communities without
any basis for their notions; he will not admit the possibility of
there being even a false one. He asserts that the world
reverberates with ideas eagerly made his own by each individual,
and affects to believe that the original propagator had no
arguments to enforce their adoption; nay, he seems to ignore the
existence of the first propounder, and to admit that thoughts
are, like cholera or any other pest, inhaled with the air. To be
sure, as though he felt the absurdity of his position, he invents
a _swarmery_ theory, in which he contends that ideas get
into the masses by means of some "commonplace, stupid bee," who
gets "inflated into bulk," and forms a swarm merely on account of
his bulk. But he forgets that the "bulk" of his specimen-bees,
Cleon the Tanner and John of Leyden, was, in the first case, the
flattery poured upon the people, and, in the second, a religious
fanaticism based upon well-defined though erroneous grounds. Two
better specimen-bees for a _swarmery_ theory could not have
been selected than the Athenian general and the fierce
anabaptist; but in neither case did the people swarm unless for
what they regarded as honey. To say the people may err is to say
they are not God; but to contend that they are insensible to
argument is worse than foolish. Were the laboring classes of
England whom Carlyle so severely berates but so many
_swarmeries_, he would be drowned in a horse-pond; but as
his theory is false, he will live a little longer--a specimen of
prostituted intellect and self-crushed humanity such as many of
his school have already presented for the firmer conviction of
their opponents.
{88}
Mr. Carlyle thinks our late war was "the notablest result of
swarmery." He calls "the nigger question one of the smallest
essentially," and says that "the Almighty Maker has made him (the
negro) a servant." With regard to the first of these two
opinions, the mass of humanity disagree with the perceptive
Thomas; as for the second, not having been present when the
ordinance was promulgated, we cannot deny that possibly Mr.
Carlyle knows more of the matter than we do. But, when we are
told that, "under penalty of Heaven's curse, neither party to
this preappointment shall neglect or misdo his duties
therein--and it is certain that servantship on the _nomadic_
principle, at the rate of so many shillings a day, _cannot_
be other than misdone"--we thank Providence that all armed men
are not Carlyles. Take away the right of the laborer to leave his
master when he feels he can better himself, and the earth would
become a pandemonium. Lest his position may be mistaken Mr.
Carlyle tells us that the relation between master and servant
must become like wedlock, which was once nomadic, but is now
permanent. To refute such "philosophy" would be to notice the
ravings of a madman. In commenting upon the Reform movement, Mr.
Carlyle kindly devotes a long passage to prove for us that
freedom does not mean liberty to sin, and then informs the
English nation that each privilege it has wrung from the
monarchy, each extension of the suffrage, was a strap untied from
the body of the devil, so that the devil is now an "emancipated
gentleman." Having thus shown that to really tie up his satanic
majesty for the advent of the millennium we must go back to the
good, innocent days of Assuerus and Nabuchodonosor, or, at least,
to the pure times of Caligula, Mr. Carlyle opens his third
paragraph.

We meet with something refreshing here. Although the extension of
the franchise is so evidently nothing but "a calling in of new
supplies of blockheadism, gullibility," etc., that Mr. Carlyle
thinks his opponents to be men of "finished off and shut up
intellect, with whom he would not argue," he feels a "malicious
and _justice-joy_" in the fact of England's being about to
take the Niagara-leap, and, after some ferocious experience of
the horrors of democracy, having a chance to come up washed of
her hypocrisy, "the devil's pickle in which she has been steeped
for two hundred years," and thus to show herself regenerated and
ready for heaven. The desperate philosopher must have been
reminded at this point that most who "shoot" Niagara get smashed,
and don't come up regenerated or unregenerated; for he runs out
of his way to give a howl at her majesty's ministry for not
having rewarded Governor Eyre, and then stops to dabble a little
more in England's "hypocrisy," which he calls "the devil's
choicest elixir." We fear you misname that curious brine, Mr.
Carlyle. You have been drinking of it, and your language is
unchoice and simply disgusting. Having taken a lesson in
descriptive geography, Mr. Carlyle now opens his fourth
paragraph, ready for the consequences of a trip over the falls.

"From plebs to princeps there is no class intrinsically so
valuable and recommendable as aristocracy;" and it is to "this
body of brave men and beautiful polite women" that Mr. Carlyle
looks with imploring, half-despairing eyes for the creation of a
new and better England after the inevitable "immortal smash" of
the present.
{89}
He thinks that, in the smash-up of all things English, this class
will be alone unsmashed, because no other class dislikes it:
"they are looked up to with a vulgarly human admiration, and a
spontaneous recognition of their good qualities and good
fortune." We are glad to have found one idea upon which we can
agree with Mr. Carlyle. We believe that, of all the peoples of
Europe, the English will be the last to assert the principle of
political equality. Great and influential men are contending for
its actuation, and powerful journals are lending it their aid,
but their influence is in reality felt more upon the Continent
than in England herself. It may be owing to the degrading
ignorance to which the masses have been reduced, and it may not;
but, with regard to their love of aristocracy, the same may be
said as Mr. Carlyle says, though unjustly, perhaps, of England's
hypocrisy, "they are saturated with it to the bone." Mr. Carlyle
accuses, in most virulent terms, the varnishing proclivities of
his countrymen, who, in spite of the agitation of centuries, he
thinks, never really rebuild or even repair. But his going to the
root of the evil would be somewhat averse to our poor ideas of
propriety, if we may judge by his "devil's strap" theory. Yet no
one can deny that English politicians, whether tory or liberal,
are almost universally varnishers. In the various struggles for
ascendency for which reform has been the pretext, very often the
conquering power has gone back of its former principles, and been
utterly averse to any extension of the rights of the masses. In
those cases where through intimidation, such as in the present
reform bill, an extension of the franchise has been granted, it
has been merely a diminution of the amount of property necessary
as qualification. Tories and liberals alike recognize the
principle of distinction; they berate each other merely as to its
extent. It is not unlikely that, after a few more reform bills
have passed, there will be one put through, making twopence the
price of the "privilege" of voting; nor is it at all probable
that the few friends of manhood suffrage will ever in their
lifetime see their theory in practice on English soil. Though we
agree, however, with Mr. Carlyle in this one fact, we cannot
believe with him that to the aristocracy of England or that of
any other land is exclusively confided by God and by reason a
country-saving mission. If the selling of one's country to the
foreigners, or the betrayal and robbery of one's vassals,
constitute, such a mission, then the almost constant history of
Italy, Ireland, and Poland will yet set up a new choir of
celestial spirits _crême de la crême_. When Bulwer invented,
in his _Strange Story_, a man composed of body and mind,
without soul, people laughed--even those who admired
Chateaubriand's idea of man's being constituted of body, soul,
and _bête_. They were wrong, for Bulwer has talked with
Carlyle. But, though Mr. Carlyle may have no soul, he has not
entirely lost his reason, little though there seems to be of it
exercised by him. As if he realized that his blind and
unscrupulous devotion to _titled_ aristocracy would be
ridiculed by all outside of his _ipse dixit_ crowd of
philosophical pigmies, he beats a half-retreat with the dismal
"and what if the _titled_ Aristocracy fail us?" But charge
again, Carlyle! About face we have him as quick as lightning. To
be sure, the masses, "with whatever cry of 'liberty' in their
mouths, are inexorably marked by destiny as _slaves;_" but
to save England after her "immortal smash," when titles fail, she
will yet rely upon "the unclassed aristocracy by nature, not
inconsiderable in numbers, and supreme in faculty, in wisdom,
human talent, nobleness, and courage, 'who derive their patent of
nobility direct from Almighty God.'"

{90}

Forgive us, sweet Thomas! 'Tis true that this sounds, after your
last few remarks, like the declaration of one who, on finding it
impossible to cross the Atlantic upon a donkey cries out that
he'll try a steamship; but yet forgive us for the past--there is
about this latter speech a ring of genuine metal. 'Tis ability
and courage, and not blood and rank, you depend upon? Alas! our
hopes have vanished. The man of ability, of innate worth, is of
some avail, but he is not fit to rule until the _blood_
comes in. He must become absorbed into the good old stock;
_Orson_ must be _Valentinized_. Still the cry, "Blood
is blood." Of the "industrial hero," Carlyle's aristocrat by
nature, a transmogrification must take place ere he can wear the
crown or wield the baton, and the change is--new blood for his
children, and for himself a new alliance. "If his chivalry is
still somewhat in the _Orson_ form, he is already, by
intermarriage and otherwise, coming into contact with the
aristocracy by title; and by degrees will acquire the fit
_Valentinism_, and other more important advantages there. He
cannot do better than unite with this naturally noble aristocracy
by title; the industrial noble and this one are brothers born,
called and impelled to cooperate and go together." The state
cannot be saved unless by aristocracy of blood. Even when it
condescends to avail itself of the energies of the plebeian, it
must take that plebeian out from the throng of "brutish
hobnails," and make of him a titled aristocrat. Only this and
nothing more is Carlyle's idea. Even though the collection of
titled rulers become emasculated for all good, and for existence
are forced to recruit their ranks from the vulgar crowd, each
conscript _Orson_ must not only come under the polite
influence of _Valentine_, but must acquire the "other more
important advantages" found in his society. If _Valentinism_
is necessary, and the titled gentry are already possessed of the
"_more_ important advantages," why not use a born
_Valentine?_ The truth is, that Mr. Carlyle regards
aristocracy very much as we would a man, and the _vulgus_
very much as we would meat or turnips. Man stands first in the
order of mundane creation; but he requires nutriment, and so eats
meat and turnips, absorbs them into his blood, becomes stronger,
but remains still a man, lord of creation, meat and turnips
included. As meat and turnips play their allotted part in
relation to man, so has the _plebs_ its task assigned
precisely for the benefit of aristocracy. Heaven has placed the
irrevocable seal of slavery upon the "nigger," and whoever
interferes to remove that seal is as guilty of sacrilege as
though he robbed the altar of its victim. As for the white
"nigger," the system of "nomadic" servantship by means of which
he is not a real "Nigger" is a "misdeed," and--oh! listen,
history! "never was, and never will be possible, except for brief
periods, among human creatures." To the establishment of these
canons of his social system, Mr. Carlyle devotes the greater part
of his essay--his fourth, fifth, and sixth paragraphs, and part
of the seventh. When England shall have shot Niagara, therefore,
her titled aristocracy is to recreate her, and the process is to
be the rendering "permanent" the relation between master and
servant; then will the devil be again tied up, and then will come
the millennium.
{91}
Well does Mr. Carlyle observe, however, that it will be a long
time "before the fool of a world opens its eyes to the tap-root"
of its evils, and that, when it "has discovered it, what a
puddling, and scolding, and jargoning there will be before the
first real step toward remedy is taken!"

Mr. Carlyle's seventh paragraph is taken up with some pretty
sound advice upon domestic economy, especially upon the "cheap
and nasty" tendency of the times, which leads us to be too often
contented with appearances instead of realities. His remarks upon
the inferiority of the London brick of modern make are practical,
but the moral he draws about the necessity of rebuilding England
at once and properly is much more so. It is well, however, for
humanity that those Englishmen who wish to rebuild her have a
different system of philosophy from that Mr. Carlyle advocates at
present. It is well, also, for humanity that, while it is not
impossible that an experienced "drill-sergeant," such as he
presents in his concluding paragraph as a remedy for our
insubordination in all matters, would be a blessing, it is well
that heaven has not given him the baton. Mr. Carlyle gave to the
world in 1840 his entire political system in his _Hero
Worship_, and it is the same substantially in his present
essay. Then he told us that to heroes alone belonged the right to
govern society, and that the duty of society was to discover
these providential beings and to blindly obey them. Cromwell and
Napoleon he presented as types of this heroism. By his many
allusions to "Oliver" in his present essay and his two entire
paragraphs upon his Industrial and his Practical Hero, we see
that he has not yet realized that the very necessity of making
and following heroes proves the still greater necessity of
raising people to a higher appreciation of the dignity of their
manhood. Could the "devil's strap" theory be actuated, there
would be in the state a hero, but he would only be great because
his people were contemptible. Although Mr. Carlyle promised to
say something about the second "achievement" of democracy,
namely, the gradual deliquescence and final evaporation of all
religions under its baneful influence, he says nothing whatever
about God or religion. His illiberality, bitterness, and love of
tyranny make us suspect that in his heart there dwells but little
love for that which cannot but be liberal, kind, and respectful
to the rights of man. Indeed, one finds in this essay an
undercurrent of the same nature as the spirit shown in Carlyle's
works of middle-life, especially in his _Latter-day
Pamphlets_, namely, individualism, raised to the dignity of a
principle of morality and of a one only rule for the safety of
mankind.

Most men have an ideal of their own of the beautiful in both the
aesthetic and the ethical order. Many men of thought have formed
to themselves an ideal of a happy and prosperous country, of a
wise and beneficent government, and so has Mr. Carlyle. An ideal
is always a key to the workings of the brain and to the
aspirations of the heart. Mr. Carlyle's accords precisely with
what we can gather of both in his present as well as most all his
other writings. In giving it to the public, he puts his seal upon
all his philosophical speculations, and shows his opponents that
he is game to the end. It is his "_La garde meurt, mais ne se
rend pas_." For the establishment of his Utopia, he sails to
the West Indies in company with a "younger son of a duke, of an
earl, or of the queen herself." He keeps shy of Jamaica, (and
well he may,) and goes to Dominica, an island which is "a sight
to kindle a heroic young heart."
{92}
He gets grandly pathetic, and describes Dominica as "inverted
wash-bowl;" its rim for twenty miles up from the sea is fine
alluvium, though unwholesome for all except "niggers kept
steadily at work;" its upper portion "is salubrious for the
Europeans," of whom he puts to dwell 100,000, who are "to keep
steadily at their work a million niggers on the lower ranges." He
pulls up the cannon which are now going to honeycomb and oxide of
iron in the jungle, and plants them firmly on the upper land to
guard his niggers and keep off the sacrilegious invader. With
tears of mingled joy and regret he cries, "What a kingdom my poor
Frederick William, followed by his Frederick, would have made of
this inverted wash-bowl; clasped round and lovingly kissed and
laved by the _beautifulest_ seas in the world, and beshone
by the grandest sun and sky!" This, then, is the end for which
Carlyle has lived seventy-two years; this is what he has learned
by fifty years' study of history and political economy! Three
wise men of Gotham once went to sea in a tub and came to grief
therein. Carlyle might imitate their example, and, bidding adieu
to the "brutish hobnails" whom he is powerless to regenerate, go
out as far as he would: he could never be so much at sea as he
was when he penned this remarkable essay.

--------

    Sayings Of The Fathers Of The Desert.


Abbot Alois said: "Unless a man say in his heart, 'Only God and I
are in this world,' he will not find rest."


Abbot Hyperchius said: "He is really wise who teaches others by
his deeds, and not by his words."


Abbot Moses said: "When the hand of the Lord slew the first-born
of Egypt, there was no house in that land in which there lay not
one dead."

A brother asked him: "What does this mean?"

The father answered: "If we look at our own sins, we will not see
the sins of others. It is foolishness for a man having a corpse
in his own house to leave it and go to weep over that of his
neighbor."


Abbot Marcus said to Abbot Arsenius: "Why do you avoid us?"

He answered: "God knows I love you, but I cannot be with God and
with men."

--------

{93}

  An Old Guide to Good Manners.


In the first number of _The Catholic World_ we gave our
readers some account of the great Christian school of Alexandria
in the time of St. Clement, the philosopher. The article,
borrowed from _The Dublin Review_, sketched the corrupt,
luxurious, and effeminate society of the Egyptian
metropolis--that gay, bustling, frivolous city which was to the
old Eastern world what Paris now is to the continent of
Europe--and showed how St. Clement thought it well worth his
while to spare an occasional hour from the discussions of
philosophy and dogma, and the definition of a code of Christian
ethics, to rebuke the scandalous luxury of dandies and
_gourmands_, and the follies of fashionable ladies. It would
have been but a meagre code of ethics, indeed, which had
overlooked the busy trifles that made up so much of the life of
Alexandrian gentlefolks. The teacher who would form a better
school of morality could not confine himself to the church and
the market-place. He must enter the bath and the banquet-hall,
the shops of the silk merchant, the jeweller, and the perfumer.
He must touch with sharp hand little things which are only
foolishness to us, but, to the pagan society of Egypt, made up a
large part of the sum of human existence. All this St. Clement
did, and the substance, if not the words, of his directions to
the flock has come down to us in the pages of his
_Instructor_.

It is a curious picture which he gives us of Alexandrian manners;
but we question, after all, if much of what he says will not
apply pretty well to our own day. He begins with the diet. This,
he remarks, ought to be "simple, truly plain, suiting precisely
simple and artless children." He had no faith in the fattening of
men as one fattens hogs and turkeys. If he had lived in the days
of prize-fights and rowing-matches, he would have inveighed
against the processes of "training," and looked with no favor
upon a bruiser or a boatman getting himself into condition with
raw beef-steaks and profuse sweating. Growth, and health, and
right strength, says the venerable father, come of lightness of
body and a good digestion; he will have none of the "strength
that is wrong or dangerous, and wretched, as is that of athletes,
produced by compulsory feeding." Cookery is an "unhappy art," and
that of making pastry is a "useless" one. He points the finger of
scorn at the gluttons who "are not ashamed to sing the praises of
their delicacies," and in, their greed and solicitude seem
absolutely to sweep the world with a drag-net to gratify their
luxurious tastes. They give themselves "great trouble to get
lampreys in the straits of Sicily, the eels of the Meander, and
the kids found in Melos, and the mullets in Sciathus, and the
muscles of Pelorus, the oysters of Abydos, not omitting the
sprats found in Lipara, and the Mantinican turnip; and,
furthermore, the beet-root that grows among the Ascraeans; they
seek out the cockles of Methymna, the turbots of Attica, and the
thrushes of Daphnis, and the reddish-brown dried figs, on account
of which the ill-starred Persian marched into Greece with five
hundred thousand men.
{94}
Besides these they purchase birds from Phasis, the Egyptian
snipes, and the Median pea-fowl. Altering these by means of
condiments, the gluttons gape for the sauces; and they wear away
their whole life at the pestle and mortar, surrounded with the
sound of hissing frying-pans." Do we not feel a little ashamed at
reading this? Are we so much better than the gluttons of Egypt?
They sent to Abydos for their oysters, and we export the
shell-fish of Norfolk and Saddle Rock to all parts of the
country. If they yearned for snipe, so do we. If they had a
hankering after eel pot-pies, pray, is the taste unknown to
ourselves? Was the Median pea-fowl, we wonder, a more costly
luxury than woodcock, or the Sicilian lamprey worse than Spanish
mackerel? Perhaps we do not quite "sweep the world with a
drag-net;" but that is only because we should gain nothing by it.
We may not ransack the four quarters of the globe for unknown
viands; but we lay distant climes and far-off years, under
contribution to furnish us with rare and luscious wines. The good
saint, had he lived in the nineteenth century, would have
delighted in Graham bread; for he blames his countrymen for
"emasculating their bread by straining off the nourishing part of
the grain." He inveighs against "sweetmeats, and honey-cakes, and
sugar-plums," and a multitude of desserts, and suppers where
there is naught but "pots and pouring of sauce, and drink, and
delicacies, and _smoke_" The smoke to which he alludes is
undoubtedly the fume of the "hissing frying-pans," but it almost
seems as if he were describing a modern carouse with punch and
tobacco. The properest articles of food are those which are fit
for immediate use without fire. The apostle Matthew ate "seeds,
and nuts, and vegetables, without flesh;" and St. John the
Baptist, "who carried temperance to the extreme, ate locusts and
wild honey." St. Clement does not give us his authority for the
statement regarding St. Matthew's diet; nor, it may be objected,
is there any evidence that the Baptist did not cook his locusts
before he fed upon them. In some parts of the East, where locusts
are still regarded as a delicacy, they are prepared for the table
by pulling off the legs and wings, and frying the bodies in oil.
But Clement's object was not so much to prescribe a bill of fare
as to teach men of gluttonous proclivities how to emancipate
themselves from the thraldom of that "most lickerish demon," whom
he calls "the Belly-demon, and the worst and most abandoned of
demons." First of all, we must guard against "those articles of
food which persuade us to eat when we are not hungry, bewitching
the appetite." (How he would have shuddered at a modern grand
dinner, with sherry-and-bitters first to whet the palate; then
three or four raw oysters, just to give a relish to the soup, the
fish, and the _entrées_; and in the middle of the repast a
sherbet, or a Roman punch, to wipe out the taste of all that had
gone before, and give strength for a few more courses of meat!)
Then, being naturally hungry, he says; let us eat the simplest
kind of food; bulbs, (we hope he does not mean _onions_,)
olives, certain herbs, milk, cheese, fruits, all kinds of cooked
food without sauces, and, if we must have flesh, let it be roast
rather than boiled.

Wine, of course, ought to be taken in moderation, if it is taken
at all; and it is well to mix it always with water, and not to
drink it during the heat of the day, when the blood is already
warm enough, but to wait until the cool of the evening.
{95}
Even water, however, must be drunk sparingly, "so that the food
may not be drowned, but ground down in order to digestion." What
a disgusting picture the holy philosopher draws of those
"miserable wretches whose life is nothing but revel, debauchery,
bath, excess, idleness, drink!" "You may see some of them,
half-drunk, staggering, with crowns round their necks like
wine-jars, vomiting drink on one another in the name of
good-fellowship; and others, full of the effects of their
debauch, dirty, pale in the face, and still, above yesterday's
bout, pouring another bout to last till next morning." Moreover,
he entirely disapproves of importing wines. If one must drink,
the product of one's native vines ought to suffice. "There are
the fragrant Thasian wine, and the pleasant-breathing Lesbian,
and a sweet Cretan wine, and sweet Syracusan wine, and Medusian
and Egyptian wine, and the insular Naxian, the highly perfumed
and flavored, another wine of the land of Italy. These are many
names, but for the temperate drinker one wine suffices."

St. Clement concerns himself not only with what people ought to
eat and drink, but with how they ought to eat and drink it. The
chief thing necessary at table is temperance; the next is good
manners. We remember to have had the pleasure and profit of
reading once a modern hand-book of etiquette which abounded in
the most amazing instructions for gentlemen and ladies at their
meals. When you go to a dinner party, it said, do not pick your
teeth much at table. Do not breathe hard over your beef. Don't
snort while you are eating. Don't make a disgusting noise with
your lips while taking in soup. And don't do twenty other
horrible things which no gentleman or lady would any more have
thought of doing than of standing up on their chairs or jumping
upon the table. But St. Clement's directions for polite behavior
show that worse things than these were in vogue in those beastly
old days. He pours out words of indignation and contempt upon
those 'gluttonous feasters who raise themselves from the couches
on which the ancients used to recline at their banquets, stretch
out their necks, and all but pitch their faces into the dishes
"that they may catch the wandering steam by breathing in it."
They grab every minute at the sauce; they besmear their hands
with condiments; they cram themselves ravenously--in such a hurry
that both jaws are stuffed out at once, the veins about the face
are raised, and the perspiration runs all over as they pant and
are tightened with their insatiable greed.

Suppose St. Clement had dined on board an American steamboat!

Then about drinking. In this, too, the old Alexandrians must have
had some queer ways. "We are to drink without contortions of the
face," says the saint, "not greedily grasping the cup, nor,
before drinking, making the eyes roll with unseemly motion; nor
from intemperance are we to drain the cup at a draught; nor
besprinkle the chin, nor splash the garments while gulping down
all the liquor at once--our face all but filling the bowl, and
drowned in it. For the gurgling occasioned by the drink rushing
with violence, and by its being drawn in with a great deal of
breath, as if it were being poured into an earthenware vessel,
while the throat makes a noise through the rapidity of
ingurgitation, is a shameful and unseemly spectacle of
intemperance. ... Do not haste to mischief, my friend. Your drink
is not being taken from you. Be not eager to burst by draining it
down with gaping throat."
{96}
Sad to say, even the women were addicted to "revelling in
luxurious riot," and "drawing hiccups like men." It used to be
the fashion for ladies to drink out of alabaster vessels with
narrow mouths--quite too narrow, Clement complains and, to get
at the liquor, they had to throw their heads back so far as to
bare their necks in a very unseemly manner to their male boon
companions, and so pour the wine down their throats. This custom
the saint strenuously condemns. It was adopted because the women
were afraid of widening their mouths and so spoiling their
beauty, if they rent their lips apart by stretching them on broad
drinking-cups.

These drinking-cups themselves, and much other furniture of the
table, were causes of offence in the good father's eyes, and he
thunders against them with indignant eloquence, as marks of the
shameless luxury and extravagance which pervaded the daily life
of the richer classes. The use of cups made of silver and gold,
and of others inlaid with precious stones, is out of place, he
declares, being only a deception of the vision. For, if you pour
any warm liquid into them, they become so hot that you cannot
touch them, and, if you pour in anything cold, the material
changes its quality, injuring the mixture. St. Clement was right.
Of jewelled drinking-vessels we freely confess that we have no
personal knowledge; but we have a very distinct and painful
recollection of certain silver mugs and silver-gilt goblets which
used always to be given to children by their god-parents, and
from which the unfortunate youngsters were forced to drink until,
say, they were old enough to leave boarding-school. How many a
time have we not longed in our boyhood to exchange the uneasy
gentility of a chased silver cup for the plain comfort of a good,
honest tumbler of greenish pressed glass! How hot those dreadful
cups used to be when filled with a vile, weak compound known in
the nursery as tea! How they used to hide the refreshing sparkle
of the clear, cold water in summer, and the beautiful color of
the harmless decoctions, flavored with currant jelly or other
delicacies, which were allowed us on rare occasions of festivity!
St. Clement was right; they were out of place and a deception of
the vision. But there was many a vessel on the Alexandrian
tables, besides the drinking-cups of silver, and gold, and
alabaster, which shocked this fearless censor of manners and
morals. Away, he cries, with Theracleian cups and Antigonides,
and Canthari, and goblets, and limpet-shaped cups, and the
endless forms of drinking-vessels, _and wine-coolers and
wine-pourers_ also. Away with the elaborate vanity of chased
glass vessels, more liable to break on account of the art, and
teaching us to fear while we drink. Ah! had he seen a Christian
dinner-party in the nineteenth century, with the delicately cut
wine-glasses, slim of stem, fragile as an eggshell, scarcely safe
to touch; the claret-jugs of Bohemian ware, elaborately
ornamented and hardly less costly than gold; the curiously
contrived pitchers for icing champagne; the decanters, the
water-flagons, the decorated goblets, and all the other glass and
china ware, what would good St. Clement have said? Many other
things are there which he reprehends among the apparatus of the
banquet, and of these some we have assuredly copied or retained,
while of others we can only conjecture the nature and uses.
{97}
There were silver couches, and pans and vinegar saucers, and
trenchers and bowls, and vessels of silver, and gold, and easily
cleft cedar, and thyme-wood, and ebony, and tripods fashioned of
ivory, and couches with silver feet and inlaid with ivory, and
folding-doors of beds studded with gold and variegated with
tortoise-shell, and bedclothes of purple and other colors
difficult to produce. And let no one wonder that he should
enumerate bedclothes among the objectionable furniture of a
dining-room. It must be remembered that in those gluttonous old
times people took their meals not sitting on chairs, but
reclining on couches, so that it would hardly be out of the way
to say that they breakfasted, and dined, and supped in bed. They
used to eat and drink so much that this attitude was perhaps, on
the whole, the most convenient for them. Among the other blamable
luxuries which he enumerates are ivory-handled knives. The basins
in which it was customary to wash the feet and hands before meals
ought to be of no better material than common potter's ware. You
can get off the dirt just as well in a cheap earthen washbowl,
says the saint, as in one of price; the Lord did not bring down a
silver foot-bath from heaven.

Music at feasts is an abomination to be carefully shunned, and a
comic song is unworthy of a Christian gentleman, for "burlesque
singing is the boon companion of drunkenness." If people occupy
their time with "pipes and psalteries, and Egyptian clapping of
hands," they become, by degrees, quite intractable, and even
descend so low as to "beat on cymbals and drums, and make a noise
on the instruments of delusion." We must be on our guard against
whatever pleasure effeminates the soul by tickling the eye or the
ear, and so must shun "the licentious and mischievous art of
music," which disturbs the mind and corrupts the morals. Grave,
temperate, and modest music may, indeed, be permitted, but
"liquid" strains and "chromatic harmonies" are only for immodest
revels. All which shows that in Clement's time there must have
been a wickedness associated with music which that glorious art
has now happily lost. The psalmist, it is true, exhorts us to
praise the Lord in the sound of the trumpet, with the psaltery,
the lyre, the timbrel and dance, the chords, and the organ, and
the clashing cymbals; but the Alexandrian philosopher interprets
all this passage symbolically. The trumpet to which King David
refers is the blast which shall wake the dead on the last day.
The lyre is the mouth struck by the spirit. The timbrel and dance
are the church "meditating on the resurrection of the dead in the
resounding skin." Our body is the organ; its nerves are the
strings by which it has received harmonious tension; and the
clashing cymbal is the tongue, resounding with the pulsations of
the mouth. Reading St. Clement's instructions, with no light by
which to interpret them, except the bare words of the text
itself, it would seem to be but a solemn and joyless life which
he inculcated a perpetual Puritan Sunday--than, which, probably,
nothing more doleful was ever imagined of man. But we must
remember that he lived in an age of ineffable vileness.
Amusements, the most innocent in themselves, were the recognized
cloaks or accompaniments of horrible deeds of licentiousness. The
employment of certain kinds of music at banquets naturally
suggested the criminal excesses with which such music was
ordinarily associated. It was like meats offered to idols.
Christians were bound to shun it, not because it was bad, but
because it had been dedicated to bad uses. So was it also with
burlesque singing.
{98}
The songs were not only comical, but wicked. And it is in pretty
much the same sense that we must understand the saint's curious
chapter on laughing, in which he rebukes ludicrous remarks,
buffoonery, and "waggery," and declares that "imitators of
ludicrous sensations" (mimics) ought to be driven out of good
society. It is disgraceful to travesty speech, which is the most
precious of human endowments, though pleasantry is allowable,
provided laughter be kept within bounds. But we ought not to
laugh in the presence of elderly persons or others to whom we owe
respect, unless they indulge in pleasantries for our amusement;
and women and children ought to be especially careful not to
laugh too much, lest they slip into scandal. It is best to
confine ourselves to a gentle smile, which our author describes
as the seemly relaxation of the countenance in a harmonious
manner, like the relaxation of a musical instrument. "But the
discordant relaxation of the countenance in the case of women is
called a giggle, and is meretricious laughter; in the case of men
a guffaw, and is savage and insulting laughter." Of all such as
this, it is needless to say, St. Clement disapproves.

Young men and young women ought never to be seen at banquets, and
it is especially disgraceful for an unmarried woman to sit at a
feast of men. When you go to a banquet, you ought to keep your
eyes downcast, and recline upon your elbow without moving; or, if
you sit, don't cross your legs or rest your chin upon your hand.
It is vulgar not to bear one's self without support, and a sign
of frivolousness to be perpetually shifting the position. Then,
when the food is placed upon the table, don't grab at it. What if
you are hungry? Curb your appetite: hold back your hand for a
moment; take but little at a time; and leave off early, so as to
appear, indifferent to what is set before you. If you are an old
man, you may now and then, but very rarely, joke and play with
the young; but let your jokes have some useful end in view. For
instance, suppose you had a very bashful and silent son with you;
it would be a most proper and notable good joke to say, "This son
of mine is perpetually talking." That would not only be very
funny, but it would be an indirect encomium upon the young man's
modesty. Old men may talk at table, provided they talk sense. The
young should speak briefly and with hesitation when they are
called upon; but they ought to wait until they are called at
least twice. Don't whistle at table. Don't chirrup. Don't call
the waiter by blowing through your fingers. Don't spit often, or
clear your throat, or blow your nose. If you have to sneeze or
hiccup, don't startle your neighbors with a loud explosion, but
do it gently. Don't scrape your teeth till the gums bleed, and
don't scratch your ear!

They had a very silly and preposterous custom, those disgusting
old pagans, of crowning themselves with flowers, and anointing
their head and feet with perfumed ointments, especially on
occasion of grand banquets and drinking bouts. St. Clement had no
patience with this. Oils may be good, he says, for medicinal and
certain other purposes. Flowers are not only pretty, but useful
in their proper place. But what is the sense of sticking a
chaplet of roses on the top of your head where you can neither
see it nor smell it? It is pleasant in spring-time to while away
the hours in the blooming meads, surrounded by the perfume of
roses and violets and lilies; but no crowns of flowers for my
head, if you please!
{99}
They are too cold; they are too moist. The brain is naturally
cold: to add coolness to it is plainly against nature. Then he
enumerates the various kinds of ointments made from plants and
flowers and other substances. Leave these, he says, to the
physicians. To smear the body with them out of pure wanton luxury
is disgraceful.

After supper, first thank God: then go to bed. No magnificent
bedclothes, no gold-embroidered carpets, no rich purple
sleeping-robes, or cloaks of fleece, or thick mantles, or couches
softer than sleep itself; no silver-footed couches, savoring of
ostentation; none of those lazy contrivances for producing sleep.
Neither, on the other hand, is it necessary to imitate Ulysses,
who rectified the unevenness of his couch with a stone; or
Diomede, who reposed stretched on a wild bull's hide; or Jacob,
who slept on the ground with a stone for his pillow. St. Clement
was not too severe in his instructions. He taught moderation to
all men, leaving the difficulties of asceticism to the few who
were called to encounter them. He never forbade comfort, but only
rebuked luxury. Our beds, he says, ought to be simple and frugal,
but they ought to keep us cool in summer and warm in winter.
Those abominable inventions called feather-beds, which let the
body "fall down as into a yawning hollow," he stigmatizes with
deserved contempt. "For they are not convenient for sleepers
turning in them, on account of the bed rising into a hill on
either side of the body. Nor are they suitable for the digestion
of the food, but rather for burning it up, and so destroying the
nutriment." Who that has groaned through a restless night on one
of those vile things--we were going to say, tossed through the
night, but one can't toss in a feather-bed--has been
half-suffocated by the stuffy smell of the feathers, and
oppressed in his dreams by the surging hills of bedding which
threaten to engulf him on either hand like the billows of some
horrible sea, will not thank good, sensible St. Clement for
setting his face against them, and wonder how they have survived
to the present time? The Alexandrian philosopher knew how to make
a good bed as well as the most fashionable of modern
upholsterers. It ought to be moderately soft, yet not receive too
readily the impress of the body. It ought to be smooth and level,
so that one can turn over easily. But the reason he gives for
this direction is rather comical: the bed is a sort of nocturnal
gymnasium, on which the sleeper may digest his food by frequent
rollings and tumblings in his dreams.

The couch ought not to be elaborately carved, and the feet of it
ought to be smooth and plain. The reason for this is not only the
avoidance of luxury; but "elaborate turnings form occasionally
paths for creeping things, which twine themselves about the
mouldings and do not slip off."

In speaking of dress, St. Clement gives free rein to his
indignation at the folly and extravagance of both men and women,
and points his remarks with many a shaft of keen wit and sallies
of dry humor. Of course, he says, we must have clothes, but we
require them as a protection for the body, not as mere ornaments
to attract notice and inflame greedy eyes. Nor is there any good
reason why the garments of women should differ from those of men.
At the utmost, women may be permitted the use of softer textures,
provided they wear them not too thin and curiously woven.
{100}
A silk dress is the mark of a weak mind. Dyed garments are silly
and extravagant; and are they not, after all, offences against
truth? Sardian, olive, rose-colored, green, scarlet, and ten
thousand other dyes--pray, of what use are they? Does the color
make any difference in the warmth of the robe? And, besides, the
dye rots the stuff, and makes it wear out sooner. A good
Christian who is pure within ought to be clad in spotless white.
Flowered and embroidered clothing, cunningly wrought with gold,
and figures of beasts, and elaborate tracery, "and that
saffron-colored robe dipped in ointment, and these costly and
many-colored garments of flaring membranes," are not for the
children of the church. Let us weave for ourselves the fleece of
the sheep which God created for us, but let us not be as silly as
sheep. Beauty of character shows itself best when it is not
enveloped in ostentatious fooleries. When St. Clement comes to
particulars, especially in speaking of the dress of women, it
almost seems as if he were pointing at the fashions of the
nineteenth century. The modern fondness for mauve, and the
various other shades of purple, is nothing new. The same colors
seem to have been "the style" in the year 200. "Would it were
possible," exclaims the saint, "to abolish purple in dress! The
women will wear nothing else; and in truth, so crazy have they
gone over these stupid and luxurious purples, that, in the
language of the poet, _purple_ death has seized them!" So we
see that the good father was not above making a pun. He
enumerates some of the articles of apparel--tunics, cloaks, and
garments, with long and obscure names, about which the fine
ladies of Alexandria were perpetually "in a flutter;" and it is
rather startling to encounter in the list--what think you? Why,
nothing less than the _peplum_, so dear to the hearts of
women in 1867. Female extravagance in coverings for the feet also
seems to have been as rife in ancient Egypt as it is in modern
Paris or New-York. He condemns the use of sandals decorated with
gold, and curiously studded on the soles with "winding rows" of
nails, or ornamented with amorous carvings and jewelled devices.
Attic and Sicyonian half-boots, and Persian and Tyrrhenian
buskins, are also to be avoided. Men had better go barefoot
unless necessity prevents, but it is not suitable for a woman to
show her naked foot; "besides, woman is a tender thing, easily
hurt." She ought to wear simple white shoes, except on a journey,
and then her shoes should be greased.

Our saintly censor devotes an indignant chapter to "the stones
which silly women wear fastened to chains and set in necklaces;"
and he compares the eagerness with which they rush after
glittering jewelry to the senseless attraction which draws
children to a blazing fire. He quotes from Aristophanes a whole
catalogue of female ornaments:

  "Snoods, fillets, natron, and steel;
   Pumice-stone, band, back-band,
   Back-veil, paint, necklaces,
   Paints for the eyes, soft garment, _hair-net_, [Footnote 22]
   Girdle, shawl, fine purple border,
   Long robe, tunic, Barathrum, round tunic,
   Ear-pendants, jewelry, ear-rings,
   Mallow-colored cluster-shaped anklets,
   Buckles, clasps, necklets,
   Fetters, seals, chains, rings, powders,
   Bosses, bands, Sardian stones,
   Fans, helicters."

    [Footnote 22: Is it possible that _waterfalls_ were worn
    in those days?]

And he cries out, wearied with the enumeration: "I wonder how
those who bear such a burden are not worried to death. O foolish
trouble! O silly craze for display!" And of what use is it all?
It is nothing but art contending against nature, falsehood
struggling against truth. If a woman is ugly, she only makes her
ugliness more conspicuous by decking herself out with
meretricious ornaments.
{101}
Besides, the custom of "applying things unsuitable to the body as
if they were suitable, begets a practice of lying and a habit of
falsehood." The sight of an over-dressed woman seems to have
affected St. Clement very much as a worthless picture in an
elegant frame. "The body of one of these ladies," he exclaims,
"would never fetch more than one hundred and fifty dollars; but
you may see her wearing a dress that cost _two hundred and
fifty thousand._" We complain of the extravagance of modern
belles; but, do they ever spend such enormous sums as that on a
single dress? Alexandria, we imagine, must bear away the palm
from Newport and Saratoga.

There were particular fashions in jewelry and ornament toward
which the saint had a special dislike. Bracelets in the form of a
serpent, he calls the manifest badges of the evil one. Golden
chains and necklaces are nothing better than fetters. Earrings
and ear-drops he forbids as contrary to nature, and he beseeches
his female hearers not to have their ears pierced. If you pierce
your ears, he says, why not have rings in your noses also? A
signet-ring may be worn on the finger, because it is useful for
sealing; but no good Christian ought to wear rings for mere
ornament. Yet he makes one curious exception to this rule. If a
woman have, unfortunately, a dissipated husband, she may adorn
herself as much as she can, for the purpose of keeping him at
home.

How bitter is the contempt which the philosopher pours out upon
the fashionable ladies of the time, who spend their days in the
mysterious rites of the toilet, curling their locks, anointing
their cheeks, painting their eyes, "mangling, racking, and
plastering themselves over with certain compositions, chilling
the skin and furrowing the flesh with poisonous cosmetics;" and
then in the evening "creeping out to candle-light as out of a
hole." Love of display is not the characteristic of a true lady.
The woman who gives herself up to finery is worse than one who is
addicted to the pleasures of the table and _the bottle_! She
is a lazy housekeeper, sitting like a painted thing to be looked
at, not as if made for domestic economy, and she cares a great
deal more about getting at her husband's purse-strings than about
staying at home with him. And how preposterous is her behavior
when she goes abroad. Is she short? she wears cork-soles. Is she
tall? she carries her head down on her shoulder. Has she fine
teeth? she is always laughing. Has she _no flanks? she has
something sewed on to her,_ so that the spectators may exclaim
on her fine shape. A little while ago, a mania for yellow hair
broke out in Paris, and fashionable ladies had their locks dyed
of the popular hue. Well, it appears from St. Clement's
discourses that this folly is over sixteen hundred years old. He
upbraids the Alexandrian ladies for following the same absurd
custom, and asks, in the words of Aristophanes, "What can women
do wise or brilliant who sit with hair dyed yellow?" Nor is this
the only modern fashion about the hair which was known and
condemned in his time. Read this, young ladies: "_Additions of
other people's hair are entirely to be rejected,_ and it is a
most sacrilegious thing for spurious hair to shade the head,
covering the skull with dead locks. For on whom does the priest
lay his hand? Whom does he bless?
{102}
Not the woman decked out, but another's hairs, and through them
another head." Chignons, braids, tresses, and all the other
wonderful paraphernalia of the hair-dresser's art are condemned
as no better than lies, and a shameful defamation of the human
head, which, says St. Clement, is truly beautiful. Neither is it
allowable to dye gray hairs, or in any other way to conceal the
approach of old age. "It is enough for women to protect their
locks and bind up their hair simply along the neck with a plain
hair-pin, nourishing chaste locks with simple care to true
beauty." And then he draws a comical picture of a lady with her
hair so elaborately "done up," that she is afraid to touch her
head, and dares not go to sleep for fear of pulling down the
whole structure.

A man ought to shave his crown, (unless he has curly hair,) but
not his chin, because the beard gives "dignity and paternal
terror" to the face. The mustache, however, "which is dirtied in
eating, is to be cut round, not by the razor, for that were
ungenteel, but by a pair of cropping scissors." The practice of
shaving was a mark of effeminacy in those days, and it was
thought disgraceful for a man to rob himself of the "hairiness"
which distinguishes his sex, even as the lion is known by his
shaggy mane. So St. Clement is unsparing in his denunciations of
the unmanly creatures who "comb themselves and shave themselves
with a razor for the sake of fine effect, and arrange their hair
at the looking-glass." Manly sports, provided they be pursued for
health's sake and not for vainglory, he warmly approves. A
sparing use of the gymnasium and an occasional bout at wrestling
will do no harm, but rather good; yet, when you wrestle, says the
saint, be sure you stand squarely up to your adversary, and try
to throw him by main strength, not by trickery and
_finesse_. A game of ball he especially recommends, (who
knows but there may have been base-ball clubs in Egypt?) and he
mildly suggests that, if a man were to handle the hoe now and
then, the labor would not be "ungentlemanly." Pittacus, King of
Miletus, set a good example to mankind by grinding at the mill
with his own hand; and, if St. Clement were alive now, he might
add that Charles V. employed himself in constructing time-pieces,
and that notorious savage, Theodoras, Emperor of Abyssinia,
passes most of his days making umbrellas. Fishing is a
commendable pastime, for it has the example of the apostles in
its favor. Another capital exercise for a gentleman is chopping
wood. This, we may remark, is said to be the favorite athletic
pursuit of the Honorable Horace Greeley.

The daily occupations of women must not be too sedentary, yet
neither, on the other hand, ought the gentler sex to be
"encouraged in wrestling or running!" Instead of dawdling about
the shops of the silk merchant, the goldsmith, and the perfumer,
or riding aimlessly about town in litters, just to be admired,
the true lady will employ herself in spinning and weaving, and,
if necessary, will superintend the cooking. She must not be above
turning the mill, or getting her husband a good dinner. She must
shake up the beds, reach drink to her husband when he is thirsty,
set the table as neatly as possible, and when anything is wanted
from the store, let her go for it and fetch it home herself. We
fear it is not the fashion, even yet, to follow St. Clement's
advice. She ought to keep her face clean, and her glances cast
down, and to beware of languishing looks, and "ogling, which is
to wink with the eyes," and of a mincing gait.

{103}

A gentleman in the street should never walk furiously, nor
swagger, nor try to stare people out of countenance; neither when
going up-hill ought he to be _shoved up by his domestics!_
He ought not to waste his time in barbers' shops and taverns,
babbling nonsense; nor to watch the women who pass by; nor to
gamble. He must not kiss his wife in the presence of his
servants. If he is a merchant, he must not have two prices for
his goods. He must be his own valet. He must wash his own feet,
and put on his own shoes.

And so the holy man goes on with much more sage counsel and
Christian direction, teaching his flock not only how to be
faithful children of the church, but how to be true gentlemen and
gentlewomen. The etiquette which he lays down is not based upon
the arbitrary and changeable rules of fashion, but upon the fixed
principles of morality and good fellowship. We have thought it
not amiss to give our readers a specimen of them, partly, indeed,
because they show us in such an interesting manner what kind of
lives people used to lead in his day, but also because they are
full of good lessons and wholesome rebukes for ourselves, and
because many of the follies which St. Clement condemned are still
flourishing, just as they flourished then, or are newly springing
into life after they have been for so many centuries forgotten.
Of course, there are many of his rules which are not applicable
to us. Many things which he forbade because they were indications
or accompaniments of certain sinful practices are no longer
wrong, because they have been completely dissevered from their
evil associations. But upon the whole, we doubt not that a new
edition of St. Clement's _Paedagogus_, or as we might
translate it, "Complete Guide to Politeness," would be vastly
more beneficial to the public than any of the hand-books of
etiquette which are multiplied by the modern press.

--------

         Ran away to Sea.

  A treacherous spirit came up from the sea,
  And passing inland found a boy where he
  Lay underneath the green roof of a tree,
      In the golden summer weather.

  And to the boy it whispered soft and low--
  Come! let us leave this weary land, and go
  Over the seas where the free breezes blow,
      In the golden summer weather.

{104}

  I know green isles in far-off sunny seas,
  Where grow great cocoa-palms and orange-trees,
  And spicy odors perfume every breeze,
      In the golden summer weather.

  There, underneath the ever-glowing skies,
  Gay parrokeets and birds of paradise,
  Make bright the woods with plumes of gorgeous dyes,
      In the golden summer weather.

  And in that land a happy people stay:
  No hateful books perplex them night nor day;
  No cares of business fret their lives away,
      In the golden summer weather.

  But all day long they wander where they please,
  Plucking delicious fruits, that on the trees
  Hang all the year and never know decrease,
      In the golden summer weather.

  Or over flower-enamelled vale and slope
  They chase the silv'ry-footed antelope;
  Or with the pard in manly conflict cope
      In the golden summer weather.

  And in those islands troops of maidens are,
  Whose lovely shapes no foolish fashions mar;
  Eyes black as Night, and brighter than her stars
      In the golden summer weather.

  Earth hath no maidens like them otherwhere;
  With teeth like pearls and wreaths of jetty hair,
  And lips more sweet than tinted syrups are,
      In the golden summer weather.

  Ah! what a life it were to live with them!
  'Twould pass by sweetly as a happy dream:
  The years like days, the days like minutes seem,
      In the golden summer weather.

  Come! let us go! the wind blows fair and free;
  The clouds sail seaward, and to-morrow we
  May see the billows dancing on the sea,
      In the golden summer weather.

  The heavens were bright, the earth was fair to see,
  A thousand birds sang round the boy, but he
  Heard nothing but that spirit from the sea,
      In the golden summer weather.

{105}

  All night, as sleepless on his bed he lay,
  He seemed to hear that treacherous spirit say,
  Come, let us seek those islands far away,
      In the golden summer weather.

  So ere the morning in the east grew red,
  He stole adown the stairs with barefoot tread,
  Unbarred the door with trembling hands, and fled
      In the golden summer weather.

  In the last hour of night the city slept;
  Upon his beat the drowsy watchman stept;
  When like a thief along the streets he crept,
      In the golden summer weather.

  And when the sun brought in the busy day,
  His father's home afar behind him lay,
  And he stood 'mongst the sailors on the quay,
      In the golden summer weather.

  Like sleeping swans, with white wings folded, ride
  The great ships at their moorings, side by side;
  Moving but with the pulses of the tide,
      In the golden summer weather.

  And one is slowly ruffling out her wings
  For flight, as seaward round her bowsprit swings;
  Whilst at the capstan-bars the sailor sings
      In the golden summer weather.

  He is aboard. The wind blows fresh abeam:
  The ship drifts slowly seaward with the stream;
  And soon the land fades from him like a dream,
      In the golden summer weather.

  And if he found those islands far away,
  Or those fair maidens, there is none can say:
  For ship or boy returned not since that day,
      In the golden summer weather.

                                E. YOUNG.

--------

{106}


          A Royal Nun.


Among the pleasant alleys of Versailles, or under the stately
groves of St. Cloud, or in the grand corridors of the Tuileries,
might often have been seen, about the year 1773, pacing up and
down together in tender and confidential converse, two young
maidens in the early bloom of youth, and often by their side
would sport a careless, wilful, but engaging child some eight or
nine years old. These three young girls were all of royal birth,
and bound together by the ties of close relationship; they were
the sisters and cousin of a great king; their lineage one of the
proudest of the earth; they were all fair to look upon, and all
endowed with mental gifts of no mean order. How bright looked
their future! Monarchs often sought their hands in marriage, and
men speculated on their fate, and wondered which should form the
most brilliant alliance. Could the angels who guarded their
footsteps have revealed their future, how the wise men of this
world would have laughed the prophecy to scorn! Yet above those
fair young heads hangs a strange destiny. For one the martyr's
palm; the name of another was to echo within the walls of St.
Peter, as of her whom the church delighteth to honor; the third
was to wear the veil of the religious through dangers and under
vicissitudes such as seldom fall to the lot of any woman. Those
of whom we speak were these: Clotilde and Elizabeth of France,
sisters of Louis XVI., and Louise de Bourbon Condé, their cousin.
Louise and Clotilde, almost of the same age, were bound together
in close intimacy. We may wonder, now, on what topics their
conversation would run. Did they speak of the gayeties of the
court; of the round of the giddy dissipation which had, perhaps,
reached its culminating point about this period? or were they
talking of the last sermon of Père Beauregard, when, with
unsparing and apostolic severity, he condemned the fashionable
vices of the age? or were they speaking of the cases of distress
among the poor who day by day trooped to the house of
_Mademoiselle_, as Louise de Condé was called, and were
there succored by her own hands? On some such theme as these
latter we may be almost sure that their converse ran. The heart
of Clotilde was never given to the world; from her childhood she
had yearned for a cloister, and would fain have found herself at
the side of her aunt, Madame Louise, who was then prioress of the
Carmelites of St. Denis. To the _grille_ of this convent
Clotilde, Louise, and Elizabeth would often go; and no doubt it
was partly owing to the conversation and example of the holy
Carmelite princess that the three girls, placed, as they all
were, in most dangerous and difficult positions, not only
threaded their way through the maze safely, but became examples
of eminent piety and virtue.

The elder of the three friends was Louise, only daughter of Louis
Joseph de Bourbon Condé, great-great-grandson of the Great Condé,
and son of the Duke de Bourbon, for some time prime minister to
Louis XV. He had early chosen the army as his career, and as
early won laurels for himself in the Seven Years' War. On one
occasion he was entreated by his attendants to withdraw from the
heat of the battle.
{107}
"I never heard," said he, "of such precautions being taken by the
_Great Condé._" His admiration for his glorious ancestor
was, indeed, intense, and he devoted himself to the task of
writing a history of this great man; for, though an ardent
soldier, he was well educated. Men of science and genius gathered
round him in his chateau of Chantilly, whither he would retire in
the brief intervals of peace. At a very early age the Prince de
Condé married Charlotte de Rohan Soubise, a maiden as noble in
her character as her birth. She was merciful to the poor, gentle
and charitable to all who surrounded her. The marriage was a
happy one, but was not destined to last long. The princess died
in 1760, leaving behind her a son, the Duke de Bourbon, and
Louise Adelaide, of whom we have been speaking.

The little girl, thus left motherless at the age of five years,
was consigned to the care of her great-aunt, the abbess of
Beaumont les Tours, about sixty leagues from Paris. All the
religious assembled to receive the little princess on the day of
her arrival, and everything was done to please her. After showing
her all the interior of the convent, she was asked where she
would like to go. "Oh! take me," cried she, "where there is the
most noise." Poor child! she was destined to find her after-life
a little too noisy. She next chose to go into the choir while the
nuns chanted compline; but before the end of the first psalm
whispered to her attendant, "I have had enough." In these
peaceful walls her childhood passed away. She grew fond of the
convent, and gave every mark of external piety. She was wont to
declare afterward that the grace of God had made little interior
progress in her heart; nevertheless, a solid foundation of good
instruction had been laid, which was hereafter to bear fruit. At
twelve years of age she made her first communion, and then
returned to Paris to finish her education in a convent there, "to
prepare her for the world."

Years fled on, Louise attained womanhood, her brother married one
of the Orleans princesses, and a marriage was projected for
Louise with the Count d'Artois, afterward Charles X., but
political differences caused the match to be broken off. Louise
was not destined ever to become Queen of France. The tender
friendship which subsisted between her and the Princess Clotilde
was now to be broken, in one sense, by their total separation.
Clotilde's heart's desire for the religious life was rudely
crossed; the daughters of royal houses had less control over
their fates then (and perhaps even now) than the meanest peasant
in the land. A marriage was "arranged" for Madame Clotilde with
the Prince of Piedmont, heir-apparent to the throne of Sardinia.
She was but sixteen years of age when she had to leave France and
all she loved and clung to, and set out to meet her unknown
husband; for she was married by proxy only in Paris, and was
received by the Prince of Piedmont at Turin. She was very
beautiful, but unfortunately excessively stout, to such a degree
that it injured not only her appearance, but her health. At Turin
she was welcomed by a vast crowd, but cries of "_Che
grossa!_" ("How fat she is!") struck unpleasantly on her ear.
"Be consoled," said the Queen of Sardinia; "when I entered the
city, the people cried, _'Che brutta!'_" ("How plain she
is!") "You find me very stout?" questioned Clotilde, anxiously
looking into her husband's face. "I find you adorable," was the
graceful and affectionate reply.

{108}

Years flew by. _Mademoiselle_, as Louise was now called, had
her own establishment, and presided at royal _fêtes_ given
by her father at Chantilly. Thither came once to partake of his
hospitality the heir of the throne of all the Russias,
travelling, together with his wife, under the incognito of the
Comte du Nord. A friendship sprang up between them and Louise de
Condé, hereafter to be put to the proof in extraordinary and
unforeseen circumstances. Little did they think as they parted
within the splendid halls of Chantilly where their next meeting
should be.

The license of manners that preceded the Revolution, as the
gathering clouds foretell a storm, was principally to be observed
in the grossness of the theatre and the corruption of literature.
The theatre was a favorite amusement with Louise de Condé, and
she took great delight in private theatricals, and frequently
played a part. She heard Père Beauregard preach on the subject,
and her resolution was instantly taken. A comedy was to be acted
next day at Chantilly, but the princess renounced her part. It
cost her not a little thus to throw out the arrangements for the
_fête_; but she vanquished all human respect, and thus took
the part of God against the world.

It was a turning-point in her life. It may seem to us that it was
but a small sacrifice to make; but one grace corresponded to lead
on to others, and from that resolution to give up theatrical
entertainments Louise dated the commencement of the great
spiritual graces and benefits of her after-life. That she was
endowed with the courage of her race may be known from the fact
that, having sustained by a fall a severe fracture of her leg,
she sent for her Italian master to give her a lesson while
waiting for the surgeon. This broken leg was destined in her
case, as in that of St. Ignatius, to become one of her greatest
blessings. She rose up from her bed determined to give herself
more entirely to God's service. Naturally of a deeply
affectionate disposition, Louise loved her family tenderly, but
in an especial manner her only nephew, the Duc d'Enghien, then in
his early youth. Day by day did Louise bring the name of this
beloved boy before the Mother of Good Counsel, begging her, in
her own simple words, to become his mother and protectress, and
"never to suffer his faith to perish." We shall see a little
later on how this prayer was answered. And now time had passed
on, and the Revolution was at hand, and had even begun. After the
taking of the Bastile, the Prince de Condé quitted France with
all his family, and immediately set himself to organize an army
for the defence of Louis XVI. Ordered by the _Directory_ to
return to France, he disobeyed, and was instantly stripped of all
his vast property. The prince sold all his jewels, and bore his
altered fortunes with patience and courage. Meanwhile, the
Princess Louise accompanied her father and acted as his
secretary. They moved about from place to place, and at Turin she
was able to renew the friendship of her youth with Clotilde, who
was now Queen of Sardinia, and displayed on her throne a pattern
of womanly and saintly virtues. Near the Queen of Sardinia
flattery could not subsist. It is recorded of her that she never
pronounced a doubtful word, far less the smallest falsehood.
Intercourse with this dear friend strengthened in the heart of
Louise the earnest desire she had of belonging entirely to God.
"I am obliged to take time for prayer from my sleep," she writes
to her director. "I cannot do without it.
{109}
When at table, surrounded with officers, all talking, I pray
inwardly." The crime of the 21st of January, 1793, fell like a
thunderbolt on the army of Condé; but, rising from his grief, the
brave general instantly proclaimed Louis XVII., although that
little king, whose piteous story history surely can never outdo,
was still being tortured by his savage subjects. The Archbishop
of Turin was deputed to escort the terrible news to Queen
Clotilde. "Madam," said he, "will your majesty pray for your
illustrious brother, especially for his soul?" The terrible truth
flashed at once upon her, and, falling on her knees, she
exclaimed: "Let us do better still--let us pray for his
murderers!" Surely, in the annals of the saints, few words more
truly heroic can have been recorded than this impulsive utterance
of Clotilde de Bourbon. The active operations of the army
commanded by the Prince de Condé made it impossible for the
princess to remain any longer at her father's side; she
accordingly repaired to Fribourg, a favorite place of refuge for
French emigrants. No less than three hundred French priests had
found a temporary asylum within its walls, and the services of
the church were performed with every possible care and frequency.
Among these priests the princess met one, supposed to be one of
the exiled French bishops, to whom she was able to give her
entire confidence, and from whom she received wise and spiritual
advice. The idea of a religious vocation now began to take firm
hold of her mind but her director would not let her take any step
for two years, wishing in every possible way to test the reality
of this call from God. No ordinary obstacles stood in the way of
the royal postulant. Times had changed since those when the
entrance of Madame Louise, of France, into the Carmelites had
been hailed as an especial mark of God's providence over a poor
community. Every convent in Europe was now trembling for its
safety, and few were willing to open their doors to one bearing
the now unfortunate name of Bourbon. About this time, it would
seem, the princess was in communication with the Père de
Tournely, founder of that Society of the Sacred Heart which was
afterward absorbed into the Society of Jesus, and who was
earnestly seeking to found a new order for women, and especially
at this moment to gather together a community of emigrant French
ladies, some of whom had been driven from their convents. The
idea naturally presented itself of placing the Princess Louise at
the head of such a community, but she shrank from the task. "I
should fear," she said, "from the force of custom, the deference
that would be paid to what the world calls my rank. The place
that I am ambitious of is the last of all. What are the thrones
of the universe compared to that last place?" God had other
designs for her, and for the projected order an humbler
instrument was to be chosen for the foundation-stone of the order
of the Sacred Heart; and at this moment the foundress, all
unconscious of her fate, was as yet "playing with her dolls."
Louise de Condé, determined to enter a poor, obscure convent of
Capuchinesses, or religious, following the rule of St. Clare, in
Turin, a city which it was then hoped was likely to remain in
tranquillity. Before doing so she had obtained her father's
consent, and also that of Louis XVIII, whom the emigrant French
had proclaimed as their king when the prison-house of the little
Louis XVII. had been mercifully opened by death.
{110}
The emigrants were careful to keep up with their exiled monarch
all the forms and traditions which would have surrounded him had
he been peaceably sitting on the throne of his fathers. It is
worth while to give the princess's own words:

  "Sire: It is not at the moment when I am about to have the
  happiness of consecrating myself to God that I could forget for
  the first time what I owe to my king. I have for long past felt
  myself called to the religious state, and I have come to Turin,
  where the kindness and friendship of the Queen of Sardinia has
  given me the means to execute my design--a design which has
  been well examined and reflected upon; but, before its final
  accomplishment, I supplicate your majesty to deign to give your
  consent to it. I ask it with the more confidence because I am
  certain it will not be refused, and that your piety, sire, will
  cause you to find consolation in seeing a princess of your
  blood invested with the livery of Jesus Christ. May God, whose
  infinite mercy I have so wonderfully experienced, hear the
  prayers I shall constantly make for the reestablishment of the
  altar and the throne in my unfortunate country. They will be as
  earnest as the efforts of my relatives for the same object. The
  desire for the personal happiness of your majesty is equally in
  my heart. I implore him to be persuaded of it. I am, etc.,

    "Louise Adélaide De Bourbon Condé.
    "Turin, November, 1795."

There could be no doubt of the devotion of Louise's family to the
cause of Louis XVIII. Her father, brother, and nephew were all
under arms for the restoration of his crown, and Delille
celebrated the incident in verse:

  "Trois générations vont ensemble à la gloire."

The king wrote back to the royal postulant:

  "You have deeply reflected, my dear cousin, on the step which
  you have taken. Your father has given his consent. I give mine
  also, or rather, I give you up to Providence, who requires this
  sacrifice from me. I will not conceal from you that it is a
  great one, and it is with deep regret that I give up the hope
  of seeing you by your virtues become one day an example to my
  court, and an edification to all my subjects. I have but one
  consolation, and it is that of thinking that, while the courage
  and talents of your nearest relations are aiding me to recover
  the throne of St. Louis, your prayers will draw down the
  benedictions of the Most High on my cause, and afterward on all
  my reign. I recommend it to you, and I pray you, my dear
  cousin, to be well persuaded of my friendship for you.

    "Louis."

On the 26th of November, 1798, the Queen of Sardinia took her
cousin to the convent, and saw her enter on the mode of life she
had so ardently desired for herself, but from which she had been
severed. And here Louise began to lead at once a life of hardship
and austerity. Earnest in all things by character, she threw
herself into the practice of her rule, and became a model to all
the novitiates. She counted the months as they passed which
should bring her to her profession day; but it was not to be. God
saw fit to purify her by many sufferings, by long anxieties,
before she should find rest in his house. She was to be the
instrument for a great work for his glory, and by many
vicissitudes she was to be trained and fitted for it.
{111}
The French Directory had declared war against Piedmont, the
princess's presence endangered the whole of her community, and
she hastened to quit their roof and take refuge temporarily at
the convent of the Annonciades, from whence, as she was only a
boarder, she could fly at any moment; but before leaving her
convent she cut off her hair. As a witness to herself, she wrote
of the firm resolution she had taken of living for God only. No
one but God, she said long afterward, could tell what her
sufferings were at having to leave her convent; but she adds:
"The graces that God poured upon me in that holy house gave the
necessary strength to my soul to bear the long trials which I had
to pass through for so many years!" Few recitals are more
touching than the sufferings of this poor novice, thus roughly
torn away from her beloved convent. Shortly after she took up her
abode with the Annonciades, a profession of one of their novices
took place, and the ceremony made the poor princess feel her
disappointment more bitterly. According to the custom of the
order, the novice wore a crown of flowers, and her cell and her
bed were both decked with them, and the sight moved Louise de
Condé to tears, and, when the novice pronounced her vows, her
sobs almost stifled her. She said to herself that _she_ was
unworthy to become the spouse of Christ, and therefore these
obstacles had arisen; and, humbling herself at the feet of her
Lord, she bewailed the follies of her life in the world, of which
she took a far harsher view than those did who knew how it had
been passed, and she implored him to have mercy on her and
others, to attain a perfect resignation to his will.

She had not left her convent too soon. The rapid approach of the
French army on Turin obliged her to quit the city and direct her
steps toward Switzerland. There she hoped to find a convent of
Trappist nuns who would venture to receive her; but, when she had
passed Mount St. Bernard, she found that the community had not
yet been able to find a resting-place in Switzerland. She
travelled on to Bavaria, and was told that no French emigrant
could remain in the country. Verily, it seemed as if she were
destined to have nowhere to lay her head. She did not know where
to turn; for war was ruling in all directions, and her name was
dreaded by all who desired to keep a neutral part in the
conflict. She was driven to seek refuge at Vienna, and went to
board with a convent of Visitation nuns; for this order she did
not feel any attraction, and she cherished the hope that the
Trappist nuns, of whom she had heard would be able to find a
place of refuge and receive her among their number. While thus
waiting, she took, by the advice of her confessor, the three vows
privately, thus binding herself as closely as possible to her
crucified Lord. Her description of this action of her life gives
a great insight into the beauty of her soul. Deep humility, a
fervent love of God, and a child-like simplicity were her eminent
characteristics. She made these vows at communion, unknown to all
save God, his angels, and her spiritual guide. Then she said the
_Te Deum_ and _Magnificat_, which would have been sung
so joyfully by her sisters had she been suffered to remain among
them. "I neglected not in spirit," she adds, "the ceremony of the
funeral pall, begging from God the grace to die to all, so as to
live only in God and for God."

This private act of consecration was an immense comfort to her;
but it by no means prevented her longing and striving to reenter
a convent, and all her hopes continued to be fixed on La Trappe.

{112}

At this period an affecting meeting took place between her and
Madame Royale, the only survivor of the royal victims of the
Temple, the young girl born to one of the highest destinies in
this world, and whose youth had been overshadowed by a tragedy so
prolonged and so frightful that history can scarce furnish a
parallel case. It is only extraordinary that reason had survived
such awful suffering, falling on one so young and so tenderly
nurtured. Is it any wonder that a shade was cast over the rest of
her life, and that she was never among the light-hearted or the
gay? From Vienna she wrote to Queen Clotilde: "I have had a great
pleasure here in finding that the virtues of my aunt Elizabeth
were well known, and she is spoken of with veneration. I hope
that one day the pope will place my relation in the list of
saints." It was, no doubt, a great comfort to her to speak freely
with Louise of the aunt and cousin both had so fondly loved.
Louise could tell Madame Royale many anecdotes of the youth of
one whose end had been so saintly. We must now say a few words
about the convent which the princess wished to enter.

When the order of La Trappe was suppressed in France, in common
with those of other religious in 1790, the Abbé L'Estrange,
called in religion Dom Augustin, was master of novices, and he
conceived the idea of removing the whole community from France
instead of dispersing it.

After many difficulties this was accomplished, and the monastery
was founded at Val-Sainte, near Fribourg. The abbé now conceived
the idea of founding a convent of Trappist nuns, to be composed
chiefly of those religious who had been driven from their own
convents, and of fresh novices. The director of Madame Louise had
many doubts as to the advisability of her entering this
community; but her desire for it was so ardent, and continued so
long, that he withdrew his opposition; and when the community had
really taken root, near that of the Trappist monks, under the
title of the Monastery of the Will of God, Louise de Condé set
out from Vienna and entered it. None but the superiors knew who
she was--such was the simplicity of her dress, so retiring her
manners, so humble were all her ways; but instead of a princess
many of the religious thought her to be of lowly extraction, and
wondered that Dom Augustin gave her so much of his time. With
great delight she received the holy habit and began to practise
the rule. The life was a hard one; the house was a great deal too
small for the number of religious who occupied it; there was a
great want of fresh air; and the rule and austerities were most
trying. In a very few months the torrent of European war was
about to pour down on Switzerland, and the whole community were
obliged to take a hasty departure. Dom Augustin could see no
other place of refuge for his flock than the shores of Russia,
and he bade Louise de Condé use her influence with the emperor to
allow them to take up their abode in his kingdom. The Emperor
Paul was the same who, as archduke and under the title of Comte
du Nord, had sat by the princess's side at the brilliant banquets
and festivities of Chantilly. Louise wrote to him with all the
grace of a French woman: "I beg the amiable Comte du Nord to
become my interpreter with the Emperor Paul." The advance of the
republican army was so rapid that there was no time to wait for a
reply.
{113}
The community were divided into different bands, and started at
different times and by different routes, all agreeing to reunite
their forces in Bavaria. The vicissitudes of this one journey
would be enough for a good-sized volume could we go into its
details. At one place she is received by the bishop of the
diocese as a princess, only to be driven out by the civil
authorities; at another she was lodged in a _bake-house_,
full of dirt and smoke. She observed only it was quite good
enough for her, and that she was very happy. At another time the
cook neglects to cleanse the copper cooking-vessels, and the
whole community are all but poisoned. When the answer came from
the Emperor Paul, it was found that he consented to receive
thirty of the religious only, to whom he promised support as well
as protection. It was necessary, therefore, to find some place
for the others, and Louise accompanied some of her sisters and
the monks to Vienna, where her former friends, the good
Visitation nuns, gave a refuge to another band of the Trappists.
Notwithstanding all these changes, Louise as strictly as possible
observed the rule of her order and the exercises of her
novitiate. Being desired by her superiors to write down her
thoughts on the religious life, she instantly complied, though
she said afterward it was difficult to do so in the midst of
fourteen persons, crowded together in a very small room, and all
at different occupations. It was true they kept silent, but they
had to ask necessary questions of the prioress, and among so many
this necessity was very frequent.

She was now desired to set out for Russia, and thus undertake
another long journey of discomfort and fatigue. People urged her
to leave the order, saying that the weakness of her knee, which
had never wholly recovered from the fall she had had many years
before, would render it impossible for her to be useful. She
replied that, if she were only allowed to keep the lamp burning
before the blessed sacrament, she would be contented. So she set
out for Orcha, the town named by the emperor for their reception.
It proved a really terrible journey; sometimes the religious had
to sleep under the open sky; they had the roughest food, and more
than once were without any for twenty-four hours. But never once
did the patience, sweetness, and perfect content of Louise de
Condé fail; her face was always bright, for her whole soul was
filled with the one thought--a desire of doing penance. The
arrival in Russia did not put an end to the difficulties of
either Madame Louise or her order. It was necessary to make some
arrangement for the rest of the community left in Germany. The
Emperor Paul finally agreed to receive fifty. Dom Augustin
accordingly went to fetch them. During his absence no
communication could be held with him, while various offers of
help, which had to be accepted or refused, were brought to the
princess, embarrassing her greatly.

After ten months of this suspense Dom Augustin returned, having
made up his mind to go to _America_. This was a severe blow
to Madame Louise; for, being still a novice, it became a grave
question whether she would, in such circumstances, be right in
accompanying them, and after much prayer and thought she, by the
counsel of her director, decided to leave. Once more was she to
be driven out into the cold world; once more her heart's desire
crossed, her hopes delayed indefinitely. "I thought that God
willed in his justice to break my heart, and thus arrest its
impetuous ardor.
{114}
I had once more to strip myself of the livery of the Lord, which
had been my glory and my happiness. I did it, and did _not_
die, that is all I can say." Before her departure she implored
the emperor, and all over whom she had any personal influence, to
continue their kindness to the order. In reality, it was a good
thing for the order that Madame Louise quitted it, as events
afterward proved. One of the very first communities allowed by
Bonaparte to reenter France was this very one, and he certainly
would not have done so had a Bourbon been in its ranks. It is
true his favor was but short-lived, and the Trappists had again
to fly to America, but their return to France had been in many
ways a benefit; and in 1815 they came back again, and established
themselves at Belle Fontaine and at Meillerage. The latter house
has long since become celebrated. Dom Augustin reached Rome, and
received many marks of approval from the pope for his long and
earnest struggle in the cause of his order. He died at Lyons in
1827.

And now where was the exile to go? Where should she rest her
weary head? Where and how begin life again under a new aspect?
Her father, brother, and nephew were either engaged in warfare,
or themselves begging shelter from distant countries; her friends
were scattered, her resources scanty. A Benedictine nun who had
joined the Trappist community quitted it, accompanied her, and
Louise endeavored to follow under her a kind of novitiate. They
took refuge at last in a Benedictine convent in Lithuania, but
where the rule was not kept in its strict observance. Here she
remained for two years, making all possible inquiries for a
convent in which she might be received; but the greater part were
destroyed, and obstacles stood in the way of entering any of
those she heard of. She wished, of course, to be more than ever
careful in this her third choice. Moreover, her means of
acquiring information were but small; there was little
communication with other countries, and few of the inhabitants
spoke French. While in Lithuania Louise adopted an orphan of four
years old, a child of good family reduced to beggary; she was
named Eléonore Dombrousha. At last she heard of a convent at
Warsaw, which seemed as if it would fulfil all her desires; and
now, indeed, she _had_ reached the place God had destined
her for. Here she was to lay the foundation of the great work for
which, by many sorrows, by much disappointment, he had been
preparing her.

A foundation of Benedictines of the Blessed Sacrament had come
from Paris to Warsaw many years before, and were still existing:
they kept the Benedictine rule strictly, adding to it the
adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. Madame Louise asked and
received permission of the King of Prussia to enter his
dominions. He afterward wrote as follows:

  "Frederick William, by the Grace Of God King Of Prussia: As we
  have permitted Madame la Princesse Louise Adelaide de Bourbon
  Condé and Madame de la Brosièree, who arrived at Warsaw the
  18th of June, to remain in the convent of the Holy Sacrament,
  where they seem to wish to end their days, we have in
  consequence given all necessary orders to the officials.
    "Warsaw, 28 August, 1801."

{115}

A striking circumstance occurred while on her road to Warsaw, one
of those many incidents of the time which has made the history of
the French Revolution read like a romance. Having to descend from
her carriage at Thorn, her eyes fell on a woman poorly clad in
the street, evidently seeking employment; the expression of her
face was that of suffering, but of great sanctity. The princess
was so struck by it that she went up to her, and said by impulse,
"Madam, were you not a religious?" "Yes," she replied, impelled
to confidence by the sweet face of her who addressed her. And
then Louise learnt that the lady was an exiled member of the
French Sisters of Calvary, driven into exile; that her slender
means had come to an end; and that very day she had come out to
seek work or to beg, neither dismayed nor yet afraid, but putting
her full trust in Divine Providence.

Her wants were supplied, and she would have entered the same
convent as Madame Louise, but that she hoped to rejoin her own
community when they should reassemble. This shortly afterward
took place, and the generosity of Madame Louise furnished the
means for her journey home, and she lived many years in her
convent, leading a holy life, and died there in peace.

At last Madame Louise commenced her _third_ novitiate, and
found in her new order all that could perfectly satisfy her
heart. She took the habit in September, 1801, and all the royal
family of Prussia were present at the ceremony; the Bishop of
Warsaw preached the sermon, and bade her glorify her convent for
ever, not by the _éclat_ of her name and of her royal birth,
but by her religious virtues. The habit which she had taken,
added he, and which she had preferred to all the pomps of the
world, was but the exterior mark of a consecration and a
sacrifice that her heart had long since made. As a novice Madame
Louise redoubled her fervor and exactness in religious life, with
many anxious hopes and prayers that this time the day of her
profession would really come. A sorrow came upon her in the news
of the death of her early and loved friend, Clotilde of Sardinia,
whose soul passed to God in March, 1802, while her whole people,
anticipating only the voice of the church, called her a saint. On
the 21st of September, 1802, Louise made her solemn profession.
"I pronounced my vows publicly," she said, "but with such
feelings that I can truly say my heart pronounced them with a
thousand times greater strength than my mouth." She now retook
her religious name, which she had chosen twice before, Soeur
Marie Joseph de la Miséricorde. The life of an ordinary good
religious would have seemed sufficiently difficult for a
princess, but Louise would do nothing by halves. She practised
the highest virtues of her state, bearing undeserved blame
without a word of excuse; she never murmured under labors; she
was obedient, gentle, and humble. So anxious was she to prevent
her rank being an occasion for raising her to offices of
authority that she wrote to the pope these words:

  "Most Holy Father:
  Louise Adélaide de Bourbon Condé, now Marie Joseph de la
  Miséricorde, professed religious of the convent of the
  Perpetual Adoration of the Most Holy Sacrament, order of Saint
  Benedict, at Warsaw, supplicates your holiness that you deign,
  for the repose and tranquillity of the soul of the suppliant,
  to declare her deprived of active and passive voice, and to
  dispense her from all the principal offices of the community."

{116}

The holy father saw fit to grant the request, and sent a brief on
the subject to her.

  "The efforts that you make to attain Christian perfection in
  these unhappy days," wrote Pius VII., "have filled us with joy,
  and make us hope that the Divine Spouse to whom you have made
  the laudable sacrifice of yourself will not fail to grant you
  his grace, in order that, by the exact and religious
  observation of the rules of the institute which you have
  chosen, you will attain the end that you proposed to yourself
  in embracing with so much joy this state of life. ... We send
  you the letters of dispensation that you say are necessary for
  the perfect tranquillity of your mind, desiring nothing more
  than to remove the obstacles which could destroy your peace;
  and further, we give you with our whole heart the apostolical
  benediction, as a proof of our paternal friendship."

And now one of the sharpest sorrows of Louise de Condé's life was
at hand. An event which was, even in that age of cruelties, to
strike Europe with horror was to fall with bitterest force on the
heart of the princess. Religious life does not extinguish the
affections of the heart; it but regulates, ennobles, and purifies
them; and the Duc d'Enghien was as tenderly loved by the aunt who
had not seen him for many years, spent in devotion to God, as
when, in the halls of Chantilly, she had watched his childish
gambols. The prayer she had offered up in his childhood was
continued more fervently, more constantly, as the dangers to his
body and soul increased. She followed him in commiseration
through the busy scenes in which his lot was cast, and she saw
him brave, loyal, and honorable, a good son and a good husband.
When Louis XVIII. consulted him, in 1803, in common with the
other French princes, as to the answer he should return to the
proposal of Bonaparte that he should renounce the throne of
France, the duke wrote: "Your majesty knows too well the blood
which runs in my veins to have had the least doubt as to the
answer which you demand from me. I am a Frenchman, sire; and a
Frenchman who is faithful to his God, to his king, and to his
vows of honor." We have no space to dwell on the treachery and
the cruelty of the capture and death of this young prince, one of
the fairest hopes of the house of Bourbon. In vain did he even
ask for a priest; but that ungranted request must have carried
consolation to the heart of Madame Louise. As we read of his
cutting off his hair to send to his "Charlotte," we are forcibly
reminded of another prince, who was treacherously slain, sending
a last adieu to another unhappy princess of the same name. To the
doors of the convent at Warsaw, bearing the news, came the Abbé
Edgeworth, whose mission it was to console and help the
unfortunate house of Bourbon. He had attended the last moments of
Louis XVI.; he had stood by him on the scaffold, undaunted by the
crowd, and bade the "son of St. Louis ascend to heaven;" he had
been the director of Madame Elizabeth; he had joined the hands of
Madame Royale and the Duc d'Angoulême in marriage; and now he
came to break the news of the last great sorrow to Madame Louise.
The Mère Sainte Rose brought a crucifix to the princess, and her
countenance told her the rest. Louise fell on her face on the
earth, crying out, "Mercy, my God! have mercy on him!" Then she
rose, and, going to the chapel, poured out her soul before Him
who alone could comfort her.
{117}
"Pardon the faults of his youth, O Lord!" she cried, "and
remember how cruelly his blood has been shed. Glory and
misfortune have attended him through life; but what _we_
call glory--has it any merit in thy eyes? Mercy, my God! mercy!"
But her prayers did not end here. From that time forward there
rose up before the throne of God a constant cry for mercy for the
soul of Napoleon Bonaparte, from the lips of her whose dearest
earthly hopes he had destroyed. She never made a retreat
afterward without devoting much prayer and penance for the
redemption of the enemy of her name and race. Forgiveness of
injuries was an especial characteristic of the Bourbon family,
and none excelled in it more than Madame Louise.

And now another change awaited the poor princess: thick, indeed,
upon her head came trial after trial. Nothing could, indeed, take
from her now the happiness of being a professed Benedictine; but
that she should remain peaceably in one convent for a long time
was hardly to be hoped for at this period. The Lutheran Prussian
government began to interfere with the government of the convent,
to have a voice in the election of superiors, and, of course, to
interfere, at least indirectly, with the rule. Probably the
presence of Madame Louise made them take more notice of that
convent than they would otherwise have done. Before quitting it,
however, as this was a serious step to be taken voluntarily by a
religious who has made a vow of enclosure, she wrote for counsel
to the three French bishops of Léon, Vannes, and Nantes, who were
then all living in London. Their united opinion was, that "the
reasons were well grounded and very solid, and that the repose of
her conscience and her advancement in the perfection of her
state, exact this change." Having received permission from the
bishop of the diocese, and the full consent of her prioress, who
bitterly mourned over the thraldom in which the community were
held, Louise de Condé once more went out into exile, and this
time directed her steps toward England. She landed at Gravesend,
and was, we suppose, the first nun since the Reformation who was
received with public honors by the British authorities. In London
she met her father and brother, whom she had not seen since the
year 1795, and who had since that time endured so much, and who
were still suffering so acutely under their recent sorrow in the
execution of the Duc d'Enghien. There must have been a strangely
mingled feeling of pain and pleasure in this sad meeting. After
remaining a few days in London, her father and brother escorted
her to a Benedictine convent at Rodney Hall, Norfolk, where a
refuge had been offered to her. This community followed the
mitigated rule of St. Benedict, but Louise was allowed to observe
the fasts and other points to which she had bound herself by her
profession of the rule in its strict observance.

In this house there were fifty choir nuns, eight lay sisters, and
a large school of young ladies. Wherever Madame Louise went, she
was accompanied by the Mère Sainte Rose and the little Eléonore
Dombrousha, the child of her adoption. In this community Louise
was greatly beloved. There was about her a sweetness and a
simplicity, a self-forgetfulness and charity for others which
gave her an inexpressible charm. She was truly noble in character
as well as in birth. She gave that example which God intends
those highly born (as we call it) to give--that of more closely
resembling Him whose birth was indeed a royal and noble one.
{118}
During her stay in Norfolk, the Princess Louise suffered greatly
from bad health. The trials she had undergone, the anxiety of
mind, her long journeys, and the severity of the observances to
which she had bound herself had their effect upon her frame. More
than once there was such cause for serious alarm that the Prince
de Condé and Duc de Bourbon came to see her. It is probable, too,
that the English climate, and especially the part of the country
in which she was living, might not have agreed with her; the
convent, besides, was not sufficiently large, and it was a
favorable change in all respects when the community removed to
Heath. Here Madame Louise met with one whose acquaintance she
conceived to be one of the greatest blessings of her life.

The Society of Jesus was not as yet restored to the church; but
many of its ancient members were living, and showed by their
lives what had been the heavenly spirit in which they had been
trained. Preeminently among these was the Père de la Fontaine,
and it was to this holy man Louise became known while in England.
He often said Mass at the convent, and frequently saw the
princess. Under his direction, the soul of Louise made rapid
progress toward perfection. He understood what God required from
her, and taught her how to correspond with God. Among other
valuable advice which he gave her, and which she committed to
paper, the following is remarkable: "A spouse of Jesus Christ
ought absolutely to avoid all communication with Protestant
society. Their want of delicacy, in general, on those points
which wound a heart consecrated to God in all purity, and their
unbelief, often amounting to aversion, for the great sacrament of
the love of Jesus Christ, are two powerful reasons for keeping at
a distance from them. A truly religious soul has reason to fear
presumption and all its attendant evils, if she allows herself,
without real necessity, to be drawn into such dangerous
intercourse."

And so the years again passed on and other changes were at hand.
Prayers, penances, and sufferings such as Louise de Condé had
endured, and sufferings which had been borne also in various
other ways by so many holy souls among the French emigrants, had
brought down mercy from God on their unhappy country and on
Europe. The long war was at an end, the muskets _had_ fallen
from the soldiers' hands, and Napoleon was a captive. Louis
XVIII. sat once more on the throne of his father. The _fleur de
lis_ again floated from the tower of the Louvre. Madame
Royale, who had been sent out of France as a prisoner, ransomed
by treaty, came back to hold the court over which her mother had
once presided; the princes of the blood-royal hastened back to
their places, and there was a general wish that Louise de Condé
should be once more on her native soil. Ah! what a lifetime of
sorrow had she passed through since she left Chantilly and her
house in the Rue Monsieur, and even now she would not return to
_them_.

No, never again could she come back to be the princess. If she
returned to France, it must be as the religious to reestablish a
convent of her order, and thus aid in bringing back religious
life to France. It must be confessed that rarely was a person
more fitted for the task. None should rule, says a proverb, but
those who have learned to obey, and obedience had been a task
which the princess had well studied.
{119}
She had passed through three novitiates, and she had in her
lifetime seen the management of eight different convents, and she
had known well how to profit by the knowledge she gained.
Accordingly she quitted the convent at Heath the 16th of August,
1814, and arrived in Paris just as all were preparing to keep the
_fête_ of St. Louis for the first time for many years. She
resided for a time in the house of her brother, the Duc de
Bourbon; but she never quitted the apartments allotted to her,
and lived in the utmost retirement, waiting there only till a
suitable convent could be assigned to her.

The papers of the day, after mentioning her arrival in Paris,
added: "It was the _on dit_ that his majesty proposed to
revive a royal foundation in her favor, and to establish her with
her sisters in a magnificent monastery which would be restored to
its primitive destination. Already it was sad to think that the
church of this abbey had been used for profane purposes, and the
friends of religion and of art would joyfully see this edifice
restored. It would be purified by establishing there the
perpetual adoration, and by placing there a shining example of
piety in the person of a princess devoted in an especial manner
to God's service."

This edifice was the grand church and monastery of Val du Grâce,
one of the chief monuments of the piety of Anne of Austria. It
was then a hospital; but, as the paper went on to remark, the
superb church was not of any especial use to the sick, and would
be a noble one for cultured religious. However, the idea of
giving Val du Grâce to Madame Louise fell to the ground. It
remained a military hospital, and so continues to this day; but
the sick are attended day and night by the sisters of charity of
St. Vincent de Paul. And as their forms flit through the
corridors, intent on works of love, and as their earnest prayers
rise up in the calm morning and close of evening to heaven, the
founders and the former possessors of that splendid pile are, we
think, contented Madame Louise had been so long absent that she
knew not a single friend in Paris. She now entered into
communication with the Abbé d'Astros, vicar-general of the
diocese of Paris. At her very first interview with him she felt
impelled to give him her full confidence, and this at once gave
her a proof that it was really the will of God she should
establish a convent in the diocese, since a full accord with
ecclesiastical superiors is one of the most valuable helps a new
foundation can have. Still, the place for the convent remained
uncertain, and the privy council to whom it belonged to settle
the affair did not deem it of much importance, and put it aside
for other matters. A friend of Madame Louise, the Comtesse Marie
de Courson, proposed to her that they should make a novena to
Louis XVI. It is unusual to pray to those whom the church has not
canonized, but it is not forbidden to do so privately; and it was
hard to believe that the soul of the monarch upon whom had fallen
the long and bitter punishment of the sins of his ancestors was
not long since in the enjoyment of perfect happiness. The novena
was commenced by a certain number of earnest and fervent souls.

On the seventh day, at the meeting of the council, although most
pressing business was that day before its consideration, a member
suddenly rose, and reminding his colleagues that the request of
Madame Louise had not been granted, and as if moved by an
irresistible impulse, proposed that the palace of the
_Temple_ should be given to her.
{120}
A sudden silence fell on the assembly, then came a movement of
unanimous consent. What better spot for a convent of
_expiation_ than that consecrated by such memories--that in
which such innocent victims had suffered? The heart of Louis
XVIII. was deeply touched by the circumstance.

Truly, royal pomp and ceremony, gala and festivity, could never
again enter those sorrowful halls. Most fitting would it be to
consecrate them to God, and let an unceasing strain of prayer and
praise ascend to heaven. Some doubted whether the task would not
be too painful for the princess herself, and at the first
announcement she did, in truth, shrink back. She had known them
all so well, had loved Elizabeth so tenderly, had wept over their
fates so bitterly, had prayed for them so earnestly, she missed
them, now that she was once more at home; and how, then, could
she bear to live for ever within those walls, which would be an
eternal record of their fate.

But the first emotion passed away, and she began more fully to
understand why she had been tried in the crucible of sufferings,
why her vocation had been so often crossed, so hardly tried. It
had been all to bring her to this, to let her found in Paris a
convent of expiation. Without those trials, perhaps, she could
never have borne the severity of the task, the sacrifice she must
at once make on entering. She tenderly loved Madame Royale, or
Madame la Dauphine, as she was now called, and it could not be
expected or even wished that she should revisit a spot which must
recall to her those terrible days whose memory already
overshadowed her life too much; but this sacrifice Louise was
ready to make, and the convent of the Temple was accepted.

Workmen were engaged to convert the old palace into a convent;
the towers, in one of which the royal family had lived, were
already demolished, but it was easy to perceive where they had
stood. A Beautiful garden surrounded the buildings, partly in the
French, partly in the English style. Water brought up from the
Seine played in fountains surrounded by artificial rocks, among
which a grotto was formed. This grotto was changed into an
oratory to the Blessed Virgin, and another to St. Benedict and
St. Scholastica. The Comte de Courson and the Abbé d'Astros
directed the alterations, and all possible haste was being made,
when, like wild-fire, the news ran through the world, Bonaparte
had escaped from Elba, and was in France. The royal family fled,
and once more the Princess Louise was to be an exile. She could
not at once procure horses, so for a week, which happened to be
holy week, she was hidden in the house of one of her former
attendants. The Mère Sainte Rose was taken very ill, and then
there was the serious difficulty of procuring passports. How
little can those who live in London now, and who breakfast at
home and sup in Paris, estimate the labor, the pain, the dread,
which a timid person like Madame Louise would feel at having to
take the weary journey to England, posting from Paris to Calais,
and then a long, stormy passage, to say nothing of the dangers of
being stopped on the route and taken to prison. She was obliged
to set off on Easter-day. At the city gates they were stopped,
and it was only by a heavy bribe that they were suffered to pass.
On the way they found themselves in the midst of a popular
tumult, and were obliged to leave their carriages and hide till
it was over.
{121}
They had a very bad passage from Calais, but at Dover Madame
Louise was received with every mark of respect and esteem.

She had not the comfort of returning to the convent at Heath, for
it was thought better that she should await the course of events
in London, and she went to a hotel. But a serious illness was the
result of the sudden shock and journey, and after her recovery
she went to the country-house of a friend. All through her
after-life Madame Louise had a great affection for the English,
who, to do them justice, were certainly generous toward the
French emigrants. She was wont to say that their generosity would
win for them the grace of reconciliation with the Catholic
Church. Although Napoleon's second reign lasted but a hundred
days, Madame Louise did not return to France for fourteen months,
partly on account of health, partly because she wished to be
fully convinced of the stability of the Bourbon dynasty before
she commenced her arduous undertaking.

When she reached Paris, the _Temple_ was not yet ready. She
resided some time in the Rue St. Dominique with one of her early
friends. There she made arrangements with various postulants,
with whom she entered the new convent on the second of September,
1816. The Abbé d'Astros blessed the house and said the first Mass
in the chapel. And now, at last, she had found a home; and though
after her many vicissitudes, after the disappointments and the
rapid changes she had seen, she could never have felt very
secure, she never again quitted these walls. She entered most
diligently on her duty as superioress and as mistress of novices;
for, with the exception of the Mère Sainte Rose and one other
Benedictine nun who joined her, (her own community having been
lost in the Revolution,) she had none but young subjects to
govern. Besides this she had to superintend a large school for
young ladies, so that her duties were multiplied and heavy. The
account of her religious life is most touching and beautiful.
Knowing, as we do, how the distinctions of rank cling round our
human nature; how constantly, ever since she had been a nun, she
had been _obliged_ to remind others not to make use of that
very rank; knowing also the exaggerated prestige paid under the
old _régime_ to the Bourbon race, it is wonderful to see how
utterly she forgot her birth or ignored it. She was sixty years
of age; she was lame and in delicate health; yet she kept the
rule rigidly; was gentle to others, severe to herself; would join
in the recreations of her young novices, and could be seen making
fun with them in cutting the wood for the fires. She would often
take recreation with the lay sisters, and also carefully instruct
them. In the infirmary she would perform the most menial offices
for the sick, and, in short, she was a true mother at the head of
her house. "Those who neglect little sacrifices," she would say,
"are not likely to make great ones." At the appointed times she
would not exempt herself from the penances which the rule
permitted the religious to use. The first time that she
prostrated herself at the refectory door, in order that all the
religious should walk over her, many of them could not restrain
their emotion. Afterward the princess reproved them severely,
showing them that all distinctions of worldly rank were totally
contrary to the religious spirit. If the sisters brought her
better food than the others, they were reproved, and forbidden to
do it again; or if they tried to make her straw mattress any
softer, they met the same fate. In short, to the end of her days
she was _thorough_, earnest, single-hearted in all things.

{122}

Sorrows did not fail to follow her into her peaceful retreat. The
assassination of the Duc de Berri, her near relative, filled her
with grief, recalling too vividly the horrors that had darkened
her younger days. She was comforted, however, by a visit from the
venerable Père de la Fontaine, who came to console her. "The Lord
has covered him with the mantle of his mercy," said the old
friend, and those simple words calmed her. Could there not,
indeed, be hope for the soul of him whose first thought on
receiving the death-blow was to say, "Pardon my murderer"? The
Père de la Fontaine had returned to Paris after the peace; and
when the Jesuits had been restored to their place in the church,
and had communities in France, he often visited the Convent du
Temple, and was by Madame Louise and many others esteemed a
saint. The princess told her sisters that, being once in great
spiritual perplexity and suffering, the father passed by her on
his way to the altar, and as his shadow fell on her all her
intense sufferings disappeared. In 1821, this holy man died, and
at the request of Madame Louise the Jesuits sent her some account
of his last hours. The writer described the strong emotion felt
by all who were present when the old man, on his dying-bed,
begged pardon for all his faults, for his breaches of the rule,
and renewed his vows--vows which he had so faithfully kept in
exile and solitude, when his beloved order had been suppressed.
He had lived on in faith and in prayer, and God had allowed him
to see the society restored to the church, so that, like Simeon,
he could depart in peace.

Next came the illness of the princess's father, the Prince de
Condé. She had always been tenderly attached to him, and the
sorrows they had gone through together had naturally deepened the
affection. He lay dying at Chantilly, and mutual friends begged
Madame Louise to go to him. The ecclesiastical superiors would
give her dispensation, they said; she was a princess, no ordinary
nun. She firmly refused. "If our holy father the pope orders me
to go, as a child of the church I will obey; but never will I ask
for a dispensation which should give a precedent for breaking
enclosure." Outwardly she was calm before her sisters, but her
stall in the choir was bathed with tears, so deeply did she
suffer for and with the father whom she loved. Her prayers went
up unceasingly, and there is proof that they were heard.

The Prince de Condé died with dispositions of most humble
penitence, and, when asked if he forgave his enemies, exclaimed:
"I am sure of my salvation, if God will pardon me as freely as I
pardon them." The last words on his lips were C_redo in
Deum_. Perhaps the sacrifice made by his daughter in not
assisting his dying hours had won for him the grace of a good
death. The fortune which came to the princess on her father's
death was devoted to the erection of a conventual church; the
first stone was laid in May, 1821, in the name of Madame la
Dauphine, by one of her ladies of honor. Mgr. de Guilen, then
coadjutor of Paris was present, and Mgr. Trayssinous preached the
sermon. "This place is holy ground," said he; "holy because of
the extraordinary misfortunes and the heroic virtues which it
witnessed in the time of our impious discords. Within these walls
there wept and suffered barbarously those who should have been
more worthy than all others of veneration and love. Within these
walls most noble victims of the popular fury were delivered up to
inexpressible anguish.
{123}
O days of blood and tears! O terrible and cruel scenes! O
lamentable crime! which I dare not recall, which every heart in
France would fain banish from his memory, and from the pages of
our history. But no; we are all condemned eternally to bear the
shame to posterity. Religion, at least, will have the glory of
having done all that it could to expiate it, and to reconcile the
people who were so unfortunately guilty with Heaven. Here day and
night are crying at the foot of the altar consecrated virgins,
innocent and voluntary victims of crimes which are not their own.
Here prayers, fastings, vigils, and austerities, and the sighs of
contrite and humble hearts, are perpetually ascending up to the
throne of justice, but also of divine mercy, to draw down on the
royal family, and on the whole of France, grace and mercy. Thus
does religion avenge herself of her enemies, by expiating the
past, sanctifying the present, and preparing the future. ... And
who will raise this building? She who, concealing the beautiful
name of Condé under that of Soeur de la Miséricorde, has buried
in this cloister all the _éclat_ and grandeur of the world.
In whose name has the first stone been laid? In the name of all
that is most touching in suffering, in courage, in goodness, and
dearest to France--in the name of the royal orphan of the
Temple."

Another death awoke considerable emotion in the heart of Madame
Louise. On the barren rock of St. Helena the proud heart of the
great conqueror wore itself out. The hand and the brain that had
worked such endless woe to her and hers were for ever still. Far
from her all thought of triumph and rejoicing. Instantly she had
Masses offered for him, and never omitted daily to supplicate in
her private prayers that he who had given her no rest on earth
might now have eternal rest given to him.

And now her long and troubled life was hastening to its close.
She had been tossed about, indeed, on a troubled sea, seldom in
port, yet happy and peaceful amid the conflict; and now eternal
peace was at hand.

The bells of the new church were blessed in October, 1822, the
King and Madame la Dauphine being godfather and godmother. The
church was consecrated, in August, 1823, by the Archbishop of
Paris. Louise, looking round, might have seen her work completed,
the community established and flourishing, the church finished in
which the adoration of the altar could be worthily carried out.
The next day she made a false step, and fell down. Slight as was
the accident, fainting fits constantly followed, and she was
never well afterward. She suffered most from her head, but would
not give up her ordinary duties, or lie by. Gradually her
strength failed. On December 23d, she fainted on the stairs, was
carried to bed, and was attacked by fever and sickness. Still she
struggled on with her duties. On the last day of the year, she
would hold the "chapter of peace"--a custom of her order to which
she was much attached, when the religious ask mutual pardon of
each other for any want of charity during the past year, and when
the prioress has to address them on this beautiful subject; and
she would not let her illness interfere with the feast of Holy
Innocents, a gala-day in the convent, when the youngest novice
becomes prioress for the day, and innocent mirth is in the
ascendant; and she assisted at the clothing of two novices in
January, 1824.
{124}
She showed by her manner on this last occasion that she believed
it to be the last ceremony at which she should be present. She
saw each of her sisters in private, and took leave of them with
tender affection. She suddenly became worse, and lost the use of
speech, but not consciousness. She received extreme unction from
the Archbishop of Paris. The community, all in tears, surrounded
her bed. The archbishop remarked, it was like the shower of rain
which, at the prayer of St. Scholastica, came down to prevent St.
Benedict from leaving her too soon. The dying nun understood the
allusion, and smiled. He bade her bless her children, and her
hand was raised for her, and placed on the head of one of her
religious, for she could not move it herself.

A few days afterward she recovered her speech, and she received
the viaticum, and answered the questions of the priest with a
firm tone, "I believe with faith." Her death-agony was very long,
and, when her brother came to see her, she could not speak. The
desire of seeing her once more overcame the repugnance that
Madame la Dauphine had to reenter the Temple, and she was about
to set out thither when the king, fearing the consequences for
her, forbade her to go. The last smile of Louise de Condé was
given to a picture held before her of a dove bearing a cross and
flying to heaven. Perhaps she said inwardly words which would
have been very suitable: "I will flee away and take my rest."
Shortly afterward she expired. She was in the sixty-seventh year
of her age, and the twenty-second of her religious profession.
And thus ended a life of which it may truly be said that it was
"stranger than fiction."

--------

    Mr. Bashers Sacrifice, and why He made it.


Simply because Colonel Dolickem _would_ feed himself with
his knife at table. But what could the vulgar habit of the
colonel have to do with such a sacrifice on the part of Mr.
Basher? Nevertheless, it is true, and had it not been for that,
Mr. Basher would never have made it. Colonel Dolickem cut his
mouth and severed his hopes at one blow, as it were. Fact! And
this is the way it came about.

Mr. Basher, as you are aware, was not what might be called a
marrying man. Certainly not. I have heard him say, over and over
again, in what might possibly be considered rather too strong
language, that he would much prefer cutting his throat. Not that
he had any aversion to such a state of life, or that he had made
any vow of celibacy. By no means. Any young lady who might have
liked to marry Mr. Basher could have done so any day, if Mr.
Basher had been the lady, and the lady had been the man. As no
young lady of his acquaintance would assume the masculine
proprieties, such as popping the question, buying the ring,
seeking the priest, putting up the banns and the like, to doing
any or all of which Mr. Basher preferred cutting his throat,
there were little expectations cherished by Mr. Basher's
acquaintances of ever wishing joy to a Mrs. Basher. "I'd never
come through it alive," he would say. But he did, as you shall
hear.

{125}

There is one thing Mr. Basher could do, and do more perfectly
than any man I ever knew, and that was to blush. Blushing Basher
was the title we gave him the first evening he was introduced at
our club. It may be said that blushing was his normal condition.
"Do you know," said Healy, the great portrait-painter, to me one
day, speaking of Basher as a subject, "that I never painted a man
whose complexion was so difficult to determine as that of your
friend Basher?" "He has a warm complexion," said I. "Warm!"
rejoined the artist. "Warm does not express it, say, red-hot."
Old ladies would offer him their fans in the street-cars, and
mischievous young damsels with cherry-colored ribbons [attached]
to their hats look first at him, and then toy with the dangling
ends of their ribbons, as much as to say: "Just this shade."
Newsboys, seeing him pass, hailed one another with the
information that "your uncle had beets for dinner," and wily
policemen dogged his steps under the impression that he was
making off with something that lay heavy on his conscience.

But Mr. Basher's blushing face was nothing to his blushing heart,
mind, or soul, or whatever it is that blushes inside of a man,
and causes him to feel weak and faint, to get shaky at the knees,
and bungling in speech. That he never finished a complete
sentence is a fact too well known to need confirmation. Even on
the day of his sacrifice, the charming Miss Criggles was obliged
to come to his rescue; for, when he got as far as "Miss Criggles,
will you have--" if that ready-witted young lady (thirty, if she
was a day, you know) had not divined his purpose, and said what
he just then lost the power of saying--"me, for your own," I do
not think we would have seen a Mrs. Basher to this day.

He had no better success in his attempts to converse with
children. I remember, as he sat one day in my parlor, twiddling
his thumbs, breaking down in his remarks, and his color coming
and going in rapid succession, my little daughter Dolly climbed
upon his knee, and covered him with confusion by saying to him:

"Mi'ter Bashy, does 'oo ever say 'oor p'ayers?"

"I--I--I, sometimes; a--" blundered Mr. Basher in reply, his
knees beginning to involuntarily dandle the child up and down.

"What does 'oo say?" persisted the little fairy, shaking her
curls, and giving him an arch look. "I don't t'ink 'oo do."

"Why--why--do you a--" Mr. Basher got out.

"'Cause 'oo never 'members what 'oo's t'inkin' 'bout."

Poor Basher could do nothing after that but stare vacantly at the
wall, and smile a smile that is often seen on board a ship as
soon as she reaches rough water. Certainly, in another sense
little Dolly had put Mr. Basher completely at sea.

But I'm forgetting about the sacrifice. You know what a sensation
the cards produced. The receivers whose eyes first fell upon that
of Miss Rosina Criggles expected, of course, to read "Col.
Washington Dolickem" on the other. That was a conclusion
everybody had arrived at for more than six months previous; and
if the bold, heavy card of Col. Dolickem did not accompany the
delicately scented, somewhat thinner and smaller one of Miss
Criggles, it would be, doubtless, the still heavier, manlier,
bolder card of General Yinweeski, of the Russian Embassy, or
Major Thwackemout, of the Ninth Fussyliers, as Tom Wagstaff used
to call them.
{126}
That same _farceur_ never spoke of the dwelling-place of
Miss Criggles but as "Camp Criggles."

"None but your generals and your colonels and your majors ever
get their feet under the mahogany at Camp Criggles," said Tom;
"and a pretty mess they make of it." This was in allusion to the
everlasting _on dits_ about the duel, or the cowhiding, or
some such other agreeable encounter which was daily expected to
come off between the rival combatants for the hand, and, I may
add, the five-twenties, of the charming Rosina.

You should have heard Tom when he heard the news.

"Has he? What, Basher! Not Blushing Basher! Look again. Some
other Basher--some general, colonel, major, or
turkey-cock-in-boots Basher. No? Our Basher? Then draw a pen
across that line in the spelling-book, 'Faint heart never won
fair lady,' for Basher of ours has done the deed, and none so
faint as Basher."

Mr. Basher, you know, was an admirer of Miss Criggles. No, not
surprising. It was his nature to admire; only he found it so
difficult to give expression to his sentiments that his nature in
this respect may be said to have always remained in an inchoate
state. He was an exclamation-point minus the dot. How so pure a
civilian ever got an invitation to dine at the Criggles
mess-table is shrouded in mystery; and how he ever dared when
there to brave the martial presence of General Yinweeski, of
Colonel Dolickem, or of Major Thwackemout is no less mysterious.
Dining at the Criggles table as he did--and if ever the Criggles
family made a point of anything in this world it was the service
of their table--he may be said to have gradually eaten his way
into the affections of the charming Rosina. As he spoke less, he
had more time, you see, than his martial rivals; and what was
more to the purpose, he had a better manner than they. Men of war
who are not mere "carpet valiants," but have smelt the straw
above the mould in a gusty tent, may be pardoned for not having
studied my book _On the Bad Habits of Good Society_. I
pardon Colonel Dolickem for not having read it. The tactics of
the knife and fork are good tactics to study, and practise too;
but as long as your _vis-à-vis_ at table will keep his knife
out of the butter-plate, I would advise you to say nothing about
his putting it into his mouth occasionally--especially if he
wears a sword and you do not; for he might retort by putting that
into you, and then you would find yourself quite as much at fault
for want of the knowledge of a soldier's tactics, as Colonel
Dolickem was in his ignorance of the tactics of a gentlemanly
diner-out. Tom Wagstaff, the Beau Brummel of our club, and who,
by the way, bought up an entire edition of my book for private
circulation, heartily despised the colonel for his slovenly
habit. "He had the misfortune to be brought up on a jack-knife,
sir," said Tom, "as some babies are brought up on a bottle."

I said I would advise you not to say anything to a friend who
mouths his knife, but I don't object to your looking at him when
he does it. When he cuts the corners of his mouth, as he surely
will, sooner or later, unless he has a practised hand, (and I
_have_ witnessed feats of dexterity of this kind which would
surprise you quite as much as any ever performed by the Japanese
jugglers,) you might call his attention to it, and playfully add:
"So much, my dear fellow, for allowing yourself to be so
distracted;" and then you can tell a good story to the company
about another friend of yours--clever dog he was, too--to whom
the accident which has just happened to your friend opposite
happened so often, and from the same unfortunate habit of having
distractions at table, that he was frequently seen to rise after
dinner with both corners of his mouth gashed.
{127}
He was cured, however, not of his distractions, but of putting
his knife in his mouth at such times, by telling a joke in his
presence about another individual to whom a similar accident
happened under similar circumstances, and who cut himself so
severely that he was obliged to be fed out of a bottle for a
week. I have myself tried this friendly ruse several times, and
have never known it to fail.

There is another class of persons besides these who may chance to
carry a longer sword than you do, about whom I would advise you,
as a bit of a philosopher, not to be too meticulous; I mean those
who carry a longer head than you. The pen is mightier than the
sword, (quotation of school-boy memory, but good,) and cuts
deeper. The writer who cut up my book so severely in the pages of
_The Square Table_ was not so far wrong. But he forgot that
I wrote as a professor, not as a casuist. Literary men, as well
as soldiers, may do certain things with impunity which some
others may not. So that Bullhead, of the _New York Sweeper_,
may gnaw on his finger-nails, by way of an appetizer, between the
courses, and nobody minds it--in Bullhead. He might put both of
his elbows on the table, smell of the fish to find out if it be
fresh, feed himself with his knife, eat as if he were doing it
for a wager, wipe the perspiration from his face with his napkin,
and indulge in other little eccentricities, and nobody would mind
him at all, bless you! Where Bullhead is concerned, I agree with
my critic of _The Square Table_. I pretend to lay down only
general laws: Bullhead is a law to himself.

As to Basher, he is the soul of politeness and good breeding. He
has read my book, and admired it. His commendations were rather
bungling in the manner of delivery, but unfeigned. I understood
perfectly what he meant to say, that is enough. Tom Wagstaff, to
whom I dedicated it, and who, as I told you, bought up an entire
edition for private circulation, also admired it. "Chupper, my
boy," said Tom, drawing on his yellow kids, "it's grand!" By the
way, I quoted a few remarks of his, which were delivered by him
one afternoon to a half-dozen of us as a mock lecture. I think I
can recollect some of them. Speaking of soup, Tom remarked: "If
you think the soup particularly good, be sure and say so, and ask
for a second or a third plate. You will find that the host will
be much affected by such little marks of your esteem--for the
soup; and the company will understand that you do not often get
it." Of being helped at table, Tom gave this rule: "Always point
at whatever you wish, either with finger, knife, fork, or spoon.
They are all equally good for the purpose." For the proper eating
of fruit Tom gave us some laughable advice:

  "If you are eating fruit, never, by any means, convey the
  stones or pits upon your plate in a quiet way, but spit them
  out boldly, and with considerable noise. This not only shows
  the height of good breeding, but of science also, for it is not
  every one who can perform it so perfectly as not to spit more
  than the fruit-stones into the plate.
{128}
  A much more elegant way, although it requires considerable
  dexterity--and I would not advise you to try it without a
  little private practice--is to insert the blade of your knife
  into your mouth, and with great care get the stones balanced
  upon it; then convey them just outside of the edge of your
  plate upon the table-cloth, where you may amuse yourself by
  building up a very artistic little heap of any form your fancy
  may suggest or your good judgment devise. Cherry-stones, it is
  to be remarked, are _always_ to be swallowed, and take
  care you let the company know it, as it is a highly suggestive
  piece of information. Cracking the stones of prunes with your
  teeth is the proper way of disposing of _them_, especially
  if you are seated opposite a nervous old gentleman. Use your
  tooth-pick, of course, at table, and open your mouth wide while
  operating. The best kind of tooth-pick is a large, stiff
  goose-quill, which makes a snapping noise and calls attention.
  The place to keep it is in your pantaloons' pocket. Many
  prefer, and I am among the number, to pick their teeth with
  their fork. It is quite a refined practice. You will find that
  your doing so will cause a marked sensation at the table."

Tom said a good many other things equally clever. The best of
them are in my book. Read that. Tom had different individuals in
his eye at the time. The goose-quill toothpick was a favorite one
of Colonel Dolickem, and went by the name of "Dolickem's
bayonet." Speaking of Dolickem reminds me of Basher and his
heroic sacrifice, about which I was speaking, was I not?

It was the birthday of Miss Rosina Criggles. A large party was
invited, and among the guests could be seen the tall, gaunt,
savage-featured Colonel Dolickem; General Yinweeski's burly form,
clothed in garments which fitted him so tightly that it is a
wonder how he moved without splitting them on all sides; Major
Thwackemout, moving his stiff little body about from right to
left, and from left to right, with that mechanical precision
which characterizes the wooden soldier so prized by patriotic
youth; and the blushing face of Mr. Basher. You may think it odd,
but birthday parties are very ingenious inventions to retard the
advancing years of young ladies. When rumor speaks of your
daughter as thirty or thereabouts, give her a birthday party, and
she will start afresh from twenty-three to twenty-five, as you
may please to have it hinted. Everybody believing she is thirty
at least, no one will presume to say a word about it. Pleased
with your entertainment, and flattered by your attention, people
are disposed to be generous; and then, who among your guests will
ever acknowledge that he or she has bowed, courtesied, danced,
and dined at an old maid's birthday feast! I need not mention the
names of all who crushed themselves together in the brilliantly
lighted parlors of the Criggles mansion. Of course, the Doldrums
and the Polittles were there, and the Boochers and the Coochers,
the Tractors and the Factors, the De Pommes and the De Filets,
the Van Bumbergs and the Van Humburgs, and all that set.

Most people believed that it was to be a preparatory rout to give
_éclat_ to the expected announcement of an engagement
between Colonel Dolickem and the heiress of the house of
Criggles. The colonel believed it also. He had waited for a
suitable opportunity to ask the hand and five-twenties of Miss
Rosina, and now that opportunity had come.
{129}
Few would have had the courage to cross the path of a rival of so
belligerent a disposition as the colonel. So thought the colonel
himself. He was sure of Miss Criggles. Never be too sure of
anything. Now it happened that in the course of the evening,
somewhere about 12.30 A.M., Mr. Basher, after vainly endeavoring
to get off one of the many sentences he had prepared beforehand,
and practised with assiduity in front of his own reflection in
his mirror, and in face of his grandfather's portrait as lay
figures, and finding it no go, quietly abandoned himself to a
sweeping current which just then formed in the crowd, and was
borne along toward the half-open doors of the conservatory.
Feeling, as everybody else did, pretty warm, and his face
standing at the red-hot point of color, as indeed it had been
since he rang the bell two hours and a half previous, he
concluded to saunter a few minutes in the cool conservatory, and
refresh his heated brow and his memory at the same time. Glancing
first on one side and then on another at the flowers, his eye
fell upon a rose-bush on which bloomed one full-blown rose. The
sight of it reminded him of a toast he had prepared for this
occasion, and which he devoutly hoped to be able to give amid the
enthusiastic applause of the company and the grateful
acknowledgments of the Being, and the parents of that Being, at
whose feet he wished to blushingly throw himself, and be
blushingly accepted in return. For Mr. John Basher loved Miss
Rosina Criggles. The toast was this:

  "Miss Rosina, the Rose of the Garden of Criggles, and the
  Flower of the Conservatory of Fashion and Beauty. Happy the
  Hand that shall pluck it from the Parent Stem!"

Once he repeated it in a low voice, a second time somewhat
louder, to be sure of giving the right accent at the right words.
Perfectly satisfied at his second rehearsal, he added in an
audible voice:

"If I dared, I would pluck that rose, (meaning the one on the
bush before him,) in order to give--" Mr. Basher never did finish
a sentence yet, but he might have accomplished this one had he
not turned his head at a rustling sound, and seen approaching the
Rose of the Garden of Criggles herself. Blushing his deepest, Mr.
Basher stumbled out:

"Cool here--ah--just admiring this--ah--"

"Rose," added Miss Rosina, helping him out. "Beautiful, is it
not, Mr. Basher?--and precious too. It is the only one left in
the conservatory."

"The conservatory of fashion, and--" Mr. Basher stopped short. It
would never do to spoil the originality of his toast in that way.

"What is that you are saying, you flatterer?" asked the charming
Rosina, shaking her fan at him in a pleasingly threatening
manner.

"I--I--I was saying, no, thinking--ah--of--now, positively, do
you know--ah--of plucking--"

"What! thinking of plucking the only rose in the house! Would you
be _so_ cruel? O you naughty, naughty man!" And Miss
Criggles gave a look at Mr. Basher that made his knees knock
together, and his toes tingle in his patent-leather pumps.

"I mean--ah--if I--ah--dared to--"

"Oh! you men are so _very_ daring. We poor ladies are so
timid and so trusting, Mr. Basher. When people ask _me_ for
anything, do you know, I do not even dare to refuse them? Pa is
always saying: Rosina, you should be more daring, more repelling.
But I cannot, Mr. Basher. It's not in my nature."

{130}

"Then I ask you," exclaimed Mr. Basher, making a bold venture,
and getting ready to drop on his knees at the end of his request,
"to give me the--the--Rose of the Garden--" Mr. Basher stopped to
take breath and muster courage.

"The only rose!" broke in Miss Criggles. "Think of it!" she
continued, in a voice of tender complaint, addressed to the
lilies and geraniums around, and which made Mr. Basher feel very
uncomfortable, "he has the heart to ask me for my one precious
rose. He knows, cruel man, that I have not the heart, that it is
not in my timid, trusting nature to refuse him." And with that
she broke the flower from its stem and handed it to Mr. Basher,
who was a second time preparing to throw himself into an attitude
and finish the sentence Miss Criggles had so hastily interrupted.
It is possible that Mr. Basher would never have been called upon
to make the sacrifice he did, had not the attention of both been
arrested by a loud "Ahem!" Turning suddenly at the sound, they
beheld the tall, gaunt figure of Colonel Dolickem standing bolt
upright, sentry-wise, in the doorway of the conservatory. He had
witnessed the plucking of the rose, and his soul was all aflame
with anger. His astonishment at what he saw was so great that it
made him speechless. Had he not come himself to the conservatory,
as soon as he could disengage himself from that fat, voluble Mrs.
Boggles, to meet Miss Criggles, whom he had seen entering there,
and do what this birthday party was given on purpose for him to
do? Of course. Had not Miss Criggles herself entered the
conservatory for the same purpose, speaking to him, Colonel
Dolickem, in passing, that his attention might be called to that
fact? Of course, again. Was he brought there on purpose to be a
witness to this rose-giving, this toying, and coying, and moying
with a--with a--individual such as he now saw before him in the
person of a--of a--Basher! Of course, once more. But, choking
with rage, the colonel could not utter a word of these
reflections, and, turning upon his heel, reentered the crowded
parlor. Just then certain sounds came to the ears of Miss
Criggles, which that lady rightly interpreted to mean supper.
This interpretation being conveyed to the bewildered faculties of
Mr. Basher, he hurriedly fixed the rose in his button-hole, with
the words, "For ever," presented his arm, and was soon the object
of commiseration on the part of the Misses Boocher, and the
Misses Coocher, and all the rest, who whispered to one another:
"How _can_ Rosina Criggles go on so!"

One thing seemed a little strange to Mr. Basher when he arrived
in the grand dining-hall. Miss Criggles had released her hold
upon his arm, but when or where he could not say. He imagined he
still felt the pressure of her light, tapering fingers, even when
he stood behind his chair at table, where he found himself, he
could hardly tell how. His surprise was not a little augmented to
hear the loud voice of Papa Criggles crying out, "Colonel!
colonel! this way, colonel, if you please!" and seeing a chair
pointed out to his wrathful rival, directly opposite his, and
Rosina--_his_ Rosina, as he presumed to say to
himself--standing beside him. The colonel cast a look at Mr.
Basher, as he moved to the place appointed him, which was at once
triumphant and defiant.
{131}
In fact, the colonel's hopes began to revive, in spite of the
blushing rose in the button-hole of the deeper blushing Basher.

Now, I am not going to describe the dinner, or call it supper if
you will. You have been to such terribly trying affairs as a
party dinner, and it is quite enough to be obliged to go through
with the ordeal without going over it again in retrospect.

The head of the Criggles house was in a glorious humor; General
Yinweeski was jocose and told several of his best stories of the
battle-field; Colonel Dolickem devoted himself with ardor to
entertain the charming Rosina, and was freezingly polite and
patronizing to Mr. Basher; Major Thwackemout, having been put off
upon simpering Miss Boggles, lost his tongue, and became morose.
In one of those alarming lulls which you have no doubt observed
will take place in the tempest of talk common to a large
assembly, and like sudden lulls in the wind often presage a heavy
blow, the eye of Miss Boggles accidentally fell upon the rose yet
blushing in the button-hole of Mr. Basher's waistcoat.

"Oh! what a beautiful rose, Mr. Basher," cried that enthusiastic
young lady.

"Yes, miss," responded Basher, "it is both beautiful and--ah--" a
look at Rosina--"and--ah--"

"Very red, you would say, Mr. Basher, would you not? True, it
is," said the colonel, showing all his teeth, yet not smiling or
laughing a whit.

"No!" thundered Basher. "Precious

"Oh! I beg a thousand pardons. Precious! You would not part with
it now, Mr. Basher, would you, even for a lady's smile?" The
colonel was evidently determined to spur Miss Boggles up to ask
for it.

"Not for my heart's blood," fervently ejaculated Mr. Basher.
Rosina's glance at him brought out that sentence unbroken, and
for a moment left the colonel quite disconcerted. Returning,
however, like a veteran to the charge, he rejoined with snapping
eyes, (snapping _is_ just the word, so don't interrupt me:)

"_Your_ heart's blood! Nor for mine, perhaps?"

"Yours, colonel?--ha--'pon my word--ha--Yes, if you'll engage to
shed it--ha--"

"Out with it, man," cried the general.

"Yourself."

"Capital! By the gods of war, that is a new way of fighting!"

Colonel Dolickem was confused and baffled. There's not a doubt of
it. How could he say that he was not ready to shed the last drop
of his blood to obtain possession of that rose, coming, as it
did, from the hand of Rosina? Vainly beating his brains for an
evasive reply, he could do nothing meanwhile but carry two or
three mouthfuls from his plate to his mouth, after that ugly
fashion of his, as you know, upon his knife, and snarl. Now, as a
general rule, it is not the thing, as I have already said, to
feed one's self with one's knife. As a particular and special
rule, never attempt it when you are nervous or disturbed in mind.
Don't, you'll cut yourself. That is why the colonel, his hand
trembling with suppressed rage, cut himself. In vain he attempted
to hide it; the blood trickled down upon his chin, and was
quickly seen by that irrepressible Miss Boggles, who cried out in
alarm:

"O Colonel Dolickem! you have cut yourself!"

"Done, done!" cried the general. "Chivalry, my dear colonel, had
no knight like you! Blood is shed at the first blast of the
trumpet, and, according to the most extraordinary terms of this
fray, by your own hand. Basher, you're conquered. Sacrifice the
rose!"

{132}

Poor Basher did as he was bidden, and slowly, with great
reluctance, drew the flower from its place, and held it across
the table for the colonel's acceptance, saying: "It is the
greatest sacrifice--ha I--ha--ever--"

"Mr. Basher," said Rosina, with an approving smile, "you are the
soul of honor."

But the colonel heeded not the outstretched arm of Mr. Basher,
and the rose for which he bled, I am sorry to say, dropped from
Mr. Basher's hand into a dish of tomatoes. What could the colonel
do? Nothing, I think, but what he did--rise with a lofty and
majestic air, look a black thunder-cloud of wrath at Mr. John
Basher, say to Papa Criggles, with his handkerchief to his mouth,
"Under the circumstances," and then get out of the house, and
into a towering passion as he drove home. Next day he took the
first train for Washington.

It was in the conservatory again, at about 2.20 A.M., that Mr.
John Basher tried if the timid and trusting Rosina Criggles could
refuse _him_. She couldn't, as I have already told you. He
got as far as "Will you have--" and she added, "Me for your own,"
and there was an end of it.

"So the sacrifice of Mr. Basher did not consist in popping the
question?"

"By no means. Who ever said it did?"

--------


  A Few Thoughts About Protestants.


Faith, though a gift of God, depends for its actuality upon the
acceptance of it by men, and its continuance upon their careful
and constant adherence to it. We are at liberty to receive the
Christian faith or to reject it in the first instance when it is
proposed to us; and we are equally at liberty to misuse it, to
change it, to garble it, and to make it so far of no effect as to
retain nothing of true Christian religion but the name.

Heresy is possible, all must allow, since it is possible to deny
a part of the whole truth; and, knowing to what extremes men will
permit their pride and passions to carry them, the fact of
heresies frequently occurring does not surprise us. The most
lamentable fact about heresy is, that it does not ordinarily die
with the first preachers of it; but succeeding generations rise
up to an inheritance of falsehood, deprived of the entire truth,
fancying themselves joined, to the body of Christ's church,
nourishing a dead branch long separated from the tree of life,
and prevented, as they too often are, by the pride of intellect
and the natural stubbornness of the will, from recognizing their
errors and amending the sins of their forefathers by a hearty
return to the truth that has been abandoned.

Such is the condition--unhappy condition, as it appears to us--of
American Protestant Christians. Deprived of one or another part
of the truth by the heresy of the several founders of their
various religions, they are called no longer the faithful people,
no longer the well-beloved children of holy church, and they
share not in those unspeakable mercies of predilection which make
religion for a Catholic an unfailing treasure of comfort, and his
church a paradise of joy.

{133}

To abandon the source of truth, or to live separated from it, is
to cut one's self off from any reasonable hold upon the truth,
and render the allegiance which one gives to a part of truth a
matter rather of sentiment than of deep principle. A branch cut
from the living tree may be indeed a branch, but its life is
gone, though it seems to live by the suppleness of its twigs, the
greenness of its leaves, and the fruit which yet hangs upon it.
Death is in it, and it will wither. It will bear no more fruit of
itself, for the source of the fruit cannot reach it in its
separated state.

So the truths of religious faith, separated from the source of
faith, lose their vitality; and to a reflecting man who asks
himself why he believes them, they will soon appear no longer
true, because he has no longer any faith in the original
authority which is the witness of God for them before the world.
For it should be self-evident to every one of the least
intelligence, that religious truth concerning man's future
destiny in an eternity which no man living has ever seen cannot
possibly depend upon one's experience or study in this world, and
that the mysterious doctrines of Christianity can only appear
true to a man on sufficient authority, and that, too, a living,
present authority, which is a witness to him as well as to his
forefathers. Hence the necessity of an ever-present, living
source of faith, and the equal necessity of an actual union with
it, in order to have faith in the doctrines of Christianity at
all.

But the present position of our American Protestant brethren
seems to be at variance with this; for we see them having a good,
sincere faith in many of the revealed doctrines of Christianity,
and yet are cut off from the living source of faith, which we
know to be the infallible and divine voice of the church. And not
only cut off, but they reject that source altogether, deny its
authority, and look upon it rather as the source of falsehood
than of truth. But, when we examine the matter closely, we shall
see that they do not deny that they have a real source of their
faith, or that such source is the church of Christ--which they
suppose their own to be--only that they are ignorant of the fact
that the Catholic Church is the church of Christ, and that she is
the true source of their faith, and, if that church was destroyed
and its authority nullified, they could have no faith at all.

When they have lost all faith and obedience to a church which
they regard as the church of Christ, and have not returned to
Catholicity, they have lost at the same time all faith in the
peculiar doctrines of Christianity.

It would be hardly worth while to consider the answer made by
some that they believe in Christ on no church authority, but on
the authority of the Bible alone, because it is plain that one
must first know the Bible itself to be true on some authority and
surely the authority of the type-setter, the printer, and the
paper-maker would not be sufficient, and the only authority they
have or can have of its truth is that of the Christian church,
which sets its seal upon it, and declares it to be the Word of
God.

{134}

There is no doubt that they are cut off from all real church
authority, that their religion is a separated branch from the
living tree: and the state of things is such as we would expect
to happen; the branch will wither, they will lose faith in Christ
and his doctrines, and they are deprived of all those inestimable
blessings and privileges which can only be had in union with the
true and living church.

We who know the history of their religious schism, and the course
it has taken, know that it is more their misfortune than their
fault. We know that they remain satisfied with their state of
poverty, because they are ignorant of the riches of faith; but we
bless God the day is approaching, and is even now at hand, when
that ignorance is fast disappearing, the prejudices and false
notions they have had of the Catholic Church are being rapidly
dispelled. The pope and the priest are no longer bug-bears to
frighten children with; the names of monk and nun are no longer
synonymous with villainy and crime. Catholics are not generally
regarded as ignorant idolaters, and even a Jesuit may pass in
society as an honest man, a sincere Christian, and a gentleman.

Three things, then, may give us great hopes that this great and
good American people, our brethren, our friends, and our
fellow-citizens, are not far from the kingdom of heaven, the
church of God--the spread of knowledge concerning her character
and doctrines, the rapid increase of the church herself in every
part of the country, and the fact that the separated branch is
fast withering, and the people look to it no longer for the fruit
which will nourish their souls unto eternal life.

There is no doubt but that until within a very few years the
Catholic religion was a hidden faith to the mass of the American
people. In the cities, the churches were few and small, and a
Protestant could hardly get within sight or hearing of a Catholic
preacher. In the country towns the scattered flock would get
together once in a month to hear Mass in a miserable apology for
a church in some dirty back-lane, or in a shanty in the woods.
That is all changed. Our city churches and cathedrals are getting
to be the largest and grandest buildings in the land, and in many
places the same congregations which once huddled together in the
shanty are now assembled in churches which rival all others in
the same places for size and beauty. And all this has happened in
so short a space of time that it looks like magic. Those who will
not see the true reason imagine that the wealth of old Catholic
countries has been lavishly poured out to bring it about. They
cannot comprehend that this is the work, for the most part, of
the faith of the Catholic mechanic and the Catholic servant-girl.

The time was--and we have seen it--when the priest took the
dinner-table for an altar, upon which were placed the crucifix
that ordinarily hung at the bedside in the corner of the same
room, and two kitchen candlesticks for the ornaments. Those same
congregations have now their own churches, furnished with
everything needful for divine service. From what we know of the
rapid multiplication of church buildings, we can conclude that,
as far as regards the external appearance of her worship, and the
crowds of worshippers who are seen thronging to her sanctuaries,
the church is now fairly before the American people. They can no
longer plead ignorance of her existence, or fancy her to be a
petty sect diminishing in numbers and decaying in force. The
existence and power of the church in other lands is also forcing
itself upon their notice.
{135}
They cannot read a newspaper or a book without meeting many
proofs that the Catholic Church is, as she always has been, the
mightiest, most reverend Christian church in the world, which
claims the homage and admiration of mankind, and holds the
destiny of Christianity itself in her hands. Those who from
interest are her enemies see this, and on every hand we hear from
their pulpits and read in their religious newspapers the loudest
laments over the "fearful growth of popery," as they are pleased
to style it.

But the interior workings of the church, her doctrines, her moral
teaching, are also being presented to them more clearly. In the
common walks of life, in the parlor, in the street, in the halls
of business, our Protestant brethren meet many who are able to
give a reason for the faith that is in them, and whose lives they
know. Sincere seekers for truth and souls in earnest about their
salvation, hearing of the claims of Catholicity and seeing many
whose religious character they have every reason to admire, will
ask questions, and Americans (we say it not to their reproach)
will ask questions, if it be only for curiosity's sake. Catholic
books, magazines, newspapers, pamphlets, speeches, sermons, and
other modes of diffusing a knowledge of Catholic faith and
practice find many readers and hearers among Protestants who
cannot fail to be impressed by them, who will be divested of
their old prejudices, and learn our religion not as it has been
taught to them by her enemies, but as she is. It would be of no
use to tell an intelligent American Protestant now that Catholics
are poor, ignorant idolaters who worship images, and who never
heard of the Bible, because they know better; and if you told
him, as you might have done twenty years ago and be believed,
that the pope and the priests had secret designs against the
liberties of this country, he would laugh in your face. Books
with pictures representing the pope with his tiara on, holding up
his hands in horror and turning away his face from an open Bible
which a Protestant minister presents to his gaze, while the
lightnings from heaven are depicted in the background descending
in wrath upon St. Peter's, may possibly be found upon the table
of some ignorant backwoodsman, but an intelligent Protestant
would blush to know that such a book was under his roof.

People are great travellers nowadays, too, and they see enough in
Catholic countries to make them at least think well of their
religion.

They go to Rome, perhaps have an interview with the venerable
head of the church, and invariably return penetrated with
sentiments of profound respect, and often of the most attached
affection for him.

They go to heathen countries, they see there the work of Catholic
apostles. They find the only Christians there are Catholics,
living such perfect lives as might put Christians of more
enlightened nations to shame. In every corner of the world they
find the Catholic Church doing her appointed work for the
regeneration, civilization, and salvation of men, and numbers of
them are not slow to draw the conclusion, "Truly this is the
living church of the living God the pillar and ground of truth."

Let us look at the second reason we suggested, namely, the rapid
increase of the church, and the character of it.

In the year 1800 we had only 1 bishop, 100 priests, and about
50,000 Catholics. Now we have 43 bishops, 2235 priests, and at
least 5,000,000 Catholics. That this number is made up
principally by immigration is true; but we do not forget that
they bring the true faith in Jesus Christ with them, that the
truth is spreading by their example and influence, and the
American people cannot fail to feel the effects of it.
{136}
If all these immigrants were infidels, Mohammedans, or Mormons,
they would naturally affect the religious character of the people
amongst whom they are living. How much more may we look for
mighty results from the true religion and the grace of God!

Catholicity is leavening the whole mass. Go where you will, you
will find a Catholic in almost every family of note in the
country. "Oh! I respect the Catholic religion very much," some
one will say to you. "I have a father or mother, a sister or
brother, an aunt or a cousin, who is a very good and very strict
Catholic." From the very families of American Protestant bishops
and ministers the church draws to herself one or another of the
members, from whom new American Catholic families spring up, to
give the church standing and influence in society, and compel a
respectful hearing and a respectful treatment.

These considerations, encouraging as they are, might still lead
us to suppose that it will be yet a long while before America
shall be called, as she undoubtedly will be, one of the brightest
jewels in the crown of the holy church, were it not for the third
thought we have presented, which is, that their faith and trust
in the sapless, separated branch of a church is failing. They
have planted it anew, have watered it, have nursed it with every
care, at boundless expense, with sincere heart's devotion, but
all to no purpose. It will not grow, but withers in their hands.
Now and then some have thought that the branch was too much like
the old tree, and they cut off a twig, a blossom, or plucked a
fruit from it, and planted that, and, with many earnest prayers
and unceasing labors, they hoped their little plant would spring
into life, but its untimely decay has disappointed them and
disgusted them. Anon they endeavored to graft their withering
branch on an older and apparently more healthy stock, such as the
former and late attempts of the Episcopalians to form a union
with the schismatical Greek Church; but the graft will not take,
though they are willing to tie it on with every appliance and
prune it after every fashion. Again, a few who style themselves
Anglo-Catholics and high churchmen try to reason themselves into
a belief that their particular little twig of the branch must be
the true tree, because it is so much like in size and shape to
the young sapling which the apostles first planted in the earth.

Slowly, however, they are beginning to ask themselves the
question which they should have asked in the beginning, "How
shall it grow without a root?" Those who take the trouble to
examine the matter at bottom find out that the branch they
cherish has no root, and now they lose all respect for it. These
divide into two parties. Those who are sincere-minded souls,
looking for true Christianity, and resting their eternal hopes
upon it, seek for the living Christian tree, and find sweet
repose beneath its grateful shade, and true nourishment of their
souls from its never-failing fruit. Others, who are less sincere,
cast aside the dead branch and all their faith in Christ with it,
become discouraged and disgusted, and fall away into
indifferentism and infidelity.

This loss of the old traditional reverence for Christianity,
which a few years back was so strong that men felt it was
something to be ashamed of, and to need apology, when forced to
say, "I am no Christian," is now so marked that it is deplored on
all sides.
{137}
References are not unfrequently made in the columns of our daily
journals indicative of the popular temper, which hold up
celebrated preachers, and with them often the whole clerical
profession, to ridicule and contempt. Still the mass of the
people of our country are both sincere and religious-minded, and
the character of the conversions that are daily taking place is
such as to make us not only hopeful, but sure of the final
result. Surely, it is not to be said that the Catholic Church
shall prove herself less powerful in a country of nominal
Christians than she has shown herself to be in any or all the
pagan nations whom she has not only converted, but also civilized
and enlightened. Very few Protestants nowadays are compelled to
unlearn their supposed Christianity to become Catholics. The
false element which Calvinism introduced at the Reformation is
being gradually eliminated from their systems, and all that they
really adhere to is a part of Catholic truth. Many converts
express themselves surprised to find that to enter the church
they are called upon to renounce nothing whatever of what they
already hold. They find, to their delight, that the faith as
taught by the church is the completion, the realization, and also
the explanation of their religious opinions.

The conversion of our beloved land is a work that should engage
our most ardent aspirations, and kindle all the zeal of which we
are capable. Both our hearts and our heads should be in it. We
feel like preaching a little on this subject. That we may help it
and hasten it by many things there is no doubt; by constant and
earnest prayer, by good example, by instruction, by the
distribution of good books and tracts, and such means; but it
seems to us that when any one is deeply impressed with a
conviction that a desired end will be accomplished, that it ought
to be, and, as far as in one lies, it shall be, then the end is
not far off. Aside from other things, there is in this matter a
wide field for the exercise of our theological virtues.

Our faith: an unwavering faith in the power of truth, which must
prevail. It is God's work; it is what the church is called upon
to do; the people are fast progressing toward it; the good expect
it, the wicked fear it; God's grace is never wanting to aid all
men in their search after, and their acceptance of, the truth,
and what, then, can hinder it? The question put to us a few years
since, with a smile of mixed incredulity and pity, "Do _you_
believe that this country will ever become Catholic?" is now,
"How soon do you think it will come to pass?" "Soon, very soon,"
we reply, if your own statistics be true; for we see by one of
your late writers that the rate of growth of the Catholic
religion has been _seventy-five_ per cent greater than the
ratio of increase of population, while the rate of the decrease
of Protestantism is _eleven_ per cent less.

Our hope: We must have large hope in this, as in all things else,
to bring about speedily what we desire: such an enthusiastic hope
as makes us see the end already. It will, moreover, encourage
them to do what we wish. Tell a sinner that you give him up and
have no hopes of him, and you give him a fatal encouragement to
go on in his wickedness. Your want of hope takes hope out of him;
but, on the contrary, tell him cheerfully that you look for his
conversion and amendment as a matter of course, and he will
conclude at once that he ought to convert himself, and will begin
to wish himself converted.
{138}
Then show him a picture of the happiness and peace of a good
life, the joy of the forgiven sinner; his mind is made up, and
the grace of God will do the rest. So it will be with our
Protestant brethren. Let them feel that we are sure of their
conversion to Catholicity, that we look for it as a certain
event, and they will begin to think it very possible, and ask
what it is to be a Catholic. Present them a picture of that
unspeakable peace which one obtains in a sure and certain faith;
tell them of the blessings in store for them, show them the
treasures of God's house, and give them to understand that they
are meant expressly for them, and that we are certain they will
enjoy them; then it will be strange, indeed, if, with the truth
before them, and the grace of God aiding and encouraging them,
they should turn away and reject their own happiness. For the
greater part of sincere Protestants there is absolutely nothing
to keep them out of the church but the old worn-out prejudices
they have against her. We know that it is thought that they have
an insuperable fear and distrust of some of our practices--the
confessional, for instance; but our experience convinces us that
they find no difficulty in overcoming their fears as soon as they
firmly believe in its necessity, and perceive its consoling and
sanctifying influence upon the individual soul and upon society
at large. Besides, this opinion is, in fact, groundless. As a
good old French Jesuit father said to us one day: "I have noticed
that when Americans have made up their mind to do anything, they
never ask if it be difficult."

Our charity: Souls are won by love. We do not, and cannot, love
the Protestant religion. It has little that is lovable in it; and
besides, our own holy faith, all beautiful and good as it is,
absorbs all the love our hearts can possibly hold. But could our
Protestant brethren know how we Catholics love them--how we yearn
over them as a mother yearns over her wayward child--how we long
to welcome them home again; could they see how the "charity of
Jesus Christ presseth us" to labor and pray for them; could they
overhear us conversing with one another about them and learn our
wishes and plans, our hopes and our wonderings at their continued
absence, then we would win their souls. They could not stand all
that. The power of divine charity would draw them sweetly on.
Then they would ask themselves, What motive can these Catholics
have to wish us so fervently to become as they are? Would that
they might all be brought to ask that question!

When we, who stand upon the firm rock, see them stumbling over
the bogs and marshes of a groundless and unstable faith, there is
a strong temptation to laugh at their bewilderment, and mock at
them as they go leaping about from one little hillock of opinion
to another, and at last fall, sprawling, into the mire of
religious doubt. Better pity them. Human nature, you know, has
_such_ a tendency to follow will-o'-the-wisps, even if it be
only for the purpose of scientific investigation!

Whatever truth they have, after all, is Catholic truth. Their
piety, their love of religion, their hatred of sin, their fear of
hell and hopes of heaven, are all the results of the teachings of
Jesus Christ, in whom they believe as far as they know, and
through whom, in some vague sense, they hope for salvation.
{139}
They have been led away from the true fold, and are wandering
sheep, who are getting further and further each day out of
hearing of the voice of the true Shepherd. But the time is not
far distant when they will return. God's hand is stretched out
over this people. His Holy Spirit is moving their hearts, and the
signs of the day of peace and unity of faith are already
appearing.

Preachers usually begin with a text; we take the liberty of
ending with one, very _à propos_, we think, to the subject
of our thoughts: "I will call them my people, that were not my
people: and her beloved, that was not beloved: and her, that had
not obtained mercy, one that hath obtained mercy. And it shall
be, in the place where it was said to them: you are not my
people: there they shall be called the children of the living
God."

--------

      New Publications.


  The Clergy And The Pulpit In Their Relations To The People.
  By M. l'Abbé Mullois, chaplain to the Emperor
  Napoleon III. and Missionary Apostolic.
  Translated by George Percy Badger.
  First American edition.
  12mo, pp. 308. New York: The Catholic
  Publication Society, 126 Nassau Street. 1867.

This work of the learned and pious Abbé Mullois has attained an
immense popularity in France, where it was issued a few years ago
under the title of _Cours d'Eloquence Sacrée Populaire; ou,
Essai sur la Manière de parler au Peuple._ It is the first of
a series of essays which appeared subsequently, designed as hints
to the clergy in their pastoral ministrations, especially in the
pulpit.

It is one of the most noticeable books that have been issued by
the Catholic press, and cannot fail of receiving as cordial a
welcome with us as it has already received in France. Its
remarkable characteristic is the apostolic simplicity of its
style, and its bold, manly tone. The author's principal object is
to direct the attention of the clergy to the necessity of
cultivating a popular style of eloquence in their discourses and
instructions to the masses. But, in order that the sermon be
popular, and reach the hearts of the people, the preacher must
himself be popular. He must be a man loved by the people,
engaging both their admiration and reverence by his manner and
his language when addressing them, and above all, by loving them.
Hence, the author wisely treats of the preacher before he treats
of the sermon. The first chapter is devoted to the elucidation of
his great maxim: "To address men well, they must be loved much."
Have many rules of eloquence if you will, but do not forget the
first and most essential one: Love the people whom you would
instruct, convert, reprove, sanctify, and lead to God. "The end
of preaching is to reclaim the hearts of men to God, and nothing
but love can find out the mysterious avenues which lead to the
heart. We are always eloquent when we wish to save one whom we
love; we are always listened to when we are loved. ... If, then,
you do not feel a fervent love and profound pity for
humanity--if, in beholding its miseries and errors, you do not
experience the throbbings, the holy thrillings of charity, be
assured that the gift of Christian eloquence has been denied
you," which is the good abbé's polite way (so truly French) of
saying, "Don't preach."

{140}

He is not above indulging in a little bit of humor now and then
when he wishes to say something a little severe, so as to take
off the edge: "Just look at the young priest on his entrance upon
the sacred ministry. He is armed cap-a-pie with arguments; he
speaks only by syllogisms. His discourse bristles with _now,
therefore, consequently_. He is dogmatic, peremptory. One
might fancy him a nephew of one of those old bearded doctors of
the middle ages, such as Petit Jean or Courte-Cuisse. He is
disposed to transfix by his words every opponent, and give
quarter to none. He thrusts, cuts, overturns relentlessly. My
friend, lay aside a part of your heavy artillery. Take your young
man's, your young priest's heart, and place it in the van before
your audience, and after that you may resort to your batteries,
if they are needed. Make yourself beloved--be a father. Preach
affectionately, and your speech, instead of gliding over hearts
hardened by pride, will pierce _even to the dividing of the
joints and marrow_; and then that may come to be remarked of
you which was said of another priest by a man of genius who had
recently been reclaimed to a Christian life: 'I almost regret my
restoration, so much would it have gratified me to have been
converted by so affectionate a preacher.' ... Apostolical
eloquence is no longer well understood. It is now made to consist
of I hardly know what; the utterance of truths without any order,
in a happy-go-lucky fashion, extravagant self-excitement,
bawling, and thumping on the pulpit. There is a tendency in this
respect to follow the injunctions of an old divine of the
sixteenth century to a young bachelor of arts. '_Percute
cathedram fortiter; respice Crucifixum torvis oculis; nil dic ad
propositum, et bene praedicabis._'"

It is certainly a great mistake, although a common one, that what
is called popular preaching is relished only by the poor and
illiterate, and, indeed, is only fit for them. The author's
sentiments on this subject are so just and well timed that we
venture to give them in the following extracts from the preface
of his second volume.

  "True popular preaching is not that which is addressed
  exclusively to the lower orders; but that which is addressed to
  all, and is understood by all. Such is the import of the word
  _popular_. When a man is said to be popular, it implies
  that he meets with sympathy on all sides; from among the upper,
  the lower, and the middle classes of society. When we say,
  charity is popular, we mean that it finds an echo in the
  breasts of all. The Gospel is essentially popular; hence
  Christian eloquence also should be popular at all times and in
  all places; as well in large cities as in small towns and
  country districts: unless an exceptional audience is addressed,
  and there is only one such in France, namely, that of
  Notre-Dame at Paris.

  "This is what a sermon ought to be: A learned academician
  listening to it on one side, and a poor illiterate woman on the
  other, both should derive therefrom something to enlighten
  their minds and improve their hearts.

  "We, the clergy, are debtors to all. How can we denounce
  injustice from the pulpit if we exhibit an example of it in our
  own persons? This is a matter involving a sacred trust, which
  has not met with adequate consideration; for how can we preach
  charity when we deprive the poor of that which is their
  due--the bread of knowledge? We should deem it an atrocity to
  retain the alms given to us for the needy; and does not our
  faith tell us that it would be a still greater crime to
  withhold from them the saving truths of the Gospel? ... It is
  one of the great glories, one of the great powers of the
  ordinance of preaching, that the word preached should embrace
  all without any exception; and we are sadly to blame for having
  renounced that vantage-ground. Hence it is that our sermons
  nowadays are dry, meagre, artificial, inefficacious, and no
  longer exhibit that fulness and life, that broad effusion of
  thought, those throbbings of the heart and thrilling accents of
  the soul, which bespeak a double origin; indicating that what
  we utter is at once the voice of God and the voice of the
  people.

  "I am going to speak without any reserve. Painful as the
  subject may be, it is desirable that the clergy should be made
  thoroughly aware of it. Go where you will in France, you meet
  with numbers of excellent and eminently intelligent men who
  say: 'I really cannot account for it; but I can no longer bear
  listening to sermons, for they weary me dreadfully. The
  phraseology generally used is humdrum and threadbare, and the
  matter consists of an incoherent mixture of rhetoric and
  philosophy, art and mysticism, of which nobody understands any
  thing.
{141}
  Then, again, their monotonous uniformity throughout is enough
  to send even those into a doze who have lost the habit of
  sleeping. I sincerely believe that I should do better by
  abstaining; but for the sake of example, I resign myself to
  enduring them.' And be it remembered, that these are the
  remarks, not of the ill-disposed, but of devoutly religious
  men; proving the necessity of some large reform, since it would
  be idle to suppose that such concurrent testimony from all
  parts of France is unfounded. The same men, be it remarked,
  after listening to a genial, diversified, popular, and sterling
  discourse, will readily exclaim: 'That's the thing that I want!
  That's what does me good! That's what I like!'

  "We must revert, therefore, to the genuine style of evangelical
  preaching, which is that of a father addressing his numerous
  family, and who wishes to be understood by all his children
  from the eldest to the youngest.

  "But we must not be deluded into thinking that such popular
  preaching is easy: on the contrary, it is very difficult of
  attainment; for it involves no less a task than that of
  speaking a language which shall be level to the comprehension
  of the masses, and at the same time adapted to educated minds.
  Would you master that task? Study much, study every thing:
  theology, literature, the Holy Scriptures, more especially the
  Gospel; acquire a deep insight into the human heart; and,
  withal, cultivate your own mind till it can digest all
  knowledge. Then write and speak like one who has really drawn
  what he utters out of the good treasures of the heart, and in
  such a way that all who hear you may be ready to say: 'Really,
  what he states is very simple; it is sound sense; it is right.
  It is just what I would have said myself under similar
  circumstances.' Let us recall what has already been remarked
  elsewhere--that a little study withdraws us from the natural,
  whereas much study leads us to it. Reveal your heart, your
  soul; for, after all, the soul of man, that masterpiece of
  God's hand, will always carry more weight than all the
  embellishments of philosophy or rhetoric."

Let this zealous author speak of what he will, he invariably
comes back to his first principle: "Love the people, if you would
have any influence with them for good." Each chapter reveals the
fact that this thought is the one which is uppermost in the
writer's mind, and, therefore, the one he desires to impress the
more deeply upon the minds of his readers. He knows how to tell
plain, homely truths without offence, and criticise severely the
faults of his brethren without acerbity or presumption.

It is a book that will do good, a great deal of good, and we
commend it most heartily to all our readers, who will assuredly
derive much pleasure and no little profit from its perusal.

The translation has been made by a finished scholar, and leaves
nothing to be desired for purity of style or fidelity to the
original. The volume is published in a finished and elegant
style.

----

  Essays On Religion And Literature.
  By Various Writers.
  Edited by Archbishop Manning.
  Second Series. London: Longmans, Green & Co.
  New York: For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.

The titles of these essays and the names of their authors will
give our readers a good idea of the character and value of this
volume:

  _Inaugural Address, Session_ 1866-7,
  the Most Rev. Archbishop Manning, D.D.;

  _On Intellectual Power and Man's Perfection--Dangers of
  Uncontrolled Intellect_, W. G. Ward, Ph.D.;

  _On the Mission and Prospects of the Catholic Church in
  England_, F. Oakley, M.A.;

  _Christianity in Relation to Civil Society_, Edward Lucas;

  _On the Philosophy of Christianity_,
  Albany J. Christie, M.A., S J.;

  _On some Events Preparatory to the English Reformation_,
  H. W. Wilberforce, M.A.;

  _On the Inspiration of Scripture_,
  Most Rev. Archbishop Manning, D.D.;

  _Church and State_, Edmund Sheridan Purcell;

  _Certain Sacrificial Words used by Saint Paul_,
  Monsignor Patterson, M.A.

It is impossible for us to enter here into an extended review of
all these very remarkable essays. They were read at different
meetings of the English Catholic Academia, founded six years ago
by the present Archbishop of Westminster, and which has for its
object, as the same illustrious prelate and scholar informs us in
his present inaugural address, "the maintenance and defence of
the Catholic religion, both positively and in its relation to all
other truth, and polemically as against all forms of erroneous
doctrines, principles, and thought."
{142}
This first address is a short but comprehensive sketch of the
state of religion in England, in which the present condition and
prospects of the faith are contrasted chiefly with what they were
thirty years ago.

The second and third papers are designed to uphold the following
thesis: The perfection of man consists exclusively in the
perfection of his moral and spiritual nature, intellectual
excellence forming no part of it whatever. We cannot help but
think the author has taken a great deal of trouble to prove a
truism; for his definition of _perfection_ is closely
restricted to moral and spiritual perfection. We do not imagine
that the antagonists he summons up from the ranks of "muscular
Christianity," and from the present atheistical school in
England, would contend that pure intellect, in the sense used by
the author, would afford more than a subordinate service to man's
spiritual welfare, such as he himself proves in a second
proposition. The greater part, if not the whole, of these
antagonists to Catholic asceticism know nothing of what they are
discussing. They suppose, and falsely so, that the Catholic
Church teaches that the soul advances in spiritual perfection
precisely at the expense of intellectual excellence; that the
saint becomes the more holy as he becomes the more stupid; that
the cultivation of the reasoning power is not only useless but a
positive hindrance to spiritual perfection. It is not surprising
that our opponents make the most of intellectual acquirements, of
physical health and strength, and exalt the animal above the
spiritual, because they deny _in toto_ the moral state of
man as Catholic theology, both moral and ascetic, supposes it to
be. They contend that there is nothing wanting in man's moral
nature, any more than in his purely intellectual nature. Both are
weak, it is true, and should be strengthened and perfected, but
the results of moral weakness, which we call sin and
imperfection, are to be regarded in the same light as one would
the results of ignorance in science. Sin is simply a mistake,
culpable to the same degree as a false deduction in physics or
mathematics would be for want of better information and
scientific knowledge. Hence, it is easy to see how these
philosophers neither value nor in fact comprehend the exercises
of the spiritual life, and look upon all self-abnegation and
mortification of the senses as degrading. "Purification of the
soul" would be nonsense, because the soul does not need
purification. It needs only advancement, enlightenment, and
nurture, both in its spiritual and intellectual part. That a man
should apply himself to the perfection of his spiritual nature
without equal care to advance in worldly science, and keep his
muscles well developed, his stomach full, and his body
fashionably and comfortably clothed, is something which the
worldly wise cannot understand. How should they when they rate
the spiritual no higher than, if not below, the intellectual?
Human greatness with them consists in physical and intellectual
power; and they think the world is far more benefited by a
regiment of soldiers and a board of trade than by a community of
monks and an association of prayer.

But too much care cannot be taken when we attempt to argue for
the thesis proposed in this essay. There is danger of giving our
adversaries an impression that we are contending for the very
things of which they accuse us. The intellect is not something
evil which is to be crushed, else we should not look for a saint
in a Chrysostom, an Augustine, a Thomas of Aquinas, a
Bonaventura, or among those thousands of men and women of great
genius and surpassing intellectual power, whose works are the
glory of the world as they are of religion.

But one of the exercises of asceticism, say our opponents, is to
mortify the intellect. Yes, just as I mortify my sight by
restraining it from resting upon vain or immoral objects, my
appetite from too full an indulgence, my love for music from
dangerous display or vain gratification, or, what is at least as
good a reason, because I really have not the time to give my
intellect, my appetite, my love of the beautiful in art, poetry,
and music all that they demand.
{143}
I have a far higher object in life, and that is, to make my soul
pure and agreeable to God. These other and inferior objects are
worthy in themselves of attention, but as for me I am too busy to
spend either much thought or time upon them.

Those good people whose God is their belly, or whose highest
aspiration in life is to see their name on the title-page of a
book, doubt either the sanity or the sincerity of one who says
that he loves to think about God a great deal better than he does
about what he is going to have for dinner, and chooses rather to
make a meditation than to read the morning newspaper. Such an one
is perhaps just as hungry as another for both animal and mental
food, but he puts away that anxious thought about dinner, he
declines the invitation to hear Parepa, and smashes his violin,
or consigns his mathematics to oblivion, because it happens that
some or all of these things are found to have a tendency to take
away his thoughts from God; and as to voluntary suffering, my
philosopher, I am sure that it cost one of these "degraded
ascetics" more pain to smash his violin than all the disciplines
he ever took in his life. What need was there to smash it?
Because it stood in his way, and because sacrifice is the
sweetest and most nourishing food the soul can feed upon. And the
same for his vanity, too, you say. Possibly. But do you
acknowledge that there is such a thing as vainglory, which may
arise in the heart and degrade it, thus placing a hindrance to
its perfection? I know you do, for you are constantly accusing
the Catholic saints of it. Well, then you must allow that
mortification of such a tendency is necessary for man's
perfection; and having once granted the necessity of
mortification for one thing, you have given up the question. Let
us hear no more of "degrading asceticism," or of the "unmanliness
and superstition of bodily austerities."

The fault of this essay consists in the fact that the writer says
he uses the word "intellect" in its popular sense, while his
argument supposes it to be taken in its abstract, philosophical
sense. In relation to the question at issue, the popular sense is
not the philosophical one. The question of human perfection, as
put by the enemies of the church and the railers at her ascetic
principles and practices, is: Does not the Catholic Church teach
that man perfects himself alone in the spiritual order, and that
all human science is but vanity and vexation of spirit, and,
therefore, better left aside? And is not this as a consequence a
"degrading" standard to set before humanity, and one which tends
to superstition, ignorance, mean-spiritedness, as well as
criminal neglect of health and personal cleanliness? Is not
intellectual ability a talent, and was not the servant of the
gospel condemned for returning his to his lord unimproved? This
question the writer of the present essay does not meet, as we had
hoped he would. For ourselves, we judge, as the writer
acknowledges in his second essay, if we read him aright, that
there is such a thing as intellectual perfection, artistical,
mechanical, and even muscular perfection, each in their own
order, but inferior in character, aim, and end to the perfection
of the spiritual nature, which latter perfection it is not only
lawful but obligatory to cultivate, even at the expense of either
of the former.

To advance in spiritual perfection is the first and highest duty
of man. "Seek first the kingdom of God and his justice." If one
can advance in any other perfection at the same time without
detriment to the first, all well and good. There is no danger
that the devil's Advocate will object to his canonization on the
score of his great intellectual superiority, his wonderful
mechanical genius, or the firmness and beautiful development of
his muscles. But let any of these things prove detrimental to his
spiritual perfection, as they without doubt frequently do, then
he must shut up his books or smash his violin, as the case may
be.

The essay by Mr. Wilberforce, _On some Events Preparatory to
the English Reformation_, will be found an exceedingly
interesting paper. That _On the Inspiration of Scripture_,
by Archbishop Manning, presents a concise view of the teaching of
the church, and the different opinions of Protestant and Catholic
theologians on that subject. All the essays are, in fact,
literary productions of a high order, and merit the perusal of
every scholar of English Catholic literature.

-------
{144}

  Lacordaire's Letters To Young Men.
  Edited by the Count de Montalembert.
  Translated by the Rev. James Trenor.
  Baltimore: Kelly & Piet. 1867.

This volume is composed of letters written to his young friends
whilst the author was engaged in the most arduous and responsible
duties. They are not studied productions of the great Dominican's
literary genius, but rather simple outpourings of paternal love
and solicitude toward those young men for whose spiritual
direction he was at once so wise a guide, so zealous a pastor,
and so warm a friend. They reveal the wealth of affection which
enriched his own heart, and the consecration of that affection to
the highest and noblest purpose of life--the perfection and
salvation of souls. These letters have been published that other
young men may also listen to his wise counsels, and receive that
direction and encouragement which the writer was so eminently
qualified to bestow.

Those which refer to the painful steps that fidelity to the truth
and loyalty to the church led him to take in reference to M. de
la Mennais will be found exceedingly interesting. There is no
book that we could wish to see more extensively circulated among
and read by the young men of our day than this collection of
letters. The perusal of them will do much toward strengthening
that bond of holy friendship and mutual confidence which exists
between youth and the priesthood, so truly beneficial to the one
and full of consolation to the other.

--------

  Extracts From The Fathers And Church Historians.
  W. B. Kelly,
  8 Grafton Street, Dublin.
  For sale by the Catholic Publication Society,
  126 Nassau Street, New-York.

This volume contains choice selections from the fathers,
faithfully translated into English.

---------

  Modern History; from the coming of Christ and change of the
  Roman Republic into an Empire, to the year of our Lord 1867,
  with questions for the use of schools.
  By Peter Fredet, D.D.
  22d edition, revised, etc.
  1 vol. 12mo, pp. 566 and 38.
  Baltimore: John Murphy & Co. 1867.


  A Compendium Of Ancient And Modern History--with questions,
  adapted to the use of schools, with an appendix, etc.--from the
  Creation to the year 1867.
  By M. J. Kerney, A.M.
  1 vol. 12mo, pp. 431.
  Baltimore: John Murphy & Co. 1867.

These works are excellent epitomes of history, and are very
popular in the Catholic schools of the United States and the
Canadas. The first of them, Fredet's History, is a useful volume,
and gives the reader a clear and correct idea of modern history,
especially if he has not time to read the more voluminous
histories of the various countries of the world. The present
edition of both these volumes is brought down to the year 1867,
and the account of our late terrible war is written with candor
and without bias, the bare facts and dates of battles being
given. They are gotten up in good, serviceable style for schools.

---------

  The Bohemians Of The Fifteenth Century.
  Translated from the French of Henri Guenot,
  by Mrs. J. Sadlier. New-York: D. & J. Sadlier & Co.

This is a very correct translation of a beautiful little tale by
M. Guenot, illustrating the peculiar habits and manner of living
of that strange people, generally called Gipsies, who appeared in
Europe about the time selected by the author for his
illustration. The story is well told in the original, with an
attention to time and place characteristic of the best French
writers of fiction, and in the English version before us it loses
nothing in accuracy or even in vivacity of style. It is an
excellent book for young readers, and will doubtless find a large
circulation among that class.

--------------------

{145}

  The Catholic World.

  Vol. VI., No. 32. November, 1867.



  Unpublished Letters Of General Washington.

Two years ago, Count Henri de Chastellux gave to the world,
through the pages of _Le Correspondent_ of Paris, a
translation of thirteen letters of Washington's never before
printed. They were addressed to the Marquis de Chastellux, that
gallant and accomplished French nobleman who fought with the
patriot army during our revolutionary war, serving as
major-general under Rochambeau, and of whose subsequent travels
in America we gave some account in an early number of THE
CATHOLIC WORLD. Washington seems to have entertained a sincere
regard for this distinguished soldier and man of letters, who,
besides being in complete harmony with the founder of the
American republic in his views of philosophy and politics, was a
gentleman of most amiable private character, agreeable manners,
and extensive information. After his return to France he kept up
a correspondence with Washington as long as he lived, the last
letter in the present collection bearing date only six months
before the marquis's death. Although it cannot be said that
Washington's letters reveal any facts of importance not already
known, they are not devoid of historical interest, apart from the
value which all confidential communications from his pen must
possess in the eyes of patriotic Americans. We are indebted to
the efforts of the Abbé Cazali in procuring copies of the
original from the Count Henri de Chastellux, who was kind enough
to copy them himself. To both of these gentlemen we return our
most sincere thanks. The first is dated at New-Windsor, January
28th, 1781. Count de Chastellux had just arrived at Newport,
where the French army was then quartered.


       I.

  My Dear Sir: I congratulate you on your safe arrival in good
  health at Newport, after travelling through so large an extent
  of the theatre of war in America. Receive my thanks for your
  courtesy in informing me of the same, and also for making me
  acquainted with the Comte de Charlus. His prepossessing
  appearance is a sufficient indication of the amiable qualities
  of his mind, and fails not to produce at first view a favorable
  impression upon all who see him.

{146}

  After spending several days with us at headquarters, he has
  gone to Philadelphia, accompanied by Count Dillon.

  I left them at Ringwood, whither I went to repress a partial
  revolt at Pompton among the New-Jersey troops, who, after the
  example of those of Pennsylvania, mutinied and refused to obey
  their officers. The affair happily ended without bloodshed. Two
  of the ringleaders were executed on the spot, and order had
  been completely restored before I left.

  I am at a loss for words to express my appreciation of your
  approval and friendship, and the value I attach to them. It
  shall be the desire and happiness of my life to merit their
  continuance, and to assure you on every occasion of my
  admiration for your character and virtues. I am, dear sir, your
  most obedient servant,

       G. Washington.


          II.

     New Windsor, May 7, 1781.

  Dear Sir: Permit me, on this occasion of writing to you, to
  begin my letter with congratulations on your recovered health,
  and I offer them sincerely.

  Colonel Menoville put into my hands two days since your favor
  of the 29th ultimo. If my inclination was seconded by the
  means, I should not fail to meet this gentleman as the friend
  of my friend; and if it is not in my power to comply with his
  wishes on the score of provisions, I will deal with him
  candidly by communicating the causes.

  I am impressed with too high a sense of the abilities and
  candor of the Chevalier Chastellux to conceive that he is
  capable of creating false hopes. His communication, therefore,
  of the West Indies intelligence comes with merited force, and I
  would to God it were in my power to take the proper advantage
  of it! But if you can recollect a private conversation which I
  had with you in the Count de Rochambeau's chamber, you will be
  persuaded it is not; especially when I add, that the want of
  which I then complained exists in much greater force than it
  did at that moment; but such preparations as can be made, I
  will make for the events you allude to. The candid world and
  well-informed officer will expect no more.

  May you participate in those blessings you have invoked hereon
  for me, and may you live to see a happy termination of a
  struggle which was begun, and has been continued, for the
  purpose of rescuing America from impending slavery, and
  securing to its inhabitants their indubitable rights, in which
  you bear a conspicuous part, is the ardent wish of, dear sir,
  your most obedient and most affectionate servant,
             G. Washington.


               III.

    New Windsor, June 13, 1781.

  My Dear Chevalier: I fear, from the purport of the letter you
  did me the honor to write from Newport on the 9th, that my
  sentiments respecting the council of war held on board the
  _Duke de Bourgogne_, (the 31st of May,) have been
  misconceived, and I shall be very unhappy if they receive an
  interpretation different from the true intent and meaning of
  them. If this is the case, it can only be attributed to my not
  understanding the business of the Duke de Lauzun perfectly. I
  will rely, therefore, on your goodness and candor to explain
  and rectify the mistake, if any has happened.

{147}

  My wishes perfectly coincided with the determination of the
  board of war to continue the fleet at Rhode Island, provided it
  could remain there in safety with the force required, and did
  not impede the march of the army toward the North river; but,
  when Duke Lauzun informed me that my opinion of the propriety
  and safety of this measure was required by the board, and that
  he came hither at the particular request of the Counts
  Rochambeau and de Barras to obtain it, I was reduced to the
  painful necessity of delivering a sentiment different from that
  of a most respectable board, or of forfeiting all pretensions
  to candor by the concealment of it.

  Upon this ground it was I wrote to the generals to the effect I
  did, and not because I was dissatisfied at the alteration of
  the plan agreed to at Wethersfield. My fears for the safety of
  the fleet, which I am now persuaded were carried too far, were
  productive of a belief that the generals, when separated, might
  feel uneasy at every mysterious preparation of the enemy, and
  occasion a fresh call for militia. This had some weight in my
  determination to give Boston (where I was sure no danger could
  be encountered but that of a blockade) a preference to Newport,
  where, under some circumstances, though not such as were likely
  to happen, something might be enterprised.

  The fleet being at Rhode Island is attended certainly with many
  advantages in the operation proposed, and I entreat that you,
  and the gentlemen who were of opinion that it ought to be
  risked there for these purposes, will be assured that I have a
  high sense of the obligation you mean to confer on America by
  that resolve, and that your zeal to promote the common cause,
  and my anxiety for the safety of so valuable a fleet, were the
  only motives which gave birth to the apparent difference in our
  opinions.

  I set that value upon your friendship and candor, and have that
  implicit belief in your attachment to America, that they are
  only to be equalled by the sincerity with which I have the
  honor to be, dear sir, your most obedient, and obliged, and
  faithful servant,

       G. Washington.


             IV.

    Philadelphia, January 4, 1782.

  My Dear Chevalier: I cannot suffer your old acquaintance, Mrs.
  Carter, to proceed to Williamsburg without taking with her a
  remembrance of my friendship for you.

  I have been detained here by Congress to assist in making the
  necessary arrangements for next campaign, and am happy to find
  so favorable a disposition in that body to prepare vigorously
  for it. They have resolved to keep up the same number of
  regiments as constituted the army of last year, and have called
  upon the States in a pressing manner to complete them.
  Requisitions of money are also made; but how far the abilities
  and inclinations of the States individually will coincide with
  the demands is more than I am able, at this early period, to
  inform you. A further pecuniary aid from your generous nation,
  and a decisive naval force upon this coast in the latter end of
  May or beginning of June, unlimited in its stay and operations,
  would, unless the resources of Great Britain are inexhaustible,
  or she can form powerful alliances, bid fair to finish the war
  in the course of next campaign, (if she mean to prosecute it,)
  with the ruin of that people.

  The first, that is, an aid of money, would enable our financier
  to support the expenses of the war with ease and credit,
  without anticipating a change in those funds which Congress are
  endeavoring to establish, and which will be productive in the
  operation.

{148}

  The second, a naval superiority, would compel the enemy to draw
  their whole force to a point, which would not only be a
  disgrace to their arms by the relinquishment of posts, and the
  States which they affect to have conquered, but might
  eventually be fatal to their army, or, by attempting to hold
  these, be cut off in detail. So that in either case the most
  important good consequences would result from the measure.

  As you will have received in a more direct channel than from me
  the news of the surprise and recapture of St. Eustatia by the
  arms of France, I shall only congratulate you on the event, and
  add that it marks, in a striking point of view, the genius of
  the Marquis de Bouillé for enterprise, and for intrepidity and
  resources in difficult circumstances. His conduct upon this
  occasion does him infinite honor.

  Amid the numerous friends who would rejoice to see you at this
  place, none (while I stay here) could give you a more sincere
  and cordial welcome than I should. Shall I entreat you to
  present me to the circle of your friends in the army around
  you, with all that warmth and attachment I am sensible of, and
  to believe that with sentiments of the purest friendship and
  regard I have the honor to be, etc.,
                   G. Washington.



              V.

    Headquarters, Newburg,
    Aug. 10, 1782.

  My Dear Chevalier: I love and thank you for the sentiments
  contained in your letter of the 5th. I look forward with
  pleasure to the epoch which will place us as conveniently in
  one camp as we are congenial in our sentiments. I shall embrace
  you when it happens with the warmth of perfect friendship.

  My time, during my winter residence in Philadelphia, was
  unusually (for me) divided between parties of pleasure and
  parties of business. The first, nearly of a sameness at all
  times and places in this infant country, is easily conceived;
  at least, is too unimportant for description. The second was
  only diversified by perplexities, and could afford no
  entertainment. Convinced of these things myself, and knowing
  that your intelligence with respect to foreign affairs was
  better and more interesting than mine, I had no subject to
  address you upon; thus, then, do I account for my silence.

  My time since I joined the army in this quarter has been
  occupied principally in providing for, disciplining, and
  preparing, under many embarrassments, the troops for the field.
  Cramped as we have been and still are for the want of money,
  everything moves slowly, but, as this is no new case, I am not
  discouraged by it.

  The enemy talk loudly and very confidently of peace; but
  whether they are in earnest, or whether it is to amuse and
  while away the time till they can prepare for a more vigorous
  prosecution of the war, time will evince. Certain it is, the
  refugees at New York are violently convulsed by a letter which
  ere this you will have seen published, from Sir Guy Carleton
  and Admiral Digby to me, upon the subject of a general
  pacification and acknowledgment of the independency of this
  country.

  Adieu, my dear Chevalier. A sincere esteem and regard bids me
  assure you that, with sentiments of pure affection, etc.,
                   G. Washington.

{149}

             VI.

    Newburg, Dec. 14, 1782.

  My Dear Chevalier: I felt too much to express anything the day
  I parted with you. A sense of your public services to this
  country and gratitude for your private friendship quite
  overcame me at the moment of our separation. But I should be
  wanting to the feelings of my heart, and do violence to my
  inclination, were I to suffer you to leave this country without
  the warmest assurances of an affectionate regard for your
  person and character.

  Our good friend, the Marquis de Lafayette, prepared me (long
  before I had the honor to see you) for those impressions of
  esteem which opportunities and your own benevolent mind have
  since improved into a deep and lasting friendship--a friendship
  which neither time, nor distance can ever eradicate.

  I can truly say that never in my life did I part with a man to
  whom my soul clave more sincerely than it did to you. My
  warmest wishes will attend you in your voyage across the
  Atlantic, to the rewards of a generous prince--the arms of
  affectionate friends--and be assured that it will be one of my
  highest gratifications to keep a regular intercourse with you
  by letter.

  I regret exceedingly that circumstances should withdraw you
  from this country before the final accomplishment of that
  independence and peace which the arms of our good ally has
  assisted in placing before us in such an agreeable point of
  view. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to accompany you
  after the war in a tour through the great continent of North
  America, in search of the natural curiosities with which it
  abounds, and to view at the same time the foundation of a
  rising empire. I have the honor, etc.,

                  G. Washington.

  P.S.--Permit me to trouble you with the inclosed letter to the
  Marquis de Lafayette.


               VII.

    Headquarters, Newburg,
    May 10, 1783.

  My Dear Chevalier: The affectionate expressions in your
  farewell letter of the 8th of June from Annapolis gave a new
  spring to the pleasing remembrance of our past intimacy, and
  your letter of the 4th of March from Paris has convinced me
  that time nor distance can eradicate the seeds of friendship
  when they have taken root in a good soil and are nurtured by
  philanthropy and benevolence. That I value your esteem, and
  wish to retain a place in your affections, are truths of which
  I hope you are convinced, as I wish you to be of my sincerity
  when I assure you that it is among the first wishes of my heart
  to pay the tribute of respect to your nation, to which I am
  prompted by motives of public consideration and private
  friendships; but how far it may be in my power to yield a
  prompt obedience to my inclination is more than I can decide
  upon at present.

  You have, my dear Chevalier, placed before my eyes the exposed
  situation of my seat on the Potomack, and warned me of the
  danger which is to be apprehended from a surprise; but as I
  have an entire confidence in it, and an affection for your
  countrymen, I shall bid defiance to the enterprise, under a
  full persuasion that, if success should attend it and I cannot
  make terms for my releasement, I shall be generously treated by
  my captors, and there is such a thing as a pleasing captivity.

  At present both armies remain in the situation you left them,
  except that all acts of hostilities have ceased in this quarter
  and things have put on a more tranquil appearance than
  heretofore.
{150}
  We look forward with anxious expectation for the definitive
  treaty to remove the doubts and difficulties which prevail at
  present, and our country of our newly acquired friends in New
  York, and other places within these States, of whose company we
  are heartily tired. Sir Guy, with whom I have had a meeting at
  Dobb's Ferry for the purpose of ascertaining the epoch of this
  event, could give me no definitive answer, but general
  assurances that he was taking every preparatory measure for it;
  one of which was, that, a few days previous to the interview,
  he had shipped off for Nova Scotia upward of 6000 refugees or
  loyalists, who, apprehending they would not be received as
  citizens of these United States, he thought it his duty to
  remove previous to the evacuation of the city by the king's
  troops.

  The Indians have recommenced hostilities on the frontiers of
  Pennsylvania and Virginia, killing and scalping whole families
  who had just returned to the habitations, from which they had
  fled, in expectation of enjoying them in peace. These people
  will be troublesome neighbors to us, unless they can be removed
  to a much greater distance, and this is only to be done by
  purchase or conquest. Which of the two will be adopted by
  Congress, I know not. The first, I believe, would be cheapest
  and perhaps most consistent with justice. The latter most
  effectual.

  Mrs. Washington is very sensible of your kind remembrance of
  her, and presents her best respects to you, in which all the
  gentleman of my family who are with me cordially and sincerely
  join. Tilghman, I expect, has before this entered into the
  matrimonial state with a cousin of his whom you may have seen
  at Mr. Carroll's near Baltimore. My best wishes attend Baron
  Montesquieu, and such other gentlemen within your circle as I
  have the honor to be acquainted with. I can only repeat to you
  assurances of the most perfect friendship and attachment, etc.

              G. Washington.



              VIII.

    Princeton, October 12, 1783.

  My Dear Chevalier: I have not had the honor of a letter from
  you since the 4th of March last, but I will ascribe my
  disappointment to any cause rather than to a decay of your
  friendship.

  Having the appearances, and indeed the enjoyment of peace,
  without the final declaration of it, I, who am only waiting for
  the ceremonials, or till the British forces shall have taken
  their leave of New York, am held in an awkward and disagreeable
  situation; being anxiously desirous to quit the walks of public
  life, and, under my own vine and my own fig-tree, to seek those
  enjoyments and that relaxation which a mind that has been
  constantly upon the stretch for more than eight years stands so
  much in want of.

  I have fixed this epoch to the arrival of the definitive
  treaty, or to the evacuation of my country by our newly
  acquired friends. In the mean while, at the request of
  Congress, I spend my time with them at this place; where they
  came in consequence of the riots at Philadelphia, of which,
  doubtless, you have been fully informed, for it is not a very
  recent transaction.

  They have lately determined to fix the permanent residence of
  Congress near the falls of Delaware, but where they will hold
  their session till they can be properly established at that
  place is yet undecided.

{151}

  I have lately made a tour through the Lakes George and
  Champlain as far as Crown Point; then, returning to
  Schenectady, I proceeded up the Mohawk river to Fort Schuyler,
  (formerly Fort Stanwix,) crossed over to the Wood creek, which
  empties into the Oneida Lake and affords the water
  communication with Ontario; I then traversed the country to the
  head of the eastern branch of the Susquehanna, and arrived at
  the Lake Otsego, and the portage between that lake and the
  Mohawk river at Canajoharie.

  Prompted by these actual observations, I could not help taking
  a more contemplative and extensive view of the vast inland
  navigation of these United States from maps, and the
  information of others, and could not but be struck with the
  immense diffusion and importance of it, and with the goodness
  of that Providence which has dealt her favors to us with so
  profuse a hand. Would to God we may have wisdom enough to make
  a good use of them. I shall not rest contented till I have
  explored the western part of this country, and traversed these
  lines (or great part of them) which have given bounds to a new
  empire. But when it may, if it ever should, happen, I dare not
  say, as my first attention must be given to the deranged
  situation of my private concerns, which are not a little
  injured by almost nine years absence and total disregard of
  them.

  With every wish for your health and happiness, and with the
  most sincere and affectionate regard, etc.,

              G. Washington.


               IX.

    Mount Vernon, February 1, 1784.

  My Dear Chevalier: I have had the honor to receive your favor
  of the 23d of August from L'Orient, and hope this letter will
  find you in the circle of your friends at Paris, well recovered
  from the fatigues of your long inspection on the frontiers of
  the kingdom.

  I am, at length, become a private citizen on the banks of the
  Potomack, where, under my own vine and my own fig-tree, free
  from the bustle of a camp and the intrigues of a court, I shall
  view the busy world with calm indifference, and with that
  serenity of mind which the soldier in pursuit of glory and the
  statesman of a name have not leisure to enjoy. I am not only
  retired from all public employments, but am retiring within
  myself, and shall lead the private walks of life with heartfelt
  satisfaction. After seeing New York evacuated by the British
  forces on the 25th of November, and civil government
  established in the city, I repaired to Congress and surrendered
  all my powers, with my commission, into their hands on the 23d
  of December, and arrived at this cottage the day before
  Christmas, where I have been close locked in frost and snow
  ever since. Mrs. Washington thanks you for your kind
  remembrance of her, and prays you to accept her best wishes in
  return. With sentiments, etc.,

              G. Washington.


             X.

    Mount Vernon, June 2, 1784.

  My Dear Sir: I had the honor to receive a short letter from you
  by Major l'Enfant. My official letters to the Counts d'Estaing
  and Rochambeau (which, I expect, will be submitted to the
  members of the Cincinnatis in France) will inform you of the
  proceedings of the General Meeting, held at Philadelphia, on
  the 3d ult., of the reasons which induced a departure from some
  of the original principles and rules of the society.
{152}
  As these have been detailed, I will not repeat them, and as we
  have no occurrences out of the common course, except the
  establishment of ten new States in the western territory, and
  the appointment of Mr. Jefferson (whose talents and worth are
  well known to you) as one of the commissioners for forming
  commercial treaties in Europe, I will only repeat to you the
  assurances of my friendship, and express to you a wish that I
  could see you in the shade of those trees which my hands have
  planted, and which by their rapid growth at once indicate a
  knowledge of my declination and their willingness to spread
  their mantles over me before I go home to return no more. For
  this their gratitude I will nurture them while I stay.

  Before I conclude, permit me to recommend Colonel Humphreys,
  who is appointed secretary to the commission, to your
  countenance and civilities whilst he remains in France. He
  possesses an excellent heart and a good understanding. With
  every, etc.,

                        G. Washington.


                 XI.

    Mount Vernon, September 5, 1785.

  My Dear Sir: I am your debtor for two letters, one of the 12th
  of December, the other of the 8th of April. Since the receipt
  of the first I have paid my respects to you in a line or two by
  a Major Swan, but, as it was introductory only of him, it
  requires an apology rather than entitles me to a credit in our
  epistolary correspondence.

  If I had as good a knack, my dear Marquis, [Footnote 23] as you
  have at saying handsome things, I would endeavor to pay you in
  kind for the many flattering expressions of your letters,
  having an ample field to work in; but as I am a clumsy laborer
  in the manufactory of compliments, I must first profess my
  unworthiness of those which you have bestowed on me, and then,
  conscious of my inability of meeting you upon that ground,
  confess that it is better for me not to enter the list, than to
  retreat from it in disgrace.

    [Footnote 23: By the death of his brother, Philippe Louis of
    Chastellux, on the 26th January, 1784, the Chevalier had
    taken this title. ED. C. W.]

  It gives me great pleasure to find by my last letters from
  France that the dark clouds which overspread your hemisphere
  are yielding to the sunshine of peace. My first wish is to see
  the blessings of it diffused through all countries, and among
  all ranks in every country, and that we should consider
  ourselves as the children of a common Parent, and be disposed
  to acts of brotherly kindness toward one another. In that case
  restrictions of trade would vanish: we should take your wines,
  your fruits, and surplusage of such articles as our necessities
  or convenience might require and in return give you our fish,
  our oil, our tobacco, our naval stores, etc.; and in like
  manner should exchange produce with other countries, to the
  reciprocal advantage of each. And as the globe is large, why
  need we wrangle for a small spot of it? If one country cannot
  contain us, another should open its arms to us. But these
  halcyon days (if they ever did exist) are now no more. A wise
  Providence, I presume, has decreed it otherwise, and we shall
  be obliged to go on in the old way, disputing and now and then
  fighting, until the great globe itself dissolves.

  I rarely go from home, but my friends in and out of Congress
  sometimes inform me of what is on the carpet. To hand it to you
  afterward would be circuitous and idle, as I am persuaded you
  have correspondents at New York, who give them to you at first
  hand, and can relate them with more clearness and precision.
{153}
  I give the chief of my time to rural amusements; but I have
  lately been active in instituting a plan which, if success
  attends it, and of which I have no doubt, may be productive of
  great political as well as commercial advantages to the States
  on the Atlantic, especially the Middle ones. It is the
  improving and extending the land navigations of the rivers
  Potomack and James, and communicating them with the western
  waters by the shortest and easiest portages and good roads.
  Acts have passed the assemblies of Virginia and Maryland
  authorizing private adventurers to undertake the work.
  Companies, in consequence, are incorporated, and that on this
  river is begun. But when we come to the difficult parts of it,
  we shall require an engineer of skill and practical knowledge
  in this branch of business, and from that country where these
  kinds of improvements have been conducted with the greatest
  success. With very, etc.,

                  G. Washington.


               XI.

    Mount Vernon, August 18, 1786.

  My Dear Marquis: I cannot omit to seize the earliest occasion
  to acknowledge the receipt of the very affectionate letter you
  did me the honor of writing to me on the 22d of May, as well as
  to thank you for the present of your _Travels in America_,
  and the translation of Colonel Humphreys's poem, all which came
  safely to hand by the same conveyance.

  Knowing as I did the candor, liberality, and philanthropy of
  the Marquis de Chastellux, I was prepared to disbelieve any
  imputations that might militate against those amiable
  qualities, for characters and habits are not easily taken up or
  suddenly laid aside. Nor does that mild species of philosophy
  which aims at promoting human happiness ever belie itself by
  deviating from the generous and godlike pursuit. Having,
  notwithstanding, understood that some misrepresentations of the
  work in question had been circulated, I was happy to learn that
  you had taken the most effectual method to put a stop to their
  circulation by publishing a more ample and correct edition.
  Colonel Humphreys (who spent some weeks at Mount Vernon)
  confirmed me in the sentiment by giving a most flattering
  account of the whole performance. He has also put into my hands
  the translation of that part in which you say such and so many
  handsome things, that (although no sceptic on ordinary
  occasions) I may, perhaps, be allowed to doubt whether your
  friendship and partiality have not, in this one instance,
  acquired an ascendency over your cooler judgment.

  Having been thus unwarily, and I may be permitted to add,
  almost unavoidably betrayed into a kind of necessity to speak
  of myself, and not wishing to resume that subject, I choose to
  close it for ever by observing, that as, on the one hand, I
  consider it an indubitable mark of meanspiritedness and pitiful
  vanity to court applause from the pen or tongue of man, so on
  the other, I believe it to be a proof of false modesty or an
  unworthy affectation of humility to appear altogether
  insensible to the commendations of the virtuous and enlightened
  part of our species. Perhaps nothing can excite more perfect
  harmony in the soul than to have this string vibrate in unison
  with the internal consciousness of rectitude in our intentions
  and an humble hope of approbation from the supreme Disposer of
  all things.

{154}

  I have communicated to Colonel Humphreys that paragraph in your
  letter which announces the very favorable reception his poem
  has met with in France. Upon the principles indifferent to the
  applause of so enlightened a nation, nor to the suffrage of the
  king and queen, who have pleased to honor it with their royal
  approbation.

  We have no news this side the Atlantic worth the pains of
  sending across it. The country is recovering rapidly from the
  ravages of war. The seeds of population are scattered far in
  the wilderness; agriculture is prosecuted with industry. The
  works of peace, such as opening rivers, building bridges, are
  carried on with spirit. Trade is not so successful as we could
  wish. Our State governments are well administered. Some objects
  in our federal system might probably be altered for better. I
  rely much on the good sense of my countrymen, and trust that a
  superintending Providence will disappoint the hopes of our
  enemies. With sentiments, etc.,

                 G. Washington.


              XIII.

    Mount Vernon, April 25, 1788.

  My Dear Marquis: In reading your very friendly and acceptable
  letter of the 21st of December, 1787, which came to hand by the
  last mail, I was, as you may well suppose, not less delighted
  than surprised to come across that plain American word, my
  wife! A wife! Well, my dear Marquis, I can hardly refrain from
  smiling to find you are caught at last. I saw, by the eulogium
  you often made on the happiness of domestic life in America,
  that you had swallowed the bait, and that you would as surely
  be taken (one day or another) as you were a philosopher and a
  soldier. So your day has at length come. I am glad of it with
  all my heart and soul. It is quite good enough for you. Now you
  are well served for coming to fight in favor of the American
  rebels, all the way across the Atlantic ocean, by catching that
  terrible contagion, domestic felicity, which, like the
  small-pox or the plague, a man can have only once in his life,
  because it commonly lasts him (at least with us in America--I
  don't know how you manage these matters in France) for his
  whole lifetime. And yet, after all the maledictions you so
  richly merit on the subject, the worst wish which I can find it
  in my heart to make against Madame de Chastellux and yourself
  is, that you may neither of you ever get the better of this
  same domestic felicity during the entire course of your mortal
  existence.

  If so wonderful an event should have occasioned me, my dear
  Marquis, to have written in a strange style, you will
  understand me as clearly as if I had said, (the simple truth in
  plain English,) Do me the justice to believe that I take a
  heart-felt interest in whatsoever concerns your happiness. And
  in this view I sincerely congratulate you on your auspicious
  matrimonial connection. I am happy to find that Madame de
  Chastellux is so intimately connected with the Duchess of
  Orleans, as I have always understood this noble lady was an
  illustrious pattern of connubial love, as well as an excellent
  model of virtue in general.

  While you have been making love under the banner of Hymen, the
  great personages of the North have been making war under the
  inspiration, or rather the infatuation, of Mars.
{155}
  Now, for my part, I humbly conceive you have had much the best
  and wisest of the bargain. For certainly it is more consonant
  to all the principles of reason and religion (natural and
  revealed) to replenish the earth with inhabitants, rather than
  to depopulate it by killing those already in existence.
  Besides, it is time for the age of knight-errantry and mad
  heroism to be at an end. Your young military men, who want to
  reap the harvest of laurels, don't care (I suppose) how many
  seeds of war are sown. But for the sake of humanity it is
  devoutly to be wished that the manly employment of agriculture,
  and the humanizing benefits of commerce, would supersede the
  waste of war and the rage of conquest. That the swords might be
  turned into ploughshares, the spears into pruning-hooks, and,
  as the Scripture expresses it, the nations learn war no more.

  I will now give you a little news from this side of the water,
  and then finish. As for us, we are plodding on in the dull road
  of peace and politics. We, who live at these ends of the earth,
  only hear of the rumors of war, like the roar of distant
  thunder. It is to be hoped our remote local situation will
  prevent us from being swept into its vortex.

  The constitution which was proposed by the federal convention
  has been adopted by the States of Massachusetts, Connecticut,
  Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, and Georgia. No State has
  rejected it. The convention of Maryland is now sitting and will
  probably adopt it; as that of South Carolina is expected to do
  in May. The other conventions will assemble early in the
  summer. Hitherto there has been much greater unanimity in favor
  of the proposed government than could have been reasonably
  expected. Should it be adopted, (and I think it will be,)
  America will lift up her head again, and in a few years become
  respectable among the nations. It is a flattering and consoling
  reflection that our rising republic has the good wishes of all
  the philosophers, patriots, and virtuous men in all nations,
  and that they look upon it as a kind of asylum for mankind. God
  grant that we may not disappoint their honest expectations by
  our folly or perverseness! With sentiments, etc.,

                  G. Washington.

  P.S.--If the Duke de Lauzun is still with you, I beg you will
  thank him, in my name, for his kind remembrance of me, and make
  my compliments to him.

  _May 1st_.--Since writing the above, I have been favored
  with a duplicate of your letter in the handwriting of a lady,
  and cannot close this without acknowledging my obligations for
  the flattering postscript of the fair transcriber. In effect,
  my dear Marquis, the characters of this interpreter of your
  sentiments are so much fairer than those through which I have
  been accustomed to decipher them, that I already consider
  myself as no small gainer by your matrimonial connection.
  Especially as I hope your amiable amanuensis will not forget at
  the same time to add a few annotations of her own to your
  original text.

  I have just received information that the convention of
  Maryland has ratified the proposed constitution by a majority
  of 63 to 11.

--------

{156}

     Aimée's Sacrifice.

         A Tale.


       Chapter I.


The sun was sinking in the horizon, and the sky was overspread
with a glorious array of many-colored clouds--those hues which
artists so vainly try to reproduce on canvas, and which it is
still more impossible to describe in words. It was a soft, balmy
summer evening, the 14th of August, and nature seemed as if ready
to join with faithful hearts in keeping the coming feast and to
give them a faint shadow of the glories of heaven. Very fair was
the landscape which lay outspread before the spectator's eye from
the churchyard of the little village of St. Victor, raised as it
was on a slight eminence above the rest of the village.
Beech-woods, softly undulating hills, fertile dales, cottages
scattered here and there, and the sea shining like silver in the
far distance, formed the delightful prospect; and the old curé,
as he traversed the churchyard which alone separated the modest
presbytery from the church, could never prevent himself from
pausing to admire the wonderful beauty of the scene. On this
evening particularly, he stood looking up into the gorgeous sky
with the earnest, wistful gaze of one who would fain pierce
through "each tissued fold" of that marvellous curtain of blue
and gold.

The little church of St. Victor did not boast much architectural
beauty, and the churchyard was filled with simple green mounds
and wooden crosses, with here and there a few shrubs and wild
flowers, showing that it was the resting-place for the poor and
the lowly. The village itself was very small, but there were many
outlying hamlets, so that on Sundays a goodly congregation filled
the church. While the curé was still standing absorbed in
thought, a side-door of the church gently opened, and a young
girl, about eighteen, very simply-dressed, but with a grace in
her appearance and movements which showed her to be above the
peasant rank, came out. The face which she raised as she
approached the curé was radiant with beauty and with innocence;
the lines of care had not yet marked their furrows on the smooth
brow or cheeks; but there was a shade, as if cast by coming
sorrow, over the countenance, and on the long, dark eyelashes
tears were still trembling.

"Well, my child," said the curé, "are your labors over?"

"Yes, father," she replied; "I have finished everything, and I do
think Our Lady's altar looks beautiful. The ferns make such a
good background and show all the flowers to advantage. Oh! I
think it will look lovely at benediction to-morrow, and we will
take such pains with the music! O father!" she continued, "if
mamma could but come and see it and hear Mass! I did so hope she
would be well enough. I have prayed so often for it." And her
eyes filled with tears.

"Ah! Aimée," said the curé, "sometimes our prayers are very blind
ones, and, like the apostles of old, we know not what we ask. I
have just been to see your mother--"

{157}

"And how did you find her? what do you think of her, father?"
said Aimée eagerly. "I do think she is a _little_
better--just a trifle, you know!"

The priest made no answer for a moment, then he said: "Aimée, I
do not think she is better, and she has asked me to speak to you.
She would not have sorrow come on you too suddenly. My child, my
poor child, your mother is going fast where she will no longer
need an earthly altar, and where she may gather flowers in the
gardens of eternal bliss. You have loved her well, my poor Aimée;
will you not give her up to His keeping who hath loved her best
of all?"

Aimée had clasped her hands tightly together, and the color had
faded from her cheek. She raised her eyes to the sky above, still
radiant with its glorious hues. Within those masses of golden
clouds she fancied she could see the pathway which should lead to
the paradise of God. She turned her eyes to earth again, and,
bowing her head, she said, "_Fiat voluntas tua_. Father,"
she continued, "I have all but known this for weeks past. I have
seen it in the doctor's face, in yours, but I strove to hide it
from myself."

"I have hesitated to speak sooner," said the priest, "but this
day a letter has come from your uncle in England for your mother,
enclosed to me. I took it to her; and its contents are such that
it made us feel the time has come when you must face the truth
with her and listen to her counsels for the future."

Aimée closed her eyes in sudden anguish, while a sharp pain shot
through her heart. "The future, father," she said--"the future
without _her?_"

"Courage, dear child," answered he. "Life is not long. When we
look back on the years, they seem but as a day. Even for the
young, who knows what its length maybe?" And Aimée knew from the
tone of his voice that he was thinking of the fair young sisters,
of the merry brothers, one week laughing gayly in the old Chateau
de Clareau and planning their future; the next, standing on the
scaffold, already wet with the blood of their father and mother.
This scene he had witnessed as a young man, escaping by miracle
from a similar fate. And it is not to be wondered that from
henceforth life had seemed to him but a troubled and rapidly
passing dream.

"I must go to the church, now," said the curé, after a moment's
pause. Aimée followed him, and, entering in, sank on her knees at
the foot of Our Lady's altar, so recently decked by her own
nimble fingers. The church was silent, and the last rays of the
setting sun came through the west window, made lines of golden
light upon the pavement, and cast a halo around the head of the
young girl who knelt there absorbed in prayer. Never had Aimée
prayed before as she prayed now. It is not till sorrow is fairly
upon us, till we realize that our individual battle is begun,
that the bitterness which only our own heart knows is really at
our lips--that we pray with intensity. Aimée poured out her
whole heart, and offered herself to do the will of God in all
things. She asked that his will might be done in her and by her;
she renounced the happiness of life, if it were necessary for its
accomplishment.

In after years, Aimée looked back upon that prayer, and felt that
her offering on the threshold of her life had indeed been
accepted.

The sunset had faded; at last twilight had settled on the earth,
when Aimée left the church and hastened home.

{158}

            Chapter II.

Before we follow her footsteps, we must pause for a few instants
to tell the past history of Aimée's mother. Marie Angelique de
Brissac was, like the curé, the sole survivor of a numerous
family, who all perished in the Revolution. She, then a mere
child, escaped in the arms of her foster-mother, who conveyed her
to England, and devoted her whole life to bringing up the little
girl and procuring for her a good education. When Marie was about
seventeen, she insisted on sharing her old nurse's burdens, and
procured daily pupils. She taught the children of a surgeon in
the small country town where the old French woman had taken up
her abode. And it so happened that Captain George Morton, of her
majesty's ----th cavalry, was thrown from his horse and broke his
leg at the very door of Mr. Grant's house. His recovery was
tedious, and he chafed exceedingly at the confinement, and became
at last so irritable and peevish that poor Mrs. Grant, unable to
please him, delegated the task to her young French governess. The
result may be easily foreseen. George Morton loved Marie
passionately, and was beloved in return. They were speedily
married; and as George Morton knew it would be useless to ask his
father's consent, he did without it, and then wrote to announce
his marriage to the old man, and ask leave to bring his bride to
the paternal mansion in Russell Square, London. The spoilt and
favorite son of a rich merchant, indulged in every whim he could
recollect, George was little prepared for the storm of anger that
burst upon him for the step he had taken. Mr. Morton had lost his
wife many years before, and devoted himself--heart and soul,
body and mind--to the acquisition of wealth, in which pursuit he
was warmly aided by his eldest son, Ralph. But the whole hearts
of the two silent, cold, apparently sordid-minded men were set on
George, the handsome, careless, liberal, merry younger son.
George was to make a great match, to sit in parliament, and in
time attain a peerage; and as, according to rumor, Lady Adelaide
Oswald was only too willing to enable him to take the first step
in the programme, the news of George's marriage to a penniless
French governess was more than the concentrated pride of the two
natures could bear. George was forbidden ever to communicate with
his family again, and his handsome allowance was cut off. George
laughed heartily, told his wife the cloud would soon pass,
thanked Heaven he was not in debt, and declared it would be an
agreeable novelty to have to live on his pay and the interest of
the few thousands he had inherited from his mother. In less than
two years after his marriage he was again thrown from his horse,
and met this time with such mortal injuries that he never spoke
again, and expired in a few hours. His fellow-officers did all
they could for the young, broken-hearted widow and his infant
daughter. The commanding officer wrote to Mr. Morton to implore
help, but the appeal was in vain. It was then thought better to
purchase a small annuity for Mrs. Morton with the little funds
George had died possessed of; and as she had heard that one of
the early friends of her family had been appointed curé to the
little village of St. Victor, she determined upon going there, at
least for a time. There her old nurse, who followed her
everywhere, died, and there she continued to live and educate her
child. Time had softened her great sorrows, and her existence had
been for many years a happy and tranquil one.
{159}
Her child grew up in beauty and grace, and possessing every
disposition of heart and mind a mother could desire. If she had a
fear, it was that her nature was too gentle, too pliant, too
ready to forget herself for others, to enable her to battle alone
with a hard and cruel world. Aimée Morton was one of those beings
whom nature seems to intend should be always safely sheltered
from the struggles of life. They should lean on some nature
stronger than their own, like the tendrils which wind themselves
round a tree. But when Mrs. Morton spoke of this fear of hers to
the curé, he only smiled, and bade her remember that it is the
meek who inherit the earth. When, however, Mrs. Morton perceived
that consumption was making rapid strides in her constitution, a
pang of mortal agony shot through her when she thought of what
was to be Aimée's fate, left alone in a pitiless world. The curé
was an old man, and she could not, therefore, hope that he could
long watch over and protect her darling child. Besides, Mrs.
Morton's annuity ceased with her life, and there were no means at
St. Victor for Aimée to earn her bread. She was well educated;
her mother had taken great pains in teaching her, and the curé
had made it his delight to increase her stock of knowledge.
George Morton's father had long since been dead, and Ralph had
succeeded to the full enjoyment of the old man's wealth. No sign
of relenting had come from that death-bed to the unoffending
widow and orphan of his once loved son. And now, emboldened by
the approach of death, which so levels the distinction of earth
in the eyes of those just hovering on eternity, Mrs. Morton wrote
to Ralph, telling him she was on the brink of the grave, and
imploring his help for the child she would leave behind her. She
enclosed her letter in one from the curé and doctor confirming
her statement.

And after many days' suspense the answer had come.

Aimée and her mother lived in a little cottage close by the
presbytery. It had originally been but a peasant's cottage, and
it did, in fact, contain but four small rooms; but Mrs. Morton
had gradually transformed it into a most graceful little home.
Creepers twined round the white walls, and roses peeped in at the
window. A pretty garden surrounded the house; while inside, the
furniture, though simple, was gracefully arranged; flowers,
books, and pictures adorned the little sitting-room, and an air
of refinement pervaded the dwelling. In that sitting-room,
reclining in an easy-chair, propped up with pillows, lay Mrs.
Morton. A stranger would have been astonished to find that Aimée
could possibly have been in ignorance as to her mother's state;
but the change had come so gradually that it was not to be
wondered at that the poor child had fondly hoped on even to the
last. But to other eyes the emaciated form, the sunken eyes, the
hectic glow, the short, dry cough, told their own tale. Aimée
hastened to her mother, and was clasped in her arms in a long,
close embrace.

"You know all, my darling?" said she.

"Yes, sweet mother, the curé has spoken." And Aimée resolutely
steadied her voice and drove back the rising tears. "Be at peace
about me, mother dear. God has given you to me for a long time: I
must not grudge you to him, if he wants you now."

{160}

"My own child!" said Mrs. Morton. And she fondly kissed the
bright, soft brown hair of the head lying on her shoulder. "God
guard thee ever, and he _will_ guard thee. He is the Father
of the orphan. Aimée, I will trust him about you."

"And may be it won't be very long, you know, mother," said Aimée.
"You are going home before me: you will be waiting for me on the
other side."

A long, silent kiss was Mrs. Morton's answer.

"And this letter, mother--may I see it?"

"Yes, dearest, here it is." And a letter in a thick, blue
envelope, with a large, red, official-looking seal, was put into
her hands. Its contents were brief, and might have been supposed
rather to refer to an assignment of goods than the future fate of
an orphan niece.

Mr. Ralph Morton stated that, in the event of Mrs. George
Morton's death, he was willing to adopt her daughter Aimée, to
provide for her during his life, and to leave her a sufficiency
at his death, provided her conduct was such as he should approve
of; that before her arrival in England he should require copies
of his brother's marriage certificate and the child's baptismal
register; that he should be willing to pay all expenses of her
journey to England so soon as he should receive intimation of her
readiness for departure; but that he wished it to be distinctly
understood that he would have nothing to do with his niece during
Mrs. Morton's lifetime, nor would he pay any debts contracted by
that lady, or hold any further communication with her. The blood
rushed to Aimée's cheek and brow as she read the last sentences.
"Even on the threshold of the grave, could not that last insult
have been spared?" thought she. She gave a glance at her mother's
peaceful face, and realized that it is precisely on that
threshold that insult loses its sting. Mr. Morton's taunt had no
power to move the heart so soon to be done with earth.

From this day the mother and daughter often spoke together of the
time when they should be separated, and Aimée received many a
wise counsel from her mother's lips, to be treasured up for days
to come. Mrs. Morton told her all she knew of the character of
the uncle who would soon be her only relative. Very early in life
he had been disappointed in his affections and treated with great
treachery. From that hour he grew hard, morose, and unfeeling,
and threw himself with all the strength of his iron nature into
the acquisition of wealth. Still, however, his strong affection
for his brother George had survived the wreck of his better
nature, and George had always firmly believed that Ralph's anger
would in the event of his death be ended, and that he would
extend protection to his wife and child.

"And therefore, my child," said Mrs. Morton, "I felt compelled to
write once more to your uncle, believing that in doing so I was
fulfilling what would have been my husband's will; and it will
comfort you to feel, when you are with him, that you are doing
what your father would have wished." Mr. Morton was, Mrs. Morton
believed, a man totally without religion. She counselled Aimée to
bear the trials of her lot patiently, to do all she could to
conciliate her uncle, and to draw him to a better life; but, if
she found her life in his house was more than her strength could
bear, or if any principle were in danger, she was to try and seek
employment as a governess. The curé was going to furnish her with
a letter of introduction to a French priest in London, who would
in that case advise her how to act.

{161}

And so the days went on. September, which happened to be that
year a warm, radiant summer month, flew by without any
perceptible change in the invalid; but early in October came cold
north winds, rain, and mists. Mrs. Morton was taken suddenly
worse, and the last sacraments were administered. After receiving
them, she rallied and was able to be lifted from her bed to a
sofa placed near the window. Aimée hardly left her for an
instant; she grudged that any one else but herself should render
any service to the being so soon to leave her. One night Mrs.
Morton awoke from an uneasy sleep; the day was beginning to
break, and, as the feeling of suffocation which she often
experienced in bed came on, Aimée assisted her to the sofa, and
then kneeling by her side, they both watched the sun arise in his
glory, just purpling the day above, then making the heavens
glorious with his presence. Mrs. Morton opened her eyes and took
one long gaze on the earth which looked so fair, and on the
beautiful sky. Then she turned to her daughter, and she laid her
head on that loving breast.

"I am going from you, my Aimée," she said; "but remember always,
I am _not gone to a Stranger_."

Aimée pressed her lips softly, and Mrs. Morton seemed to sleep.
In that attitude the old servant Marthe found them when she
entered the room an hour later. And then only did Aimée wake to
the consciousness that her mother had slept into death, and that
she had heard her last words. Those words rang in Aimée's ears as
she performed the last sacred offices to the dead. Solemnly she
fulfilled her task; there were no tears in the large, soft eyes
or on the pale cheek; she compassed those dear limbs in their
shroud; she crossed the wasted hands upon the breast, and laid
the crucifix, so loved in life, between the fingers; then, when
the curé entered the room, she turned to him and said: "Father,
she is not gone to a Stranger." [Footnote 24]

    [Footnote 24: These words were used by an Irish girl on her
    mother's death.]

"No," he answered; "to her Friend and Brother, and who is also
yours and mine, my child. Leave, then, this poor, earthly
tabernacle, Aimée, for a while, and come and meet her at his
feet." And Aimée went with him to Mass.


       Chapter III.

It was all over: the wasted form of Marie Angelique de Brissac
Morton was laid in the quiet grave, where the rays of the rising
sun would play upon the grass; where the shadow of the sanctuary
wall would shelter it; where wild roses and sweet-brier would
scent the air; where the curé would come daily to say a _De
Profundis_; and which the faithful villagers, who had loved
the sleeper well, would always reverently tend. There Aimée left
her  there she shed her last tears in the early morning before
she began her journey; there she knelt at the curé's feet for his
last blessing, and the old man's voice faltered as he pronounced
the words. Mrs. Morton's death and Aimée's departure had robbed
his life of the little sunshine that it had possessed; but he
murmured not, and rather rejoiced that tie after tie was cut
which should bind him to the love of earth. With far more
calmness than could have been expected, Aimée bade farewell to
the only home and friends she had ever known, and set out to meet
her new and untried future.
{162}
She had never been further than to the country town nearest her
village, and the journey astonished and bewildered her. More than
one compassionate and admiring glance was cast on the slight,
lovely girl, attired in such deep mourning, and whose eyes were
so dim with unshed tears. A trusty farmer of St. Victor, saw her
to the sea-coast, and put her into the charge of the captain of
the vessel in which she was to reach England. He in his turn
consigned her to the guard of the train. At length, Aimée found
herself standing in the great wilderness of a London railway
station, with people jostling, pushing, vociferating, swearing
around her, each intent on his own business, and all unmindful of
others. A footman at last came up to ask her name, and, finding
she was Miss Morton, told her he was sent for her. He showed her
to a fly, which was waiting, and having found her luggage, she
was soon rolling through the streets. At those long, dreary,
interminable streets Aimée looked with a kind of awe and
oppression. She was thankful when the carriage stopped at the
door of one of the large, gloomy-looking mansions to be found in
Russell Square. Another footman opened the door, and she entered.
No voice welcomed her, no hand was stretched out to meet hers, no
smile greeted her. A housemaid appeared to lead her up-stairs.
She found herself in possession of a large room, furnished in the
heavy style in fashion forty years ago. A luxurious four-post
mahogany bedstead half-filled the apartment, hung with dark-brown
damask; the window-curtains were of the same hue. There was a
massive wardrobe, chairs which could hardly be moved, and an
empty fireplace. Aimée shuddered, but not with cold; and, when
the door closed behind the servant, she threw herself into a
chair and wept bitterly. Presently she rose, weeping still, but
it was to cast herself on her knees and press her crucifix to her
lips. She soon grew calm; the sense of loneliness passed away.
She had a Friend who never left her, in whose company the
dreariest room was bright; and Aimée rose comforted and at peace.
She went to the window and looked out. Below her was a small
paved court, and beyond the house a vista of other houses and
lanes; not a speck of green or a flower met her eye; but she
looked higher still, and she saw the sky, very cloudy at that
moment certainly; "but then," thought she, "it will be often
blue, and I can always look at it." And so she tried to enliven
the prospect. A knock at the door interrupted her musings, and
there entered a cheerful, elderly woman, who courtesied
respectfully, and announced she was Mrs. Connell, the
housekeeper. As her eyes travelled over Aimée's sad, wan face and
deep black, an expression of compassion and interest came into
her countenance. "Do you want anything, miss?" she asked. "Sure,
it was only this morning that Mr. Morton told me you were coming,
and so things are hardly straight for you. Will you take some
tea, ma'am? Dinner won't be served for an hour."

"Is my uncle at home?"

"No, miss, and will not be for half an hour; then he goes to
dress, and then dinner is served. Why, Miss Morton," said the
good woman, brightening as she saw Aimée's crucifix on the table,
"you're a Catholic! To be sure, I never thought of that, though I
knew Mr. George had married a French lady."

"Are you one, Mrs. Connell?" said Aimée, with a smile.

{163}

"To be sure, miss. I am an Irish woman, as perhaps you may know."
But as Aimée had never heard English save from her mother and the
curé, Mrs. Connell's accent was quite lost upon her. She felt,
however, she had found a friend; and she gladly accepted Mrs.
Connell's help in unpacking and getting ready for the formidable
interview with her uncle. They met in the drawing-room a few
moments before dinner. Mr. Morton put out two of his fingers with
an icy, "How are you?" after which he relapsed into silence. When
dinner was announced, he gave her his arm, and they went into the
dining-room. Two footmen and a butler waited. The plate was
magnificent, the dinner very fine; but not one word was addressed
to the poor, lonely girl, too terrified to eat. Once or twice she
made a desperate effort to break the ice of her own accord, but
she found evidently that this was disliked, and she gave it up.
And so day succeeded day, and there was no alteration in her
uncle's behavior. He might have been deaf and dumb as far as
intercourse with him was concerned. His orders about her--few,
brief, and decisive--were given to Mrs. Council. She was to
furnish herself with clothes from certain shops which he named,
and whose bills were to be sent to him. As soon as possible, she
was to leave off her heavy mourning. She was never to go out
alone; and as for exercise, the Square Gardens would suffice. And
having delivered himself of these sentiments, Mr. Morton
apparently considered his duty to his orphan niece was done. He
provided her with neither employment nor amusement; he gave her
no pocket money; and she had nothing but a small sum which
remained to her when all the expenses at St. Victor were paid.
The young girl, brought up, as she had been, in the open country,
accustomed to sea and mountain air, to work in her garden, and
take long, rambling walks to the hamlets round the village, felt
like a caged bird pacing up and down the gravel paths of Russell
Square, and watching the London blacks settle on the leafless
trees. She enjoyed one comfort, that of the daily walk to Mass
with Mrs. Connell; and be the weather what it might, the two
figures of the old woman and young girl might be seen flitting
through the dusk to the nearest Catholic church. Still it was
almost impossible to avoid losing both health and spirits in such
an atmosphere. She was very courageous, and she struggled
resolutely against depression and _ennui_, a word of which
she for the first time began to understand the meaning. She wrote
long letters to the curé, and his answers, containing every scrap
of village news, were eagerly devoured, as well as some beautiful
thoughts on higher themes which he never failed to give her. She
pulled down the long disused books in her uncle's library, and,
guided by a list the curé had given her--for in the days of exile
he had attained a good knowledge of English literature--she read
a good deal. She practised on the old, long-disused piano in the
drawing-room, much to Mrs. Connell's delight. She tried to teach
herself Italian; and, as visiting the poor was strictly forbidden
by her uncle, she spent some of her own money in buying
materials, and made clothes for them. Then, in the Square
Gardens, she made friends with the children who with their
nurse-maids overspread the place. She soon became their friend,
favorite, and slave, was alternately a horse for Master Walter
and a lady in waiting for Miss Beatrice, or a perpetual fountain
of story-telling to the whole tribe. Society she saw literally
none; one guest only ever sat at Mr. Morton's table, and his
appearance Aimée soon learnt to dread rather than desire.
{164}
Mr. Hulme was Mr. Morton's partner, a little wiry man with sharp
ferret eyes, and his harsh cynical conversation was far worse to
Aimée than her uncle's silence. He took little notice of her; but
it was deeply painful to the poor girl to have all that she held
most sacred treated as a fit subject for scorn and ridicule, to
hear honor and faith and nobility and truth scoffed at as
impossibilities. Many natures might have been warped by hearing
such sentiments; but Aimée's childlike faith and innocence were a
secure shield, and not one of Mr. Hulme's coarse remarks ever
clung to her memory.



           Chapter IV.

Every now and again Aimée understood that _she_, though not
directly named, formed the subject of conversation between the
two partners. She was in some way connected with the return of
"Robert," though who Robert was, or where he was coming from, she
had not the slightest conception, and she felt too weary at heart
to indulge much curiosity. Christmas came, and poor Aimée's heart
was sore indeed. At such a period the happiest family has some
sad memories--there are some vacant places at the board, some
voices whose tone we listen for in vain; but with Aimée what a
change since last year! She could not but think of the midnight
Mass, the gathering of the villagers, the sky radiant with stars,
her mother's kiss, the curé's blessing; how, later in the day,
she had waited on the poor and gladdened many a heart, and how
she had trimmed the church's arches with holly, and how she had
dressed the _crèche_. Now there were no such delights for
her; still she drove back her tears. She thought of her mother's
Christmas in heaven, really singing the angelic song. And in the
dingy London chapel a few holly-berries were glistening, and upon
the altar was the same Lord, the same Friend and Comforter; and
Aimée, as she walked home through the streets, when a fog was
beginning to turn to rain, and when every object looked a dirty
brown color, felt in her heart that she possessed the greatest
blessing the festival could bring--_peace of heart_.

She dreaded the dinner because she feared Mr. Hulme would be
present; but on entering the drawing-room she found, to her
surprise, a gentleman whom she had never seen before. He was
lying back in one of the easy-chairs, a newspaper in his hand, as
if quite at home. On her entrance he sprang to his feet, and
Aimée saw he was a young man about five-and-twenty, with a fair,
open countenance beaming with good humor and cheerfulness.

"Miss Morton, I presume. Allow me to introduce myself, as there
is no one at hand to perform the ceremony. I am Robert Claydon,
at your service, nephew to the redoubtable Mr. Hulme. I am not
vain enough to suppose he has talked of me in my absence."

"I have heard him speak of some one called Robert," said Aimée,
smiling.

"I have been in Holland these three months," he replied, "on
business of the firm, and only returned last night."

The entrance of Mr. Morton and Mr. Hulme put a stop to the
conversation; but Aimée soon found that dinner was a very
different matter in presence of the new guest.

{165}

Mr. Hulme was in the highest good humor, Mr. Morton less icy than
usual, while Robert's flow of spirits seemed inexhaustible. All
the little incidents of an ordinary journey from Hamburg to
London were told in such a manner as to make them amusing; and
when Aimée went to bed that night, she felt as if a ray of
sunshine had suddenly lightened her life. Sunshine, indeed, was
the word that could best express the effect produced by Robert
Claydon's presence. There was sunshine in his laughing blue eyes,
in his merry smile, in his joyous voice. Having learned the
secret of personal happiness, his one desire was to make others
happy, and morose indeed were the natures he did not gladden; and
Aimée soon found that he was not only bright and genial, but
noble in character and heart.

Mr. Hulme had long intended to make Robert his heir, and since
the arrival of Aimée, the partners had formed the scheme of
marrying her to Robert, and thus keeping the property of the firm
intact. Her wishes in the matter the old men little thought of,
nor were Robert's much considered, except that they each knew too
well Robert would not be dictated to in so important a matter as
the choice of a wife.

It was, however, not long after his return to England that the
"firm" intimated the purport of their august will to Robert.

"The course of true love never did run smooth," was his smiling
answer. "This little Aimée is, I believe, the very ideal I have
imagined to myself for a wife, and by all laws of romance, you,
our respected uncles, ought to forbid the match, or cut us off
with a shilling, instead of actually urging us on; but now,
remember," added he, "a fair field, or I am off the bargain. No
using of commands to the poor little maiden. I will win her on my
own merits and after my own fashion, or not at all." And so the
weeks passed on, and Robert began seriously to doubt whether he
had really made progress. Aimée was always pleased to see him;
she had lost all shyness and embarrassment in his presence. There
is no self-possession so perfect as that given by simplicity, and
Aimée, who rarely thought about herself, was always at her ease.
She trusted Robert implicitly, and had learned to tell him about
her home, her former pursuits, and even of her darling mother.
She never tried to analyze her feelings; she only knew that her
whole life was changed since that Christmas-day by the constant
intercourse with this new friend; and Robert, whose whole heart
was given to her, feared that she only regarded him with sisterly
affection, and he feared to speak the words which might, instead
of crowning his hopes, banish him from her side.

One evening in the early spring, Aimée was sitting at the piano
trying some new music Robert had given her. Robert was not far
off, and Mr. Hulme and Mr. Morton were lingering, according to
their custom, in the dining-room. A servant entered with letters.

"Are there any for me?" said Aimée, turning round eagerly. "The
French letters often come by this post, and it is so long since I
heard from St. Victor."

"Yes," said Robert, bringing the letter to her, "here it is,
post-mark, foreign stamp, and all."

"But not his handwriting?" said Aimée in a surprised tone, and
she tore the letter open. A sudden paleness overspread her face,
and the letter fell from her hands, and she looked up into
Robert's face with an expression of mute agony.

{166}

"My poor child!" said Robert, in a tone so gentle, so full of
sympathy, that Aimée broke down.

"He is gone!" she sobbed out; "my last, my only friend."

"Nay, not so," cried Robert; "I would give my life for you, my
Aimée--my love--my love! O darling! _can_ you care for me;
can you give me your heart for mine?"

She gave one look only from her innocent eyes, still full of
tears, but that one glance sufficed; it removed all doubt from
Robert's mind. He felt that he was indeed beloved with a woman's
first and ardent attachment; and gathering her into his arms, he
bade her weep out her sorrows on his breast, henceforth to be her
refuge. Henceforth their joys and their sorrows were to be in
common. After a time they read the letter together. It was from
the doctor of St. Victor, and told how the old curé had died
suddenly while kneeling before the altar in silent prayer--a
frequent custom of his throughout the day. He had fallen
sideways, his head resting on the altar-step, a smile of
childlike sweetness on his lips, his rosary twined about his
hands, his breviary by his side--a soldier with his armor on, he
had been called by his Master to join the church triumphant. For
such a loss there could be no bitterness, and Aimée's sorrow was
calm and gentle. And round her life now there hung a halo such as
had never brightened it before. She had been happy with her
mother, and in her village, with the springtide joy of childhood
and early youth; but now the rich, full summer of her life was
come. True it was, no voice, save poor Mrs. Connell's, wished her
joy. She had no mother or sister or even friend to tell out the
many new thoughts that her position brought to her mind; but, to
make up for this, she found she had won a heart such as rarely
falls to the lot of mortal.

To the lonely girl Robert was literally all--mother, and brother,
and lover in one. Her happiness, not his own gratification, was
the pervading thought of his life. She was not only loved, but
watched over tenderly and cared for with exceeding
thoughtfulness. There was, of course, nothing to wait for; and as
soon as the settlements were drawn up, Easter would have come,
and then the marriage would take place. Knowing Aimée's love for
the country, Robert took a cottage in one of the pretty villages
that surround London, and there, as he planned, they could garden
together in the summer evenings and sometimes take a row upon the
Thames.

Meanwhile, Robert took Aimée away as much as possible from the
gloomy atmosphere of Russell Square. They went together to the
Parks and to Kensington Gardens, where the trees were fast
beginning to put on their first, fresh green; and they went
together to the different Catholic churches, for the beautiful
services which abound in such variety during Lent; and during
their walks to and fro Aimée learned more and more of the
nobility of the mind that was hereafter to guide and govern her
own. They were no ordinary lovers, these two; their affection was
too pure, too deep, too _real_ to need much outward
demonstration, or many expressions of its warmth. They knew each
possessed the other's heart, and that was enough. Their
conversation often ran on grave subjects; and often, leaving the
things of earth, they mounted to the thoughts of a higher and
better life--and Aimée found, to her astonishment, that the young
merchant, active in business, the laughing, merry Robert in
society, was in reality leading in secret a life of strict
Christian holiness, and that the secret of the perpetual sunshine
of his nature proceeded from his having found out where alone the
heart of man can find it.
{167}
Deep as was his love for her, Aimée knew it was second only to
his love for his Creator; and at the call of duty he would not
hesitate to sacrifice the dearest hopes of his life. Here, she
felt, she could not follow him; her love for him very nearly
approached idolatry. The thought was painful, and she banished it
from her mind, and gave herself up to the full enjoyment of her
first perfect dream of bliss.

It was a late Easter, and the feast came in a glorious burst of
spring, Only a brief ten days now intervened between Aimée's
marriage-day. Already the simple bridal attire was ready; "for,"
as Mrs. Connell observed, "there was nothing like being in time;"
and the orange-flowers and the veil were already in the good
housekeeper's charge, and she looked forward with no little
pleasure to the novel sight of a wedding from her master's gloomy
abode. Robert wished Aimée to see the house he had taken for
their future home; and early in Easter week Mrs. Connell
accompanied them thither, to give her sage advice as to the
finishing touches of furniture and house-linen. It really was a
little gem of a house, surrounded with fairy-like gardens, with
tall trees shading it on one side, and the silver Thames shining
in the foreground; and as Aimée stood, silent with delight,
before the open French window of her drawing-room, Robert showed
her a little steeple peeping through the trees, and told her the
pretty new Catholic church was not five minutes' walk from their
abode. "And this tiny room, dearest," said he, opening a
miniature window adjoining the drawing-room, "I thought we would
make into a little oratory, and hang up those pictures and
crucifix which belonged to your dead mother."

Aimée's head fell on his shoulder. "Robert, I feel as if it were
much _too bright_ for earth. The curé always seemed to be
trying to prepare me for a life of suffering, for a sad future,
for a heavy cross. Long before mamma's death, he used to speak so
much in the confessional of the love of suffering, of
_enduring_ life--and I always believed he had some strange
insight into the future. But where is the suffering in my lot
now, Robert, I ask myself sometimes, _where is the cross?_"

"It will come, my dear one," answered he with his bright smile;
"never fear, God gives us sunshine sometimes, and we must be
ready for the clouds when they come, but we need not be looking
out for them. We may have some great trials together--who knows?
But now come and look at the way I am going to lay out my
garden." Aimée followed him without answering, but in her heart
there swelled the thought that, _with him_, no trial could
be really great.

On returning to town, Robert took leave of Aimée at the station
and put her and Mrs. Connell into a car, and promised to return
to Russell Square for dinner. As the car rolled through the
streets, now bright and cheerful in the sunlight, Aimée thought
of her first journey through them six months before, and how her
life, then so sad, had so strangely brightened; and it was with a
radiant face that she entered the gloomy portal of her uncle's
house.

The footman stopped Mrs. Connell as she followed her young
mistress. "My master has come home," he said, "and asked for you,
and precious cross he was because you wasn't in; he seems ill
like, for he sent for a cup of tea."

{168}

"Master at home! a cup of tea!" ejaculated Mrs. Connell in
dismay, and she hastened to the study to find Mr. Morton
shivering over the fire, and so testy and irritable it was
difficult to know what to do for him. He was evidently ill, but
would not hear of sending for a doctor. "Nonsense, he was never
ill; he should dine as usual," he exclaimed sharply; but when
dinner-time came, he was unable to partake of it, and his illness
was so evidently gaining on him that he yielded to Robert's
persuasion, and Dr. Bruce was summoned. The doctor ordered his
patient to bed, looked serious, and promised to come again in the
morning. By that time Mr. Morton was delirious, and it was with
no surprise that the household learnt the illness was a low
typhus fever. A nurse was sent for to assist Mrs. Connell. Aimée
was forbidden to approach the bedroom, and the wedding was
postponed.



      Chapter V.


Robert's first wish had been to send Aimée away, but she shrank
from the idea, and as Dr. Bruce considered the risk of infection
had already been run, he did not press the point. He was careful
to take her out as much as possible into the open air, and to
prevent the silence and gloom of the house from depressing her.
Mr. Morton's life was in the utmost danger, and therefore, do
what they would, they could not be so cheerful as before.
Hitherto the lovers had, by a tacit consent, avoided the mention
of Aimée's uncle; for the six months that had elapsed since she
had entered his doors had made no difference apparently in Mr.
Morton's feelings toward her. He was as icy as ever; and when her
engagement was announced, he never wished her joy or seemed glad
of it for her sake. Cold and hard he naturally was, but Aimée
could not but feel that he had an actual dislike to her; for he
would smile now and then at Mr. Hulme's jokes, and his manner to
Robert often verged on cordiality. With her only he was
invariably silent, stern, and freezing; and poor Aimée's heart,
so full of affection, so ready to be grateful for the little he
did for her, felt deeply pained. But now Robert and she spoke
anxiously of that soul which was hanging in the balance between
life and death. He had lived without God, in open defiance of his
laws, in avowed disbelief of the very existence of his Maker, and
now was he, without an hour's consciousness, without any space
for repentance, to be hurried into the presence of his Judge?
They shrank in horror from the thought; and many were their
prayers, many were the Masses offered up that God in his mercy
would not cut off this man in his sins. Their prayers were
granted; he did not die, and after three weeks of intense
anxiety, the crisis passed, and he began to mend. Mental
improvement was not to be perceived with returning health. No
expression of gratitude for having escaped death crossed his
lips--apparently the shadow of death had not terrified him--he
rose up from his sick-bed as hard, as cynical, as icy as before.
And Aimée's fond hope that at last he would thaw to her was
disappointed. As soon as Mr. Morton could leave his room, Dr.
Bruce prescribed change of air; and it was arranged that Robert
and Aimée should accompany him. Mrs. Connell was so thoroughly
used up with nursing that she was to be sent to take a holiday
among her friends in Ireland.

{169}

It was hard work to persuade Mr. Morton to go at all, still
harder to find a place to suit him; he moved from spot to spot,
till at last, to his companions' surprise, he seemed to take a
fancy for a wild spot on the North Devon coast, and there settled
down for some weeks. It was a most out-of-the-way spot, and the
only place in which they could reside was a homely village inn.
It pleased him, however, and day by day he rapidly regained his
strength. Robert and Aimée were well contented; the beauty and
quiet of the place were delightful, and not a mile from it was a
Catholic church, which happened to be served by a priest who had
known Robert in his boyhood. Great was Aimée's pleasure in
listening to their laughing reminiscences of bygone years, and
greater still was her happiness when she chanced to be left alone
with Father Dunne, and he spoke of Robert, of his innocent
childhood, his holy life, the bright example he set in his
position, and assured her that few women had won such a prize as
she had for life. Then Aimée's heart swelled with joy and pride.
On one lovely day in June, Aimée was specially happy; for her
uncle's improvement was so marked, Robert had been asking her to
fix an early day in July for their wedding. Mr. Hulme and Mrs.
Connell could join them, and they could be married at this little
church, which had become dear to them, and Father Dunne could
pronounce the nuptial benediction. Aimée greatly preferred this
to being married in London, and her heart was very light. That
morning she had knelt by Robert's side at communion. She could
not help observing the rapt, almost celestial expression of his
face afterward. It was the Feast of the Sacred Heart, and Father
Dunne had Benediction early in the afternoon.

As they walked to church together, their conversation turned on
religious subjects, and Robert spoke in a more unreserved way
than he had ever done before. He spoke of Heaven, the rest it
would be after earth's toils, of the sweetness of sacrifice, of
the joy of God's service. Aimée was silent. He looked down into
her face.

"Well," he said, smiling, "is it not true?"

"O Robert!" she cried, "your love is heaven to me now! Is not,
oh! is not mine so to you?"

"No, my Aimée," he answered, gravely yet sweetly; "my heart's
darling, God first, then you."

"I cannot!" she answered, in a stifled voice.

"You will soon, darling, never fear. I prayed this morning that
our love might be sanctified, might draw us closer to God--and I
feel it will be so. Pray with me for it at Benediction."

So they went and knelt before the altar, and their Lord blessed
them as they bent before him. Passing out of church, Father Dunne
joined them, and remarked on the beauty of the evening.

"We shall go with my uncle on the cliff," said Aimée, "and watch
the coast."

"And perhaps I shall meet you there," answered the priest, "for I
have a sick call from which I can return in that direction." So
saying, he turned into another road.

Mr. Morton was ready when they returned to the inn, and the three
passed up on the cliff and wandered on far beyond their usual
distance. They came to a part where the cliff was one sheer sheet
of rock descending to the beach, save one large crag which jutted
out, and on one side obscured the view.
{170}
Aimée had a great horror of looking down any steep place, and
shrank back from the cliff, while Mr. Morton, who despised her
weakness, always chose to walk at the very edge.

"See here, little one," said Robert, "here is a safe place for
you." An iron stanchion had been thrust into the ground, and a
thick rope was carelessly coiled round it. "It must be used for
throwing signals to the boats below," said Robert, "but you can
lean against it, Aimée."

"I think I shall step on that crag, Robert," said Mr. Morton, "if
you will lend me an arm. I want to catch the whole view at once."

"O uncle!" said Aimée, in a tone of terror.

"Do you think it is very prudent, sir?" remarked Robert. "It is
none too wide to stand on."

"Oh! very well," said Mr. Morton testily, "if you are afraid, I
shall go by myself." Robert's merry laugh was the only answer,
and, giving his arm to Mr. Morton, they both descended.

Aimée hid her face, sick with terror. She heard their voices for
a minute, then, O horror! what was that? A crash, a rush, a
sudden shout of pain! She rushed to the edge to see the crag
detach itself from the rock, and the two figures falling. She saw
both clutching for some support--she saw both catch hold of
different bits of rock jutting out--she knew, for her senses were
sharpened by fear, that they could not long sustain their weight.
She thought of the rope, rushed for it, uncoiled it, and ran
back. All was the work of one moment. An unnatural activity
seemed to possess her. She was like one in a dream. She saw the
rope would not reach both; she must choose between them; and
Another could see her! But on the still evening air, with her
ears quickened unnaturally, she heard oaths from one; from the
other, "Lord, into thy hands I commend my spirit."

Aimée threw the rope to Mr. Morton, and saw him catch it. The
next instant she heard another crash--a dull _thud_, as of
something falling--and nature could bear no more. Aimée fell on
the ground insensible just as Father Dunne, and some laborers
alarmed by the shout in the distance, came running to the spot.

When Aimée woke to consciousness, she was in her own bed at the
inn. Her first thought was, that she had been dreaming; but she
started back, the landlady was walking by her, and now came
forward, trying to put on an appearance of composure.

"My uncle?" said Aimée.

"Lies in bed, miss, and going on well," answered the good woman
hurriedly.

Aimée gave one searching look into Mrs. Barton's face, and sank
back on her pillow. In another moment the door opened, Mrs.
Barton disappeared, and Father Dunne stood by her side. The
silent look at him was all she gave.

"Yes, my child," he said, "your sacrifice has been accepted, and
Robert is with those who follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth."
And then, sitting down beside her, the priest drew out the truth
which, by a sudden instinct, he had all but guessed. No one but
he ever knew it; it was generally believed that Robert had failed
to catch the rope when thrown to him--he had fallen on the beach,
and was dashed to pieces. Aimée could not look upon his form or
kiss for the last time the pale, cold face. He had passed in one
brief instant from her sight for aye. In the heat of noonday her
sun had gone down.

{171}

From this fresh shock to his constitution Mr. Morton could not
rally; he was fearfully shaken and bruised, but he lingered many
weeks, and Aimée waited on him with a daughter's care. And at
last the stern heart was softened, and Mr. Morton implored mercy
from the God he had so long offended. He died a sincere penitent;
and the grief for Robert's death caused a salutary change in Mr.
Hulme also. Aimée had now become a great heiress, but money
cannot heal a broken heart. She would fain have remained in the
little village where the tragedy of her life had been worked out,
and devote herself to the poor; but Father Dunne would not allow
it, and to him she now looked for guidance and help. He made her
go to Italy and Rome in company with some quiet friends of his
own for two years; and time and the sight of the woes of others
gradually softened Aimée's grief. And by degrees a great peace
stole over her spirit; a love deeper than hers for Robert took
possession of her heart; and the hour came when she acknowledged
that in sacrifice lay much sweetness. She did not live many
years; she distributed her large fortune among various good
works. A fair church replaces the humble building in which Robert
and she for the last time prayed together, and a convent stands
near the spot where he breathed out his last sigh to God. And
when her work was done, death came to Aimée; and, with a smile on
her lips, and joy in her eyes, she went to meet again those
fondly loved, so strangely lost on earth.

--------

    Sayings Of The Fathers Of The Desert.


Abbot Pambo once asked Abbot Antony what he should do. The
venerable man replied: Do not rely too much upon your own
sanctity; never have useless regrets for what has passed, and
always be watchful over your tongue and your appetite.


Saint Gregory used to say: God requires these three things of
every man who has been baptized; strong and living faith,
moderation in speech, and chastity of body.


Abbot Joseph the Theban said: There are three classes of men who
are pleasing in the sight of the Lord. The first are those who,
though weak, accept temptations with a thankful heart. The second
are those who perform all their actions before God with purity of
heart and without human motives. The third are those who subject
themselves to the commands of their spiritual Father and entirely
renounce their own will.

{172}

Abbot Cassian narrates of Abbot John that, when he was on his
deathbed and preparing to depart with joyful soul, his brethren
stood around him and earnestly besought that he would leave them
as an heritage a compendium, as it were, of sanctity, by means of
which they might rise to that perfection which is in Christ. Then
he with sighs replied: I have never done my own will, nor have I
ever taught any one anything which I have not previously done
myself.


Abbot Pastor said: To be watchful, to examine one's self, to be
discreet, are the three great duties of the soul.


They tell of Abbot Pambo that, when about to die, he said to
those holy men who stood near: From the time when I first came to
this place and built my cell and dwelt therein, I do not remember
to have eaten bread that I did not gain by the labor of my hands,
nor have I ever repented of any thing that I have said up to this
very hour. And thus I go to the Lord, I who have not even begun
to serve God.


Abbot Sisois said: Be abject and cast pleasures away; be free and
secure from the cares of the world, and you shall have rest.



A brother once asked a father how one may acquire a fear of the
Lord. And he replied: If a man practise humility and poverty, and
judge not another, he shall surely fear the Lord.


A certain father used to say: If thou hate one who speaks ill of
thee, speak ill of no one; if thou hate him who calumniates thee,
do not calumniate anyone; if thou hate him who injures thee or
takes away what is thine, or does any thing of a like nature, do
none of these things to any one. He who can observe this rule
shall be saved.

--------

            All Souls' Day.

                1866.


  On every cross or slab, a wreath--on some,
    Two, three, or more--of radiant autumn leaves,
  Mingled with gold and white chrysanthemum;
    Even the nameless, unmarked grave receives
      Some pledge from mortal love
  Unto peace-parted souls, we trust, with God above.

  The choral chaunt is hushed, the Mass is said:
    Noon, but already the last pilgrim gone:
  Brief visits pay the living to the dead,
    But once a year we meet o'er those we mourn.
      I wait unwatched, alone,
  To muse o'er some once loved, o'er many more unknown.

{173}

  That cross of marble, with its sculptured base,
    Guards the blest ashes of a friend whose form
  Was half my boyhood; his arch, laughing face--
    The last you'd take to front a coming storm,
      Or dare what none else durst:
  Read how he fell, of all the best and bravest, first!

  Another pastor near him lies asleep,
    Fresh wreaths, love-woven, mark the newer sod;
  Each lettered white cross bids me pause to weep
    Some lost companion or some man of God.
      Beneath this sacred ground,
  More friends I number than in all the world around.

  There, side by side, far from the forfeit home
    For which they vainly bled, three soldiers rest,
  In sight of the round peak, whose bannered dome
    Crowns the defiles wherein the fiery crest
      Of a dead nation paled
  Before the heights, where erst the great Virginian failed.

  Westward, a little higher up the steep,
    Rests a young mother--on her cross, a bar
  Of golden music: since she fell asleep
    The world she left has somehow seemed ajar;
      Those patient, peaceful eyes,
  With which she watched the world, diffused sweet harmonies.

  For she was pure--pure as the snows of Yule
    That hailed her birth: pure as the autumnal snow
  That flecked her coffin: she was beautiful,
    Heroic, gentle: none could ever know
      That face and then forget:
  Though vanished years ago, her smile seems living yet.

  And near her, happy in that nearness, lies
    The world-worn consul by his best-loved child--
  The first rest of a life of sacrifice:
    The native stars, that on his labors smiled
      So rarely, o'er the wave
  Beckoned him to the peace of home--and of the grave.

  Here, too, a relic of primeval ways
    And statelier manners, mingled with the grace
  Of Israel: in the evening of her days,
    Baptized at fourscore--strongest of her race,
      Yet twice a child--that rain
  Supernal leaving all those years without a stain.

{174}

  And thou, young soldier, teach me how to turn
    From earth to heaven, as in the solemn hour
  Thy soul was turned. Ah! well for thee to learn
    So soon that festal board and bridal flower
      May foil the out-stretched hand:
  That life's best conquest is the holy afterland.

  Holding the very summit of the slope,
    A pointed chapel, girt with evergreen
  And frailer summer foliage--still as hope--
    Watches the east for morning's earliest sheen:
      Beneath it slumbers one
  For whom the tears of unextinguished grief still run.

  A twelve-month mourned, yet deeper now the loss
    Than when first fell the slowly sudden doom,
  And on her pale breast lay the unmoving cross:
    Lone tenant of that solitary tomb,
      Love's daily widowed prayer
  Still craves reunion in thy chambered sepulchre.

  The sunset shadow of this chapel falls
    Upon a classmate's grave: a rare delight
  Laughed in his youth: but, one by one, the halls
    Of life were darkened, till, amid the night,
      A single star remained--
  Bright herald of the paradise by tears regained.

  High in the bending trees the north wind sings,
    The shining chestnut to my feet is rolled
  The shivering mountains, bare as bankrupt kings,
    Sit beggared of their purple and their gold:
      The naked plain below
  Sighs to the clouds, impatient of its robe of snow.

  Death is in all things: yet how small it seems,
    God's chosen acre on this mountain-side:
  A speck, a mote: while yonder cornland gleams
    With hoarded plenty, stretching far and wide.
      A hundred acres there
  Content not one: one acre serves a thousand here.

  Ah! we forget them in our changing lot--
    Forget the past in present weal or woe;
  But yet, perchance, more angels guard this spot
    Than wander in the living fields below:
      And, as I pass the gate,
  The world without seems strangely void and desolate.

--------

{175}


    The Function of the Subjective in Religion. [Footnote 25]

    [Footnote 25: This Paper was read before the Academia of the
    Catholic Religion, in London, June 11, 1867, by Very Rev. W.
    H. Anderdon, D.D., M.A. Oxon.]

Any one not a Catholic, but fairly acquainted with the church's
past and present, if he had to define by a term her prevailing
character, would use some such word as _unchangeable_. He
might use it with admiration, as historians have done; or with
vexation and anger, as controversialists do. He might regard it
as a quality that raised the church above, or kept it behind the
age; made it venerable and noble, or deprived it of all
progressive and free spirit. But, with evil report or good
report, and in whatever contrast with the communions around it,
which rise and fall, are modified and melt away, he would confess
the church to be unchangeable.

The Catholic accepts this statement, and completes it by adding
the cause of the church's preternatural sameness. He calls it
"the pillar and ground of the truth;" the perpetual home and
impregnable fortress of the divine revelation. The
characteristics of the one faith, he says, follow those of the
one Lord, as the shadow attends the substance which projects it.
The mystical spouse is immutable in faith and morality, because
with her divine Lord there is "no change nor shadow of
vicissitude." The passage of centuries, phases of human society,
rise, progress, and dissolution of theories and religious
opinions leave her where they found her; because "Jesus Christ is
yesterday and to-day, and the same forever." "_Tempus non
occurrit Ecclesiae_;" because He is "Alpha and Omega, the
beginning and the end," "who inhabiteth eternity."

This is but to say that religion is essentially objective.
Religion, if true, is divine; if divine, above the recipient; if
above him, authoritative; if authoritative, over him,
uninfluenced by him. It is the mould and matrix in which he is to
be cast and receive shape; not the material on which his mind is
to work by process of individual judgment. This objective
character enters so completely into the idea of revelation, that
the wonder is, how the term "private judgment" should have found
place in the language of professing Christians. When did it
arise? Who was its author? Was it pre-Lutheran? May we not rather
say, it was pre-Adamite? He who led our parents astray in
Paradise, by a suggestion of private judgment, had already
inaugurated what he has since taught men to call the "right" of
exercising it, when he revolted against the foresight given to
him of his Maker's future incarnation. And the apostle, more
closely to our point, condemns all subjective religious opinions
when he says, "If thou judge the law, thou art not a doer of the
law, but a judge." To judge implies superiority of intelligence,
better means of knowing, and the capacity of a teacher: to learn
is the acknowledgment of inferiority, and the submission of
desiring to receive. But if revelation could be modified by the
mind of the receiver, that is, if faith could be subjective, the
disciple would be exalted into a critic, and private judgment
would occupy the position of faith. The "doer of the law" and the
"judge" would change places. This breaks up the whole tribunal,
and implies a revolt against the primary authority of revelation.

{176}

Hence, nothing is more common with us than to say, that the
revelation which comes from God, and is proposed by the church,
admits of no criticism short of absolute rejection. To one,
indeed, who has never yet received this full revelation, to
criticise is a necessary act, and lies on the way toward
accepting. The case of the Bereans is here in point, and of those
Athenians who believed when St. Paul preached on Mars' Hill.
Dionysius the Areopagite and Damaris criticised equally with the
Epicureans and Stoics, to show the apostle was a "babbler;"
though with a different result. But to one who has inherited the
faith, or has been brought by private judgment, guided by the
notes of the church, which are _preambula fidei_, up to the
threshold, and then by an act of supernatural belief has passed
within, every after-criticism means rejection. True religion must
ever refuse to be treated by its disciples as opinion. If faith,
it is not opinion; if it were opinion, it would cease to be
faith. The choice as to revelation is a simple alternative:
accept the whole and believe; reject the whole and disbelieve.
_Ou Catholique, ou Déiste_, as Fénélon said long ago.

No one, then, can retain his Catholic sense, and speak of
accommodating faith, or subjective religion. We have lately heard
one voice from out of doors uttering incoherent words about a
"maximum" and a "minimum," which are supposed to have some
undefined point of junction and cohesion. [Footnote 26] But such
invitations and embassies of peace sound to us like the uncouth
attempts of the Thracian ambassador, in the ancient comedy, to
explain in something like Greek a message into which his native
tongue largely enters. It is hard to make such a foreign dialect
intelligible to those who are accustomed to the pure Attic of the
church's voice.

    [Footnote 26: Dr. Pusey lately, in a letter to one of the
    public newspapers, reported a conversation which he had held
    with a foreign layman, who expressed his opinion that the
    Anglican _maximum_ and the Catholic _minimum_ might
    be found to coincide sufficiently to form the basis of some
    kind of union. In his _Eirenicon_, also, pp. 17, 18, he
    quotes some words from Du Pin, Dr. Doyle, an another, in
    proof of what he calls "the large-hearted statements of Roman
    Catholics of other days."]

So far we have advanced by negation. There can be nothing
subjective in a revelation propounded by omniscience, and through
an infallible organ. To suppose criticism or modification of
dogma in the mind of the recipient, is like supposing motion
during a process of photography, or of crystallization. It
implies free agency indeed; but it destroys the truth and
accuracy of the whole process. "Be still, and see that I am God."
In this stillness, which is passiveness in one sense, and this
intuitive gaze upon truths revealed, consists the high
prerogative of faith. This forms its noble attribute, and lifts
it to a sovereignty over all other acts of the human
intelligence.

On the other hand, what place is to be found in true religion for
the _subjective_ principle? In what department does or can
the Catholic system adapt itself to the manifold diversities
between men, enter into their idiosyncrasies, and speak to them
individually? Can it become to each of us the personal and
intimate thing, which may converse with us as a friend while we
submit to it as an authoritative guide? Does it take account of
me, with my turn of character and peculiar needs, while it
promulgates canons and definitions for my acceptance, in common
with the two hundred millions who own its sway? Granted that
Catholicity is objective in its essence, is it subjective in any
of its qualities or manifestations?

{177}

To see the breadth of this question, it should be viewed in
connection with the acknowledged needs of human nature. The first
requisite to a soul is truth; and it may be said, its first act
is an act of desire after truth, even abstract. But as primary,
too, is man's need of some one above himself to inspire a
reverential and a personal love. In order to love, indeed, he
must first know; for neither will nor affections can go forth
toward the utterly unknown. Still, in religious truth, love is
the perfection of knowledge. "The end of the commandment is
charity, from a pure heart, and a good conscience, and an
unfeigned faith." We are created, not like the heavenly bodies,
to move by unerring laws; nor like plants, to receive form and
tincture undistinguishably, specimen from specimen; nor like the
inferior orders of animal life, that build, migrate, seek their
prey, by an instinct inherited and invariable. Man is a creature
of idiosyncrasies. His thoughts, tastes, and bent, his mode of
apprehending truths recognized and believed, assimilating them
into himself, and developing them in action, constitute each
individual a being diverse, in all that _can_ be subjective,
from his brother and nearest friend. In all that can be
subjective: for the very turn of these remarks will show that I
would carefully guard myself within the limits of that
expression. Now, the true religion appeals to man as man; and is
herein distinguished from every other, which addresses a side or
a section only of the human character and needs. The spirit of
true religion is neither the pseudo-enthusiasm of the
non-conformist, nor the surface-uniformity of the establishment,
nor the false mysticism of the Society of Friends. Her appeal,
like herself, is Catholic: to the four quarters of the globe, to
the race that peoples earth and occupies ages, and for whom
Christ died.

While, therefore, religion exacts the unquestioning assent of
all, whatever their antecedent systems, modes of thought, or
training, we might expect even beforehand that she would come
with some adaptive power that would appeal to each. Objective to
the intelligence and faith, we are permitted to desire that she
should also manifest herself as subjective to the spiritual
affections. For her mission is neither to reduce the individual
to a machine nor to fuse her multitudes into one uniform,
undistinguishable mass. She claims their unreserved and interior
assent to _dogma_; for she is the embassadress of the Most
High, sent into all the world, to preach the gospel to every
creature. "There are no speeches nor languages" where that voice
is not heard: nor any where it falters or gives an uncertain
sound. But she wins the objects of her mission, meanwhile, one by
one, to _devotion_, by adapting herself to the characters
and specialties of her millions and races. The church knows how
to modulate her authoritative tone, till it sinks into the
whisper of a mother teaching her child to lisp its first prayer.

We seem now to have arrived at the distinction of which we are in
search. It is surely no play of words nor mere subtlety to say
that true religion must possess both the characteristics we have
named: it must be objective and subjective together. Man, let us
repeat, finds in himself a twofold desire to know and to love.
His great desire after truth was the first and prevailing
temptation under which he fell: "You shall be as gods, knowing
good and evil."
{178}
Having in his fall grasped at the shadow and let go the
substance, he lost his perception of the true light and his hold
upon the true love. Ignorance and concupiscence came in together.
But he retained his yearning after the two-fold inheritance he
had thus forfeited: an attraction to truth and a need of love.
Hence the various and contradictory systems of mythology which
overran the heathen world, under their double aspect (if we may
so use the terms) of doctrine and devotion. Out of the depths of
their debasement, and amid all their extravagance, they witnessed
to the agonized desire after truth in which, says the apostle,
the whole creation groaned and travailed in pain together.

Now, what was lost in the first Adam has been abundantly restored
in the second. The "grace and truth" which "came by Jesus Christ"
is the divine remedy for this twofold loss by the original fall:
it restores light to man, the light of revelation; and love, the
supernatural love of Divine Goodness. It is "faith that worketh
by charity." And let us observe, between light and love there is
an obvious difference: light may be described as objective, love
as subjective; light is universal, love is personal; light is
received upon the eye, whereas love springs up in the heart; and
while light is diffused indiscriminately, love varies with the
individual. In the future perfection of the glorified soul, light
and love will be commensurate. "When he shall appear," says the
apostle, "we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is."
Here, in pilgrimage and imperfection, the members of the church
militant possess three gifts in unequal degrees. Light is
perpetually outstripping love, and we know more than we practise.
Still, the efforts of the church are ever exerted to preserve to
her children each of these great gifts, light and love; to
perpetuate and extend the one, to heighten and intensify the
other. She is "the light of the world." By her creeds, canons,
definitions of doctrine, by her schools of theology, her
doctorate and censorship, by the vigilance of the sacred office,
by the perpetual exercise of that instinct of truth which is her
attribute and inheritance, she preserves, whole and undefiled,
"the faith once delivered to the saints." Her multiplied prayers,
each enriched with its special indulgence, various, yet blending
in one harmony and one whole like the chords of a lute or the
flowers in a parterre, provide abundantly not for the mere and
absolute needs of her children's souls, but, moreover, for what
may be called their religious tastes and special turn of
devotion. For example, the faithful laity are invited, if they
have an attraction for it, to unite with her clergy and religious
in reciting the canonical hours, which form her chief prayer.
This is their "common prayer-book," if you will; but common only
to those who prefer to communicate in it. To others of a
different attraction, there is still supply for the demand.

We need only transport ourselves into the heart of some great
Catholic city, to see with what unrestrained variety our brethren
of the one communion unite in prayer. Let us go to Rome, "the
mother of us all," the heart and centre of Christendom. In that
great seat and organ of life, of vital functions and warmth,
whose pulsations thrill to the extremities of the mystical body,
what is practically going on? what meets the eye and ear? You
pass under the walls of some monastic choir, from which the deep
voices of a score of monks or the slenderer tones of cloistered
nuns arrest you.
{179}
They have been trained, not by art, but simply by long practice
of united prayer, to recite the divine office, as if theirs were
not several voices blending, nor several intelligences and souls
woven, in a devotion, but, like the early church, "one heart and
one soul." You enter; it is not in the retrochoir alone, nor
behind the grate, that the work of prayer and praise is going on.
The church is more or less filled for vespers; it is a feastday;
and a certain proportion, with their vesper-books in the ancient
language or in their own familiar tongue, follow the words. A
secular priest has turned in at the open door, on his way to some
avocation, and is whispering another portion of his breviary.
Near him kneels a child saying the penance for its last
confession, or an old woman with her beads. Others examine their
consciences and make their acts of contrition, for the
confessionals will be occupied when vespers are over. Throughout
the nave move three or four, quietly following the stations of
the cross. On this side is an altar to the sacred heart; a member
of the confraternity kneels before it: he is saying some of the
prayers indulgenced for that devotion. A childless mother with
slow steps passes on to pray for her dead child at the altar for
the souls in purgatory. She does not distract others there, who
are praying for their parents, or for the poor souls in general,
or the most abandoned, the most rich in merits, or the nearest to
its release. Her next neighbor offers up her own sick child to an
image of the Mother of Compassion. You make way for a small
tradesman leaving the church for his evening meal; he will then
hasten to take his hours of night-watching and prayer in some
closed sanctuary, before the Most Holy, exposed day and night for
the _Quarant' ore_. By his side, sharing his night-watch,
will kneel a nobleman of ancestral name, whose family has
furnished popes to the Christian world. These two men are members
together of the association for perpetually adoring the Blessed
Sacrament; and they meet there before the Supreme, in the true
"liberty, equality, fraternity" which the world aims at and the
church alone produces. What is that sound of hymns coming down
the street? A procession headed by a cardinal bearing a large and
rude cross: he is followed by the brothers of another distinct
confraternity, "the lovers of Jesus and Mary," and a miscellany
of devout people. They are on their way to the Colosseum, where
they, too, will make the stations of the cross, and chant their
hearty and almost passionate strophes of contrition in the old
consecrated amphitheatre. All is movement, all is affectionate
liberty, warmth, and ease. You turn into any church that occurs,
and transport your chair from part to part of the building; for
you are free of the whole by the birthright of your baptism into
the one body. Go from this altar to that; range, as it were, up
and down the creed, now in meditation, now in vocal prayer, now
alone with God, now cheered on and animated by the presence of
those who pray with you. Now it is _latria_, now
_hyperdulia_; now again _dulia_, then back again to
_latria_; then contemplation, then any of the former
resumed. Your guardian angel is at your side; you recognize it
and address him. Your patron saint, the patrons of your friends
for whom you are anxious, St. Peter, St. Joseph, our Lady; and
the Divine Guest in the tabernacle; all are there, each (if I may
say it) awaiting you in turn.
{180}
Whatever the feeling of the moment, or your bent of character, or
special needs, there is your yearning met, and your soul's food
and remedy supplied. "Thou didst feed thy people with the food of
angels, and gavest them bread from heaven, prepared without
labor; having in it all that is delicious, and _the sweetness
of every taste_. For thy sustenance showed thy sweetness to
thy children, and, serving every man's will, it was turned to
what every man liked." [Footnote 27] And this unity in variety,
this elasticity and freedom, change, and appropriation, and
trustful individuality, is it or is it not the  [Greek text]
which the apostle recommends?

    [Footnote 27: Wisd. xvi. 20, 21.]

Rising, again, from the manifold devotions pursued by the
faithful for themselves to that in which the priest stands for
them all in the most holy place, the central devotion round which
all others revolve, the adorable sacrifice of Mass, we see the
same unity in the same variety. There is still a subjective
action of the individual heart, grounded on an objective dogma
embraced by all. Faith and love are coincident; we adore in our
own way what is independent of our adoration, though presented to
it. The words I am about to quote are put in the lips of one who
is defending the faith, newly found by him, against the objection
of some of his former friends that the Mass is a formal,
unreasonable service.

"To me," he answers, "nothing is so consoling, so piercing, so
thrilling, so overcoming, as the Mass, said as it is among us. I
could attend Masses for ever and not be tired. It is not a mere
form of words--it is a great action, the greatest action that can
be on earth. It is not the invocation merely, but, if I dare use
the word, the evocation of the Eternal. He becomes present on the
altar in flesh and blood, before whom angels bow and devils
tremble. This is that awful event which is the scope and the
interpretation of every part of the solemnity. Words are
necessary, but as means, not as ends. They are not mere addresses
to the throne of grace; they are instruments of what is far
higher, of consecration, of sacrifice. They hurry on, as if
impatient to fulfil their mission. Quickly they go: the whole is
quick; for they are parts of one integral action. Quickly they
go; for they are awful words of sacrifice: they are a work too
great to delay upon. Quickly they pass; because, as the lightning
which shineth from one part of the heaven to the other, so is the
coming of the Son of Man. ... As Moses on the mountain, so we too
'make haste and bow our heads to the earth, and adore.' So we,
all around, each in his place, look out for the great advent,
'waiting for the moving of the water.' Each in his place, with
his own heart, with his own wants, with his own thoughts, with
his own intention, with his own prayers, separate but concordant,
watching what is going on, watching its progress, uniting in its
consummation; not painfully and hopelessly following a hard form
of prayer from beginning to end, but, like a concert of musical
instruments, each different, but concurring in a sweet harmony,
we take our part with God's priest, supporting him, and yet
guided by him. There are little children there, and old men, and
simple laborers, and students in seminaries, priests preparing
for Mass, priests making their thanksgiving; there are innocent
maidens, and there are penitent sinners; but out of these many
minds rises one eucharistic hymn, and the great action is the
measure and the scope of it." [Footnote 28]

    [Footnote 28: Newman's _Loss and Gain_, pp. 265-7.]

{181}

This union of a changeless creed with an adaptive devotional
system, of dogmatic authority with elasticity and play, and of
unquestioning submission with the freest choice, has one obvious
consequence. It renders the church unintelligible to the world,
and to all professors of the world's many religions. A casual
observer, looking on the Catholic system from without its pale,
is at a loss to reconcile attributes which to him appear
inconsistent. Why, he asks, should the church be so unswerving
under one aspect, yet so pliant under another? If she will not
yield one jot or tittle of doctrine, why allow so large an
oscillation in forms of devotion? or, if she aims at
accommodating and condescending in the latter, why remain
inflexible in the former? He would perhaps add: The Catholic
system has advantages over others in virtue of this her spirit of
adaptation, so far as it reaches. But it is partial! The same
economy and consultation for individual minds should extend into
the sphere of its dogma; then the character of the church would
be consistent, its response to the demands of the age would be
satisfactory, and its triumph might be complete.

We are here only concerned with one side of this supposed
theorist's difficulty. The answer is surely as follows:

  1. On one hand, the church is objective, or what he would call
  unaccommodating in her teaching, because she is the guardian
  and depository of supernatural truth. All truth is objective,
  because it is the reflection of the mind of God, and the
  subject-matter of his revelation. Hence, in spite of the
  infidel's sarcasm that between Homoousion and Homoiousion there
  is but an iota, and an iota (he adds) that divides the
  Christian world, the church will neither add to nor take from
  the "form of sound words" committed to her by that one small
  letter. That jot, that tittle stands against the return and
  salvation of countless souls till they shall themselves erase
  it; for the question involved is nothing less than the fulness
  of the truth and revelation of God. Human statements in
  religion aim at a compromise; the church, like Job under trial,
  "still continues in her simplicity." They would avoid extremes;
  she is zealous for the full and explicit enunciation of the
  whole deposit of faith. Whatever portions of dogmatic teaching
  can still be retained, apart from the faith, are in constant
  process of disintegration and fusion: _diminutae sunt
  veritates a filiis hominum._ But, on the other hand, if
  there can be degrees and measures where all is essential truth,
  the church may be said to become more dogmatic, and so, if
  possible, more objective, as her life proceeds. This, it is
  plain, is a simple result from her office of perpetual teacher;
  it is the fulfilment of the primary commission, "[Greek text]."
  She must expand her teachings to the needs of the day, and meet
  emergent heresies by fresh definitions. Hence, to take some
  salient points history presents to us, the objectivity of
  _Homoousion_ against Arius, of _Theotokos_ against
  Nestorius, of _Filioque_ against the heresies of the East,
  of _Transubstantiation_ against Luther and others, of the
  _Immaculate Conception_ in our own day.

{182}

  2. All this being so, and being one great ground of objection
  against the church, why is her system so _subjective_, all
  the while, in other departments? She seems to men to err as
  much on the other side by overcondescension and adaptation. We
  need not linger over such charges as that of Macaulay, who,
  following perhaps in the steps of the _Provincial
  Letters_, accuses certain theologians of accommodating even
  the moral law to retain men within the Catholic unity; as
  thinking, unless I misquote him, "that, if a man must needs be
  a libertine, that was no reason for his being a heretic
  besides." An impression less hurtful certainly, and less
  gratuitous, though equally false, pervades much that we find in
  other non-Catholic writers. The church seems to them to lay
  herself out in her devotional functions, to captivate the
  senses and the imagination. We might adduce a _catena_ of
  passages to prove this impression of theirs, from
  controversialists assuming the fact and reasoning upon it, down
  to tourists recording their personal experiences of the
  Continent. A leading article in a prominent journal on some
  recent celebrations at Boulogne, and, with a deeper personal
  impression, the descriptions of newspaper correspondents on the
  late centenary and canonizations in Rome, contribute their
  quota to swell this great tradition or popular belief. The
  church, according to such theorists, is wide enough to
  compensate for the inflexibility of her dogma by pliancy,
  adaptation, and attractiveness in all besides. Like the old
  Roman tyrants, they would say, whose home and whose spirit she
  has inherited, she is prodigal to her subjects of the _Panem
  et Circenses_, that take off their attention from the
  thraldom in which they are held. There is a story of
  Bolingbroke being present at high Mass in the Chapel Royal, in
  Paris. Struck with the majesty of the function, he turns to a
  friend and whispers, "If I were king of France, I would allow
  no one to perform this but myself." The anecdote is no unfair
  sample of the popular impression made by Catholic ceremonies on
  those who misunderstand them, because they disbelieve the
  truths which they clothe. They are taken to be the result of a
  design and deliberation to arrest the imaginative faculty, and
  thus to maintain supremacy over the will. That the will owns
  the church's supremacy is a patent fact; the supposed captivity
  of the imagination through eye and ear is, to such thinkers,
  one chief _rationale_ of it. She leads captive, they say,
  the intellect of her votaries, but she has the art to gild
  their chains by the richness and beauty of her ceremonial.

To consider this assertion for a moment. May we not advance the
direct contrary? May it not be said that, if, apart from
experience, we were to speculate on the probable ceremonies with
which the church would surround the adorable sacrifice, and the
solemn administration of her sacraments, our anticipations would
outrun what she actually has decreed? Let us instance the
ceremonies of the Mass. What is here that does more than
_carry_, so to say, the great mystery round which they
cluster? Give it as a problem to a political theorist, to a
Bolingbroke, or to a minister of public worship, to invent and
combine certain ceremonies, in order to express the highest act
of a nation's worship. The function is to be one that shall
symbolize such a belief as the Catholic belief in the adorable
sacrifice. I think it may safely be said, the result produced
would be something of more outward show, more complicated, and
more arresting to the eye and the imagination, than is seen in
the ceremonies of solemn high Mass.

{183}

To meet more broadly the assertion that the devotional system of
the church is unduly subjective, that is, overpliant to the
varieties of her children. She condescends, she adapts herself,
she seems to mere spectators to be one great economy. We accept
the charge, not in their sense. Why should the church not be so?
The changelessness of the faith being first secured, her problem
then is, the greatest devotion of the greatest number. "I am made
all things to all men, that I might by all means save some." This
is her mission: to attract souls, to win them, and to save them.
She would not attract them, were she not beautiful; nor gather
them in, were she not all-sided; nor save the mass of them, were
she not elastic. There is no stiffness about the church, or she
would not work with breadth and freedom. It is St. Peter's net,
and is drawn, as the prophet says, "with cords of Adam." She is
not antiquarian, or she would only affect the mind of each age as
a venerable record or curious relic of the past. The church is
not primitive, mediaeval, or modern; not Celtic, Teutonic,
southern, classical, barbarian, Scythian, bond, or free, in any
exclusive sense. She is simply Catholic; that one title
interprets all. And being the church of the "great multitude
which no man can number, of all nations, and languages, and
peoples, and tongues," she authorizes their popular devotions by
sanction and permission.

When we grant or assert that the church in her devotional aspect
is adaptive, elastic, or (to return to our term) subjective, what
is this but to say that she has _life_? Life as distinct
from machinery, stereotype, or routine. It is saying that she has
a living intelligence, spiritual instinct, a faculty to
discriminate between essentials and non-essentials in her
worship, and a versatility and a resource to apply, to modify, to
expand the non-sacramental and therefore accidental channels of
grace to her children. Because she is thus alive with the
indwelling life of the Paraclete who abides with her for ever,
and thus animated with a supernatural wisdom and maternal
charity, she is prompt to seize occasions, and to extemporize
combinations _to the greater glory of God_. Hers is an ever
quick and energizing power, exerted over man as man, and over all
men indifferently. In the inspired words of the wise man: "Being
but one, she can do all things; and remaining in herself the
same, she reneweth all things, and through nations conveyeth
herself into holy souls." Wisd. vii. 27. What the philosopher
claimed as being man, she claims as being the church of men:
_Nihil humanum a me alienum puto._ She raises no question on
the form of government or previous training, any more than on the
clime or color of the "Trojans or Tyrians" within her realm. She
translates her prayers, and imparts her indulgences in as many
tongues as were found in Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost. In
the political sphere she will bless the banners and chant a _Te
Deum_ on the triumphs of every righteous cause, whether the
tricolor and stripes of a republic or the blazonings of an
ancient monarchy. And so in her devotional element, finding more
stability of character in some provinces of her kingdom, more
versatility and impulse in others, some of her children more
given to contemplation, some to a larger amount of vocal prayer,
she accepts these differing conditions without disturbance or
hesitation. Wise householder and faithful stewardess, as the
gospel declares her to be, the church brings out from her
treasury things new and old.
{184}
She adopts and sanctions every new devotion that has been
inspired into her saints: the rosary of St. Dominic, the scapular
of St. Simon Stock, the discipline of St. Peter Damian, the
meditations of St. Benedict, the spiritual exercises of St.
Ignatius and his systematized methods of prayer. Nothing is a
dangerous novelty, while she has inerrancy of judgment. No
dubious expression or practice can spread, or even live, while in
her hand is the sword of the Spirit, [Greek text]. No fervor can
lead to ill-regulated enthusiasm while she exercises the twofold
office, to animate and to control.

In direct contrast with this divine adjustment and harmony stand
the arrangements of that communion in the midst of us which has
so long claimed the title of a church. England, as represented by
her rulers, three hundred years ago, breaking from the centre of
unity, and disowning every link with St. Peter's chair, isolated
thenceforward and self-contained, had before her a three-fold
task. She was to extemporize at once doctrine, discipline, and
devotion. The process was in many ways remarkable. But its chief
feature for our present purpose is one especial travesty and
reversal of the due order of things which was then exhibited.
While doctrine, by the necessity of the case, became subjective,
the formularies or "common prayer" were stereotyped or frozen
into a form that was well named _uniformity_, and might in a
kind of perverse sense be called objective. The Anglican
communion is the reed where the Catholic Church is the oak; but
_en revanche_, she is stiff and wooden where the church is
pliant and tender. She has bent to every breath of doctrine:
then, as if in tribute to the principle of stability, has bound
down her children to pray, at least, by rule. She does not pipe
to them that they may dance, and mourn to them that they may
lament. There is no modulation in her pastoral reed; no change of
expression in her fixed uniformity of demeanor. An exception must
here be made for the ritualist exhibitions of these later years;
but it is an exception which proves the rule. Ritualism is a
protest against the cold negations of the Establishment. It is in
turn protested against with more energy by the indignant good
sense of the country, and, so far as they venture, by the
country's bishops. The clergy appear in colored stoles, and are
met by a mandate to "take off those ribbons." Decorations must be
removed from the communion-table before consecration of the
church can take place. Each opening flower is nipped by the
breath of episcopal authority,

                "'Et mox
    Bruma recurrit iners."

Not to speak, then, of ritualism, but of the genuine spirit of
the establishment. This holds the even tenor of its way,
undisturbed by signs and seasons, and days and years. The
established church does not quench her tapers on Good Friday
because she does not light them on Easter morning; has no rubric
for stripping her altars, and gives no encouragement for their
decoration. She sprinkles no ashes on Ash-Wednesday, sings no
alleluias for the Resurrection, lights no candles, says no Mass
on Candelmas. Like something learned by rote and spoken by a
machine, her ministers address their flocks in the self-same
language, whether the morning usher in the annual solemn fast or
the queen of festivals. Their form most truly styles itself, "The
Order for Morning and Evening Prayer, daily to be said and used
throughout the year."
{185}
This is the objectivity of the established church, as "authorized
by act of Parliament, holden in the fifth and sixth years of our
said late sovereign lord, King Edward the Sixth, ... with the
alterations and additions therein added and appointed by this
statute," "_Primo Elizabethae._"

Nor was this stereotyped, unelastic method optional with them. It
was a necessity of the position of the establishment from its
beginning. Having torn down the altar and set up the
reading-desk, abolished the daily sacrifice, and made the lion
and unicorn stand in the holy place, converted the priest into a
minister, and succeeded, under the hydraulic pressure of royal
mandates, in forcing two sets of doctrines to coexist within the
space of one communion, the framers of the new order of things
had, as a chief part of it, to invent a form of prayer. This form
must be comprehensive as to doctrine, uniform as to expression;
subjective in the first, quasi-objective in the latter. It was to
provide for Catholics in heart who had not fortitude for
martyrdom, and for honest sacramentarians kneeling with them at
the same communion-rail. After several alterations, therefore, in
which the presence of the Most High was affirmed or denied, and,
as far as man could affect it, was restored or taken away, as now
a higher, now a lower school prevailed, the new religion welded
together two forms of administration--the Catholic and the
Zwinglian--and simply left the choice of doctrine to the
receiver. It was a process that brings to mind the ancient
punishment of chaining the living prisoner to the corpse of his
dead comrade; and the language ever since of those in the
Anglican communion who have aspired after something nearer to God
than a memorial rite has been: "Unhappy man that I am, who shall
deliver me from the body of this death?"

Want of space prevents our drawing out a contrast which here
naturally presents itself. It would be, on one side, the solemn
and heart-stirring functions of the church during her round of
fast and festival: the day that ushers in her Lent, the
_Gloria_ hushed, organ and alleluias silent, the wailing
_Tenebrae_, the strange, disjointed Mass of the
pre-sanctified on Good Friday, which is Calvary, with the rocks
rent and the sun hidden; then the burst of Easter morning, when
all is light and triumph; or again, the three Masses of
Christmas, symbols of our Lord's triple nativity. These, and much
that might be added, would form an epitome of _Durandus_,
and writers who have followed him, on the symbolism of the
church's functions. What would appear on the other side? Silence
is perhaps its best description, lest a thing in its own nature
so fearful to contemplate as man's attempts to create in
opposition to his Creator should present too forcibly its
ludicrous aspect. It does not appear to have been very
attractive, even in its cradle, to judge from the act, which sets
forth that "all and every person and persons ... shall diligently
and faithfully ... endeavor themselves to resort to their parish
church, ... where common prayer and such service shall be used,
... and then and there to abide orderly and soberly during the
time of common prayer, preachings, or other service of God there
to be used and ministered, upon pain of punishment by the
censures of the church, and also upon pain that every person so
offending shall forfeit for every such offence twelve pence, to
be levied by the church-wardens of the parish where such offence
shall be done, ... of the goods, lands, and tenements of such
offender, by way of distress."

{186}

No wonder they who love the established church should fix their
special admiration on the feature of her simplicity. The act of
uniformity enforced by Procrustes was as simple a process, and
with as simple a result. In both cases, it was a cutting down,
paring away, shortening, disjointing, dislocating. Only, as they
who decreed the form and measurements of the new religion, unlike
Procrustes, had to reconstruct as well as simply to wrench and
amputate, they added that other process to their labor; and under
difficulties which have excited the compassion of their disciples
in all later time for a system of theology and theological
devotion is as complex and delicate, to say the least, as the
human frame: you cannot give back the sinews and organs you have
removed, nor restore action to the joints you have sundered. We
have lived to see the result of such simplifying as went on in
the sixteenth century. After a career which has given time for
irreconcilable schools to exhibit their full divergence, the
communion so arranged seems likely to fall to pieces on the very
question of ritualism. "We never, sir," says a popular clerical
writer to the _Times_ newspaper, "we never shall have peace
again in the church until some plain order of conducting the
service is made more or less imperative, confused rubrics relaid
down in clear language, and some court established, easy of
access, cheap, and speedy in process, by which it may be
adjudged, as well in the case of clergy as of bishops, whether
the parties accused of false teaching or false practice are
guilty according to a rational, legal interpretation of our
formularies in the spirit in which for three centuries they have
been conducted." [Footnote 29]

    [Footnote 29: "S.G.O." in the London _Times_, June 10, 1867.]

The simplicity of the church of England has steered too precise a
mean between the symbolism and suggestive ceremonies of the
church that believes, and the absence of all form on the part of
those who do not. Her preamble, "of ceremonies, why some be
abolished and some retained," like other compromises, aims at
pleasing everybody and ends in pleasing no one. With one party,
as Milton says in an expressive line,

  "New Presbyter is but old priest writ large."

With the other, the minister must be a priest, the communion,
Mass, and the Catholic service restored. This comes of inventing
a religion in a hurry, patching up a provisional government by
rebels who have disowned a time-honored throne. This comes of
arraying one's self in the shreds of what one's self has rent
from the seamless garment. So much for aiming at what a prelate
of that communion has recently called "a satisfying amount of
ritual," which is to clothe no idea, stand for nothing beyond
itself, and soothe the senses without appealing to the faith. So
much for the arrogance of deciding that the "godly and decent
order of the ancient fathers had been altered, broken, and
neglected, by planting in uncertain stories and legends, with a
multitude of responds, verses, vain repetitions, commemorations,
and synodals;" not to speak of the "hardness of the rules called
the _Pie_, and the manifold changings of the service."

We shall wait to see the result of that "satisfying amount of
ritual" in which it is proposed to invest a service purely
Protestant; whereabout on the scale the satisfaction is to be
placed, and so, whom it is intended to satisfy. One ritual system
alone has a gift from heaven to answer and fulfil the yearnings
of the soul.
{187}
One act of uniformity alone is worthy of a thought to the
worshipper. The creed rehearses it: "I profess that there are
truly and properly seven sacraments of the new law instituted by
our Lord, and necessary for the salvation of mankind." Then, "I
also receive and admit the received and approved ceremonies of
the Catholic Church in the solemn administration of the aforesaid
sacraments." It is to express the invisible, and to fence round
what is all sacred, and to respond by the tribute of man to the
gift of God, that the church has ordained these details of beauty
and solemnity. It is essentially as an homage and a reverence to
her Lord. This does not contradict what has been said above
either of the variety or of the adaptive character of Catholic
devotions. For we are here speaking not of devotions as voices of
human expression toward God, but of sacraments, the channels of
his communications with man.

Let me now only mention two other chief instances of the
subjectivity of the church's dealings with her children. The
whole theory, then, of intentions in prayer is a proof of the
adaptive character of Catholic devotion. The _Pater, Ave,
Gloria, Credo, the Veni Creator, Miserere, Memorare_, these
are, as it were, so many notes in the church's scale. Let me here
adopt, though I should also modify, the words of a great writer
on a kindred subject. They apply, partly at least, to that on
which our thoughts are turned:

  "There are seven notes in the scale; make them thirteen, yet
  what a slender outfit for so vast an enterprise! What science
  brings so much out of so little? Out of what poor elements does
  some great master in it create his new world! Shall we say that
  all this exuberant inventiveness is a mere ingenuity or trick
  of art, like some game or fashion of the day, without reality,
  without meaning? We may do so; and then, perhaps, we shall also
  account the science of theology to be a matter of words; yet,
  as there is a divinity in the theology of the church which
  those who feel cannot communicate, so is there also in the
  wonderful creation of sublimity and beauty of which I am
  speaking. ... Is it possible that that inexhaustible evolution
  and disposition of notes, so rich yet so simple, so intricate
  yet so regulated, so various yet so majestic, should be a mere
  sound, which is gone and perishes? Can it be that those
  mysterious stirrings of heart, and keen emotions, and strange
  yearnings after we know not what, and awful impressions from we
  know not whence, should be wrought in us by what is
  unsubstantial, and comes and goes, and begins and ends in
  itself? ... No; they have escaped from some higher sphere; ...
  they are echoes from our home; they are the voice of angels, or
  the _Magnificat_ of saints, or the living laws of divine
  governance, or the divine attributes; something are they
  besides themselves, which we cannot compass, which we cannot
  utter." [Footnote 30]

    [Footnote 30: Newman's _Sermons before the University of
    Oxford_. 2d edition, pp. 349, 350.]

The beauty of this extract, from perhaps one of the greatest
passages of its eminent author, may be my apology for its length.
What Dr. Newman here says of the evolution of musical harmony
from simple elements may be applied to the vast fabric of
intentions, reaching to no less than three worlds, the church
militant, triumphant, and purifying, which we are taught to build
out of such few brief prayers as a child might utter.

{188}

Once more: the variety of the religious orders, congregations,
institutes, existing in the church, and marked by her approval,
afford a further proof of her adaptation to the various needs and
characters of men. The system which recognizes the sanctity of
marriage by elevating it to the rank of a sacrament proclaims
also the superiority of the "best part" chosen by Mary, "which
shall not be taken from her;" and, within this first great
principle of classification among the church's children,
separating between the secular and the religious life, and
strictly subjective in the sense in which the word has here been
used, we find an almost endless diversity of what are technically
called "religions." The cloistered and the uncloistered; and
among the former, the eremitic and the conventual, with their
subdivisions; among the latter, a devotion special and
concentrated upon every malady to which man is heir. Brothers of
the hospitals, brothers of Christian doctrine, communities
devoted to the leper, the lunatic, the ordinary sick, the
hopelessly diseased, the poor as such, the young, the orphan, the
ignorant, the upper classes, the middle rank, the homeless
pauper, the pilgrim, the penitent, the convict, the galley-slave,
the felon condemned to die.

This very glory of the King's daughter, her beauty in the variety
with which she is surrounded, the subjective provisions she makes
for each of her children called to religion, has been made by
writers of more than common shallowness an argument against her
unity. It is difficult to treat with gravity a distortion of the
truth so perverse. "Look," says a platform orator--"look at the
divisions of the Church of Rome. She taunts us with our
dissensions. It is true, we have our high church, and our low,
and our broad; there are those amongst us who hold the
sacramental principle, and those who deny it. But Rome, too, has
her divisions, as deep and as fundamental. Has she not her
Franciscans and her Dominicans, her Benedictines and her
Seculars, her Jesuits, and I know not who besides? Have not her
religious orders and her secular canons, in times past, carved
grotesque caricatures of each other in the gargoyles and
_misereres_ of their respective churches? And yet, with her
characteristic effrontery, she dares to tell us that she is one!"

It was well answered. You might with equal reason argue that an
army was not one, not one in its operations and campaign, nor
moving at the nod of one commander, because it had its several
branches and "arms" of the service; its light horse, troops of
the line, skirmishers, cavalry for the charge, heavy artillery.
Rather, the essential unity of the whole is all the more
demonstrated by the distinct lines and modes of operation
belonging to each department. Herodotus is at much pains to
detail the different nationalities and customs of warfare in the
army of Xerxes before he proceeds to narrate their combined
descent upon Greece. And to return to our thesis: the objective
unity of the religious orders throughout the church's long life,
in all that ever concerned her faith and essential teaching, has
been enhanced, made conspicuous, and shown to be supernatural, by
their acknowledged subjective diversity in much beside.

But we are not here in need of a Catholic apologist. A vivid and
popular writer, if not of history, yet of widely accepted
historical romance, had the intelligence to perceive this very
characteristic of the church.
{189}
He has thrown no little power into developing the truth, that the
Catholic system is thus universally subjective, has a place for
every one, rejects none of earth's children, and can retain them,
find them employment, and communicate to them happiness, within
the ample breadth of her unity.

He describes the merely local characters of the Church of
England, and her consequent inability to make way in foreign
missions. He has a fling at what he calls the polity of the
Church of Rome as the very masterpiece of human wisdom. It is, he
says, a system of tactics to be regarded with reluctant
admiration. Then more particularly: "She thoroughly understands,
what no other church has ever understood, how to deal with
enthusiasts. In some sects, particularly in infant sects,
enthusiasm is suffered to be rampant. In other sects,
particularly in sects long established and richly endowed, it is
regarded with aversion. The Catholic Church neither submits to
enthusiasm nor proscribes it, but uses it. She considers it as a
great moving force, which in itself, like the muscular powers of
a fine horse, is neither good nor evil, but which may be so
directed as to produce great good or great evil, and she assumes
the direction to herself. ... She knows that, where religious
feelings have obtained the complete empire of the mind, they
impart a strange energy, that they raise man above the dominion
of pain and pleasure, that obloquy becomes glory. She knows that
a person in this state of enthusiasm is no object of contempt. He
may be vulgar, ignorant, visionary, extravagant; but he will do
and suffer things which it is for her interest that somebody
should do and suffer. She accordingly enlists him in her service,
assigns to him some forlorn hope, and sends him forth with her
benedictions and her applause."

Then, after showing how the Anglican system expels from itself
the enthusiasm it can neither wield nor control, he proceeds to
draw his contrast:

  "Far different is the policy of Rome. The ignorant enthusiast
  whom the Anglican Church makes an enemy, and, whatever the
  polite and learned may think, a most dangerous enemy, the
  Catholic Church makes a champion. She bids him nurse his beard,
  covers him with a gown and hood of coarse, dark stuff, ties a
  rope round his waist, and sends him forth to teach in her name.
  He costs her nothing. He takes not a ducat away from the
  resources of her beneficed clergy. He lives by the alms of
  those who respect his spiritual character and are grateful for
  his instructions. He preaches not exactly in the style of
  Massillon, but in a way which moves the passions of uneducated
  hearers; and all his influence is employed to strengthen the
  church of which he is a minister. To that church he becomes as
  strongly attached as any of the cardinals whose scarlet
  carriages and liveries crowd the entrance of the palace on the
  Quirinal. In this way the Church of Rome unites in herself all
  the strength of establishment, and all the strength of dissent.
  With the utmost pomp of a dominant hierarchy above, she has all
  the energy of the voluntary system below. It would be easy to
  mention very recent instances in which the hearts of hundreds
  of thousands, estranged from her by the selfishness, sloth, and
  cowardice of the beneficed clergy, have been brought back by
  the zeal of the begging friars. At Rome the Countess of
  Huntingdon would have a place in the calendar as St. Sabina,
  and Mrs. Fry would be foundress and first superior of the
  blessed order of Sisters of the Gaols.
{190}
  Place Ignatius Loyola at Oxford: he is certain to become the
  head of a formidable secession. Place John Wesley at Rome: he
  is certain to be the first general of a new society devoted to
  the interests and honor of the church. Place Johanna Southcote
  at Rome: she founds an order of barefooted Carmelites, every
  one of whom is ready to suffer martyrdom for the church; a
  solemn service is consecrated to her memory; and her statue,
  placed over the holy water, strikes the eye of every stranger
  who enters St. Peter's."

Such thoughts as I have endeavored to suggest will not be vain,
if they lead us to recognize the attributes and credentials of
the church in her mission to the world, not less in the
comparison of part with part among her manifestations, than in
the harmony of the whole. She is as divine, as Catholic, as
faithful to her trust, and as unerring in her functions, in the
subjective character of her devotions, as in the objectivity of
her teaching. Nothing surely can be more attractive to the
imagination, more winning to the heart, or more persuasive to the
will than the condescension and personal care of that which is
all the while lofty in its attributes and authoritative in its
claims and power. The church is a mother while she is a queen,
and we her children no less than her subjects and disciples. She
teaches us to pray while she commands us to believe; and gives a
personal experience of her science in the one, while affording
abundant proof of her embassy and her inerrancy in the other.
Thus, while I am enlightened by her truth, I am fostered by her
charity. The need of which I am conscious in myself, _das
Ich_, for something on which to feed the faculty within me for
supernatural love and personal devotion, is as completely met and
fulfilled as any craving for a truth above myself, _das nicht
Ich_, which comes down to me from heaven that it may raise me
thither. "Descendit" says St. Augustine, "_misericordia, ut
ascendat miseria._"

--------

           Imogen.


  She was all compact of beauty,
      Like the sunlight and the flowers;
  One of those radiant beings
      That prove this world of ours
  Not utterly forsaken
      By the angel host of God,
  Since now and then its valleys
      By their holy feet are trod.
  If her hair was black and glossy
      Or golden-hued and bright,
  Or if her eyes were azure,
      Or dark and deep as night,
  I know not--this truth only
      Do I know or care to know;
  Never a lovelier maiden
      Blest this weary world below.
  In the castle ruled her father,
      And his lands stretched miles away
  _Mine_ toiled down in the hamlet
      For his daily bread each day;
  Too far apart were we.
      Too high wert thou for me,
          O Lady Imogen!

{191}

  When the meadow was all golden
      With the cowslips' May-day bells,
  And the sweet breath of the primrose
      Came up from fragrant dells;
  When the blackbird and the throstle
      Whistled cheerly in the morn,
  And the skylark, quivering upward,
      Rose singing from the corn;
  Then when the blessed spring-time
      Filled with beauty all the earth,
  From her father's lordly castle
      Would this maiden wander forth,
  Where the violets were blooming
      In unfrequented dells;
  O'er the mead where zephyrs pilfered
      Fragrance from the cowslips' bells.
  Wheresoever beauty lingered,
      There this radiant maiden strayed,
  And beauty by her presence
      More beautiful was made;
  The sunshine looked more golden
      As it gleamed around her head;
  And the grass more green and living
      Rose up beneath her tread;
  And the flowers more bright and fragrant
      To greet her coming grew;
  And mad with love and music
      The birds about her flew.
  Oh! she was the loveliest maiden
      That ever eye did see;
  She was sunshine, she was music,
      She was all the world to me.
  But she never knew the passion
      That set my soul aflame;
  That hid me by the hedge-row
      To watch whene'er she came,
  To see her glorious beauty,
      Like a star from heaven, go by.
  Oh! to see her but one moment
      God knows that I would die,
          O peerless Imogen!

{192}

  They bore her to the abbey
      With the pomp of princely woe,
  With steeds and hearse and snowy pall,
      And white plumes drooping low:
  And high, proud heads were bending
      In her funereal train,
  And princely eyes were weeping
      Heavy tears like summer rain.
  I far off followed slowly,
      No tears were in mine eye;
  'Twas not for one so lowly
      To weep for one so high;
  But, oh! since she hath vanished,
      With her have seemed to go
  All the beauty, all the music,
      Of this weary world below!
          Dead, dead, and buried, Imogen!

                                    E. Young.

--------

    The Jesuits In North America. [Footnote 31]

   [Footnote 31:
    _The Jesuits in North America, in the Seventeenth
    Century_.
    By Francis Parkman. Boston:
    Little, Brown & Co. 1867.

    _History and General Description of New France_,
    By the Rev. P. F. X. de Charlevoix, S.J.
    Translated with notes, by John Gilmary
    Shea. In six vols. Vols. i. and ii.
    New York: John Gilmary Shea. 1866

    _History of the Catholic Missions among
    the Indian Tribes of the United States_
    By John Gilmary Shea.
    New York: Edward Dunigan & Brother. 1855.]

The illustrious Society of Jesus, which has sanctified by its
martyrs every corner of the earth, has reaped more glory probably
in North America than any other missionary order, though it was
not the first to enter the field. The Franciscans, the
Dominicans, and other devoted soldiers of the cross who followed
in the footsteps of the Spanish adventurers in the south,
established flourishing missions, some of which have lasted to
this day. They labored with a zeal and singleness of purpose
which could not be surpassed, and a large proportion of them gave
up their lives for the faith; but unfortunately the crimes of
their countrymen have been permitted, by the prejudice of modern
writers, to tarnish the renown of these heroic preachers, and the
cruelties of a Cortez are better remembered than the virtues of
the Spanish Dominicans. The Jesuits in the northern parts of the
continent have received more justice in history. About their
character and achievements there is only one voice. Oppression
and outrage have fortunately kept away from their path.
{193}
It was, moreover, their practice to live almost wholly aloof from
their own countrymen, and to compose their Christian settlements
entirely of Indian converts. They may not have surpassed their
brethren of other orders in devotedness or in perseverance; but
they have a renown in modern Protestant literature which has no
equal except in the glorious record of the early Christian
persecutions.

When the Jesuits first came to Canada, the Franciscans had been
before them, but there was little trace left of the Christianity
which they had planted. The capture of Quebec by the English, in
1629, almost wholly obliterated the mission, and it was not until
the colony was restored to France, in 1632, that the history of
missionary enterprise in that part of America really begins. One
of the first steps of the French government then was to secure a
body of priests, to labor in their recovered possessions. The
work was offered to the Capuchins, but they declined it. It was
then given to the Jesuits, and on the 18th of April, 1632, two
priests, Le Jeune and De Nouë, with a lay-brother named Gilbert,
set sail from Havre for Quebec. It was but a cheerless home in
which, after a three months' tempestuous voyage, they set about
installing themselves. Their predecessors had left on the
outskirts of the settlement two wretched wooden buildings,
thatched with long grass and plastered with mud. One of them had
been half-burned by the English, and was still in ruins. Here the
three missionaries fixed their home, and prepared for the
reception of the brethren who were soon to follow them. One of
the buildings was converted into a store-house, stable,
work-shop, and bakery. The other contained four principal rooms.
One was fitted up as a rude chapel, one as a refectory, one as a
kitchen, and the fourth as a sleeping-room for workmen. Four
small rooms, the largest eight feet square, opened off the
refectory, and here, when the rest of the little band arrived,
six priests were lodged, while two lay-brothers found shelter in
the garret. The whole establishment was surrounded by a palisade.
About the end of May, Champlain arrived, to resume the command of
Quebec, and with him came four more Jesuits--Brébeuf, Masse,
Daniel, and Davost. The superior of the little community was
Father Le Jeune. Of the others, Masse, whom by reason of his
useful qualities they nicknamed "Le Père Utile," had been in
America before. His special duty was to take care of the pigs and
cows, upon which the missionaries relied for a great part of
their sustenance. De Nouë had charge of the eight or ten laborers
employed about the "residence." All the fathers, in the intervals
of leisure left from their duties of preaching, saying mass and
vespers, hearing confessions at the fort of Quebec, catechising a
few Indians, and striving to master the enormous difficulties of
the Algonquin and Huron languages, worked with the men, spade in
hand.

To learn the language was at first the greatest of all their
troubles. There were French interpreters in the colony, fur
traders who had spent years among the tribes, and were almost as
savage as the Indians themselves. But these men were no friends
to the Jesuits, and one and all refused their assistance. Father
Le Jeune gives an amusing description of his perplexity, as he
sat with an Indian child on one side, and a little negro boy left
by the English on the other, neither of the three able to
understand the language of the others.
{194}
Convinced that there was little to be taught and little to be
learned in that way, he set off one morning to visit a band of
Indians who were fishing on the St. Lawrence. He found their bark
lodges set up by the brink of the river, and a boy led him into
the hut of an old squaw, his grandmother, who hastened to give
him four smoked eels on a piece of birch bark. There were several
other women in the lodge, and while they showed him how to roast
his eels on a forked stick, or squatted around the fire, eating
their rude meal, and using their dogs as napkins, the good father
made strenuous attempts to talk a little broken Algonquin, eking
out his defect of words with such pantomime as he could invent.
All, however, was in vain. If he trusted to what he could pick up
from straggling fishing parties, it might be years before he
could fairly begin to preach the gospel to these poor tribes of
the wilderness. In his difficulty he had recourse to the saints.
It was not long before what he deemed the direct interposition of
Providence came to his aid. Several years before an Indian who
had been converted by the Recollects, and baptized by the name of
Pierre, had been taken to France and partially educated. He had
lately returned to Canada, and not only relapsed into his old
savage way of life, but apostatized from the faith. Nothing was
left of his French education save a few French vices and a
knowledge of the French language. He often came to the fort
begging drink and tobacco, but he shunned the Jesuits, of whose
rigid virtue he stood in horror. But one day, about this time,
Pierre incurred the displeasure of the French commandant, and the
fort was closed against him. Repulsed by a young squaw whom he
wanted to make his wife, and unfitted by his French education for
the hard and precarious life of a hunter, he went to the priests
for food and shelter. Le Jeune hailed him as a gift from heaven
in answer to his prayers. He installed the poor wretch in the
mission-house, begged for him at the fort a suit of cast-off
clothes, and set zealously to work to learn from him the
mysteries of the Algonquin language. "How thankful I am," wrote
Le Jeune, "to those who gave me tobacco last year! At every
difficulty I give my master a piece of it to make him more
attentive."

The terribly severe winter was passed in studies such as these,
in practising with snow-shoes, and teaching Indian children.
Bands of savages often encamped near the mission-house in the
course of their hunting journeys, and Le Jeune, whenever they
appeared, would take his stand at the door and ring a bell. The
children would gather round him, and leading them into the
refectory, which also served as a school-room, he would teach
them the Pater, Ave, and Credo, with an Indian prayer which he
had composed with the assistance of Pierre, show them how to make
the sign of the cross, and explain portions of the catechism. The
exercises closed with the singing of the Lord's prayer in
Algonquin rhymes, and after that each pupil was rewarded with a
porringer of peas. As spring approached, Pierre began to bethink
himself of the fasting and prayers of Lent, and ran off one day
to a party of Englishmen, at Tadoussac, where he drowned in
liquor the small remnant of his Christianity. Then he joined his
two brothers, one a famous hunter named Mestigoit, the other the
most noted sorcerer or "medicine-man" of the tribe.

{195}

The next autumn Father Le Jeune was invited by the Indians to
join a hunting party, in which these three brothers were
included; not that they valued the good missionary's company, but
they were shrewd enough to suspect that, if he went with them, he
would be well supplied with provisions. Father de Nouë had gone
on a similar expedition in the winter, and returned nearly dead;
but Le Jeune resolved to risk it, and in the latter part of
October, with twenty Indians, embarked in canoes on the St.
Lawrence. Landing after a while, and being joined by two other
bands, they spent five months trudging through the trackless and
snow-covered wilderness; sleeping by night in the stifling huts
which they made by digging holes in the snow and building over
them a covering of poles and birch bark; hunting by day the
beaver, the moose, and the caribou; often half-starved when game
failed, and holding the most disgusting orgies of gluttony when
it was plenty. Somebody had unfortunately put among the priest's
stores a small keg of wine. Pierre stole it and got drunk, and
when Mestigoit had sobered him by a liberal application of
scalding water, which took all the skin off his face and breast,
the apostate (as Le Jeune always calls him) vowed to revenge
himself by killing the missionary whose strong drink had brought
him into trouble. The poor father fled to the woods until
Pierre's frenzy had passed away, and there, he says, "though my
bed had not been made up since the creation of the world, it was
not hard enough to prevent me from sleeping." We have no space to
follow the narrative of this hard winter. The days were spent in
hunger and exhausting toil, the nights in frightful discomfort.
The huts, in a space some thirteen feet square, were made to
accommodate nineteen savages, men, women, and children, not to
speak of a number of wild and hungry dogs. A fire of pine-knots
in the centre filled the place with a blinding, acrid smoke, and
at times they could breathe only by lying flat on their faces
with their mouths to the cold ground. In this horrible den, the
dogs fought for his food, and the savages, instigated by the
sorcerer, loaded him with insults and shocked his ears with their
filthy conversation. The sorcerer, whose pretensions he
ridiculed, and whose influence he lost no opportunity of
undermining, hated him with an especially malignant animosity.
Under pretence of teaching him Algonquin, he palmed off upon the
priest the foulest words in the Indian language, so that poor
Father Le Jeune's attempts to explain the mysteries of the faith
were often interrupted by shouts of laughter. On Christmas day
there had been a great scarcity of game, and the party were in
danger of famishing. The incantations of the medicine man had
failed. In despair the savages came to Le Jeune, and begged him
to try his God. The sorcerer showed some gleam of faith. Even
Pierre gave signs of repentance. The missionary was filled with
hope. He wrote out two prayers in Algonquin. He hung against the
side of the hut a crucifix and a reliquary, and bade the Indians
kneel before them and repeat the prayers, promising to renounce
their superstitions and obey Christ if he would save them from
perishing of hunger. Then he dismissed the hunters with his
blessing. At night they came back successful. A feast was
ordered. In the midst of the repast, Le Jeune arose to remind
them of their promise; but Pierre, who had killed nothing, was
sulky and incredulous. He said, with a laugh, that it was not the
crucifix and prayers which had brought them luck.
{196}
The sorcerer cried out to the missionary, "Hold your tongue! you
have no sense!" And the multitude, whose good disposition had
vanished with their hunger, took their cue from him, as usual.

All this was discouraging enough, nor was it the worst; and when
Father Le Jeune, at three o'clock one April morning, knocked at
the door of his humble mission-house, and was received in the
arms of his brother apostles, it was with the melancholy
reflection that his painful and perilous journey had been, except
as a tour of observation, little more than a failure. An absolute
failure, however, it certainly was not. Careful reconnoissances
must always precede great campaigns. It was only by pushing out
into the heart of the pagan realm which they had come to conquer,
that the soldiers of Christ could determine where they might best
make their main assault and in what quarter a victory ensured the
most glorious results. The missionaries were but a handful; the
field before them was immense; they could only cultivate such
portions of it as promised the richest harvest. They had now
learned that the Algonquins were comparatively few in number, and
of little influence or importance among the North American
tribes. Wandering to and fro as they did from year's end to
year's end, it was impossible to establish among them the sort of
Christian settlements or missions which the Jesuits proposed
founding as centres from which the light of truth might radiate
through the wilderness. But further westward, on the shores of
the great lakes, dwelt numerous stationary tribes, among whom
strongholds of the faith might be erected. The conversion of any
considerable part of these people would affect many kindred
tribes, and so it might be possible to found in the heart of the
forest a great Christian empire. As the first basis for their
operations, they chose the Hurons, on the lake which bears their
name. These people, they learned, had populous villages, knew how
to till the ground, and carried on some trade with neighboring
nations. Their ferocity exceeded that of the Algonquins. A
prisoner who bore the torture bravely was cooked and eaten, that
his captors might increase their own courage; and the
missionaries spoke of the Huron country as the chief fortress and
donjon-keep of the demon, "_une des principales forteresses et
comme un donjon des démons_." The distance to be traversed, by
the only route it was possible to follow, was about nine hundred
miles. The way was dangerous and painful. The goal to be reached
was possibly martyrdom--certainly continuous suffering of body
and mind. Three missionaries, Brébeuf, Daniel, and Davost,
offered themselves for the enterprise. Le Jeune's duties as
superior obliged him to confine his labors to the neighboring
Algonquins. It was not easy, however, for the little band of
apostles to carry their heroic purpose into execution. Every year
a company of several hundred Hurons used to visit Quebec, to
barter their furs and tobacco for kettles, hatchets, knives,
cloth, beads, and other commodities. It was resolved that the
priests should return with them when they made their next annual
journey. The Hurons came in July, 1633, six or seven hundred of
them, with a hundred and forty canoes. They staid four days,
trading, gambling, feasting, and holding a council with the
French officers at the fort. Champlain introduced the three
missionaries, and commended them to the care and friendship of
the Indians.
{197}
They were received at first with acclamations of delight, and the
chiefs of different villages disputed for the honor of
entertaining them. But before the hour of departure came, they
changed their minds. The Indians went away and the priests
returned to the mission-house. Here they spent a year studying
the Huron language. At the end of a twelvemonth, the Indians came
again. A second time they were besought to take the Jesuits back
with them. They consented, wavered, refused, hesitated, the
missionaries begging to be received, as if the hardships they
would have to suffer were the greatest of privileges. At last
Father Brébeuf made a vow to St. Joseph. At once, he says, the
Indians became tractable, and the whole party embarked in the
frail canoes for the shores of Lake Huron. Their route was up the
Ottawa river, through Lake Nipissing, down French river, and
along the shores of the great Georgian Bay of Lake Huron. The
voyage occupied thirty days. The three missionaries were in
separate canoes, barefoot, lest their shoes should injure the
vessel, toiling laboriously at the paddle, wading often through
the rapids and pushing or pulling up their barks, and doing their
share of the burden of transportation at the long and frequent
portages. They had no food but a little corn crushed between two
stones and moistened with water. The Indians treated them with
great harshness, stole or threw away a part of their baggage,
including most of their books and writing materials, and finally
deserted Father Daniel and Father Davost on the way. When Brébeuf
reached the end of the voyage, on the shores of Georgian Bay, his
Indian companions threw his baggage on the ground, left him to
his own resources, and trudged off to their villages, some twenty
miles distant. Brébeuf, however, was not disheartened. He threw
himself upon his knees and thanked God who had preserved him so
far. Then he proceeded to examine the country. He knew the spot
well, for before the suspension of the Canada missions which
followed the capture of Quebec, he had passed three years among
the Hurons of this region, at an Indian town which had since been
burned. Hiding his baggage and the sacred vessels in the woods,
he set off in search of the new town, which he knew had been
built a few miles from the site of the old one. It was evening
when he reached it. A crowd who recognized his tall, soldier-like
figure and black robes ran out to meet him, shouting for joy at
his return. They took him to the lodge of one Awandoay, the
richest and most hospitable of the Hurons. After many days his
two lost brethren rejoined him. Daniel had been picked up by
another party of Indians. Davost had been left among the
Algonquins on Allumette Island, and now appeared half-dead with
famine and fatigue. With them came four French laymen from
Quebec. Awandoay received them all, and as soon as they had
determined to make this village, which the natives called
Ihonatiria, the headquarters of their mission, all the
inhabitants of the place, as well as the people of the
neighboring town of Wenrio, fell to and built them a house. It
was a structure of sapling poles and sheets of bark, thirty-six
feet long, and about twenty feet wide, built after the Huron
fashion; but the priests, with the aid of their tools, made
several improvements of the interior, which were to the savages a
never-failing source of wonder and admiration. They divided their
dwelling into three rooms. The first was a store-house; the
second, a sleeping chamber, kitchen, workshop, refectory, and
school-room, all in one; the third was the chapel.

{198}

Thus the Huron mission, which had been founded several years
previously, and broken up before it was thoroughly established,
was opened anew. Other priests soon came out from France to join
it. Garnier, Chaumonot, Chabanel, and the illustrious martyr
Isaac Jogues were among the Jesuits who gathered around this
lodge in the wilderness in the course of the next few years. In
the summer-time, when most of the Indians were away on their
hunting or trading excursions, and the villages were quiet, the
missionaries renewed their strength for labor and suffering by
the exercise of the annual retreat according to the instructions
of St. Ignatius. It was in winter that their hardships were the
greatest. By day they trudged long, weary miles through the snow
and wet to visit neighboring villages; by night their short rest
was disturbed and their ears shocked by the horrible orgies,
incantations, and superstitious rites in which the Hurons used to
pass their winter leisure. There were the hideous ceremonies by
which their sorcerers pretended to cure the sick; the licentious
practices by which they sought to propitiate the demons of
pestilence and famine; sometimes the awful tortures of captives
taken in war, and their agonizing deaths, in which the good
fathers, though every nerve shuddered with horror at the dreadful
sight, sometimes found consolation in making a convert of the
dying wretch, and washing out his sins at the last moment in the
saving waters of baptism. At every opportunity they collected the
children of the village at their house; and Brébeuf, vested in
surplice and cap, led them in chanting the _Pater Noster_,
translated into Indian rhymes, taught them the Hail Mary, the
Creed, and the Commandments, taught them to make the sign of the
cross, and gave a few simple instructions. A present of two or
three beads, or raisins, or prunes sent them away happy and
ensured their coming again. Once in a while the adults were
induced to listen to instruction, and invited to discuss the
principal points of religious doctrine. They grunted "Good" or
"That is true" at every proposition, but for a long, long time
very few were willing to embrace the faith to which they gave so
ready an assent. Like the fishes who listened to St. Anthony's
sermon,

    "Much delighted were they,
     But preferred the old way."

Still, they were ready enough to visit the hut of the
missionaries, and examine their marvels of ingenuity and skill,
the fame of which had gone abroad throughout the whole Huron
nation. They would sit on the ground by the hour, watching the
clock and waiting for it to strike. They thought it was alive,
and dignified it with the title of "Captain." "What does the
Captain say?" they would often ask.

"When he strikes twelve times," the Jesuits answered, "he says,
'Hang on the kettle;' and when he strikes four times he says,
'Get up and go home.'"

So at noon visitors were never wanting to share the Captain's
hospitality; but at the stroke of four they all departed, and the
missionaries gathered round the fire and discussed the
intricacies of the Huron language. Among the other wonders of the
lodge there was a hand-mill which the savages were never tired of
turning. A magnet proved a great puzzle to them; and there was a
magnifying-glass which transformed a flea into a frightful
monster, and, we may suppose, filled them with alarm.
{199}
They conceived an overpowering respect for the wisdom and
supernatural powers of the black-gowns, and had for them also,
upon the whole, a genuine good will; but there were moments when
their influence, and even their safety, were endangered by the
violence of the Indian superstitions. Once in a season of drought
a "rain-maker" persuaded the Hurons that the red color of the
cross which stood before the Jesuits' dwelling frightened away
the bird of thunder. It was about to be cut down. The priests
begged them to paint it white, and see if the thunder would come.
It was done, but rain still kept aloof.

"Your spirits cannot help you," said the fathers; "ask the aid of
him who made the world, and perhaps he will hear your prayers."

The Indians were induced to promise obedience to the true God.
Nine masses were offered in honor of St. Joseph, and every day
there were solemn processions and prayers. In a few days there
were heavy falls of rain, and the Hurons conceived an exalted
idea of the power of French "medicine." But alas for their
promises! They were soon forgotten.

In the autumn and winter of 1636, the Huron towns were swept by a
contagious fever, accompanied by the small-pox. Three of the
Jesuits--Jogues, Garnier, and Chatelain--were seized with the
fever, but the protection of Providence raised them up for the
relief of their poor red-skinned brethren. In the depth of winter
the missionaries went from village to village, visiting every
hut, tending the sick, bringing them such few delicacies as their
scanty stores afforded, and pressing their religious instructions
at every available occasion. But it was hard to make an
impression on the stolid hearts of the savages. They comprehended
the pains and fires of hell, but they could not understand the
happiness of heaven. They had no wish to go after death to a
place where there would be neither war nor hunting, and where,
they feared, the French would give them nothing to eat. Nor, when
the Huron had at last been persuaded that heaven was good for
Indians as well as Frenchmen, was it easy to produce in him the
proper dispositions for baptism. He felt no contrition, for he
believed that he had never committed sin. "Why did you baptize
that Iroquois?" asked a dying neophyte; "he will get to heaven
before us, and when he sees us coming he will drive us out." This
was disheartening; but once for a few days there was a gleam of
consolation. The whole village of Ossossané resolved to embrace
the faith of the black-robes, to give up their superstitions, and
to reform their manners. One of their principal sorcerers
proclaimed in a loud voice, through the streets of the town, that
the God of the French was henceforth their Master. Nine days
afterward a noted sorcerer came to Ossossané, and the Indians
held a grand medicine feast, hoping to secure the aid of God and
the devil at once. The superstitious rites were all renewed; the
nights grew hideous with yells of incantation, and magic figures
to drive away the demon of pestilence were put up on every house.
The danger to the missionaries now became imminent. When they
left their hut in the morning, it was with a well-grounded doubt
whether they should ever return. The sacrament of baptism, which
it was a part of their daily labor to administer to dying
children, came to be looked upon as a pestiferous charm.
{200}
They could only give it by stealth, sometimes letting fall a drop
from a spoonful of sugared water, with which they pretended to
cool the patient's parched lips, or else touching the skin with a
moist finger or the corner of a wet handkerchief. The mysterious
black-robed magicians were now regarded as the cause of the
pestilence; and had it not been for the awe in which they were
held by the savages, their lives would quickly have been at an
end. As it was, they were everywhere repulsed and insulted.
Children pelted them from behind huts, friends looked at them
askance, and the more violent of their enemies clamored for their
death. The picture of the last judgment which hung in their
chapel was taken to be a charm of direful power. The litanies
which they chanted together were incantations pregnant with
plague and famine. The clock was a malignant demon, and the poor
"Captain" had to be stopped. In August, 1637, a great council of
the Hurons, including deputations from four nations, was held to
deliberate upon the affairs of the confederation. The chief,
whose office it was to preside over the feast of the dead, arose,
and in a set speech accused the Jesuits of being the cause of the
calamities that afflicted them. One accuser followed another,
Brébeuf replying to their charges with ingenuity and boldness.
The debate continued through the night. Many of the Indians fell
asleep, and others went away. One old chief as he passed out said
to Brébeuf, "If some young man should split your head open, we
should have nothing to say." "What sort of men are these?" cried
out another impatiently, as the Jesuit went on with his harangue;
"they are always saying the same thing, and repeating the same
words a hundred times." Another council was called to pronounce
the sentence of death. The priests appeared before it with such
unflinching courage that their judges, struck with admiration,
deferred the decree. Still it seemed as if their fate could not
be long deferred. They wrote a farewell letter to their superior,
Father Le Jeune, and committed to the care of an Indian convert
the most precious properties of the mission, the sacred furniture
of the altar, and the vocabulary which they had compiled of the
Huron language. Then they gave a parting feast, after the Indian
custom of those who were about to die. The intrepidity manifested
by this proceeding was not without its effect. The animosity of
the savages became less intense, and though the persecution
continued, and the lives of individual members of the little band
were more than once attempted, the project of a massacre was for
the present abandoned.

By the end of the year 1638, the mission had seven priests who
spoke Huron, and three more who were learning it. There were
about sixty converts, and at Ossossané a commodious chapel of
wood had been built by the labor of artisans sent for the purpose
from Quebec. The original intention of the Jesuits was to form
permanent missions in each of the principal Huron towns. This,
however, proved impracticable, and a spot was chosen on the
little river Wye, near Matchedash Bay of Lake Huron, for a great
central station, to which they gave the name of Sainte Marie. The
Huron towns were now apportioned into districts, and a certain
number of priests assigned to each. Father Garnier and Father
Jogues made an ineffectual attempt to establish a mission among
the Tobacco nation, two days' journey to the south-west.
{201}
But their evil reputation had preceded them. The children cried
out, when they saw them approach, that famine and pest were
coming. Every door was closed against them; and when in despair
they left the town, a band of young braves followed them, hatchet
in hand, to put them to death. Under cover of the darkness they
made their escape, and Father Jogues, with Father Raymbault,
afterward passed around the northern shore of Lake Huron, and
preached the faith among the Ojibwas, as far as Sault Sainte
Marie, at the outlet of Lake Superior. In the mean time Brébeuf
and Chaumonot went on a mission to the powerful and ferocious
Neutral nation which inhabited the country between lakes Erie and
Ontario, on both sides of the Niagara river. They visited
eighteen of the Neutral towns. In all they were received with a
storm of insults, blows, and maledictions. The Hurons had been
afraid to kill them, dreading the vengeance of the French at
Quebec; but they had sent secret emissaries to incite the
Neutrals against them, and had promised nine French hatchets to
the tribe which should be their executioners. Brébeuf was the
object of their special hatred. This glorious man, whom Parkman
calls the truest hero and the greatest martyr of the Huron
mission, was feared with an intensity which none of his
companions inspired. But in the midst of his persecutions God
consoled him with heavenly favors. Celestial visions comforted
him in his toilsome journeys through the forest. He saw the image
of a vast and gorgeous palace, and a voice assured him that such
was to be the reward of those who dwell in hovels for the cause
of God. Angels appeared to him, and more than once the Blessed
Virgin and his dear patron, St. Joseph, were revealed to his
sight. Now, when the Neutral nation shut him out of their lodges,
half famished and nearly frozen, the apparition of a great
cross--"large enough," he said to his brethren, "to crucify us
all"--came slowly up from the country of the Iroquois. It seems
like a warning of the glorious fate which awaited him, and to
those heroic souls who longed for martyrdom as the bright crown
of their labor, we cannot doubt that it was also a sweet
consolation.

The day of persecution, however, was only dawning. The sufferings
of the past few years were as nothing in comparison with the
torments that were to follow. In the summer of 1642, the mission
had been reduced to great destitution, and Father Jogues was sent
to Quebec to obtain clothing, writing materials, wine for the
altar, and other necessary stores. He returned with the annual
fleet of Huron canoes, having with him two young French laymen,
René Goupil and Guillaume Couture, who had attached themselves
without pay to the mission, and a few Indian converts. They were
passing the Lake of St. Peter, in the St. Lawrence river, when
they were suddenly attacked by a war-party of Mohawks. The
greater part of the Hurons leaped ashore and took to the woods.
The French and their converts made fight for a while, but were
soon overpowered. Father Jogues sprang into a clump of bulrushes
and might have escaped, but, seeing Goupil in the hands of the
savages, he came forward, resolved to share his fate. Couture,
too, got away, but came back to join his companions. In his
excitement he shot dead one of a band of Mohawks who sprang upon
him. The others rushed upon him, tore away his finger-nails with
their teeth, gnawed at his fingers like wild beasts, and thrust a
sword through one of his hands.
{202}
The Jesuit threw his arms about his friend's neck, but the
Indians dragged him away, beat him till he was senseless, and
when he revived lacerated his fingers as they had done those of
Couture. Goupil was then treated in the same manner. They set off
with their prisoners for the Mohawk towns, rowing across Lake
Champlain and Lake George. Thirteen days of horrible suffering
were passed on the journey. At last they reached a palisaded
village, built upon a hill on the banks of the Mohawk river. At
the entrance the prisoners were forced to run the gauntlet. Then
they were placed on a high platform, disfigured, livid, and
streaming with blood, and the crowd proceeded to "caress" them. A
Christian Algonquin woman, a prisoner among them, was compelled
to cut off the priest's left thumb with a clam-shell. Goupil was
mutilated in the same manner. The torture lasted all day. At
night the captives were stretched on their backs with limbs
extended, and their wrists and ankles fastened to stakes. The
children now amused themselves by placing live coals on their
naked bodies. For three days more they were exposed on the
scaffold; then they were led to two other Mohawk towns in turn,
and at each the tortures were repeated. Once some Huron prisoners
were placed on the same platform with them, and Father Jogues
found an opportunity to convert them in the midst of the torture,
and to baptize them with a few rain-drops from an ear of corn
that had been thrown to him for food. Couture, having won the
respect of the savages by his intrepid bearing, was adopted into
one of their families, and gained in time great influence over
them. Goupil was one day detected making the sign of the cross on
the forehead of a child, and for this was killed by a blow from a
hatchet, falling at the feet of Father Jogues, who gave him
absolution before he expired. The priest himself, warned every
hour that his death was near, and hated by his captors, who
thought he brought bad luck to their hunting parties, was dragged
around from place to place, now following the hunters through the
forest, now laboring in the villages to convert the old men and
squaws, or baptize dying children. He brought firewood for his
masters, did their bidding without a murmur, was silent under
their abuse; but, when they reviled his faith, he rose with a
majestic air, and rebuked them as one having authority.

He had been nearly a year in slavery when the Indians took him
with them on a trading visit to the Dutch at Fort Orange,
(Albany.) We can imagine how his heart must have beat at the
sight of a white face after his long banishment but he had no
thought of turning back after his hand had once been put to the
plough, and no plans of escape entered his mind. While here,
however, he learned that the Indians of the village had at last
resolved to kill him as soon as he returned. He had found means
to warn the French at Three Rivers of intended treachery on the
part of some Mohawk visitors, and the savages had determined to
be revenged. To trust himself longer in their hands would not be
heroism, but foolhardiness. A Dutch settler named Van Curler
offered him a passage, in a little vessel then lying in the
Hudson, either to Bordeaux or Rochelle. The Jesuit spent a night
in prayer, and then resolved to accept the proposal. With the
assistance of his Dutch friends, and after several narrow escapes
from detection, he got away from his savage masters by night,
rowed to the vessel in a boat which the settlers left for his use
on the shore, and was kindly received by the sailors and stowed
away in the hold.
{203}
There he remained half-stifled for two days and a half, while the
enraged Mohawks ransacked the settlement and searched the vessel.
For better security until the day of sailing, he was then
concealed in the garret of a house on shore, where his host stole
the provisions that the kind-hearted Dutchmen sent for his use.
The Dutch dominie, Megapolensis, visited him here, and did all he
could for his comfort. At last, an order came from Manhattan that
he should be sent down to the Director-General Kieft, who
exchanged his squalid Indian dress for a suit of Dutch cloth, and
gave him passage in a small vessel to Falmouth. After various
adventures, having fallen into the hands of robbers in the
English port, and made his way to France in a coal-vessel, he
presented himself, on the morning of the 5th of January, 1644,
clad in tatters, at the door of the Jesuit college in Rennes. He
asked for the father rector, but was told that he was busy and
could not be seen. "Tell him, if you please," said Father Jogues,
"that a man from Canada would speak a few words with him." The
Canada mission was an object of deep interest at this time all
through the society, and the father rector, though he was about
vesting for mass, ordered the man to be admitted. He asked many
questions about the affairs of Canada, and at last inquired if
the stranger knew Father Jogues.

"I know him very well," was the reply.

"The Iroquois have taken him," continued the reverend Superior.
"Is he dead?"

"No," answered the missionary, "he is alive and at liberty. I am
he." Then he fell on his knees and asked the rector's blessing.

His arrival was celebrated, as we might well suppose, with great
rejoicing. He was summoned to Paris, where the queen kissed his
mutilated hands and the whole court strove to honor him. The
blandishments of the great, however, gave no pleasure to this
scarred veteran of Christ's army. He longed to be again in the
field, and in two or three months he sailed once more for Canada.

In the mean time the missions had fared ill. Violent warfare
raged between the Iroquois confederation (of which the Mohawks
formed a part) and the Hurons and Algonquins. In one respect and
for a short time this was of some benefit to the faith, for the
Algonquins, threatened with destruction by their more powerful
enemies, became docile, and listened more readily to the
exhortations of the French priests. Yet they were rapidly
approaching extermination. Whole villages were destroyed in the
periodical incursions of the Iroquois. The neophytes were
massacred. The missionaries were intercepted on their journeys.
Father Joseph Bressani was captured on his way to the Huron
country in the spring of 1644. One of his Indian companions was
roasted and eaten before his eyes. The father himself was beaten
with sticks until he was covered with blood. His hands were
fearfully mutilated. His fingers were slit; one day a nail would
be burned off; the next, a joint. He was made to walk on hot
cinders. He was given up to the children to be tortured. He was
hanged by the feet with chains. He was tied to the ground, and
food was placed upon his naked body that the dogs might lacerate
him as they ate. Ten weeks afterward he wrote to the
father-general at Rome: "I do not know if your paternity will
recognize the handwriting of one whom you once knew very well.
{204}
The letter is soiled and ill-written; because the writer has only
one finger of his right hand left entire, and cannot prevent the
blood from his wounds, which are still open, from staining the
paper. His ink is gunpowder mixed with water, and his table is
the earth." He survived and was carried to Fort Orange, where the
Dutch ransomed him and sent him back to France. The next spring
he too returned and succeeded in reaching the Hurons. Father de
Nouë, whom we have mentioned as one of the first companions of Le
Jeune, perished in the snow in February, 1646, on the way from
Quebec to a French port at the mouth of the river Richelieu,
where he was to hear confessions. A peace had indeed been
concluded with the Mohawks just before Jogues' return, but a
peace with them could be no better than a precarious truce.
Couture, who had been with Father Jogues in his captivity, and
become a person of consideration with the tribe, had rendered
good service in the negotiation, and would continue to serve his
countrymen to the utmost of his power; yet it was felt that to
keep the Indians to their engagements an agent of still higher
personal character was required, and Father Jogues was assigned
to the duty. "I shall go," he wrote to a friend, "but I shall not
return."

His mission was partly political, but mainly, of course,
religious. By the advice of an Algonquin convert, he exchanged
his cassock for a civilian's doublet, not wishing to irritate the
savages by a premature declaration of his heavenly message. He
held a council with the head men of the Mohawks, presented the
gifts of the Canadian government, and then set about founding a
new mission, to be called the Mission of the Martyrs. There were
three principal clans among the Mohawks--those of the Bear, the
Tortoise, and the Wolf. The first were bitter foes of the French,
and eager for war; the others stood out resolutely for peace.
Many were the fierce debates around their council-fires whether
the missionary should be killed or not. At last, one day, a band
of warriors of the Bear clan met the priest and a young lay
companion of his, named Lalande, in the woods, stripped them, and
led them in triumph to the town. There they were beaten with
sticks, and strips of flesh were cut from Father Jogues' back and
arms. In the evening, the priest was sitting in one of the
lodges, when an Indian entered and invited him to a feast. To
refuse would have been an insult. He arose and followed the
messenger to the cabin of the chief of the Bears. As he bent his
head to enter, a savage, concealed within, clove his skull with a
hatchet, the weapon cutting through the arm of an Indian who
tried to avert the blow. The martyr sank at the feet of his
murderer. His head was instantly cut off, and stuck upon the
palisade which enclosed the town, and his body was thrown into
the river. The next day Lalande was killed, and his remains
received the same treatment.


The murder of Father Jogues was the signal for a reopening of the
war with the colonists and their allies, and among the first
victims were the Algonquin converts. We have no space to relate
the story of the surprise of their villages, the shocking torture
of the captives, or the massacre of the children, the old, and
the infirm. But some of the prisoners escaped, and the adventures
of one of them were so interesting that we cannot resist the
temptation to copy them from the animated narrative of Parkman.
{205}
This was an Algonquin woman named Marie, whose husband had been
burned with other captives. One night, while the savages were
dancing and shrieking round the flames in which one of her
countrymen was being consumed, she stole away into the forest.
The ground was covered with snow, so, lest her footsteps should
betray her, she retraced the beaten path in which the Indians had
already travelled until she came near a village of the Onondagas.
There she hid herself in a thicket, and at night crept forth to
grope in the snow for a few grains of corn left from the last
year's harvest. She saw many Indians from her lurking-place, and
once a tall savage with an axe came directly toward her, but she
murmured a prayer and he turned away. Certain of death if
discovered, and disheartened at the prospect of the long and
terrible journey through the frozen wilderness to Canada, she
tried to commit suicide by hanging herself with her girdle, but
it broke twice, and she plucked up heart. With no clothing but a
thin tunic, she travelled on, directing her course by the sun,
and living upon roots and the inner bark of trees, and now and
then catching tortoises in the brooks. At night she kindled a
fire by the friction of two sticks in some deep nook of the
forest, warmed herself, cooked her food, if she had any, and said
her rosary. Once she discovered a party of Iroquois warriors, but
she lay concealed and they passed without observing her.
Following their trail, she found their bark canoe by the bank of
a river. It was too large for her to manage alone, but with a
hatchet which she had picked up in a deserted camp she reduced it
to a convenient size, and floated down the stream to the St.
Lawrence. Her journey was now much easier. There were eggs of
wild fowl to be found along the shore, and fish in the river,
which she speared with a sharp pole. She even killed deer by
driving them into the water, chasing them in her canoe, and
striking them on the head with her hatchet. At the end of two
months she reached Montreal, after hardships which no woman but
an Indian could have supported.

The central mission of Sainte Marie was meanwhile in the flush of
prosperity. The buildings included a church, a kitchen, a
refectory, large rooms for spiritual instruction and the
exercises of retreat, and lodgings for at least sixty persons.
Around these principal houses ran a fortified line of palisades
and masonry, outside which was a hospital and a large bark hut
for the reception of wandering Indians. Here every alternate week
the converts from all the Huron villages gathered in immense
crowds to attend divine service, celebrated with all the pomp
which the resources of the mission allowed, and to partake for
three days of the bounteous hospitality of the good fathers. In
times of pestilence and famine they flocked hither for relief,
and at one time, in a year of scarcity, as many as three thousand
received food and shelter at Sainte Marie. Hither, also, two or
three times every year, the Jesuits--now twenty-two in number,
including four lay-brothers--came together from their outlying
missions, to refresh their souls by mutual counsel, and gather
strength in prayer and meditation for the work of the next twelve
months. To assist in the manual labor of the establishment there
were seven hired men and four boys, and as a defence against the
dreaded Iroquois the commandant of Quebec had sent them a guard
of eight soldiers.
{206}
They received also much valuable help from the _donnés_, or
"given men"--French laymen, who from pure zeal devoted themselves
to the service of the mission, travelling with the fathers on
their dangerous journeys, and sometimes sharing--like Goupil,
called "the good Réné"--in the glories of their martyrdom. These
pious men--"seculars in garb," Father Gamier called them, "but
religious in heart"--received no pay except a bare maintenance.
There were eleven smaller missions dependent upon Sainte Marie,
eight among the Hurons and three among the Algonquins. At several
of them there was a church where every morning a bell summoned
the dusky converts to Mass, and every evening they met again for
prayer. Despite the enormous difficulties of transportation
through that tangled wilderness, the fathers had found means to
carry with them from place to place large colored pictures, gay
draperies, and many a showy ornament for the altar or the walls,
which they well knew would invest their rude chapels with an
almost irresistible attraction for the savage mind. In many
villages the Christians, by the year 1649, outnumbered the
pagans. Sundays and feast-days were almost wholly devoted to
religious exercises; and if the Indians had not wholly abandoned
their barbarous and cruel practices, it is certain that the
ferocity even of those who refused to become Christians was
sensibly tamed.

But the season of good fortune which followed the martyrdom of
Goupil and Jogues was destined to be but short. The increasing
hostility of the Iroquois was to be the destruction at once of
the Huron nation and of the high hopes which had been built upon
that people. Yet it may be questioned whether the Jesuits would
have long been left at peace even had these terrible foes kept
within the range of their own villages. Even among the Hurons the
murmurs of suspicion and dislike had begun to be heard again. The
French ceremony of "prayer," said the savages, had blighted the
crops, and the mystic rites of the priests had brought famine and
desolation upon the nation. There was even a story, widely
believed in the Huron lodges, that an Indian girl, baptized
before her death, had been to the French heaven, and, after
suffering horrible torments there from the pale faces, had made
her escape back to earth to deter her countrymen from rushing to
the same fate. A young Frenchman in the service of the mission
had been treacherously murdered; and though the missionaries by a
wise show of resolution had compelled the nation to make
satisfaction for the outrage by the ceremonious offering of
numerous strings of wampum, and had thus restored their waning
influence, it was clear that their position at the best was
extremely precarious, and that persecution, if it came not from
abroad, would pretty surely be commenced at home. The
catastrophe, therefore, when it came, found the priests not
unprepared. For years they had carried their lives in their
hands, ready to cast them down at any moment. For years they had
walked through the valley of the shadow of death, and in the
midst of the dark river and in the bitter waters they knew that
the almighty Arm was stretched forth to hold them up.

The final act opened at the village of Teanaustayé, or St.
Joseph, on the south-eastern frontier of the Huron country.
{207}
On the 4th of July, 1648, Father Daniel, fresh from his annual
retreat at Sainte Marie, had just finished Mass, and his
congregation were still kneeling in the church, when the Iroquois
burst upon the town and attacked the palisade which surrounded
it. The priest, after rallying the warriors to defend their
homes, ran from house to house urging unbelievers to repent. A
panic-stricken crowd fell at his knees and declared themselves
Christians, and he baptized them with water sprinkled from a wet
handkerchief, for there was no time to do more. When the palisade
was broken down, he showed his flock how to escape at the other
end of the town. "I will stay here," said he. "We shall meet
again in heaven." He would not fly while there was a soul to be
saved in the village. In his priestly vestments he went out to
the church-door to meet the Iroquois. For a moment they paused in
amazement. Then, pierced with scores of arrows and a musket-ball
through the heart, he fell, gasping the name of Jesus. The
savages hacked his lifeless body, bathed their faces in his blood
to make them brave, and consumed in one great conflagration the
village, the church, and the sacred remains.

The following March the missions of St. Louis and St. Ignace were
burned by the same terrible enemy. At the latter were two of the
Jesuits; Brébeuf, sturdy offspring of a warrior race, with all
the soldierly characteristics of his Norman ancestors; and
Lalemant, delicate in body and in spirit, yet in the glorious
cause no whit less courageous and resolute than his stronger
companion. They were seized by their captors, and Brébeuf was
bound to a stake, and, as he ceased not to exhort and encourage
the convert prisoners, the Iroquois scorched him from head to
foot to silence him. That failing, they cut away his lower lip,
and thrust a red-hot iron down his throat, yet still he held
himself erect without uttering a groan. Lalemant, led out to be
burned, with strips of bark smeared with pitch tied about his
naked body, broke loose from his guards and cast himself at the
hero's feet, crying out in a broken voice: "We are made a
spectacle to the world, to angels, and to men." He was
immediately seized and made fast to a post, and as the flames
enveloped him he threw up his arms to heaven with a shriek of
agony. Brébeuf, with a collar of red-hot hatchets round his neck
and with his hands and nose cut off, had to witness the tortures
of his friend and could not even utter a word of comfort. An
apostate Indian in the crowd cried out, "Baptize them! baptize
them!" Instantly kettles were placed upon the fire, the priests'
scalps were torn away, and scalding water was poured slowly over
their bleeding heads. Brébeuf's feet were next cut off, strips of
flesh were sliced from his limbs and eaten before his eyes, and
at last, when life was nearly extinct, the savages laid open his
breast, tore out his heart and devoured it, and thronged around
the mangled corpse to drink the blood of so magnificent and
indomitable a hero. His torments had lasted four hours. Father
Lalemant, though a man of extreme feebleness of constitution,
survived the torture seventeen hours, writhing through the night
in the most excruciating sufferings, until an Iroquois, surfeited
with the long entertainment, killed him with a hatchet.


This massacre was the death-knell of the Huron mission--of the
mission, that is to say, in the form and extent in which the
society had originally designed it.
{208}
Other villages were burned; two other missionaries, Gamier and
Chabanel, were martyred; the entire establishment was withdrawn
from Sainte Marie; and the miserable remnant of the Hurons was
scattered far and wide. A portion of them, after a winter of
starvation, embarked with the surviving missionaries for Quebec,
and near that city founded a settlement, in which the Christian
faith was preserved and is cherished to this day. Others
voluntarily abandoned their nationality and were adopted into the
Seneca tribe of the Iroquois, where eighteen years afterward many
of them were found to be still good Catholics.


The story which we have briefly traced in its most striking
outlines is but one chapter in the long history of the labors,
the sufferings, and the glorious achievements of the Jesuits in
North America. We would gladly have followed them further in
their journeys through the wilderness, traced them with a Huron
remnant in the far west, and lingered for a while about their
headquarters at Quebec watching the growth of the central
establishment which sent forth its apostles to the great lakes on
the one hand, and through the forests of Maine to the sea-coast
on the other. But we must bring our story to a close. The record
of their work has been well preserved in the three books whose
titles we have placed at the head of this article. The history by
Mr. John G. Shea, to whom Catholics in general and American
Catholics especially are under the deepest obligations for his
careful and successful researches, is the fullest and, we doubt
not, the most correct. The narrative of Mr. Parkman, which we
have followed closely, giving in some parts of our article merely
an abstract of what he has told in picturesque detail, is written
in a charming style, and is valuable as testimony to the exalted
character of the missionaries from one who has no sympathy with
their faith and is unable to appreciate their piety.

The Iroquois, in destroying the Huron nation, and with it the
Algonquins, to whom the Hurons had hitherto served as a bulwark,
had destroyed the Jesuit scheme of a Christian Indian empire; but
the labor of the missionaries had not been in vain. The seed
which they had planted was not allowed to die. The exiles carried
the sacred deposit of faith with them in their wanderings, as the
Israelites in the wilderness bore the ark of the covenant. Years
afterward, when Father Grelon, one of those who escaped from the
Iroquois massacre, was travelling in the heart of Tartary, he met
a Huron woman who had learned the truth from him in the little
chapel at Sainte Marie, and after the final catastrophe had been
sold from tribe to tribe until she reached the interior of Asia.
She knelt at his feet, and in her native tongue, which she had
not spoken nor the priest heard for years, she made her
confession. Nor was it only in the fidelity of individuals that
the missionaries reaped their harvest. When, after the ruin of
their enterprise on the shores of the Georgian Bay, they sent
their undaunted preachers among that terrible people who had
wrought such havoc, how can we doubt that the blood of Brébeuf
and his brethren was permitted to fructify their labors, and that
the saintly men who gave their sufferings for the poor savage
during so many years pleaded and prevailed in the same great
cause after they had entered into their reward?

------

{209}


    Translated from Le Correspondant.

    Learned Women and Studious Women.

    By Monseigneur Dupanloup.

    (Concluded.)


             VII.


  Advantages of Intellectual Labor.

I do not recommend self-culture merely for the personal
satisfaction of women, or in order that they may have mental
gratification. Study is evidently useful and important for the
accomplishment of important duties. Is it not a convenience, in
se a teacher or governess, for one's daughters to understand what
is called _le fond du métier_ better than they do, so that
one may superintend and direct them, and even if necessary,
supply their place? Should a mother give her children life and
then leave the duties of maternity in the hands of mercenaries,
no matter how conscientious and devoted they may be?

But it is in relation to sons that maternal ignorance has the
most fatal results. Not only is a wife not consulted about her
boys, but, if she makes any objection to an irreligious school,
the husband answers: "I wish my son to have a career. I shall
place him where he will be prepared for it. You do not know even
the names of the sciences he must acquire--leave the direction of
his education to me." And when the little individual leaves
school, puffed up with conceit rather than with knowledge, and
the mother's Christian heart shows her the sophistry with which
her son's mind has been filled, she must keep silence for want of
one single fact, one precise _datum_ in her memory to oppose
to perilous errors.

Often a father, engaged in some especial career, loses sight of
the literary or artistic movement which interests his son in
early manhood. Then is the time when an intelligent,
well-informed mother could initiate him in pursuits which she has
loved and cultivated all her life. She could point out to him
good authors and books worth reading, read with him, teach him to
reject dangerous writers and bad books, and stimulate his taste
for study, by directing it to noble objects.

Surely a mother is bound to cherish the body and the soul of her
child. Indeed, her place may be more easily filled with respect
to the details of physical education, than to those of
intellectual and moral training. Many persons can assist her in
the former; with regard to the latter, she often stands alone,
and sometimes surrounded by obstacles.

To follow a young man's mental development and course of study,
to watch over him and guide him with the authority belonging to a
rectitude of judgment which carries conviction along with it, and
to an enlightened understanding which unites with goodness in
inspiring admiration and confidence--all this presupposes a rare
combination of mental qualities.
{210}
How many mothers there are who lose their hold upon a son's soul
because they have not borne, nursed, reared, and nourished his
understanding as well as his physical being. To be a mother, a
mother in all the elevation, extent, and depth of that great
name! This aim alone justifies a woman's noblest efforts to
acquire the highest intellectual culture.

But if you agree to favor the men development of women, for the
sake even of domestic usefulness, accept this development in its
completeness; do not impose upon it arbitrary limits. There are
minds that cannot unfold in mutilation or inaction, which need
expansion, as St. Augustine says, to become strong.

A woman who, from a sentiment for art or literature, has
developed talent, does not lose, by becoming skilful, the
advantages that mediocre faculties would have given her. We may
feel sure that gifts of this nature answer to duties, and find
themselves in harmony with the providential destiny of their
possessors.

I do not believe, with M. de Maistre, that science in petticoats,
as he calls it, or talent of any description whatsoever, makes a
woman less excellent as a wife or mother.

Study renders a wife worthy of her husband if he is intelligent.
Union can hardly be preserved in a household unless community of
intellect completes that of affection. As a woman loses her
youthful charms, the worth of her mind must increase in her
husband's eyes, and esteem perpetuate affection. By that time the
husband, if he has ability, is entering upon the period of his
greatest activity, while too often the wife, brought up in the
severest principles and in habits of empty occupations, bores him
with her mechanical piety, her music, and her worsted work. A
crowd of engrossing duties gain ever stronger possession of the
husband, forming a circle which the unoccupied wife cannot
penetrate, and thus is brought about between them what one may
call a _mental separation_.

On the other hand, a studious woman shares her husband's
preoccupation, and sustains him in his labors and struggles. She
follows her husband and precedes her son, occupying in the home
circle a lofty position that makes her an aid and adviser to its
master. She feels that he is proud of her, and needs her, but
this does not make her presumptuous. She leans securely on her
happiness, feeling confident that nothing can shake a union
formed upon a principle of perfect community of two souls and two
intelligences, feeling sure that her love will last as long as
the souls it unites. To a woman who is superior to her husband,
study gives an intellectual aliment without which she would feel
rebellious, and in such a household there may be great happiness
and tranquillity. Even in the case of a husband who is unworthy
of his wife, he is forced to respect her for the superiority of
her intellect. The standing which she earns for herself in the
world by her talent and virtue, wins his regard, and she at least
holds the honor of her family in her own hands.

Woman, in becoming Christian, has become man's companion,
_socia_, and moreover an aid, assistant, support, and
adviser, _adjutorium_. Religion, while elevating her soul
and heart, has also rendered her mind capable of comprehending,
sometimes of equalling, but most especially of assisting the
intelligence of man. While leaving her physically weak, God has
implanted in her the germs of every greatness and every moral
power.
{211}
There has never been a noble work in which women have not
assisted; as the teachers of men, as their inspirers, and often
as the companions of their labor, the world has seen women devote
intellect and life to those whom they loved, dwelling on a level
with thoughts which, being confided first to them, had drawn a
swift and strong development from the double influence. Woman
owes to education the union of her intellectual life to that of
man. She has worked for him, she has worked like him for God, and
man has drawn a subtile growth from the frail creature entrusted
to his protection.

I know nothing more generous than an intimacy that does not stop
at a conjugal union of interests or even of affections, but
passes on to the domain of thought. I have seen such unions. I
know too more than one father, who, notwithstanding his rare
intelligence, must have left the work of a lifetime unfinished
but for the aid of a mind placed at the service of his age and
infirmity by filial devotion.

I believe that a woman's acquirements help her to fulfil great
duties toward her husband, and I know many men (no offence to M.
de Maistre) who could get along better with a _savante_ than
with a coquette.

So far I have spoken of domestic life. Let us now examine the
question with regard to society, taking the following theses to
argue.

I maintain that, if the world were more indulgent and refrained
from launching stupid anathemas at studious women, those who have
such tastes would indulge them without fancying themselves to be
extraordinary persons; and that they would infuse a certain life
into society, even if their number were limited. Perhaps the
standard of conversation, occupations, and ideas would rise, and
elevated subjects inspire more interest. Who would complain of
such a change?

Instead of ending their education on a certain fixed day, and
throwing themselves heart and soul into society, young women
would preserve the habits of intellectual training; they would
carry on and complete for themselves, their husband and their
children the education already commenced; some cultivating art,
others writing or studying, others reading. Thus they would
become acquainted with the interests of religion and society;
with opinions and books and ideas in general circulation. Would
they not exercise a new and salutary influence at home and in the
world?

But it is especially in the provinces that such aspirations are
severely criticised. Those women have small liberty to learn, and
still less to make use of their acquirements. The most tolerant
say, "Study on condition that you conceal what you learn. Your
whole inner life claims expansion and sympathy? Never mind that!"

But if you forbid women to write or speak of the things that
interest them, how can you suppose they will have the courage to
work for the acquirement of knowledge that is to be buried for
ever in their own minds?

And I repeat, if the standard of conversation could be raised a
little, drawn out of the monotonous circle in which it moves,
where would be the harm? Instead of seeking in society a sterile
distraction, and often finding _ennui_, if some intercourse
of mind at least, if not of heart and soul, could be established,
replacing town-gossip and dissertations on the fashions by
interesting and instructive conversations from which one could
derive the advantage that always results from effort made in
common to arrive at an appreciation of the beautiful, and of
noble ideas and interests, would not the change betoken genuine
progress?

{212}

This is to be found in some _salons_. There are homes where
young girls are not excluded from general conversation. They are
not, as elsewhere, banished to a corner of the drawing-room to
enjoy the privilege and habit of discussing together every sort
of nonsense, but are allowed to listen to anything that interests
them, and even to talk agreeably without being thought
conspicuous. This was the habit at M.----'s, where his two
daughters joined the most serious _réunions_, mingling in
very interesting conversations, or at least listening, and all
quite naturally, without pretension or pedantry. Those two young
girls have become very superior women. How many, on the other
hand, suffer from _ennui_ or become deteriorated, because
their active minds receive no nourishment!

Is it then so difficult to prove that the intellectual
development of women through literature and the fine arts, far
from introducing a foreign element into their lives, or creating
necessities and interfering with duty, is, on the contrary, a
source of daily advantage to domestic life and to society?

In the domestic circle, whose moral atmosphere they create as it
were, elevating or debasing by their influence, sentiments,
occupations, and ideas; and in society, where a well-directed
employment of their talents and cultivation would substitute
solidity for the hollow frivolity of the reunions of the present
day. "For three years I have seen society in the provinces,"
writes to me a young woman. "It differs little from that of other
(provincial) places, I suppose. Ah me! sometimes at the end of
the day I sum up six or seven hours spent, with or against my
will, in gossip about my neighbors that, while compromising
charity, has exhausted the mind and narrowed the already narrow
horizon."

Is there no middle course for women between the folly of
dangerous and frivolous amusements, such as balls and theatres,
and the insupportable bore of parties where long evening hours
are spent in the smallest of small talk? Efforts in a different
direction meet with success. Last winter, an intelligent and
religious woman, who likes society but does not dance, tried the
experiment in a provincial town. She conceived the idea of having
really good music in her drawing-room. Quartettes of Mozart and
Beethoven were played. The admiration aroused by these
_chef-d'oeuvres_ naturally lifted the mind above the level
of those common preoccupations that find their echo in society.
Conversation felt the influence; every one was delighted, and
brought away something from these _soirées_, where the sense
of beauty, while reasserting itself, awoke good thoughts and
strengthened noble sentiments.

I think that, if women took thus the initiative, giving an upward
direction to that craving for recreation which we seek to satisfy
in society; if men found other ways of pleasing women, more
acceptable than insipidity and frivolity; perhaps worthless young
men would feel themselves less masters of the world, and clubs
would be less generally the refuge of gentlemen who find
themselves bored in drawing-rooms.

If we could conquer the terrible prejudice that forbids a woman
to be well educated, to talk of or even appear interested in
serious things, there would be a goodly number who would take a
nobler aim and find pleasure in something better than dress.
Then, an intelligent woman would be no greater exception than one
who plays on the piano, and would not have those temptations to
pride, which are said to assail her in her position of
phenomenon.

{213}

We cannot destroy the world, but we can ameliorate it, by giving
it other attractions than those of idle or intoxicating pleasure.
Would not intellectual progress pave the way for moral progress?
I know _salons_ where, thanks to the dignity and
intelligence of the thoughtful, amiable hostess, great events,
noble ideas, and good works ever find an echo; where solid
conversation stimulates ardor for study, by opening broader
intellectual horizons, and where pure artistic emotions develop a
love of the beautiful. If a little more artistic and intellectual
life were introduced into Christian society, one would not feel
obliged to go to the theatre to catch a few _reflets_, as I
have heard said, even in families where religion was in other
respects quite faithfully practised.

No doubt--and here I sum up the whole matter under discussion--no
doubt, intellectual culture may present three perils, but perils
easily guarded against.

1st. A neglect of practical duties. This danger must be met by
fortifying practical education, by giving young girls habits of
order and of regularity, which double time and assign a place in
life to every duty; and above all, habits of practical and solid
piety, which means nothing else than a courageous fulfilment of
duty.

2d. An exaltation of imagination, leading one to crave
intellectual enjoyments that cannot always be granted.

Here again piety alone can preserve equilibrium. The important
point is, to make education respond to the gifts of God without
overloading or smothering them, for they usually bring with them
counterbalancing perils. Excessive culture is dangerous,
insufficient culture perhaps more so.

3d. Pride. This must be prevented by good sense cultivated in a
Christian manner. It is to be remarked that, if mental culture,
like personal charms, can excite pride, study has at least a
counterpoise. It gives an enlightened seriousness to the mind,
while successes due to beauty and dress cannot but be frivolous
and mischievous.

Pride, I acknowledge, affords a specious plea for the maintenance
of systems restricting feminine education. We would preserve to
them that modesty which is said to be their brightest ornament. I
agree that modesty is not only a virtue, but a great charm; but I
am by no means sure that _ignorance is its best guardian_.
Nay, taken in a certain sense, it is a pagan virtue, that is to
say, a false or very imperfect quality. Give to a woman, as you
would to a man, all the knowledge, capacity, development of which
she is susceptible; give her at the same time Christian humility,
and she will be adorned with a modest simplicity, truer and more
charming than that of the poor Hindoo woman who believes herself
to be an animal, rather superior to the creatures in her
poultry-yard, but very inferior in nature to her husband. This
enlightened humility is a genuine virtue, the mother of many
other virtues, the inspirer of a high degree of perfection. For
humility does not prevent our recognizing the progress we have
made. By opening our eyes to the merits of others, it shows us
our own defects; and if we were to attain the summit of human
ability, it would hold up an ideal superiority that should
stimulate effort without arousing either pride or discouragement.

{214}

We may be sure that a cultivated mind is of all others the best
fitted to a comprehension of duty. It is intelligent humilty,
that is to say, true modesty, which preserves us from pedantry.

Vanity! That is the great danger, it is said. But the reputation
that a woman acquires by literary or artistic talent is not the
rock most to be dreaded. I say again that self-conscious beauty
and worldly triumphs fill the heart with a vanity that has no
corrective in the cause that produced it.

Study and art, by elevating the soul, serve as a counterpoise to
the sentiments of vanity they may excite. I see no such safeguard
in successes won by advantages of another sort.

All is summed up in saying that great gifts bring with them a
danger against which the mind must be fortified in advance by
education. Education must adapt itself to different natures: it
must, while developing the germs planted by God, direct this
development with firmness, averting perils and avoiding mistakes.
It must make the moral development keep pace with the mental;
preserving equilibrium between the ideal and the practical life,
which interfere with each other less than is supposed, and
accordance of which alone constitutes the dignity of existence.

I confess that education is a more difficult and critical affair
when applied to a richly endowed nature; but it is also more
beautiful and consoling.


              VIII.

         The Third Stage.

I crave pardon of the ladies of the so-called _grand monde_
for a truth, a painful truth intended solely for them.

It is in the fashionable world that studious women are rarely
found, and that they are obliged to hide their worth. Strange
tyranny of fortune! It gives women leisure, and deprives them of
the right to use it for the development of intellect. It is to
you, fashionable women, that industry must be preached. Women
less wealthy do not generally need the exhortation. In modest
careers, where toil is the necessary condition of domestic
well-being, cultivated women are numerous. It is in the homes of
artists, scholars, physicians, lawyers, judges, professors, that
we most frequently find clever and studious women, conversant
with matters of art, possessed of real talent, highly educated,
but nicknamed by no one _femmes savantes_, because they are
the pride and treasure of home, and ensure by their intelligence,
domestic ease and comfort, nay, even a certain delicate luxury
that has nothing to do with riches, and can be purchased only by
feminine taste. The furniture is pretty in form, and gracefully
arranged; engravings recall favorite works of art, and reveal the
tastes and preferences of the household. Flowers, pictures,
books, music, and pretty work, all show the home to be one much
lived in, seldom left, where happiness is to be found. These are
not empty and magnificent establishments whose masters are always
absent, pursuing pleasure with a feverish activity, and flying
from the ennui of their _home_ except when the excitement of
refurnishing it attracts them, only to be driven away again when
the gilded ottomans are all in place. In these _modest_
lodgings on the third story the mother is surrounded by her
children. She brings them up herself. Thank God! she must do so,
and great is her reward. She reigns over her children, and they
understand her merits and sacrifices, and love their mother
tenderly. They soon know the blessing of being born in a rank of
life where mothers cannot afford to pay servants, governesses,
and tutors to usurp their place.
{215}
What a difference there is between the two systems of education!
The sons rank first at college and at school; the daughters
receive superior educations that I would gladly propose as a
model to fashionable young ladies. They wish to equal the mother
who studies with them, directing and following their work with
sympathizing interest. The law of labor weighs more stringently
upon a mother than upon any other creature; the soul of her
children is the field that she must till by the sweat of her
brow; no other persons have received graces to enable them to
take her place, and if the most complete educations are to be
found in modest households such as I have described, it is owing
to maternal industry. How many young people acquire a coarse
taste for horses and dogs from the mercenaries who educate them!
A mother, in teaching her children, inculcates other tastes and
ambitions. Sometimes anxiety takes possession of her soul as she
asks herself whether she can arm their consciences with faith and
honor sufficient to give them courage to bear in their turn a
retired life and never consent to win fortune by a base action.
Then she redoubles her care of their education, knowing it is to
be their only dower, and becomes ever more attentive, virtuous,
courageous, in order to transmit to them her own admirable
dignity of soul, and merit for them this heavenly favor.

And children who see their mother work, are secretly anxious to
comfort and reward her. A desire to do good is more vivid in
these abodes of modest happiness than elsewhere, and the joy of
duty fulfilled makes each one contented with his lot and at peace
with God. The whole day is one of activity; the father is at
work, the mother attends to her household duties or takes the
children to school or to catechism; and when evening comes, every
one is tired with the day's work and glad to stay at home. Then
comes the time for repose, children's games, talking, reading,
music, intimacy, and gayety; and the day closes peaceably without
that worldly bustle and excitement which put to a severe test the
virtue of even the most Christian women.

A mother, thus occupied, never thinks of devoting herself to
matters connected with her personal interests. She has not the
time. Her girlhood, her early womanhood were spent in study. Now
she is given up to the service of others. But this disinterested
devotion, at once toil and sacrifice, is more elevating to both
soul and understanding than any other employment could be. No
danger of vanity or pedantry for her! and yet the instruction of
her children is a great work. One marvels at the physical power
that maternal love can give to a mother bent on carrying out her
duties completely. Never wonder to find her capable, elevated,
active, intelligent, indifferent to idle trifling and worldly
coquetry.

In these modest households again, I find model servants. It is a
saying, nowadays, that there are no good domestics to be had.
People talk of the servants in old times. Read Molière and the
police regulations of the days of Louis XIV., and you will find
that the _grands seigneurs_ had worse attendants than we
have now. Old-fashioned servants have no more disappeared than
old-fashioned virtues. The virtues reign in simple, industrious
homes, and there too we must look for devoted domestics. Do not
expect hard work in the abodes of magnificent idleness. The
servants of the unoccupied soon become unoccupied themselves;
instinctively they imitate from a distance their master's
example, catch the tone of the establishment, and assume
irreproachable manners and lazy habits.
{216}
A servant knows very well when he is assisting in an ostentatious
parade. He is quick to abuse opportunities, and needs often, in
order to avenge himself for the inferiority of his position,
merely imitate his master, even with no intention of ridiculing
him. But a devoted and courageous woman who is the first to take
hold of work, transforms the souls of her domestics and raises
their service to the dignity of devotion. Of course, the
etiquette and perfect discipline that one admires in some
establishments are not to be found here. No! Good servants who
are not held in immeasurable distance from their masters, assume
another sort of livery, the livery of the virtues they see and
study closely. They breathe a healthy, strengthening air, and in
this atmosphere of industry, honesty, and confidence both masters
and servants are happy. Ah! I could mention splendid mansions
that are inhabited by _ennui_, (not to speak of discord,)
and I could tell of the happiness and dignity I have often
witnessed in the third story.

But in justice it must be added that I have not always met these
virtues in the third story, nor _ennui_ and idleness in
grand establishments. There, too, when industry reigns, I have
seen great virtues. It must be said that all depends upon
education and habits.


              IX.

      Bad Habits and Prejudices.

But does education as it is bestowed to-day often accomplish
great things? I answer regretfully, No; too often the education
of the present day offers no such advantages. It cannot resist
worldly dissipation or the idle mockery lavished by empty
ignorance on studious women. Connected study and attentive
reflection are most of all wanting in the training of girls and
the mode of life adopted by young women.

As Ozanam has said, a treatise upon instruction for girls and
young women is still to be written. The subject is in no respect
rightly understood; no durable fruit has yet appeared.

I know young girls whose education in music and drawing had cost
twenty or thirty francs a lesson, cease cultivating these
expensive talents on the first day of freedom.

I take a single instance. Most young ladies for seven or eight
years of their lives spend two and sometimes three and four hours
a day at the piano. But this study to which so much time is
given, and which opens glorious horizons to mind and soul,
generally ends in one of those _soulless talents_ spoken of
by Topffer, which borrow life from vanity only, talents useless
for any practical purpose, taking no root in the mind, and seldom
destined to survive the wedding-day.

This charming author, rising up in indignation against the use
made in educating young people in the fine arts and of what are
popularly termed _talents d'agrément_, exclaims: "How much I
have seen of these charming talents and how little of their
charm! Young girls are interested in nothing, understand little,
feel not at all. I believe, however, that they might seek in
artistic pursuits, instead of mere amusing recreation, exercise
for the mind, expansion for the heart, development for the
imagination, and find in these faculties which are usually
destroyed or left idle by feminine occupations, a perfection that
would, as it were, clothe and adorn the soul."

{217}

But, as matters stand, music is a study, more or less mechanical,
that never reaches the soul, and seldom arrives at the commonest
comprehension of art. How many girls who pass their days at the
piano have neither sense nor appreciation of what they are doing!
"We had music," says P. Gratry, "a brilliant tinkling that did
not even rest one's nerves." Teachers are eager to impart a
facile execution, but there are few who seek to form a good
style, to make their pupils understand and appreciate composers,
or grasp the chain of musical ideas.

People play on the piano without any comprehension of what they
are expressing; as one might recite poems by heart in a language
that one did not understand. In Germany, where music claims a
large share in the education of girls, it is treated more
seriously. Through the study of harmony they rise from mechanism
to art.

Drawing is often equally misused. I have seen persons who drew
with exactitude and even with facility, and yet could not
distinguish good pictures from bad, or remember whether Raphael
was the master or the pupil of Perugino. Even talent had not
developed in them a sense of beauty.

The world leaves the domain of music free to young girls on
condition that they shall derive no spiritual elevation from it
and merely waste a great deal of time. As to the plastic arts,
even a taste for painting arouses criticism, and M. de Maistre
shudders to see his daughter painting in oil. In one word, the
arts must be restricted to accomplishments, and sumptuary laws
even more severe enforced with regard to literary pursuits.

Excepting in music and drawing a girl's education must be
finished at a certain age. "Ever since my eighteenth year,"
writes a young friend, to whom I had recommended study, "if I
expressed a wish to study, I have been asked if my education was
not finished." Finish one's education! that means throwing aside
books, writing, embroidery, and accomplishments if one has any.

But, we are told, young ladies learn a great variety of things
during the time of education. Quite true, and the very subject of
my complaint. They are not destined to pass examination for a
bachelor's degree, and their whole training tends to give them
general notions as shallow as they are widely diffused. Nothing
serious, nothing grave, nothing profound--a little of every
thing. In the words of an intelligent minister, "Who does not
know that what we gain in surface we lose in depth!"

Beyond dispute the plan is comprehensive. I see many young girls
who, in addition to common studies, geography, history, rhetoric,
begin to learn one or two languages, play on the piano, take
singing lessons, draw and paint, and learn to do all sorts of
fancy work, as they succeed each other in the caprice of fashion
polychromania, leather flowers, etc., etc. Of course, a life of
efforts so scattered and diffused, can lead to no good result;
and I have heard wise instructors sigh over the obligation
imposed upon them of fulfilling such programmes. A little of
everything is studied and nothing properly learned; not one
talent or faculty developed, not one earnest taste acquired for
anything whatsoever. Such half talents and superficial tastes
achieve nothing.

{218}

If there be a danger in the study of art and literature, it is to
be found in stopping precisely at the point indicated by M. de
Maistre; at general notions, not solid acquirements;
accomplishments, not earnest talents; a lack of something to
elevate the soul and nourish the mind. Such smattering helps one
to make a momentary show, but not to accomplish anything or to be
any one. It indicates that nothing more will be acquired from the
moment of leaving the convent.

Precisely the contrary is needed if one would train earnest and
assiduous women who may one day prove useful to their husbands
and children.

It is difficult to explain why indulgence is shown or exception
taken by men of the world. They approve, and very properly, of a
girl's speaking two or three living languages. But if, in
accordance with Fénélon's advice, you learn a little Latin, hide
it as a sin, or be accounted a blue-stocking. You will hardly
obtain pardon for a taste for solid reading or historical
studies. I have heard of a young woman who drew upon herself that
sort of admiration that implies blame, from intelligent people,
because she was said to read _Le Correspondent_. The same
persons, on learning that she reserved the morning hours for
study, testified immense astonishment and treated her as a
_savante_.

What may be called study--making abstracts or taking notes of
what one has read--is not considered proper for women, especially
in country towns. Reading is hardly permissible and only within
restricted limits. A lady of my acquaintance incurred general
censure because, during the first year of her married life, she
did not receive or make visits before four o'clock, that she
might reserve a few hours for study, in accordance, moreover,
with her husband's wishes.

Young girls should regard the close of their first studies as the
commencement of a life-long work. Young women should, in the very
beginning of married life, establish study as one of the duties
of existence. Later, they are engrossed with the education of
their children, and can no longer work to please themselves. But
even then, the precious habit will cling to them as an
inestimable consolation to be enjoyed in every leisure hour.
Above all, it remains to fill the void that becomes so irksome
when children escape from the mother's guidance, and she once
more has freedom and leisure without youth, its joys or its
energy.

Labor is a faithful friend that adapts itself to the age and
disposition of every being who takes it as a companion for life.

That women may learn to value habits of industry, it is incumbent
on us to convince young girls that their education does not end
at eighteen, and that their first ball-dress has not, like a
bachelor's degree, the virtue of giving to learning its perfect
consummation. At that age they have barely information enough to
enable them to study alone. Leading-strings are no longer needed
in their education, and that is all. They are simply capable of
continuing their studies, and of enjoying the pleasure of
individual exertion. If a girl could be made to believe this, a
serious and earnest future would be secured to her. But the
present custom demands that she should study French and history
until she is fifteen, and from fifteen to eighteen, piano-playing
and drawing. Then comes a pink dress, the crowning glory of her
education, the great day so often dreamed of. She goes into
society and marries, determined to leave work behind her in
accordance with universal practice.
{219}
This is one of the joys of marriage--to do nothing--and so she
wastes a period most precious in a woman's life, a period when
she has leisure, and that flame that youth and happiness alone
can kindle; expansion of soul, the illumined eyes of the heart,
_illuminates oculos cordis_, as St. Paul says, giving to
toil facility, impetus, horizon, power. But so it is; all must be
lost, squandered, sunk in those early years, even happiness!
Study would have a secret power to draw this young creature from
the whirl of life, and give her the calmness and recollection she
so much needs, if merely to enjoy her blessings; but no,
everything must be frittered away and destroyed.

Then follow years when the excitement of youth dies out, a void
is left, beauty vanishes, _ennui_ comes to take possession,
and there is nothing to dispute its sway. The children are in the
midst of their education, and need no looking after. A mother who
knows not the value of industry, is ever ready to excuse idleness
in her children, and notwithstanding this indulgence, her sons
think very little of their mother when they grow up, and soon
regard her as beneath them.



                 X.

              Practice.

But to come to practical results, what are the faculties to be
cultivated in women? The same as in men? Must they study the
exact sciences, politics, the secret of government, military art?
Are they to emulate Judith, Joan of Arc, Jeanne Hachette,
Hormengarde, foundress and regent of the second kingdom of
Burgundy, Marguerite d'Albon, Isabella of Castile, Maria Theresa?

Certainly not. Women are to be enumerated who could be and have
been all this. Providence creates these extraordinary beings. But
though we recognize occasional vocations of genius, courage, and
virtue, it would be folly to educate women for careers so
exceptional.

Women are physically weak, but their intelligence must not be
undervalued. They often have a great deal of mind and always a
fund of good sense, demanding nothing but use. Why wonder at all
I have implied? They acquire with remarkable ease. Who can fail
to recognize the keenness and delicacy of sensibility bestowed on
them by heaven, or the natural bent with which their souls turn
to the vivifying rays of beauty?

I do not agree with a lady who wrote to me: "We skim over things
and seem to know them; we open a book, run through a few pages,
and are prepared to discuss it, to give praise or blame,
recommendation or warning." I do not grant this. But beyond
dispute, they have great facility for everything. It costs them
little to assimilate to themselves required information, to make
something out of nothing, and a great deal out of scant material.
God, not destining them to long and abstract studies, has endowed
them with marvellous perspicacity and intuition. They rarely
speak of business because it fatigues and bores them; yet if
circumstances demand their participation, how useful and sensible
they almost invariably prove themselves! Generally, the
restoration of family property is due to them; when left widows,
they rebuild the fortunes of their children.

It is to be understood that in this vindication, as it were, of
woman's right to intellectual culture, I give to study only its
due share in the occupations of life. Clearly, household cares
and home duties have a superior claim; husband, children,
domestics, must be the first interest of a woman who understands
the hierarchy of her duties.
{220}
My advice, if it must be precisely defined, would be, that she
reserve at least two hours--if possible, three hours--of each
day, for life, for intellectual culture.

So long as women content themselves with reading, looking, and
listening, no great opposition is made, and men willingly grant
them a place among their auditors. But if the profound emotions
of the interior life seek a fuller development; if they seek in
the absorption of pursuits answering to their spiritual
aspirations an echo that the soul misses in the external world,
then society rises up in judgment.

Some women are born artists, that is to say, they are possessed
by a craving to give form to thought, to a feeling for beauty
which penetrates them, and that too under conditions suitable for
the development of this side of their nature. But it is precisely
this exercise of the creative faculty which is denied them, and
which I wonder to see withheld, since the gift comes from God
himself.

Vainly does M. de Maistre maintain that "women have never
produced a masterpiece, and that in wishing to emulate men, they
become apes." Vainly does he add with unbecoming impertinence, "I
have always thought them incomparably handsomer, more attractive,
and more useful than apes. I only say and repeat, that women who
would make men of themselves are nothing but apes." Or again, "A
woman's _chef d'oeuvre_ in science is to understand the
works of men."

But soon M. de Maistre contradicts and refutes himself: "We must
exaggerate nothing," he says, "belles lettres, moralists, great
orators, etc., suffice to give women all the culture they need."

A little later, he congratulates himself on having a daughter,
who reads and appreciates St. Augustine, and who "passionately
loves beauty of every kind; recites equally well Racine and
Tasso; draws, plays, sings very prettily; and, as in her voice
there are low chords that pass beyond the feminine range of tone,
so are there in her character certain grave fundamental
qualities, that belong especially to our sex, and which dominate
the rest of her nature."

This is enough; my discussion with M. de Maistre is ended. We
entertain, in fact, the same views, and I now address myself
merely to worldly prejudice.

We have then, even in M. de Maistre's estimation, as studies
possible for women:

1st. Belles lettres, literature both light and serious, a wide
field and one as attractive as it is extensive. The range of
history alone is immense. There is a philosophy, too, which the
feminine mind is fully capable of grasping, and whose essential
ideas are necessary to fix its natural mobility and insure to it
correctness of thought. Teach a woman to reason justly, and
consequently to give precedence to duty in all things, and you
have secured the essential part of education as it is needed in
every class and condition of life.

2d. The arts--so admirably suited to their imagination, to the
delicate grace of their nature. And here I must remark that we
unhesitatingly leave open to female competition the most perilous
of the fine arts, the one least compatible with their duties and
vocation, while shutting them out from the pure and lofty regions
of the intellect. Many detractors of women, who cultivate or
criticise art, would on no account suppress public singers or
actresses.

{221}

But, you will tell me, that it is precisely because female
_artistes_ are more or less degraded that virtuous women
should not become _artistes_. I think as you do, and more
strongly than you, yet I cannot help seeing that you recognize
the fact of women's capacity to rise in art, since a few among
them have received the gift of inspiration. If they have received
this gift, it must be used; honestly and nobly of course, but
used. The fact you advance brings its own application.

3d. If a woman can express the beautiful, she can do so through
all the languages of the beautiful. Art is identical in
principle, whatever be the mode of its expression. Painting,
music, poetry, eloquence, the expression of beauty through an
exquisite style, or through the accent of an inspired voice, is
always beauty bound within the limits of a sensible form to
render it perceptible to the soul through the medium of the
senses. Each one must clothe it in a form not self-chosen. If you
open to woman the most dangerous and frivolous of all the arts,
why close to her the others? Because she sinks with the art that
ministers to your pleasure, is it impossible for her to rise with
noble, true, serious art? If a woman can be a _cantatrice_,
she can be a musician in the elevated sense of the word, a writer
or a painter.

Many men affirm authoritatively that women cannot and should not
write. It is surprising that a question so easily settled for
some persons should be so often discussed. Equal pains have not
been taken to prove that women cannot be generals or ministers,
yet I am not aware that the example of female warriors has been
often claimed by their peers.

The present day is an ill chosen time to contest women's right to
authorship, when the three works most generally read are _Le
Récit d'une Soeur_, the writings of Eugénie de Guérin, and
Madame Swetchine's Letters.

In becoming writers women do not infringe on the rights of men.
"They do not seek to emulate man;" and when all is said, what is
it, that M. de Maistre calls "emulating man"? Is it desiring to
do all that he does? Of course not. Certain pursuits exclusively
belong to him, and are not to be cultivated by women. But if
there are points of separation, there is also a common domain
where all souls may work together. The most natural is that of
art and literature. Even here it may be that woman's field is
more restricted than that of man; but she will find her place,
and perhaps a place that men could not so well fill.

There are differences between the masculine and the feminine
intellect; and it is on this fact that M. de Maistre founds his
assertion that because one sex can write the other cannot. We may
found upon it a different conclusion, that, bringing another kind
of genius into intellectual regions, women will cultivate them
after a fashion of their own, adapting their talents in
preference to more delicate subjects. In a concert all dissimilar
voices must be moulded together: why should not women bear their
part in the great harmony of human thought expressed through art?
There are notes they only can reach. Silvio Pellico says
something similar when, after vainly trying to give women a
pendent to the _Treatise on the Duties of Men_, he exclaims!
"Only a woman could write such a book." In a woman's writing
there is always a certain touch that reveals her sex. A female
author must ever remain a woman. Thus may we reassure the
susceptibilities of M. de Maistre and quiet our own fears as to
the result of wishing to emulate man.

{222}

"Woman is a weak creature, ignorant, timid, and indolent," says
Mme. de ----; "possessed of violent passions and petty ideas, a
being full of inconsistency and caprice. ... Capable of
displaying charming defects every day of her life; a treasure of
cruelty and of hope." Then mourning over the almost complete
disappearance of this type, she seeks an explanation of the fact:
"Women have lost in attractions what they have gained in virtues.
... Woman was not made to share men's toils, but to afford them
recreation." And, finally, summing up in one word the errors that
have ruined her sex, she exclaims indignantly, "Woman has aspired
to be the companion of man."

Thus, to be a companion instead of a plaything, a Christian
rather than a pagan, a being to be respected, trusted, relied
upon, rather than one who holds you by a passing attraction,
amusing you by her frivolity, and distracting you from graver
thoughts--this is a culpable mistake of judgment, and moreover,
it is a woman who dares to bring forward such a doctrine.

4th. In my first letters I gave it as my opinion that, in a
measure, a woman could occupy herself with sciences, and even
with agriculture. The latter assertion provoked some surprise.
Let me answer them by a few fragments of a letter written to me
upon the subject, by a very sensible and distinguished woman:

  "How wisely, monseigneur, you have advised women to interest
  themselves in business matters and other serious subjects, even
  studying agriculture. My own observation confirms your opinion.
  At present, while my son is in the service, and I am separated
  from all my family, living in the country, and almost always in
  _tête-à-tête_, what would become of me if my mother had
  not given me the habit, from childhood, of interesting myself
  in every thing about me? Agriculture, with its obstacles and
  its progress, affords an inexhaustible source of conversation
  with one's husband, with cures, village notaries, farmers,
  country neighbors, and _petits bourgeois_. It is a less
  inflammatory subject than politics, and one that adapts itself
  to every understanding. My husband does not disdain to discuss
  crops and manuring with me--I have my own theories upon
  drainage, beets, [Footnote 32] and cabbages, [Footnote 33] and
  he finds me very progressive in my ideas, perhaps too much so;
  he, however, never builds a stable without consulting me, and
  before a lease is signed, I must hear it read several times. I
  believe it to be very important to themselves and to their
  children that women should understand business, the investment
  of funds, the management of property. They should not
  _decide_, but listen and advise. Husbands, generally, ask
  nothing better than to talk openly of these things, because
  such subjects interest them more than any others; but usually
  no one listens. When a man meets with yawning inattention, all
  is over; he has recourse to silence, adopts the habit of
  managing everything for himself, of following his own bent. In
  the beginning, a young husband is full of confiding openness;
  later, he becomes more suspicious of control which wounds him
  in proportion as it is needed. Capacity and earnestness are
  indispensable to a woman."

    [Footnote 32: La bette rave, the kind of beet from which
    sugar is made, and therefore an important subject to theorize
    upon. Berthollet is said to have lost his place by failing to
    answer satisfactorily a question suddenly put to him by
    Napoleon, concerning la bette rave.]

    [Footnote 33: Colza, a cabbage used for making oil, and a
    topic almost as engrossing as beets.]

{223}

I ask that women should be allowed to cultivate any art or
science they may choose, and even aim at some eminence in its
acquirement, without being annoyed in their honorable pursuit by
the terrible anathema which the world launches against (for once
we will use the coarse expression) _blue-stockings_.
[Footnote 34] If there are women who, while attending thoroughly
and seriously to their household affairs, rise above material
life by a love and appreciation of the beautiful, seeking therein
a delicate pleasure and pure emotions, enjoying the cultivation
of the soul, and listening attentively to the claims of truth and
goodness, it is a shame to cast reproach upon them.

    [Footnote 34: In the language of unreflecting persons who
    instinctively love to attack every thing elevated, perhaps in
    order to drag others down to their own level, the word
    "blue-stocking" signifies a woman who reads, and greatest of
    all offences converses.]

5th. Above all things should rank the earnest study of religion.
I dwelt long upon this subject in my "Letters to Men and Women of
the World;" I will therefore simply say that it is above all in
the higher classes, where fortune authorizes a free use of the
luxury of education, that religious instruction should be pushed
as far as the individual capacity of man and women allows;
doctrine, proofs of religion, explanation of ceremonies, church
history, selected works of the fathers, great pulpit orators,
lives of the saints, etc., etc. all this I have explained and
taught in detail. In a course of education there should be an
appropriate progressive study of all that concerns religion.
Religious facts are so intimately connected with those of modern
history, that one can sometimes have a true idea of the latter
only by becoming acquainted with the former.

The objection of want of time, the grand objection so often
brought forward, remains to be examined. Have women the time to
devote to intellectual pursuits? Let us be honest and confess
that there are two obstacles to the leisure required: talking and
dress.

Yes, the great misfortune of women is, that they indulge in long
hours of conversation among themselves, and about what, if not
dress, gossip, and housekeeping?

Now, nothing lowers the mind and soul like talking about trifles
for hours, and there is but one method of remedying the evil;
increase the time devoted to study, thus shortening in an equal
degree the hours frittered away in conversation, and supplying
mental food far superior to the vulgar subjects that now exhaust
so many minds and souls.

As for dress, too much cannot be said against it, not only as a
cause of ruin to women of the world, but as a dissolvent of all
earnestness even among virtuous Christian women.

Dress! That is what wastes the time and exhausts the spirit of
women; that is what takes them from their domestic duties, and
not these poor calumniated books. Every attentive observer will
recognize, as I do, that it is a taste for the world and for
dress that detaches them from home interests far more than a
taste for study.

For my own part, I can assert that the truly superior women I
have known, those whose superiority was genuine and not a
pretence or an affectation, were models of practical wisdom.

There are, on the other hand, certain households admirable in
every respect but one--that on an average they discuss dress four
or five hours a day. The mother of the family is a woman of great
merit and virtue; she dresses with great simplicity; and yet
there are no preoccupations so serious, no anxieties or
sufferings so pressing, that they cannot be dissipated at least
for the moment by the interest of ordering a new gown or bonnet.

{224}

These affairs are of vast importance; life slips away while the
mind is wasting itself in their service.

Mothers of great merit teach their daughters to consider dress as
one of their interests and principal duties, discussing and
letting them discuss _toilette_ for hours every day, and
judging every earthly thing from the standpoint of
_toilette_. The business of dressing, shopping, choosing
materials, talking with shopkeepers and dressmakers, and the time
passed by young girls, and even young women, with lady's maids in
more confidential intercourse than is becoming; these are in
truth the great obstacles to habits of industry.

But leaving the subject of frivolous persons and unoccupied
lives, how, you will ask, can a mother who owes all her time to
her family find leisure to study?

It is hardly necessary to remark that I am speaking of women in
easy circumstances, for the reason that they especially have the
means of putting in practice these suggestions. Poor women who
earn their bread by the sweat of their brow, are not less
precious in the eyes of God or in our own than the favorites of
fortune; but daily toil can hardly leave them opportunity to
cultivate their minds. And yet even among them there are many not
called upon to support their families who, without being rich,
keep one domestic, or do the housework themselves with ease and
quickness, and thus have nearly as much leisure as women of
wealth. How many women there are in business, shop-girls, for
instance, or bookkeepers, who surely have time for reading, since
they do read--and read--what?

It is well known that a taste for reading is now penetrating even
into country villages, affording a means of spending pleasantly
the long winter evenings. There are useful directions, an
elevated impulse to be given to the class of women of whom we
have just spoken; but however worthy of interest such a subject
may be, it is not our present theme. Perhaps we may enter on it
at some future day.

We address ourselves then to women in easy circumstances. Can the
head of a grand establishment, a wife, a mother, find time to
study.

Beyond a doubt, yes! To begin with, she can devote to study the
time that other women give to worldly entertainments that consume
their nights, and to personal adornments that devour their
fortunes. They can lay aside all the pursuits that, while
absorbing them without offering any advantage, prepare them ill
for the duties toward their children that belong to them as
mothers of immortal souls.

Does not the secret of living lie in the reconciliation of
apparent difficulties? Do not duties, tastes, affections often
appear to contradict each other? I have often seen that habits of
orderly activity combined with a simplicity that suppresses
useless exactions multiply an industrious woman's hours and make
it possible to meet every demand. It is a woman's science to
understand how to give herself and yet reserve herself: a science
composed of gentleness and activity, of devotion and firmness,
whose first result is the retrenching of idle indulgences, and
the keeping within due bounds the tribute to be paid to the
claims of society.

{225}

In preceding writings I have shown in detail that there are more
empty hours, even in a busy woman's life, than is supposed. When
once her children are grown up, she has often too much liberty on
her hands. I once knew a lady who had six children. Her two elder
sons were at a boarding-school; her three daughters passed the
whole day with their governess; even the youngest had his lesson
hours. This lonely mother said to me mournfully on one occasion,
"I pass the whole day alone with my sewing, and poor company it
is;" and she was reduced, poor lady, to seeking outside
distractions, innocent but futile. If she had had a taste for
study and habits of industry, she would not have been driven from
home. Study makes women love their homes, the attraction of work
commenced always drawing them thither. How little need of visits
and society such persons feel! It is a joy to steal off to one's
room and continue one's reading or drawing. It is with a light
step that one turns toward home when heart and life are filled
with a love of study instead of with an immoderate, ruinous taste
for dress and luxury.

Much firmness, sweetness, and perseverance are necessary to
secure one's liberty in a household, to make one's working hours
respected, without failing in any other duty; in one word, to
give and reserve one's self discreetly. It is a question of
degree, like most other questions of conduct. But, in order to
acquire courage for the struggle, women must be very sure that
the right is on their side. They are too apt to mistake for a
mere personal taste the duty of cultivating their mental
faculties.

I have given strong and unanswerable arguments for the necessity
of a rule of life. But in this, as in every human affair,
temperament must be consulted. Though it may easily be made an
illusion and a convenient pretext to cover self-indulgence, yet
one can easily believe that some women, with the best will in the
world, must plead the impossibility of having a rule of life, or
must submit to see it violated so often as to become a dead
letter.

The mistress of a household rises in the morning, she feels
unwell, or her husband comes in to discuss plans, business, no
matter what; work-people, children little and big, invade her
room: the mother of a family has not an hour when she can shut
herself up and forbid intrusion. There are women and even girls
whose lives slip away under the oppression of these absolutely
tyrannical customs, from which it is the more difficult to escape
because they assert themselves in the name of devotion and
domestic virtue.

If we tell these young people, "crushed and flattened out," as M.
de Maistre expresses it, "under the enormous weight of nothing,"
to create an individual life for themselves, and seek occasional
retirement, they answer: "But I cannot; I have not one moment
absolutely my own. If I leave the parlor, my room is invaded;
somebody wants to speak to me, and so somebody stands about for a
quarter of an hour and then sits down. Then some one else comes,
and so the time is devoured. With all the efforts in the world to
keep my patience, I cannot conceal the annoyance this is to me
skilfully enough to avoid being voted a strong-minded woman,"
[Footnote 35] the correlative term of blue-stocking.

    [Footnote 35: Caractère roide, femmes affairée.]

Very well, I say, for want of regular hours let a woman devote
odd minutes to study. There are always some in the busiest lives;
moments that occur between the various occupations of the day;
and she must learn to work by fits and starts, in a desultory
fashion. There is a wide difference between the woman who reads
sometimes and the woman who never reads.

{226}

If the desire to reserve a short time for study led to nothing
more than the acquisition of the _science of odd minutes_,
the result would be very important. _The science of odd
minutes!_ It multiplies and fertilizes time, but books cannot
impart it. It gives habits of order, attention, and precision
that react from the external upon the moral life. The most
cheerful women, the most equable, serviceable, and, I may add,
the healthiest women, are those who are intelligent and
industrious, and who, through the medium of a well-ordered
activity, have discovered the secret of reconciling the duties
they owe to God, to their families, and to themselves.

Between the spiritual and the material life, which answer to two
orders of duty, the intellectual life must have its place; a
place at present usurped by frivolity.

The intellectual life should be the porch of the spiritual life,
material existence the support and instrument of the other two.
But alas! it is far otherwise. Material existence usurps,
suffocates, extinguishes the light of mind and soul. Art and
literature elevate the heart, excite a distaste for gross
enjoyments, and spiritualize life. They afford nourishment to
mental activity, which is now the prey of levity, especially
among women, seducing them to vain and dangerous pleasures. All
grand and beautiful things, so worthy of the human intellect,
betray the emptiness of material enjoyments, ennoble the soul and
lead it to heights that approach heaven.

The culture of art and letters would occupy the feminine
imagination profitably. It would create, or rather reveal to
women admirable resources conducive to happiness, virtue, in
short to a complete existence; whether in society, where woman's
influence can elevate or debase ideas, occupations, interests,
and sentiments; or at home, where talents and information, while
conferring a great charm, would render her more skilful in the
direction of children and in the exercise of salutary influence
as a wife.

Thus the intellectual and the spiritual life would be united
under the blessing of God; thus we should find in the various
classes of society, intelligent Christian women, elevated above
frivolity, capable of sustaining and inspiring every noble idea,
every useful effort, every productive life; women who at home and
in the world would be more enlightened, energetic, influential,
estimable, forceful than the women of the present day.

--------

{227}

              Baby.


I've got a baby, you know. There! if you laugh, I'll not tell you
a single word about it. _You won't laugh any more?_ Very
well; then don't. My dear old toad--husband, I mean--Dan, who is
the born image of baby--oh! yes, a very pretty _ruse_,
indeed, pretending to blow your nose. Can't I see you laughing
behind your handkerchief? _I've got sharp eyes!_ Of course I
have. All mothers have. Now, be good, and sit up like a man,
and--there--don't be putting your hand up that way over your
face, because I can see clean through it. What do you say?
_Good gracious!_ That remark is not appropriate. However, I
forgive you, for it might be if you knew what I'm going to tell
you. My dear old toa--husband--is so fond of baby that I don't
think I am fonder of him myself; and that is saying all I can
say, and all I could wish to say, because baby's me, and I'm
baby, as I love to imagine sometimes when I ask myself how much I
want Dan to love his foolish little wife and Our Baby. Really,
please don't hold your breath in that style; I'm always
dreadfully frightened when baby does it.

Now, husband loving baby and me as he does, there's not the least
doubt in the world that I am the happiest little woman, and the
most contented little wife, that the world ever saw. Perhaps I
may exaggerate, but ask dear Dan. If his opinion differs from
mine, I'll modify it; for _I_ think he has the best judgment
of any man I ever saw. "Tot," he often says, (the dear old toad
always calls me Tot, because I'm small,) "my opinion coincides
precisely with yours, and, if I have any amendment to make, I
feel sure that you yourself would have made it under the
circumstances." Of course, I ask if any amendment occurs to
_his_ mind. Then he tells me, and, in fact, I see that it is
just such an amendment as I _would_ make under the
circumstances. Oh! he has the most perfect judgment, has my
husband. He not only knows what is best, but he knows just what I
would think best. For instance, about what name baby should be
christened. If it was to be a boy, I settled at once in my mind
that he should be called Daniel, after his papa, to be sure. To
think of any other name would be sheer nonsense. But now see the
judgment of my old toad. "I was thinking just the same as you,
Tot," said he, "and your choice of my own name for the little
stranger is the very one I had hoped you would choose; but,
knowing how much you and I loved poor brother Alf--who was
drowned at sea--I determined to renounce my name in his favor,
and so dear brother Alf with his sunny face would live again in
our child. If little Tot thinks of that, she will be sure to
agree with me." _Did I agree with him?_ Of course I did.
What foolish questions you men will ask. I'd no more think of
calling him Daniel after that, than of calling him,
well--Nebuchodonosor--or some other such heathen name. So the
priest christened him Alfred.

Oh! we had such fun at the party. Old Mr. Pillikins--the old
gentleman, you recollect, you met here last winter, with the gold
spectacles and shiny bald head--was so droll.
{228}
He wanted to drink baby's health, but somehow he had not heard
his name, so looking over to me he says:

"And his name is--"

"Begins with an A," said I.

"Begins with an A," he says after me. "Good, very good. First
letter of the alphabet, where all good children ought to begin,

  'A was an apple that hung on a tree:'

and the second letter is--"

"Is L, to be sure," said I.

"L! what else could it be?" Mr. Pillikins accented the word
_else_, and then, after he had explained it to us, we had
such a good laugh. Wasn't it an excellent pun? Then he thought he
had it. So, taking up his glass in his right hand and putting the
thumb of his left hand in the armhole of his waistcoat, he says;

"Alexander!"

"No, no," says I, "_not_ Alexander."

"_Not_ Alexander! True," says he, putting his glass down
again. "I was about to add that Alexander had an A and an L, but
did not have an--"

"F after it," cried Mrs. Gowsky, from the bottom of the table.

"Madam, you are quite right," replied Mr. Pillikins, bowing. "It
has not an F after it, as the baby's name undoubtedly has, and
the _ef_fect is certainly, more in_ef_able on account
of it. Ha, ha! you understand?" Never was there such a punster as
the old gentleman. "And then follows a--"

"All the rest," said I, "is just what you did with your
_Herald_ this morning, Mr. Pillikins. What was that?"

"Madam, I tore it up."

"No, no. What was the first thing you did with it?"

"Madam, I dried it before the grate. The newspapers nowadays come
so damp to one that it is enough to give one the gout in the
fingers to hold them."

"Think again," I continued. "What did you do with it after having
dried it?"

"Madam, I glanced over its contents, and--"

"O you tease!" said I, "you didn't do anything of the kind. You
read it. There!"

"Yes, madam. I read it."

"Well, there's the baby's name, then," I exclaimed, almost losing
my patience. "Don't you see?"

"Positively, madam, I did not. It is not the fashion to record
births nowadays. Only the marriages and deaths."

"Well," said I, after the laugh this raised had somewhat
subsided, "It might have been recorded there, for all I care. It
would have been a happy piece of information, and giving a good
example--" Now what are you laughing at?--"A happy piece of
information," says I, "and that's more than can be said of many
other items to be found in its columns."

Having got at the name, at last, Mr. Pillikins made a very pretty
speech, at which everybody clapped their hands and smiled, and
everything went off pleasantly, except Mr. Gowsky's son, Peter,
who broke his wine-glass by hammering it on the table, and then
fell backward, sprawling on the floor, from a bad habit he has of
tilting his chair up. He scared baby so, that, to tell the truth,
I had no pity for him in his confusion, and rather enjoyed his
blushes, which never left him all the rest of the evening.

_I am malicious?_ Not I; but a poor, dear baby that cannot
protect itself must not be abused with impunity. I was near
fainting with fright, too, when I heard the sound; for I thought
it must be the baby that had fallen out of its nurse's arms.
{229}
_First thought always about baby?_ To be sure, bless his
little heart, and the last too! You can sit there twiddling your
thumbs as if you did not agree with me; but I don't mind you; for
what do you know about babies? Dan says, and very truly, that a
mother whose first and last thought is not about her baby is not
likely to give much thought at all, either first or last, to her
husband. I can't understand it; but Dan tells me that nowadays
Protestant wives have a horror of babies. I never thought of it
before; but there is Mrs. Johnson, she has only one child; and
there is Mrs. Thompson, who has but two; and Mrs. Simpson, who is
married now six years, and has no children at all. It is so all
through the Protestant community, Dan says; and that there are
actually more Protestants die than are born. It must be their
religion, I suppose, but I cannot imagine how a woman, if she had
no religion at all--and the Protestants have got some kind of one
or other--could hate babies.

As for me, I can hardly tell you how much I love baby, and how
proud I am of him; and well I may be. Dinah Jenkins, his nurse,
says that she has nursed a good many babies, but such a baby as
Our Baby she never yet saw.

"Hi, missus," said she one day, "dis colored woman t'ought she
knowed all kinds o' babies as ever war or ever could _be_.
G'way, Dinah, says I, soon as I luff my eyes on to _dis_
child," (that's Our Baby,) "dis baby ain't no mo' like de babies
you's nussed, an' I'se nussed a heap on 'em in my time,
dan--dan--stick yer head in de fire!" And as I often say to dear
Dan, she is the most truthful woman I ever met.

_Have I a black woman for a wet-nurse?_ No, I have'nt a
black woman for a wet-nurse, nor a white woman either. Oh! you
are _such_ a stupid!

I am the child's mother, am I not? That's enough. I hope I shall
never be reduced to such an extremity as that. I pity poor
mothers who are. If you were a mother, you would say the same.
_People have wet-nurses?_ Yes, just as they have the cholera
or the typhoid fever, I suppose, because they cannot help it. As
to any woman, any mother, choosing to have one, I should say that
is the sheerest nonsense ever dreamed of. _Great people have
them, queens and empresses, and I needn't be above them?_
Thank Heaven, I am neither a queen nor an empress, but the
devoted wife of my dear old toad of a husband, Dan Gaylark, and
the mother of Our Baby!

What is that you are saying to relieve your mind? _Good
gracious!_ You have made that remark once before, and equally
to the point, as it seems to me. I was going to tell you all
about the baby, but you are such a tease, Ned, and interrupt one
so often with your exceedingly strange remarks, that I feel very
much as one might suppose the "skirmishun" train feels in being
"generally switched off into a sidin'." But, when I'm not
switched off, I am good as the "skirmishun" at any rate. I "doos
all as lays in my power" to get on. I suppose you call yourself
the express train that is too proud even to whistle a salute in
passing a poor, heavy-laden freight train, and utterly despises a
modest country station as it goes thundering by, as if that was
no place fit for its majesty to "stop at and blow at," as
Professor Haman says in his _Cavalry Tactics. I study military
tactics?_ Yes, infantry tactics, you rogue, under Mrs.
Professor Dinah Jenkins; but I read that in a book of Dan's one
day. Dan has a great fancy for horses and dogs. _Which of
course, I'm jealous of?_ Not the least. It only makes me love
horses and dogs more than I otherwise would.
{230}
_Simply because Dan loves them?_ Simply because Dan loves
them; and if that is not good enough reason, I don't know what
is. Ah! smile away as you please. What do _you_ know about
it, you wretched old bachelor!

Here! Dixie! Dixie! Dixie! Come here, you good-for-nothing old
black ---- There, then, that's enough now. Say "How d'ye" to Mr.
Ned. Oh! you needn't be afraid of him. He barks loud, I know, but
he won't bite. And he is _so_ knowing. I sometimes wish he
did not know quite so much. And so affectionate. He takes a great
fancy for everything he sees that Dan and I are fond of. I do
think he would die for baby any day. Yes, you would, wouldn't
you, you dear old fellow? There, you see, he says yes; he always
grins and wags his tail that way when he wants to say yes.

It was about Dixie and baby I was going to tell you. He was so
fond of baby that he wanted to take him out to walk and play with
him on the Palisades. Ah! I shudder when I think of it.

You recollect that hot Thursday in July? The very air seemed to
be holding its own breath. I felt so oppressed with the heat and
the closeness of the atmosphere that I could bear the inside of
the house no longer, and after taking a look--_and a
kiss?_--yes, and a kiss of baby, who was sleeping soundly in
his cradle, I went out to saunter down the shady lane that leads
to the Palisades. I noticed that Dinah was asleep in a chair,
too, beside the window, and thought that, if she could sleep in
such weather, it was a mercy, and so I left her undisturbed. As I
went out of the room, I left the door open, so that, if any
little breeze might spring up, it would refresh baby in his
sleep. I'm sorry enough now that I did.

You know what curious notions presentiments, or whatever you
choose to call them, will come into people's heads without their
being able to give any reason for them? So it was with me then. I
had no sooner got out of the house than I thought about my
leaving the door open, and half-determined to go back and close
it. The same thought came to me again as I was turning the lane;
and when I was once upon the green sward under the pine-trees,
looking down the dizzy height from the top of the Palisades upon
the river, I would most assuredly have returned and closed the
door, had it not been for the intense heat, and I may say the
cool and refreshing appearance the water had at that time. _You
don't believe in presentiments?_ Well, I acknowledge that it
savors a little of the fanciful and the romantic--reason enough,
I suppose, for you to reject any such notion, you matter-of-fact
old stick. But we women cannot take life as you men do, or, at
least, as some men do. What! _you are very glad we cannot?_
Pray, what do you mean by that? Oh! I see, you incorrigible old
bachelor, our different habits, idiosyncrasies, and tastes lead
us to avoid (not your company, you know better) but your own pet
schemes and fancies. _I_, for one, don't ask either to
meddle with them or to share them. But you are very fond of
getting our approbation of them, nevertheless. Dan says that
there is not an orator in the country who would not prefer the
waving of a lady's handkerchief to all that abominable
rat-a-tat-tat you men make with your heels and canes. The more
silent the sign of one's appreciation is, the better. Sincerity,
Ned, is seldom noisy. True love is dumb as well as blind. But
this is hardly _à propos_ of Dixie and the baby. Where was
I? Oh! the Palisades, yes.
{231}
If you were anything of a listener, I might take the trouble to
give you a nice little bit of description of the sunny afternoon
and the beautiful scene which the river presented to my gaze; but
I won't, because I see you are gaping.

I had been seated on the grass about half an hour, watching the
boats lolling about in the water as if they were too lazy to move
in such hot weather, when not a breath of air was stirring, and I
had been thinking how happy my life had been, and what a still
happier future might yet be in store for me; and, as I looked up
at the bright, cloudless sky, I said to myself, "Thus has God
blessed my life, for not a cloud can I see in the firmament of my
soul," when my reverie was interrupted by the noise of footsteps
behind me. Thinking it was some children, I turned my head,
smiling at the same time, that they might see they were welcome.
Imagine my surprise. It was Dixie and baby. He had caught baby up
in his mouth by the waist, and was bringing him along just as he
is accustomed to carry cook's basket to market, wagging his tail
and curveting about in the highest state of delight. My first
thought was that, the baby was dead--an awful thought that went
through my mind, and felt like an electric shock--either that
Dixie had bitten him to death, or had struck his poor, dear
little head against the trees, or the fences, or the stones, or
something else; but a second glance assured me that he was yet
unhurt, for he was doubling up his fat little fists, and--will
you believe it?--actually pummelling Dixie on his black nose.

Instead of coming up to me as I hoped he would, Dixie no sooner
caught sight of me than he dashed off, running round and round on
the green grassy bank, stopping suddenly, and looking at me as if
he would entice me to chase him.

You know that pretty spot at the end of the lane, how smooth the
sward is, and how gently the ground slopes down to the sudden
brink of the Palisades? The circles Dixie described in his
gambols began to grow larger and larger, and to my horror I saw
him run nearer and nearer to the edge of the dreadful precipice
each time he came around. You know the edge there is just as
sharp as if it had been cut away with a knife, and that, with the
exception of a narrow line of jagged rocky ledges, the whole
front of the Palisades is a smooth, perpendicular height of a
hundred and fifty feet at least. What if the dog should lose his
footing and slip off in one of those rapid courses he made! Now,
I'm sure you cannot tell me what I did. _I sprang up and ran
after him? _I knew you would think so. You are mistaken. I
never moved a muscle. I sat as still as a statue, and as silent
too. Dan said that was mother's wisdom, and wished that he had
never missed baby out of his cradle when he came home; for, when
Dixie had had his play out, I would have obtained quiet
possession of baby, and all the fearful consequences of his
appearance on the bank would have been spared. As it was, he no
sooner saw the empty cradle and the little white coverlet lying
on the floor all marked with Dixie's dirty paws, than he
suspected the truth instantly. Cook told him, besides, that she
had seen me going off to walk down the lane, and that she was
sure I had not carried baby with me. Dinah had fallen so fast
asleep that she had heard nothing.

I heard his footsteps as he came running down the lane, and knew
it was he, but did not turn my head to look. By this time Dixie
seemed to take delight in running straight down the bank, as if
he were about to jump over the Palisades with baby in his mouth,
but would wheel about sharply as he came to the edge.
{232}
It was horrible. My eyes followed his every movement, and they
ached with pain. I did not dare to close them long enough even to
wink. You think my heart was beating fast? No. It beat slowly,
very slowly. I could feel its dull, heavy strokes like a sexton
slapping the earth as he heaps it over a newly filled grave. Dan
said I was not only as still and as silent as a statue, but as
white too. I do not think I shall suffer more when I come to die.

No sooner had Dixie espied my husband running toward him than he
bounded off to the extremity of the sward, just where that narrow
line of ragged rocks runs down the front of the Palisades. He saw
that his master had anger in his face, and began to slink off to
escape punishment. It is a wonder he did not drop the baby on the
ground; but, do you know, I fancy that he thought the baby was
going to get whipped too, and wanted to get him to a place of
safety. Nothing else will explain why, finding himself nearly
overtaken, he looked first on one side and then on another for a
way to escape, and not seeing any, he went straight to the dizzy
edge, and, gathering up his feet, sprang over the precipice. I
saw them both disappear, and heard that most heart-rending of
sounds, a man's cry of anguish; the very ground seemed whirling
around me and the sky coming down upon me, and crushing me; but I
did not faint. "You are a brave little woman, Tot," Dan has said
to me many a time since, "and worth a whole regiment of
soldiers." I rose from the ground, and staggered toward Dan, who
ran to me and threw his arms about me and pressed my head to his
breast. O moment of agony untold, and of the supremest comfort!
He uttered only one word, speaking the two syllables separately,
as though he loved to dwell upon every letter, and in a tone of
mingled horror, grief, tenderest love, and sublime resignation--

"Ba--by!"

I thought I had loved dear Dan before that with all the love my
poor little woman's heart could hold. No. The deepest love is
only born of the deepest suffering. There are chords of love
whose music joy can never waken. Since then Dan is to me more
than he ever was, more than he ever could have been, had not our
souls passed together that moment of agony.

I do not know how long we stood thus, neither daring to go to the
brink of the precipice and look over. Baby and Dixie must be both
lying dead on the rocks below. At last Dan mustered up courage
enough to say to me,

"It is all over, darling. God is good."

"God is good," I repeated; "but, O Dan, dear! it is a cruel
blow."

"For us to bear, Tot, for us to bear; but not for him to
give--no, not for him to give."

He seemed to wring the words from his noble Christian heart, as
if he tore away his very life and offered it to God.

"Stay here, Tot," said he, "I am strong enough now." But his
whole body trembled from head to foot, and his voice was hoarse
and broken. "I will go and look."

I feared to let him go. Yet why should I detain him? But I could
not watch him. Throwing myself upon the ground, I buried my face
in my hands, and gave way to floods of bitter, bitter tears.

I had not lain thus a moment, when I heard a sharp, piercing cry.
Raising my head in alarm, to my unutterable surprise and horror,
I saw Dan spring over the edge of the Palisades and disappear.
Again I heard him cry as before, "Ba--by!" but there was now a
tone of joy mingled with that of fear, which told me that the
child was not dead.
{233}
It was a brief instant that I was on my knees, it is true, it was
nothing more than a look of gratitude I gave to God; but he knows
that not all the language ever expressed by man could fully tell
all that thought of thanksgiving which my soul sent up to him, as
I raised my clasped hands to the cloudless sky.

In a moment I was at the edge of the Palisades, just where that
ragged, rocky line runs down its front, jutting out here and
there in rough ledges. There was a story of a man who, being
pursued by the officers of justice, had clambered down there and
escaped. Few people who saw the place believed it. The very first
rock that jutted out was ten feet from the top, and that did not
present more than two or three feet of surface. A little to the
right of this, and about three feet lower, was another, on which
a man might easily stand, but not for any length of time, as its
surface shelved outward, and the rock overhanging it above would
not allow him to stand perfectly upright. Any one who had gotten
thus far must perforce take his chances of clambering down the
rest or be precipitated head foremost below, to certain death.

On this second ledge, I saw Dan holding the baby by his mouth,
just as Dixie had held him before. Dixie himself was crouched up
beside him. Poor Dan could not hold his place long there. As it
was, he was forced to grasp little, sharp edges of rock with both
hands to prevent himself falling off. He saw at once that there
was no time to send for help from above, and that he must try the
perilous descent. As he told me afterward, he had not calculated
upon this when he leapt from above. The first glance he caught of
the dog told him that, if he released his hold upon the child's
dress and opened his mouth, were it but for an instant, baby
would roll over the edge and be dashed to pieces. Dan says now
that he shall never regret taking one hasty step in his life. He
makes that an exception, you see, for he is always saying to me,
"Now, darling Tot, let us see the pros and the cons; for it is my
principle never to leap before I think, but to let my mind jump
before my feet."

Holding on, as I told you, to baby by his teeth, Dan went
clambering down the line of rocks. He had managed to wave his
hand backward to me as he left the ledge where Dixie was. I knew
what that meant--"Don't look." There was little or no hope of
his ever reaching the bottom safely, and he wished to spare me
the awful sight of his headlong fall, which might take place at
any step of the way. But I could not stir; my feet were riveted
to the ground. Besides, could I not help him? It seemed to me
that, as he went down, almost falling from one sharp rock to
another, I held him up with my eyes. When I told Dan my fancy
afterward, he laughed and said:

"Not the least doubt of it, Tot. I have felt the power of those
eyes before."

It did not last long, but it appeared to my mind, wrought up to
such a state of excitement, as if it had been going on and was
going on forever. It is stamped on my mind to-day as a memory of
years. As for dear Dan, it cost him, he said, the strength of
many days. He was no sooner at the bottom than he turned and
lifted up the baby in one hand, and, looking up to me, waved the
other as a sign of safety. Ah! his hands, his poor hands, you
should have seen them, all cut and gashed by the rocks. Those
hands seem to have something sacred about them ever since that
day.
{234}
I saw him on his knees, and then off I scampered to the house to
get the carriage. It is two miles around by the road to the
bottom of the Palisades, and it took us a long while to get to
him. When we did, he was still so weak that Mike, the coachman,
and I had to lift him up into the carriage. Dinah went down to
the place I had left, to make signs to him that he should remain.
Poor dear, there was no need of it. So we came home in more joy
than I can tell you--Dan, baby, and I. Mike rescued Dixie
afterward, by getting himself let down from above with a rope, to
where the patient old dog still was, wondering, who knows? how he
ever came to be there.

What is that you say? _Good gracious?_ Well, I don't mind
your saying it now, after what I have told you. But don't you
think, now, Mr. Ned, that I ought to be very proud of Our Baby
after that? What? _Ought to be very careful of him?_ The
idea! An old bachelor telling a mother to be careful of her baby!

--------

  The Cartesian Doubt. [Footnote 36]

    [Footnote 36: _The Churchman,_
    Hartford, Ct., August 31, 1867.]


_The Churchman_, an Episcopalian weekly periodical, contains
an article of no little philosophic pretension, entitled
_Science and God_, which we propose to make the occasion of
a brief discussion of what is known in the philosophic world as
the Cartesian Doubt, or Method of Philosophizing. _The
Churchman_ begins by saying:

  "A distinction is frequently and very justly taken between
  philosophic and religious scepticism. When Descartes, in order
  to find firm ground for his philosophical system, declared that
  he doubted the truth of every thing, even of the existence of
  the sensible world and the being of God, he did it in the
  interest of science. He wished to stand upon a principle which
  could not be denied, to find a first truth which no one could
  question. And this philosophic scepticism is an essential
  element in all investigations of truth. It says to every
  accredited opinion, Have you any right to exist? are you a
  reality or a sham? By thus exploring the foundation of current
  beliefs, we come to distinguish those which have real vitality
  in them, and stand on the rock and not on the sand; and by
  gathering up the living (true) and casting away the dead,
  (false,) science goes step by step toward its goal."

Whether Descartes recommended a real or only a feigned doubt, as
the first step in the scientific process he defended, has been
and still is a disputed point. If it is only a feigned or
pretended doubt, it is no real doubt at all, and he who affects
it is a real believer all the time. It is a sham doubt, and we
have never seen any good in science or in anything else come from
shams or shamming. If the doubt is real, and is extended to all
things, even to the being of God and our own existence, as
Descartes recommends, we are at a loss to understand any process
by which it can be scientifically removed. To him who really
doubts of everything, even for a moment, nothing can be proved,
for he doubts the proofs as well as the propositions to be
proved. All proofs must be drawn either from facts or from
principles, and none can avail anything with one who holds all
facts and principles doubtful. The man who really doubts
everything is out of the condition of ever knowing or believing
anything. There is no way of refuting a sceptic but by directing
his attention to something which he does not and cannot doubt;
and if there is nothing of the sort, his refutation is
impossible.

{235}

Descartes, according to _The Churchman,_ when he declared he
doubted the truth of everything, even of the existence of the
sensible world and the being of God, did it in the interest of
science, in order to find firm ground for his philosophical
system. Doubt is ignorance, for no man doubts where he knows. So
Descartes sought a firm ground for his philosophical system in
universal ignorance! "He wished to stand upon (on) a principle
which could not be denied, a first truth which no one could
question." If he held there is such a principle, such a first
truth, or anything which cannot be denied, he certainly did not
and could not doubt of everything. If he doubted the being of
God, how could he expect to find such a principle or such a first
truth? _The Churchman_ seems to approve of the Cartesian
doubt, and says, "This philosophical scepticism is an essential
element in all investigations of truth." If this real or feigned
scepticism were possible, no investigations could end in anything
but doubt, for it would always be possible, whatever the
conclusions arrived at, to doubt them. But why can I not
investigate the truth I do not doubt or deny?

Moreover, is it lawful, even provisionally, in the interest of
science, to doubt, that is, to deny, the being of God? No man has
the right to make himself an atheist even for a moment. The
obligation to believe in God, to love, serve, and obey him, is a
universal moral obligation, and binds every one from the first
dawn of reason. To doubt the being of God is to doubt the whole
moral order, all the mysteries of faith, the entire Christian
religion. And does _The Churchman_ pretend that any man in
the interest of science or any other interest has the right
voluntarily to do that?

Undoubtedly, every man has the right to interrogate "every
accredited _opinion_" and to demand of it, "Have you any
right to exist? are you a reality or a sham?" But the right to
question "accredited opinions" is one thing, and the right to
question the first principles either of science or of faith is
another. A man has no more right voluntarily to deny the truth
than he has to lie or steal. _The Churchman_ will not deny
this. Then either it holds that all science as all faith is
simply opinion, or it deceives itself in supposing that it
accepts the Cartesian doubt or adopts his philosophical
scepticism. Doubt in the region of simple opinion is very proper.
It would be perfectly right for _The Churchman_ to doubt the
opinion accredited among Protestants that Rome is a despotism,
the papacy a usurpation, the Catholic religion a superstition, or
that the church has lost, falsified, corrupted, or overlaid the
pure Christian faith, and demand of that opinion, "Have you any
right to exist? are you a reality or a sham?" And we have little
doubt, if it would do so, that it would find itself exchanging
its present opinion for the faith "once delivered to the saints."
It is clear enough from the extract we have made that _The
Churchman_ means to justify scepticism only in matters of
opinion, and that it is far enough from doubting of everything,
or supposing that there is nothing real which no man can doubt.

But, if we examine a little more closely this Cartesian method
which bids us doubt of everything till we have proved it, we
shall find more than one reason for rejecting it. The doubt must
be either real or feigned. If the doubt is only feigned for the
purpose of investigation, it amounts to nothing, serves no
purpose whatever; for every man carries himself with him wherever
he goes, and enters into his thought as he is, with all the faith
or science he really has.
{236}
No man ever does or can divest himself of himself. Hence the
difficulty we find even in imagining ourselves dead, for even in
imagination we think, and in all thinking we think ourselves
living, are conscious that we are not dead. In every thought,
whatever else we affirm, we affirm our own existence, and this
affirmation of our own existence is an essential and inseparable
element of every thought. When I attempt to think myself dead, I
necessarily think myself as surviving my own death, and as
hovering over my own grave. No one ever thinks his own death as
the total extinction of his existence, and hence we always think
of the grave as dark, lonely, cold, as if something of life or
feeling remained in the body buried in it. Men ask for proofs
that the soul survives the dissolution of the body, but what they
really need is proof that the soul dies. Life we know; but death,
in the sense of total extinction of life, we know not; it is no
fact of our experience. Life we can conceive, death we cannot. I
am always living in my conceptions, and that I die with my body I
am utterly unable to think, because I can think myself only as
living.

The thinker, then, enters as an indestructible element into every
one of his thoughts. Then he must enter as he is and for what he
is. His real faith or science enters with him, and no doubt can
enter that is not a real doubt. A feigned or factitious doubt,
being unreal, does not and cannot enter with him. He is always
conscious that he does not entertain it, and therefore can never
think as he would if he did. The Christian, firm in his Christian
faith, whose soul is clothed with Christian habits, cannot think
as an infidel, or even in thought put himself in the infidel's
position. Hence one reason why so many defences of Christianity,
perfectly conclusive to the believer, fail of their purpose with
the unbeliever. Even the unbeliever trained in a Christian
community or bred and born under Christian civilization cannot
think as one bred and born under paganism. What we assert is,
that every man thinks as he is, and cannot think otherwise;
simply what all the world means when it says of a writer,
"Whatever else he writes, he always writes himself." Men may
mimic one another, but always each in his own way. The same words
from different writers produce not the same impression upon the
reader. Something of himself enters into whatever a man thinks or
does, and no translator has ever yet been able to translate an
author from one language to another without giving something of
himself in his translation. The Cartesian doubt, then, if
feigned, factitious, or merely methodical, is impracticable, is
unreal, and counts for nothing; for all along the investigator
thinks with whatever faith and knowledge he really has; or
simply, we cannot feign a doubt we do not feel.

It will be no better if we assume that the doubt recommended is
real. No man really doubts what he does not doubt, and no man
does or can doubt of everything; for even in doubt the existence
of the doubter is affirmed. But suppose a man really does doubt
of everything, the Cartesian method will never help him to
resolve his doubts. From doubt you can get only doubt. To propose
doubt as a method of philosophizing is simply absurd, as absurd
as it would be to call scepticism philosophy, faith, or science.
The mind that doubts of everything, if such a mind can be
supposed, is a perfect blank, and, when the mind is a perfect
blank, is totally ignorant of everything, how is it to
understand, discover, or know that anything is or exists?
{237}
There have indeed been men, sometimes men called philosophers,
who tell us that the mind is at first a _tabula rasa_, or
blank sheet, and exists without a single character written on it.
If so, if it can exist in a state of blank ignorance, how can it,
we should like to know, ever become an intelligent mind, or ever
know anything more than the sheet of paper on which we are now
writing? Intelligence can speak only to intelligence, and no mind
absolutely unintelligent can ever be taught or ever come to know
anything? But if we assume that the mind is in any degree
intelligent, we deny that it can doubt of everything; for there
is no intelligence where nothing is known, and what the mind
knows it does not and cannot doubt. Either, then, this blank
ignorance is impossible, or no intelligence is possible.

But, as we have already said, no man does or can doubt of
everything, and hence the Cartesian method is an impossible
method. Descartes most likely meant that we should doubt of
everything, the external world, and even the being of God, and
accept nothing till we have found a principle that cannot be
denied, or a first truth that cannot be doubted, from which all
that is true or real may be deduced after the manner of the
geometricians. He did not mean to deny that there is such first
truth or principle, but to maintain that the philosopher should
doubt till he has found or obtained it. His error is in taking up
the question of method before that of principles or first
truths--an error common to nearly all philosophers who have
succeeded him, but which we never encounter in the great Gentile
philosophers, far less in the great fathers and mediaeval doctors
of the church. These always begin with principles, and their
principles determine their method. Descartes begins with method,
and, as Cousin has justly said, all his philosophy is in his
method. But, unhappily, his method, based on doubt, recognizes
and conducts to no principles, therefore to no philosophy, to no
science, and necessarily leaves the mind in the doubt in which it
is held to begin. The discussion of method before discussing
principles assumes that the mind is at the outset without
principles, or, at least, totally ignorant of principles; and
that, being without principles or totally ignorant of them, it is
obliged to go forth and seek them, and, if possible, find or
obtain them by its own active efforts. But here comes the
difficulty, too often overlooked by our modern philosophers. The
mind can neither exist nor operate without principles, or what
some philosophers call first truths. The mind is constituted mind
by the principles, and without them it is nothing and can do
nothing. The supposed _tabula rasa_ is simply no mind at
all. Principles must be given, not found or obtained. We cannot
even doubt without them, for doubt itself is a mental act, and
therefore the principles themselves, without which no doubt or
denial is possible, are not and cannot be denied or doubted; for
even in denying or doubting the mind affirms them. Principles,
again, cannot be given the mind without its possessing them, and
for the mind to possess a thing is to know it. As the principles
create or constitute the mind, the mind always knows them, and
what it knows it does not and cannot doubt. The philosopher, as
distinguished from the sophist, does not start from doubt, and
doubt of everything till he has found something which he cannot
doubt; but he starts from the principles themselves, which, being
given, are _nota per se_, or self-evident, and therefore
need no proof--in fact, are provable only from the absurd
consequences which would follow their denial.

{238}

Having begun with a false method, Descartes fails in regard to
principles, and takes as the first truth which cannot be doubted
what, either in the order of being or knowing, is no first truth
or ultimate principle at all. He takes as a principle what is
simply a fact--the fact of his own personal existence, or of an
internal personal sentiment: _Cogito, ergo sum_, I think,
therefore I exist. Regarded as an argument to prove his
existence, as Descartes evidently at first regarded it, this
enthymem is a sheer paralogism, and proves nothing; for the
consequence only repeats the antecedent; _sum_ is already in
_cogito_. I affirm that I exist in affirming that I think.
But pass over this, and give Descartes the benefit of an
explanation, which he gives in one of his letters when hard
pressed by his acute Jesuit opponent, that he does not pretend to
offer it as an argument to prove that he exists, but presents it
simply as the fact in which he finds or becomes conscious of his
existence. There is no doubt that in the act of thinking I become
conscious that I exist; for, as we have already shown, the
subject enters into every thought as one of its integral and
indestructible elements; but this does not relieve him. He
"wished," as says _The Churchman_, "to stand upon (on) a
principle which could not be denied, to find a first truth which
no one could question." This principle or first truth he pretends
is his own personal existence, expressed in the sophism, I think,
therefore I exist, _Cogito, ergo sum_. We agree, indeed have
already proved, that no one can deny or doubt his own personal
existence, although it is possible for a man to set forth
propositions which, in their logical development, would deny it.
But the method Descartes defends permits him to assert nothing
which cannot be deduced, after the manner of the geometricians,
from the principle or first truth on which he takes his stand;
and unless he can so deduce God and the universe, he must deny
them.

But from the fact that I exist, that is, from my own personal
existence, nothing but myself and what is in me and dependent on
me can be deduced. Geometrical or mathematical deduction is
nothing but analysis, and analysis can give nothing but the
subject analyzed. Now, it so happens that I do not contain God
and the external universe in myself. Following the Cartesian
method, I can attain, then, to no existence but myself, my own
personal phenomena. I can deduce no existence but my own, and am
forced, if logical, to doubt or deny all other existence, that
is, all existence but my personal existence, and my own interior
sentiments and affections. I am the only existence; I am all that
is or exists, and hence either I am God or God is not. What is
this but the absolute egoism of Fichte?

Descartes himself seems to have felt the difficulty, and to have
seen that God cannot, after all, be deduced from the fact of
personal existence; he therefore asserts God as an innate idea,
and concludes his real and independent being from the idea innate
in his own mind. Analysis of his own mind discloses the idea, and
from the idea he concludes, after the manner of St. Anselm, that
God is. But when I am given as the principle or first truth, how
conclude from my idea, which is simply a fact of my interior
life, that there is anything independent of me to correspond to it?
{239}
Here Descartes was forced to depart from his own method, and make
what on his system is a most unwarrantable assumption, namely,
that the idea, being innate, is deposited by God in the mind,
and, as God cannot lie, the idea must be true, and therefore God
is. That is, he takes the idea to prove the being of God, and the
veracity of God to prove the trustworthiness of the idea! But he
was to doubt the being of God till he had geometrically
demonstrated it; he therefore must prove that God is before he
can appeal to his veracity. His method involved him in a maze of
sophistries from which he was never able to escape. God concluded
from my idea, innate or otherwise, is only my idea, without any
reality independent of me. The argument of St. Anselm is valid
only when _idea_ is taken objectively, not subjectively, as
Descartes takes it.

What Descartes really meant by innate ideas we do not know, and
we are not certain that he knew himself; but he says, somewhere
in his correspondence, that, when he calls the idea of God
innate, he only means that we have the innate faculty of thinking
God. His argument is, "I think God, and therefore God is." Still
the difficulty according to his own method remains unsolved.

Given my own personal existence alone as the principle or first
truth, it follows that, at least in science, I am sufficient for
myself. Then nothing distinguishable from myself is necessary to
my thought, and there is no need of my going out of myself to
think. How, then, conclude that what in thought seems to be
object is really anything distinguishable from myself? I think
God, but how conclude from this that God is distinct from and
independent of me, or that he is anything but a mode or affection
of my own personal existence? The fact is, when we take our own
personal existence alone as the principle from which all objects
of faith or science are to be deduced, we can never attain to any
reality not contained in our existence as the part in the whole,
the effect in the cause, or the property in the essence.
Exclusive psychology, as has been shown over and over again, can
give us only the subjectivism of Kant, or the egoism of Fichte,
resulting necessarily in the nihilism, or identity of being and
not-being, of Hegel.

The psychologists generally do not, we are aware, concede this;
but they are not in fact, whatever they are in theory, exclusive
psychologists, and their inductions of God and an external
universe are made from ontological as well as from psychological
_data_. They begin their process, indeed, by analyzing the
mind, what they call the facts of consciousness, but they always
include in their premises non-psychological elements. Their
inductions all suppose man and the universe are contingent
existences, and as the contingent is inconceivable as contingent
without the necessary, they conclude, since the contingent
exists, very logically, that there really is also the necessary,
or necessary being, which is God. But the necessary, without
which their conclusion would and could have no validity, is not a
psychological fact or element; otherwise the soul itself would be
necessary being, would be itself God. The mistake arises from
regarding what philosophers call necessary ideas, such as the
idea of the necessary, the universal, the immutable, the eternal,
etc., because held by the mind, as psychological, instead of
being, as they really are, ontological. Being ontological, real
being, the inductions of the psychologists, as they call
themselves, do really carry us out of the psychological order,
out of the subjective into the objective.
{240}
But, if their inductions were, as they pretend, from exclusively
psychological data, they would have no value beyond the soul
itself, and the God concluded would be only a psychological
abstraction. Indeed, most psychologists assert more truth than
their method allows, are better than their systems. Especially is
this the case with Descartes. On his own system, logically
developed, he could assert no reality but his own individual soul
or personal existence; yet, in point of fact, he asserts nearly
all that the Catholic theologian asserts, but he does it
inconsistently, illogically, unscientifically, and thus leads his
followers to deny everything not assertable by his method.

But, as we have said, Descartes does not attain by his method to
a first principle. Not only cannot the being of God and the
existence of the external universe be deduced from our own
personal existence, but, by his method, our personal existence
itself cannot be logically asserted. It is not ultimate, a first
principle, or a first truth. Our personal existence cannot stand
by itself alone. It is true Descartes says, _Cogito, ergo_
SUM; but I cannot even think by myself alone, and even he does
not venture to take _sum_ in the absolute sense of
_am_, as in the incommunicable name by which God reveals
himself to Moses, I AM WHO AM, or I AM THAT AM. Even he takes it
in the sense of _exist, Cogito, ergo sum_, I think,
therefore I exist. He never dared assert his own personal
existence as absolute, underived, eternal, and necessary being;
it remained for a Fichte, adopting the Cartesian method, to do
that. Between being and existence, _essentia_ and
_existentia_, there is a difference which our philosophers
are not always careful to note. Existence is from _exstare_,
and strictly taken, means standing from another, or a derivative
and dependent, therefore a contingent existence, or creature,
whose being is in another, not in itself. We speak, indeed, of
human beings, but men are beings only in a derivative sense, not
in the primary or absolute sense. Hence the apostle to the
Gentiles says, "In him (God) we live, and move, and are," or have
our being. In ourselves we have no being, and are something only
as created and upheld by Him who is being itself, or, to speak
_à la_ Plato, being in himself. Evidently, then, our
personal existence is not ultimate, therefore not the first
principle, nor the first truth. The ultimate, at least in the
order of being, is not the soul, a contingent existence, but,
real being, that is, God himself.

But as we have and can have no personal existence except from
God, it is evident that we cannot assert our personal existence
by itself alone; and to be able to assert it at all, we must be
able to assert the being of God. Now, Descartes tells us that we
must doubt the being of God till we can prove it after the manner
of the geometricians. But how are we to do this? We cannot, as we
have seen, deduce his being from our own personal existence; and
what is still more to the purpose, while we deny or doubt his
being, we cannot assert or even conceive of our own, because our
existence, being derivative, dependent, having not its being in
itself, is not intelligible or conceivable in or by itself alone.
The contingent is not conceivable without the necessary. They are
correlatives, and correlatives connote each other. Now, if we
deny or doubt the being of God, we necessarily deny or doubt our
own personal existence, impossible and inconceivable without God.
{241}
With God disappears the existence of the external universe and
our own. If, then, it were possible to doubt of the being of God,
we should doubt of all things, and should have nothing left with
which to prove that God is. God is the first principle in being
and in knowing, and if he is denied, all is denied. Atheism is
nihilism.

Descartes evidently assumes that it is both possible and lawful
to doubt the being of God, nay, that we ought to do so, till we
have geometrically demonstrated that he is, and _The
Churchman_ tells us that this "scepticism is an essential
element in the investigation of truth." We cannot bring ourselves
to believe it. God, the theologians tell us, is real and
necessary being, the contrary of which cannot be thought, and it
is the fool, the Scriptures tell us, that says "in his heart, God
is not." The evidence of this is in the fact that we do in every
thought think our own existence, and cannot deny it if we would;
and in the farther fact that we always do think our own existence
as contingent, not as necessary being; and that we cannot think
the contingent without at the same time thinking the necessary,
as was sufficiently shown in the papers on _The Problems of the
Age_, published sometime since in this Magazine. As there can
without God be nothing to be known, we must dissent from _The
Churchman_, as from Descartes himself, that a philosophical
scepticism which extends even to the being of God "is an
essential element in the investigation of truth." It seems to us
the worst way possible to truth, that of beginning by denying all
truth, and even the possibility of truth. The man who does so,
humanly speaking, puts himself out of the condition of
discovering or receiving truth of any sort. He who seeks for the
truth should do so with an open mind and heart, and with the
conviction that it is. We must open our eyes to the light, if we
would behold it, and our hearts to the entrance of truth, if we
would have it warm and vivify us. Those men who shut their eyes,
compress their lips, and close the aperture of their minds are
the last men in the world to discover or to receive the truth,
and they must expect to walk in darkness and doubt all their
lives. Scepticism is a worse preparation for investigating truth
than even credulity, though scepticism and credulity are blood
relations, and usually walk hand in hand.

If it were possible to doubt the being of God, or to think a
single thought without thinking him, we should prove ourselves
independent of him, and therefore deprive ourselves of all
possible means of proving that he is. If, for instance, we could
think our own existence, as is assumed in the Cartesian enthymem,
_Cogito, ergo sum_, without in the same indissoluble thought
thinking God, there would be no necessity of asserting God, and
no possible argument by which we could prove his being, or data
from which he could be concluded. Man can no more exist and act
in the intellectual order, without God, than in the physical
order. If you suppose men capable of thinking and reasoning
without the intellectual apprehension of the Divine Being, as
must be the man who really doubts the being of God, there is no
possible reason for asserting God, and it is a matter of no
practical moment in the conduct of life whether we believe in God
or not. The fact is, no man can doubt the being of God any more
than he can his own personal existence. The Cartesian method, if
followed strictly, would lead logically to universal nihilism;
for he who doubts the being of God must, if logical, doubt of
everything, and he who doubts of everything can be convinced of
nothing.

{242}

We say not only that atheism is absurd, but that it is
impossible; and they who with the fool say there is no God, if
sincere, deceive themselves, or are deceived by the false methods
and theories of philosophers, or sophists rather. No man can
think a single thought without thinking both God and himself. The
man may not advert, as St. Augustine says, to the fact that he
thinks God, but he certainly thinks, as we showed in our article
last May, on _An Old Quarrel_, that which is God. No man
ever thinks the imperfect without thinking the perfect, the
particular without the universal, the mutable without the
immutable, the temporal without the eternal, the contingent
without the necessary. The perfect, the universal, the immutable,
the eternal, the necessary are not abstract ideas, for there are
no abstractions in nature. Abstractions are nullities, and cannot
be thought. The ideas must be real, and therefore being; and what
is perfect, universal, immutable, eternal, real and necessary
being but God? That which is God enters into every one of our
thoughts, and can no more be denied or doubted than our own
existence. Those poor people who regard themselves as atheists so
regard themselves because they do not understand that the
so-called abstract or necessary ideas are not simply ideas in the
mind or psychological phenomena, but are objective, real being,
the eternal, immutable, self-existent God, in whom we live, and
move, and have our being. No doubt we need instruction and
reflection to understand this, but this instruction is within the
reach of all men, and every mind of ordinary capacity is adequate
to the necessary reflection. In point of fact, it is the
philosophers that make atheists, and the atheism is always
theoretical, never real.

There is no doubt that a little ingenuity may deduce something
like this doctrine from Descartes's assertion of innate ideas,
but not in the sense Descartes himself understood the word
_idea_. With Descartes the word _idea_ never means the
objective reality, but its image in the mind; never being itself,
but its mental representation, leaving it necessary, after having
ascertained that we have the idea, to prove that it represents an
objective reality--a thing which no man has ever done or ever can
do. His subsequent explanation that he meant, by asserting that
the idea of God is innate, simply the innate faculty of thinking
God, was a nearer approach to the truth perhaps, but did not
reach it, because it assumed that the intuition of that which
really is God follows the exercise of the faculty of thinking,
instead of preceding and constituting it, and is not an _à
priori_ but an empirical intuition. If we could suppose the
faculty constituted, existing, and operative, without the
intuition of real and necessary being, and that the idea is
obtained by our thinking, there would still remain the question
as to the objective validity of the thought. If Descartes had
identified the idea with being regarded as intelligible to us,
and represented it as creating or constituting the faculty of
thinking, he would have reached the truth; but this he could not
do by his method, which required him to recognize as his
principle only his own personal existence, and to deduce from it,
after the manner of the geometricians, whatever he recognized as
true. God, or what is God, could be obtained or presented only by
the exercise of our faculty of thinking, and not by the creative
act of God affirming himself as the first principle alike of
thought and the faculty of thinking.

{243}

If Descartes had properly analyzed thought and ascertained its
essential and indestructible elements, he would have avoided the
error of resolving the thinker into thought, _la pensée_,
which denied the substantive character of the soul and made it
purely phenomenal, and have ascertained that, beside the subject
or our personal existence, but simultaneously with it, there is
affirmed what in the order of reality precedes it,--God himself,
under the form, if I may so speak, of real, necessary, universal,
eternal, and independent idea or being. There is given in every
thought, as its primary and essential element, a real ontological
element, without which no thought is possible. This, not our
personal existence, is the first truth or principle which every
philosopher must recognize, if he would build on a solid
foundation and not in the air, and this principle can no more be
denied or doubted than our personal existence itself, for without
it we could not think our personal existence, nay, could not
exist at all, as capable of thought.

But even if, by a just analysis, Descartes had found that this
ontological element is a necessary and indestructible element of
thought, he would have still greatly, fatally erred if he had
taken it as his first principle and refused to admit any
existence not logically deducible from it, that is, deducible
from it "after the manner of the geometricians," as required by
his method. Father Rothenflue, Father Fournier, and the Louvain
professors reject the Cartesian psychology, and assume Ens, or
being, which they very properly identify with God, as the first
principle in science. This is proper. But how do they pass from
being to existences, from the necessary to the contingent, from
God to creation? We cannot deduce logically existences from
being, because logic can deduce from being only what is
necessarily contained in being, that is, only being. If we say,
given being existences logically follow, we assume with Cousin
that God cannot but create, that creation is a necessity of his
own nature, and therefore necessary, as necessary as God himself,
which denies the contingency of creatures, and identifies them
with necessary being. This is precisely what Descartes himself
does after he has once got possession, as he supposes, of the
idea of God, or proved that God is. Creation on his system is the
necessary, not the free act of the Creator.

There are, as has often been remarked, two systems in Descartes,
the one psychological and the other ontological; as there are in
his great admirer and follower, Victor Cousin. The two systems
are found in juxtaposition indeed, but without any logical or
genetic relation. Descartes proceeds from his personal existence
as his principle, which gives him nothing but his personal
existence; then finding that he has the idea of God, for we
presume he had been taught his catechism, he takes the idea as
his principle, and erects on it a system of ontology. In this
last he was followed by Malebranche, a far greater man than
himself. Malebranche perceived, what we have shown, that we have
direct and immediate intelligence of God, that he, as idea, is
the immediate object of the understanding, and that we see all
things in him. Hence his well-known _Visio in Deo_, or
Vision in God, which would be true enough if we had the vision of
the blest, and could see God as he is in himself; for God sees or
knows all things in himself, and has no need to go out of himself
to know anything he has made.
{244}
But this is not the case with us. We do not see things themselves
in God, but only their idea or possibility. From the idea of God
we may deduce his ability to create, and that the type of all
creatable things must be in him; but as creation is on his part a
free, not a necessary act, we can, as Malebranche was told at the
time, see a possible, but not an actual universe in God; hence,
by his vision in God, he attained only to a pure idealism, in
which nothing actually distinguishable from God was apprehended
or asserted.

Spinoza, greater still than Malebranche, followed also Descartes
in his ontological system, and took being, which he calls
substance, as his principle. Substance, he said, is one and
ultimate, and nothing is to be admitted not obtainable from it by
way of logical deduction. Spinoza was too good a logician to
suppose that the idea of creation is deducible from the idea of
God, for a necessary creation is no creation at all, but the
simple evolution of necessary being or substance. Hence nothing
is or exists except the one only substance and its modes and
attributes. His attributes are infinite, since he is infinite
substance; but we know only two, thought and extension. The
so-called German ontologists in the main follow Spinoza, and like
him admit only being or substance, or its attributes or modes.
This system makes what are called creatures, men and things,
modes of the Divine Being, in which he manifests his attributes,
thought and extension; hence it is justly called pantheism,
which, under some of its forms, no one can escape who admits
nothing not logically deducible from the idea of substance,
being, or God; for deduction, we have said, is simply analysis,
and analysis can give only the subject analyzed. As the analysis
of my personal existence or the soul can give only me and my
attributes, modes, and affections, and therefore the egoism of
Fichte, which underlies every purely psychological system, so the
analysis of the idea of being can give only being and its modes
or attributes, or the pantheism of Spinoza, which underlies the
ontology of Descartes, and every system of exclusive ontology.

No philosopher is ever able to develop his whole system, and
present it in all its parts, or foresee all its logical
consequences. It is only time that can do this, and the vices of
a method or a system can be collected fully only from its
historical developments. The disciples of Descartes, who in
France started with his psychological principle, ended in the
pure sensism, or sensation transformed, of Condillac, and those
who in Germany started with the same principle, ended in the
absolute egoism of Fichte, who completed the subjectivism of
Kant, and reached the point where egoism and pantheism become
identical. Those, again, who in any country have started with the
ontological principle of Descartes and followed his method, have,
however they may have attempted to disguise their conclusions,
ended in denying creation and asserting some form of pantheism.
The materialism which prevailed in the last century, and obtains
to a great extent even in the present, is not a historical
development of Cartesianism, so much as of the English school
founded by Bacon, and developed by Hobbes and Locke, and
completed by the French idealogists of Autueil, who were noted
for their Anglomania.
{245}
Cartesianism led rather to what is improperly termed idealism, to
the denial of the material universe, or its resolution into pure
sensation.

Yet it is instructive to observe that the historical development
of the psychological principle represented by Fichte and that of
the ontological principle represented by Spinoza terminate in
identity. Fichte saw he could not make the soul the first
principle without taking it as ultimate and denying its
contingency, or that he could not make the soul that from which
all that exists proceeds without assuming that the soul, the ego,
is God. Hence his twofold ego, the one absolute and the other
phenomenal or modal. He thus identifies the soul with God, and
concludes that nothing except me and my phenomen, or attributes
and modes, is or exists: I am all. Spinoza, starting from the
opposite pole, the ontological, finds that he can logically
deduce from being only being; and calling being substance, and
substance God, he concludes with an invincible logic nothing is
or exists, except God and his modes or attributes. The form may
differ, but the conclusion is identical with the last conclusion
of egoism, and it is noteworthy that even Fichte, in the last
transformation of his doctrine, substituted God for the soul, and
made God the absolute, and the soul relative and phenomenal, or a
mode of the Divine Being.

Whether, then, we start with the soul as first principle or with
God, we can never by logical deduction arrive at creation, or be
able to assert any existence as distinguishable from the Divine
Being. Neither can be taken exclusively as the _primum
philosophicum_, and exclusive ontology is as faulty and as
fatal in its consequences as exclusive psychology. The fact is,
we can neither doubt the being of God nor our own personal
existence; for both are equally essential and indestructible
elements of thought, given in the primitive intuition, though
being is logically prior to existence, and our _primum
philosophicum_ must include both.

But the soul is given in the intuition as contingent, and being
is given as necessary. The contingent cannot exist any more than
it can be thought without the necessary. It then depends on the
necessary, and can exist only as created and upheld by it. The
real principle, or _primum philosophicum,_ is then, as has
been amply shown in the essays on _The Problems of the Age_,
the ideal formula, _Ens creat existentias_, or Being creates
existences. This presents the ontological principle and the
psychological not in juxtaposition merely, but in their real and
true relation. This formula enables us to avoid alike pantheism,
atheism, idealism, and materialism, and to conform in principle
our philosophy to the real order of things and the Catholic
faith. But it is only in principle, for Gioberti himself calls
the formula _ideal_. It does not, after all, give us any
science of actual existences, or itself furnish its own
scientific explication and application. Apply to it the method of
Descartes, and lay it down that everything is to be doubted till
proved, and we are not much in advance of Cartesianism. We know
God is, we know things exist, and God has created or creates
them; but we do not know by knowing the formula what God is, what
things do or do not exist. It gives us the principles of science,
but not the sciences; the law which governs the explication of
facts, not the facts themselves. We cannot deduce, after the
manner of the geometricians, any actual existence or fact from
the formula, nor any of the sciences.
{246}
There is an empirical element in all the sciences, and none of
them can be constructed by logical deduction even from a true
ideal formula, and to deny everything not logically deducible
from it would leave us in the purely ideal, and practically very
little better off than Descartes himself left us. The Cartesian
method based on doubt, then, whether we start with an incomplete
or a complete ideal formula, can never answer the purpose of the
philosopher, or enable us to construct a concrete philosophy that
includes the whole body of truth and all the scientific facts of
the universe.

We do not pretend that philosophy must embrace all the knowable,
_omne scibile_, in detail; it suffices that it does so in
principle. No doubt the ideal formula does this, as in fact
always has done the philosophy that has obtained in the Catholic
schools. But though the ideas expressed in the ideal formula are
intuitive, the constitution of the mind, and basis of all
intelligence, and are really asserted in every thought, we very
much doubt if they could ever have been reduced to the formula
given by Gioberti if men had never received a divine revelation
from God, or if they had been left without any positive
instruction from their Creator. We are as far as any one can be
from building science on faith; but we so far agree with the
traditionalists as to hold that revelation is necessary to the
full development of reason and its perfect mastery of itself. One
great objection to the Cartesian doubt or method is, that it
detaches philosophy from theology, and assumes that it can be
erected into an independent science sufficient for itself without
any aid from supernatural revelation, and free from all
allegiance to it. This had never been done nor attempted by any
Christian school or even non-Christian school prior to Descartes,
unless the pretension of Pomponatius and some others, that things
may be theologically true yet philosophically false, and who were
promptly condemned by Leo X., be understood as an attempt in that
direction. The great fathers of the church and the mediaeval
doctors always recognized the synthesis of reason and revelation;
and, while they gave to each its part, they seem never to have
dreamed of separating them, and of cultivating either as
independent of the other; yet they have given us a philosophy
which, if not free from all defects, is superior, under the point
of view of reason alone, to anything that has elsewhere ever been
given under that name. He who would construct a philosophy that
can stand the test even of reason must borrow largely from St.
Athanasius, St. Augustine, St. Gregory the Great, St. Thomas, St.
Buonaventura, and the later scholastics.

It is also an objection to the Cartesian doubt that it is not
only a complete rupture with revealed theology, but also with
tradition, and is an attempt to break the continuity of the life
of the race, and to sever the future of humanity from its past.
We are among those who regard the catholic beliefs and traditions
of mankind as integral elements in the life of the race itself,
and indispensable to its continuous progress. The future always
has its germ in the past, and a beginning _de novo_ for the
individual as for society is alike impossible and undesirable.
The Cartesian doubt overlooks this, and requires the individual
to disgarnish his mind of every relic and memorial of the past,
of everything furnished by his parents and teachers, or the
wisdom of ages, and after having become absolutely naked and
empty, and made himself as ignorant and impotent as the new-born
babe, to receive nothing till he, without experience, without
instruction, has by his own unaided powers tested its truth.
{247}
As reasonable would it be for the new-born infant to refuse the
milk from its mother's breast, till it had by the exercise of its
faculties settled the question of its wholesomeness.

We object, finally, that it tends to destroy all respect for
authority, all reverence for tradition, all regard for the
learning and science of other ages and other men, and to puff up
the individual with an overweening self-conceit, and sense of his
own sufficiency for himself. It renders all education and
instruction useless and an impertinence. It tends to crush the
social element of our nature, and to create a pure individualism,
no less repugnant to government and society than to religion and
the divine order, according to which all men are made mutually
dependent, one on another. Doubtless, Descartes only developed
and gave expression to tendencies which were in his time
beginning to be active and strong; but the experience of the
civilized world only historically verifies their destructive,
anti-philosophical, anti-religious, and anti-social character.
Yet his method is still, in substance if not in form, very
extensively accepted and followed, as the example of _The
Churchman_ itself proves.

We do not by any means believe that Descartes had any suspicion
of the real character of his philosophic enterprise. We are far
from agreeing with Gioberti that he was a disguised Protestant
designedly laboring to complete the work undertaken by Luther. We
doubt not that he really accepted the church, as he always
professed to do, though most likely he was far enough from being
a fervent Catholic; but he was bred a soldier, not a philosopher
or a theologian; and though he may have been, and we believe he
was for his time, a great mathematician and a respectable
physicist, he was always a poor theologian, and a still poorer
metaphysician. His natural ability was no doubt worthy of
admiration, but he had no genius for metaphysics, and his
ignorance of the profounder philosophy of antiquity and of the
mediaeval doctors was almost marvellous. He owed in his own day
his popularity to the fact that he discoursed on philosophy in
the language of the world, free from the stiff formulas, the
barbarous locutions, and the dry technicalities of the schools.
He owed much to the merits of his style, but still more to the
fact that he wrote in the vernacular instead of the Latin tongue,
then unusual with writers of philosophical treatises, and
non-professional men and court-bred ladies could read him and
fancy they understood philosophy. His works were
"philosophy-made-easy," and he soon became the vogue in France,
and France gives the fashion to the world. But it would be
difficult to name a writer who has exerted in almost every
direction an equally disastrous influence on modern thought and
civilization; not that his intentions were bad, but that his
ignorance and presumption were great.

The Cartesian method has no doubt favored that lawless and
independent spirit which we see throughout modern society, and
which is manifested in those Jacobin revolutions which have
struck alike at ecclesiastical and political authority, and at
times threatened the civilized world with a new barbarian
invasion; but the evil resulting from that method which is now
the most to be deplored is the arrogant and independent tone
assumed by modern science, and its insolence toward the sacred
dogmas of faith. Descartes detached philosophy, and with it all
the sciences, from faith, and declared them independent of
revelation.
{248}
It is especially for this that Cousin praises him. But modern
so-called science is not contented even with independence; it
aspires to dominate and subject faith to itself, or to set up its
own conclusions as the infallible test of truth. It makes certain
inductions from a very partial survey of facts, concocts certain
geological, physiological, ethnological, and philological
theories at war with the dogmas of faith, and says with sublime
insolence that therefore faith must give way, for science has
demonstrated its falsity! If the church condemns its unsupported
conclusions, there is forthwith a deafening clamor raised that
the church is hostile to science, and denies the freedom of
thought and the inalienable rights of the mind! _The
Churchman_ sees this, and has written the very article from
which we have made our extract to show its injustice; but with
what success can it hope to do it, after beginning by approving
the Cartesian method and conceding modern science, in principle,
all it asks?

We have said and shown over and over again that the church does
not condemn science. Facts, no matter of what order, if facts,
never do and never can come in collision with her teaching, nor
can their real scientific explanations ever conflict with
revelation or her dogmas. The church interferes not with the
speculations or the theories of the so-called _savans_,
however crude, extravagant, or absurd they may be, unless they
put forth conclusions under the name of science which militate
against the Christian faith. If they do that, she condemns their
conclusions so far as repugnant to that faith. This supervision
of the labors of _savans_ she claims and exercises for the
protection of her children, and it is as much in the interest of
science as of faith that she should do so. If we were to believe
what men counted eminent in science tell us, there is not a
single Christian dogma which science has not exploded; yet,
though modern investigations and discoveries may have exploded
several scientific theories once taught in the schools and
accepted by Catholics, we speak advisedly when we say science has
not exploded a single dogma of the church, or a single
proposition of faith she has ever taught. No doubt, many
pretendedly scientific conclusions have been drawn and are drawn
daily that impugn the faith; but science has not yet confirmed
one of them, and we want no better proof that it never will
confirm them than the bare fact that they contradict the faith
the church believes and teaches. They can all be scientifically
refuted, and probably one day will be, but not by the people at
large, the simple and unlettered; and therefore it is necessary
that the church from time to time should exert her authority to
condemn them, and put the faithful on their guard against them.
This is no assumption to the injury of science, for in condemning
them she seeks only to save the revealed truth which they impugn.
It is necessary, also, that men should understand that in science
as well as in faith they are not independent of God, and are
bound by his word wherever or whatever it speaks. Descartes
taught the world to deny this and even God himself till
scientifically proved, and hence the pains we have taken to
refute his method, to show its unscientific character, and to
indicate some of the fatal consequences of adopting it.

We know very well that Bossuet and Fdénélon are frequently
classed with the disciples of Descartes, but these men were
learned men and great theologians, and they followed Descartes
only where he coincided with the general current of Catholic
philosophy.
{249}
Either was a far profounder philosopher than Descartes ever could
have been, and neither adopted his method. The same may be said
of other eminent men, sometimes called Cartesians. The French
place a certain national pride in upholding Descartes, and pardon
much to the sophist in consideration of the Frenchman; but this
consideration cannot weigh with us any more than it did with the
Italian Jesuit, the eminent Father Tapparelli, we believe, who a
few years since, in some remarkable papers in _La Civiltá
Cattolica_, gave a most masterly refutation of Descartes's
psychological method. Truth is of no nation, and a national
philosophy is no more commendable than a national theology, or a
national church. It is no doubt to the credit of a nation to have
produced a really great philosopher, but it adds nothing to its
glory to attempt to make pass for a great philosopher a man who
was in reality only a shallow sophist. It was one of the
objectionable features in the late M. Cousin that he sought to
avail himself of the national prejudices of his countrymen, and
to make his system pass for French or the product of French
genius. The English are in this respect not less national than
the French, and Bacon owes his principal credit with them to the
fact that he was a true Englishman. All real philosophy, like all
truth, is catholic, not national.

In regard to the scepticism _The Churchman_ deems so
essential in the investigation of truth, we have already remarked
that a sceptical disposition is the worst possible preparation
for that investigation. He who would find truth must open his
heart to it, as the sunflower opens her bosom to the sun, and
turns her face toward it in whatever quarter of the heavens it
may be. Those who, like _The Churchman_, know not the truth
in its unity and catholicity, and substitute opinion for faith,
will do well so far to doubt their opinions as to be able
thoroughly to investigate them, and ascertain if they have any
solid foundation. There are reasons enough why they should
distrust their own opinions, and see if the truth is not really
where the great majority of the civilized world for ages has told
them it is to be found. They ought to doubt, for they have reason
to doubt, not of every thing, not of God, not of truth, but of
their own opinions, which they know are not science nor faith,
and therefore may be false. Scientific men should doubt not
science, nor the possibility of science, but their theories,
hypotheses, and conjectures till they have proved them; and this
all the same whether their theories, hypotheses, and conjectures
are taken from the schools or are of their own concoction. But
this is something very different from presenting to the world or
to one's self the being of God, the creation, the immortality of
the soul, and the mysteries of faith as opinions or as theories
to be doubted till proven after the manner of geometricians.
These are great truths which cannot be reasonably doubted; and,
if we find people doubting them, we must, in the best way we can,
convince them that their doubts are unreasonable. The believer
need not doubt or deny them in order to investigate the grounds
of his faith, and to be able to give a reason for the hope that
is in him. We advance in the knowledge of truth by means of the
truth we have; and the believer is much better fitted for the
investigation of truth than the unbeliever, for he knows much
better the points that need to be proved, and has his mind and
heart in a more normal condition, more in harmony with the real
order of things, and is more able to see and recognize truth.
{250}
But this investigation is not necessary to justify faith in the
believer. It is necessary only that the believer may the better
comprehend faith in its relations with the general system of
things, of which he forms a part, and the more readily meet the
objections, doubts, and difficulties of unbelievers. But all
cannot enter into this investigation, and master the whole field
of theology, philosophy, and the sciences, and those who have not
the leisure, the opportunity, and ability to do it, ought not to
attempt it. The worst possible service we can render mankind is
to teach them that their faith is unreasonable, or that they
should hold themselves in suspense till they have done it, each
for himself. They who can make the investigation for themselves
are comparatively few; and shall no man venture to believe in God
and immortality till he has made it? What, then, would become of
the great body of the people, the poorer and more numerous
classes, who must be almost wholly occupied with procuring the
means of subsistence? If the tender mercies of God were no
greater than those of the Cartesian philosophers and our
Episcopalian _Churchman_, the poor, the unlettered, the
simple, the feeble of intellect would be obliged to live without
any rule of duty, without God in the world, or hope in the world
to come. For them the guidance and consolations of religion would
alike be wanting.

We may see here why the church visits with her censures whatever
tends to unsettle or disturb the faith of the people, for which
an unbelieving and unreasoning world charges her with denying
reason, and being hostile to freedom of thought and scientific
investigation. We do not hope to convince the world that it is
unjust. The church is willing that every man who can and will
think for himself should do so; but the difficulty is, that only
here and there one, even at best, does or can so think. It is not
that she is unwilling that men should reason, if they will really
reason, on the grounds of faith, but that most persons who
attempt to do so only reason a little way, just far enough to
raise doubts in their minds, doubts which a little more knowledge
would solve, and then stop, and refuse or are unable to reason
any farther. It is the half-reason, the half-learning, the
half-science that does the mischief; as Pope sings:

  "A little learning is a dangerous thing:
   Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring;
   There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
   But drinking largely sobers us again."

Many may take "shallow draughts," but very few can "drink deep,"
and those shallow draughts, which are all that except the very
few can take, are more hurtful to both intellectual and moral
health than none at all. The church certainly does not encourage
those to reason on sacred subjects who can or will reason only
far enough to doubt, and to puff themselves up with pride and
conceit She, however, teaches all the faith, and gives to every
one who will listen to her voice as solid reasons for it as the
wisest and most learned and scientific have or can have. In this,
however the world may blame or vituperate her, she only pursues
the course which experience and common sense approve and
pronounce wise and just.

The attempt to educate the mass of the people up to the point of
making each individual able to understand and solve all the
difficulties in the way of faith has never succeeded, and can
never succeed.
{251}
The mass of the people need and always will have teachers of some
sort whom they do and must trust. We see it in politics. In the
most democratic state the mass of the people follow like sheep a
few leaders, wise and prudent men sometimes, perhaps oftener
ignorant but cunning and unscrupulous demagogues. All may be made
to understand that in matters of faith the teachers are
commissioned by the church, and that the church is commissioned
by God himself, who teaches in and through her, and no one has or
can have any better reason for believing anything, for none
better is conceivable. It is the assumption that the people are
to judge for themselves without instructors or instruction that
causes so much unbelief in the modern world; but as they have
been very extensively told that it is their right to do so, and
made to believe it, the church, of course, must meet their
factitious wants the best way she can, and educate them up to the
highest point possible, and give them all the instruction, not
only in the faith, but on its grounds and reasons, they are or
can be made capable of receiving. She must do this, not because
the people believe or are already enlightened, but because they
have learned only just enough to doubt and rebel.

--------

        Abridged from the German.

        The Composer's Difficulty.


The good old custom in London, in 1741, was for the members of
the ---- Club to assemble in the parlor of a noted tavern in
Fleet street, kept by Master Farren, who had a sharp-tongued wife
and a young and lovely daughter. This young girl had been setting
the large room in order, and putting fresh flowers in the vase,
in preparation for the expected guests, when the door opened
softly, and a young man came in. Ellen did not look up till he
was close to her, then she started and blushed crimson, while he
took her hand and kissed it with the air of a cavalier.

"I did not know it was you, Joseph," faltered the maiden.

"I can stay but a moment," said the young student of music, "for
they will all be here presently. I came to tell you to come to
the garden without fail this evening; I want to give you a first
lesson, in a new part."

Ellen's face brightened. Just then a shrill voice called her
name, and she knew her mother would be angry if she saw her with
the German, Joseph Wach.

"I will come!" she answered quickly. "Now I must leave you." And
she ran out at a repetition of the shrewish call. Joseph did not
attempt to detain her; though the two loved each other well he
knew that Dame Farren regarded him with good will no longer, now
that Master Handel, his teacher and patron, no longer stood high
in the king's favor, and went no more to Carlton House. The
father, old John Farren, was still the friend of the young man.

{252}

An hour later, and the round table, on which stood mugs of porter
and glasses, was surrounded by men, members of the musical club,
conversing on a subject deeply interesting to them all. One of
them--a very tall man, with large, flashing eyes and a noble and
expressive countenance--was addressed as "Master Handel;"
another, simple in his dress and plain in his exterior, with a
world of shrewdness and waggery in his laughing eyes, was William
Hogarth, the painter.

They were talking about the composer's great work, _The
Messiah_, which Handel had not as yet been able to get
properly represented. Hogarth was urging an application to the
Duke of Bedford. Handel, disgusted at his want of success
hitherto, was reluctant to sue for the favor of any patron to
have his best work brought before the public.

"If his grace only comprehended a note of it!" he exclaimed
petulantly; "but he knows no more of music than that lout of a
linen-weaver in Yorkshire."

"Whom you corrected with your fist, when he blundered with your
_Saul_!" cried the painter. "You should have learned better
policy, my good master, from your eight-and-twenty years in
England! A stupid, great nobleman can do no harm to a work of
art! If I dealt only with those who understood my work, my wife
and children might starve."

Handel was leaning on the table, his face buried in his hands.
His thoughts were wandering toward Germany. When he spoke, it was
to express his bitter regret that he had left his fatherland just
as new life in art began to be stirring. While the Germans
achieved greatness in music, he had been tormenting himself in
vain with dolts of singers and musicians in England, whose hard
heads could not take in a notion of music! "I will return to
Germany!" he concluded. "Better a cowherd there than here
director of the Haymarket Theatre, or chapelmaster to his
majesty, who, with his court rabble, takes such delight in the
warblings of that foppish Italian--Farinelli."

Some other members came in to join them, among them the young
German, Joseph Wach. Handel nodded kindly to him, and asked how
he was getting on with his part.

"I am very industrious, Master Handel, and will do my best,"
replied Joseph. "You shall hear me soon."

The conversation about the new work was resumed. The Abbé Dubos
described how the chorus, "The glory of the Lord shall be
revealed," had sounded all night in his ears. "Your glory, Master
Handel, will be revealed through your _Messiah_ when once
you can get it brought out. I understand the lord archbishop is
against it!"

The flush of anger rushed to Handel's brow. "The lord
archbishop!" he repeated scornfully. "He offered to compose me a
text for the _Messiah_, and when I asked if he thought I
knew nothing of the Bible, or if he expected to improve the Holy
Scriptures, he turned his back on me, and represented me to the
court as a rude, thankless boor."

Master Tyers, the lessee of Vauxhall, remarked that it was not
politic to speak one's mind too openly, especially with the
great. Dr. Hualdy tried to soothe the irritated composer by
speaking of the admiration he had already won, after a long
struggle with ignorance and intrigue.

{253}

"What care I," interrupted Handel, "for the admiration of fools
and knaves!"

There were many to give the "soft answer" which "turneth away
wrath," and to deprecate too severe a judgment of the English
people because they had accomplished little in the glorious art
and failed at once to recognize the best. "Admitting," added the
abbé, "that the court and nobles have done you injustice; that we
have no such musicians and singers as in Germany; that we cannot
grasp all the grand spirit of your works, are you not,
nevertheless, idolized by the people of Britain? Lives not the
name of Handel in the mouth of honest John Bull, cherished as the
names of his proudest statesmen! Give him, then, a little
indulgence! Let us have a chance to hear your _Messiah_;
condescend to ask the aid you need in bringing it out; your honor
will not suffer, and the good you will do will be your reward!"

"That is just what I have told him!" exclaimed Hogarth. And the
others chimed in their eager assent. Even the burly host coaxed
him, and, by way of argument, said: "You know, Master Handel, how
often I have to bend to my good woman; yet it is no detriment to
my authority as master of the house."

Handel sat silent for a time, looking gloomily around the circle.
Then suddenly he burst into a laugh. "By my halidome, old
fellow," he cried, "you are right! To-morrow I _will_ go to
the Duke of Bedford. You _shall_ hear the _Messiah_,
were all the rascals in the three kingdoms against it!"

There was a burst of delighted applause from all the company. The
fat landlord gave a leap of joy, and Joseph clasped his hands;
for he knew Handel's success would be the making of his own and
Ellen's fortune.

Handel waited on the Duke of Bedford, who happened to be giving a
grand breakfast. The duke prized the reputation of a patron of
the arts, and knew well that Handel's absence from court and the
circles of the nobility was owing more to his disregard of the
forms and ceremonies held indispensable than to any want of
esteem for the composer. His oratorio of _Saul_ had won him
proud distinction. When informed that Handel had called on him,
the duke himself came out to welcome him and lead him into the
drawing-rooms. But the composer drew back, saying he had come to
solicit a favor. The duke then took him into his cabinet, and
listened graciously to his petition that he "would be pleased to
set right the heads of the Lord Mayor and the Archbishop of
London, so that they should cease laying hindrances in the way of
the representation of the _Messiah_."

The duke not only listened, but promised to use all his means and
influence to remove the obstacles. Handel knew he could depend on
the promise. He accepted the invitation to join the company with
joy, when he heard that his celebrated countryman, Kellermann,
was there and engaged in the duke's service.

His grace led in and introduced his distinguished guest. The
sight of the great composer produced a sensation. Handel cared
nothing for the noble company, but greeted his old friend
Kellermann with all the warmth of his nature. They had a cordial
talk together, while the idol of the London fashionables, Signor
Farinelli, hemmed and cleared his throat over the piano, in token
that he was about to sing, and wanted Kellermann to accompany
him.
{254}
The musician at length noticed his uneasiness, pressed his
friend's hand, returned to his place, and took up his flute,
while Farinelli began a melting air in his sweet, clear voice.

Handel, a powerful man, austere and vigorous in nature, abhorred
the singing of such effeminate creatures, and despised the
luxurious ornamentation of the Italian's style. Farinelli's soft
trilling was accompanied by Kellermann on the flute with
dexterous imitation. Handel laughed inwardly to see the effect on
the company. The ladies were in raptures; and, when Farinelli
ceased, the most eager applause rewarded him.

The duke introduced the Italian to Handel. Farinelli complimented
him in broken English, said he had heard that "Signor AEndel had
composed una opera--il _Messia_," and begged to know, with a
complacent smile, if there would be a part in the opera for "il
famous musico Farinelli?"

Handel surveyed the ornamented little figure from head to foot,
and answered in his deepest bass tone, "No, signora."

There was suppressed laughter, and the ladies covered their
faces. Not long afterward Handel took his leave, with his friend
Hogarth, who was a guest.

  ----

The _Messiah_ was announced for representation. But an
unexpected difficulty presented itself. The lady who had been
engaged to sing the first soprano part sent word that she was ill
and could not sing; and the oratorio had to be postponed.

Handel knew it was mere caprice on the part of the spoiled
prima-donna, and was excessively indignant. When he heard from
the leader of the orchestra that a second postponement might be
necessary, he roundly declared it should not be. "It _shall_
take place!" he exclaimed, and set off to call upon the signora
himself.

Signora Lucia, the Italian vocalist, that morning held a
_levée_ of her admirers. Their conversation, as she reclined
on a couch in a graceful _déshabillé_, was of "il barbaro
Tedesco," his unreasonable expectations, and the pleasure the
beautiful singer took in disappointing him. "He dared to order me
about at rehearsal!" she cried. "For that, he shall not have his
troublesome oratorio performed at all!" The gentlemen applauded
her spirit. Then it was related how the fair singer Cuzzoni had
refused to sing some music in Handel's opera, and he had gone to
her room, seized her, and, rushing to the open window, had held
her out at arms' length, threatening to drop her unless she
promised to sustain her part.

"He shall find me harder to deal with," said the beauty
languidly. Just then the name of the great composer was
announced, and Handel's heavy step was heard in the hall. The
gentlemen visitors huddled themselves off in such confusion, they
could only retreat behind the couch, drawing the damask curtain
over the recess so as to conceal them.

Lucia was uneasy, but maintained her composure. Handel, however,
had not come, as she expected, to entreat her to sing. He stood
near the door, and, vouchsafing no salutation, haughtily demanded
her _part_.

The singer made no answer, and Handel strode forward. Lucia
sprang up, seized the bell, and rang it violently, but not one of
her admirers answered the call. Handel advanced, and coolly
lifted the curtain behind the sofa, revealing the group of
terrified Italians. He laughed scornfully, and again demanded her
part of the signora.

{255}

In unutterable passion, she snatched up a roll of music from the
table and flung it at the composer. He picked it up, bowed
ironically, and walked out of the room. The anger of Lucia with
her cowardly friends who had not interfered to avenge this
insult, and their confusion, may be imagined.

Handel had punished the capricious singer, but he could find no
one to take her place. His friends sympathized in his distress,
but could offer no aid nor consolation. Hogarth thought he
underrated the Italians, and was too conceited. "You remember,"
he said, "when Correggio's Leda was sold in London at auction for
ten thousand guineas, I said, 'I will paint something as good for
such a sum.' Lord Grosvenor took me at my word, I painted my
picture, and he called his friends together to look at it. They
all laughed at me, and I had to take back my picture."

Handel replied that the old Italian painters were worthy of all
respect, and so were the old Italian church composers. The modern
ones he thought, in their way, more or less like Signor
Farinelli.

The day before the oratorio was to be produced Handel sat in his
study reviewing the work. Now he would smile over a passage, now
pause over something that did not satisfy him, pondering,
striking out, and altering to suit his judgment. At length his
eyes rested on the last "Amen," long, long, till a tear fell on
the leaf.

"This work," he said solemnly, and looking upwards, "is my best!
Receive my best thanks, O benevolent Father! Thou, Lord! hast
given it me; and what comes forth from thee, that endureth,
though all things earthly perish. Amen."

He laid aside the notes, and walked a few times up and down the
room, then seated himself in his easy-chair. His pupil, Joseph,
opened the door softly and came in. Handel started from his
reverie, and asked what he wanted. The young man, with an air of
mystery, begged the master to come with him.

In a few moments they were in a room in the upper story of Master
Farren's tavern, a room where Joseph practised his music. There,
to Handel's no small astonishment, he saw the host's pretty
daughter, Ellen.

"What may all this mean?" he asked, while his brow darkened.
"What do you here, Miss Ellen, in this young man's study?"

"He may tell you that himself, Master Handel," answered the
damsel, turning away her blushing face.

Joseph hastened to say, "I am ready to answer, dear master, for
what we do."

"Open your mouth, and speak, then," said Handel sternly.

"You have done much for me, dear master," said Joseph with
emotion. "When I came a stranger and penniless, you put me in the
way of earning a support. You gave me instruction in music and
singing, spending hours you might have given to doing something
great."

"And does the fool think making a good singer was not doing
something great--eh?"

"And I have tried to make a singer for you!" said the young man.
"Will you hear her?" And he pointed to Ellen.

Handel, in his surprise, opened his eyes wide as he looked at the
damsel.

"Yes--Ellen!" she repeated, coming close to him, and lifting her
clear, hazel eyes to his face. "Now you know, Master Handel, what
Joseph and I have been about, and for what I am here in his
study."

{256}

"We wanted to be of service in your dilemma," said Joseph. "Shall
Ellen sing before you, Master Handel?"

Handel seated himself: "I am curious to see how your teaching has
succeeded," he said. "Come, let her begin."

Joseph went to the piano, and Ellen stood beside him.

The part she took was that of the first soprano, the one taken
from Signora Lucia. Handel started as the young girl's voice
rose, clear, silvery, floating--a voice of the purest quality!
How he listened when he heard the most splendid portion of his
forthcoming work--the glorious air, "I know that my Redeemer
liveth"--and how Ellen sang it may be conjectured when, after she
had ceased, the composer sat motionless, a happy smile on his
lips, his eyes full of tears. At length he drew a deep breath,
arose, kissed the maiden's forehead, kissed her eyes, in which
also bright drops were glancing, and said with profound feeling:
"Ellen, my good--good child--you will sing this part to-morrow at
the representation?"

"Master Handel! _Father_ Handel cried the maiden, and threw
herself, sobbing, on his neck. Joseph rattled off a jovial air to
cover his emotion.

    ------

"Amen!" resounded through the arches of the church, and died away
in whispered melody in its remotest aisles. "Amen!" responded
Handel, while he slowly let fall the staff with which he had kept
time. His immortal masterpiece had produced an immense
impression: his fame was established for all time.

When the great composer descended the church steps, he was
informed that his majesty had sent for him, and that a carriage
was waiting, by the royal command, to convey him to Carlton
House.

George the Second received the artist with a gracious welcome,
and he read his triumph in the faces of the court nobles.

"You have made us a noble present in your _Messiah_, Master
Handel," said the monarch. "It is a brave piece of work!"

"_Is it?_" asked the composer, looking in the king's face,
and well pleased.

"It is, indeed," replied George. "And now, tell me what I can do
for you."

"If your majesty," answered Handel, "will give a place to the
young man who sang the tenor solo part, I shall be grateful.
Joseph Wach is my pupil, and _he_ has a pupil too, Master
Farren's daughter; but they cannot marry till Joseph finds a
place. The old dame will not consent, and your majesty knows the
women bear rule."

The king's smile was a forced one, for a sore point in his
experience was touched. "I know nothing of the sort," he said.
"But your pupil shall have a place as first tenor in our chapel."

Handel thanked his majesty with sincere pleasure. The king seemed
to expect him to ask more.

"Have you nothing," at length he said, "to ask for yourself? We
would thank you, in your own person, for the fair entertainment
provided in your _Messiah_."

Handel crimsoned as he heard this, and he answered in a tone of
disappointment: "Sire, I have endeavored not to _entertain_
you, but to make you better."

All the courtly company looked their astonishment. Even King
George was surprised. Then, bursting into a hearty fit of
laughter, he walked up to the composer and slapped him
good-naturedly on the shoulder. "You are, and ever will be, a
rough old fellow, Handel," said he; "but a good fellow withal! Do
as you will, we shall always be the best friends in the world!"

{257}

Handel retired from the audience, and was glad to escape to his
favorite haunt, Master Farren's tavern. Joseph and Ellen were
there, awaiting his return. His news brought them great joy.

In the last years of Handel's life, when his sight failed him, it
was Ellen who nursed him faithfully as if she had been his own
child, while her husband wrote down his last compositions.


  ------

  Translated from Les Études Religieuses, etc.

  The Title Of The Kings Of England


  Defensor Fidei:
  Its Signification And Its Origin.


If an Englishman will take a pound sterling of the present year,
he will find around the effigy of Queen Victoria the words,
_Defensor Fidei_, a title which the sovereigns of Great
Britain have been proud to bear for more than three centuries.

From whom did they receive it? Why was it given to them? What did
it originally mean, and what does it mean now?

Henry VIII. received this title from the pope as a personal
privilege, and one that he had ardently desired and solicited for
a long time. It was conferred by a bull of Leo X., confirmed by
Clement VII. No one is ignorant on what occasion. Luther had left
the church. He was sowing his heresy in Germany, declaring that
the pope was Antichrist, and declaiming with furious rage against
Rome in his impious work, _The Captivity of Babylon_. Henry
VIII., indignant at the effort to mislead the people, replied in
a book called _Assertio septem sacramentorum adversus Martinum
Lutherum_. We regret that the space to which we are limited
prevents us making copious citations from it; for our readers
would then see that it would be impossible for any one to
proclaim a more devoted attachment to the holy see than did Henry
VIII. at that time. These pages are more than three centuries
old; but to-day, when war against the papacy is more bitter than
ever, we know of none among the contemporary works which defend
the church more filially and more warmly.

{258}

If at the time when Henry VIII., full of joy, received the bull
of Leo X., amid the hearty congratulations of his people, a man
had stood before him and said: Sire, in less than fourteen years
you will belie all your protestations of filial devotedness and
submission to the Vicar of Jesus Christ; you will rebel against
the Roman Church in just as striking a way as Martin Luther has
done; you will proclaim yourself the head of the Church of
England; you will be the author of a schism which will make blood
flow in torrents and will desolate England, Scotland, and Ireland
for more than three centuries; you, the victorious Henry VIII.,
who would be the delight of your people if you were the master of
your passions instead of being their slave; you will become the
Nero of England: had such words been spoken, their author would
have been looked upon as insane. The proud and passionate Tudor
would have exhausted his ingenuity in inventing means to torture
a traitor like this. But, at the end of 1534, he who would
venture to print this book, which had purchased for Henry VIII.
the title which the sovereigns of England are so proud to use
even to-day, would have been declared guilty of high treason.

Thus, God has wished that the very coins of his country shall
become for the Englishman who reflects and studies a precious and
lasting historical monument of the ancient faith of the country,
the Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman faith, the faith of France, of
Spain, of Italy, of Austria, and of all Christianity. The title
_Defensor Fidei_ signified at that time defender of the
Roman Faith. What does it mean now? After 1534, Henry VIII.
pretended to defend the Catholic faith, by refusing obedience to
the pope and submitting to his own spiritual supremacy, a new
star in the firmament of the church.

Under the reign of Edward VI., or rather under that of the two
successive protectors, the Dukes of Somerset and Northumberland,
the faith was defended in the shape of the Forty-two Articles. It
was no longer the Catholic faith in its purity.

Under the reign of Elizabeth, the governess of the Church of
England, the creed of Edward VI. was modified, and the faith was
now declared to consist in the Thirty-nine Articles.

Since Elizabeth these Thirty-Nine Articles have continued to be
the official creed of the established church. In a country where
custom holds such sway, all the members of the Anglican clergy
are obliged to profess their faith in these articles under oath;
but do we see that the queen and her privy council exact the
performance of this oath? It would be answered that such a thing
has become impracticable, and that no one is held to the
performance of the impossible. We cheerfully agree to this, for
we are not in the habit of contesting what is plainly evident.

The striking and multiplied facts of contemporaneous history will
at last compel every serious-minded man to ask himself this
question: Is not the title _Defensor Fidei_ very much like
that of _King of France_ which the sovereign of England
renounced in the beginning of this century, without really losing
anything? To tell the truth, they are "defenders of the faith" in
much the same manner as Victor Emmanuel is King of Cyprus and
Jerusalem.

If we were English, we would delight in publishing a truly
apostolic book, which would contain little of our own
intellectual labor, except, perhaps, the choice of materials and
the manner of arranging them; nor would it be a controversial
work, for controversy only embitters an opponent; and, if our
readers will permit a playful but striking comparison, we would
make our adversaries appear like two inimical squirrels, who will
continually run about in a circle, with fiery looks and lively
motions, yet never getting one step nearer to each other.
{259}
We should make the calm and impartial voice of history speak, and
our publication would be called _Historical Documents on the
Title of the Kings of England, Defensor Fidei._

Large books find few readers nowadays, and so we would make ours
very brief; its contents these: The affirmation of the seven
sacraments against Martin Luther by Henry VIII., with the defence
of his book by John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester; the bull of Leo
X., which gave Henry VIII. the title of _Defensor Fidei_;
the act of parliament which declared Henry VIII. supreme head of
the Church of England; the Forty-two Articles of Anglican faith
under the reign of Elizabeth and her successors; the profession
of faith in the Thirty-nine Articles exacted officially of the
Anglican clergy; and, finally, the profession of faith of Pius
IV., which contains the whole doctrine of the Holy Council of
Trent. We would give the Latin text of all those documents and a
good English translation, so that the exactness of the
translation could be verified. We would crown our work with a
little complementary appendix, which would give our readers an
insight of the privy council of the queen in ecclesiastical
matters--_Optima legum interpres consuetudo_. Showing on one
side an abstract of the condemnations inflicted upon the
Puseyites for having professed Catholic doctrines denied by the
Anglican Church; and, on the other, the recapitulation of the
principal acts, which have favored so-called evangelical and even
rationalistic tendencies in the very heart of the establishment,
and which are recalled by the names, now become so famous, of
Gorham, Hampden, and Colenso. Nor should we omit the nomination
of a bishop of Jerusalem, made with such touching concord by
England and her Protestant sister, Prussia. This characteristic
fact impresses the seal of worldly policy on the forehead of the
Anglican Church.

What can make a book more attractive than fine engravings? And so
our manual would contain the portraits of all the kings and
queens of England who have born the title of _Defensor
Fidei_; and, in this gallery of sovereigns, would figure in
his place the sombre protector Cromwell, who was a defender of
the faith in a manner peculiarly his own. Facing the rulers of
England, we would place the popes of Rome. We should strictly
deny ourselves the pleasure of making any commentaries. We should
content ourselves with a single exposition of authentic facts,
and look for the fruit of our book from the grace of God, who
enlightens the mind and touches the heart in his own good time,
and from the good sense, the integrity, and well-known
straightforward spirit of the English nation.

Our reader has no need for us to tell him what the subject of
this work would be. He sees clearly that this book of Henry VIII.
against Luther, and its defence by John Fisher, Bishop of
Rochester--a book now extremely rare, buried, as it were, in the
dust of a few libraries as an archaeological curiosity, or at
most only quoted to show the monstrous self-contradictions that
Henry VIII. exhibited--that this book, we say, is the most
authentic and precious monument of the ancient and Catholic faith
in England, and, at the same time, a refutation in advance of the
Anglican schism, of all the Anglican heresies, and of the
Lutheran diatribes of Anglicanism against the pope as Antichrist,
and Rome as a new Babylon.

{260}

Is there not a sign in this very work of wondrous divine
predilection for England, and a distant preparation for a future,
such as we see with so much joy, springing from the seed sown
then, centuries ago?

In religious and wise England many souls are eagerly seeking the
unity and antiquity of the Christian faith; like others, who have
preceded them in finding the fold of Christ, they are ready to
make the most heroic sacrifices as soon as they have discovered
the pearl without price. These brothers are already Catholic by
the aspirations of their hearts. Perhaps many belong already,
without their own knowledge and without ours, to the soul of the
only true church, because they have validly received holy
baptism, which has made them members of Jesus Christ and children
of the church; because they are only material heretics; and
because they walk in humility in the way that he who is the only
Mediator attracts them by his grace. They always take a step in
the true faith at each new light that they receive from heaven.
These Christians whom we respect and love, and who love us, honor
their country more than we can readily express. We cannot think
of them without the deepest interest and sympathetic veneration.

With the exception of the trials of Pius IX., the father of the
Christian universe, the most venerable and the most magnanimous
of all the oppressed, except this holy, old man, this pontiff
king, surrounded by his legion of Machabees, crowned with his
gray locks, his virtues, and his misfortunes, we know of nothing
so beautiful as the devotion of our Catholic brothers of England,
Scotland, and Ireland to God and his church, and the divine
assistance which continually rallies new neophytes about them
when God calls them. It is a flood destined to overspread the
land. "Wonderful are the surges of the sea." [Footnote 37]

    [Footnote 37: Psalm xc. 4.]

A religious of one of the missionary orders recently wrote from
India concerning a Protestant lady whom he had met, and said,
"Her conversation made me think that she was only a Protestant by
mistake." How many Englishmen to-day are only Anglicans by
mistake!

While the Episcopal Church is falling to pieces under the
disintegrating influence of Protestantism, which is its essence,
and of rationalism, which has invaded it, as the lamented Robert
Wilberforce has clearly shown, [Footnote 38] many Christians born
within its communion, but animated by a different spirit which
urges them to the divine centre of Catholicity, are no longer
willing to build their faith on the shifting sand of human
opinions, and cement a religious society by the dissolving
principle of private judgment. For them the authority and the
common faith of the universal church are necessary: they demand
the integrity of the gospel of Jesus Christ and the sacred
guardian of apostolic traditions. For such as these, the book of
Henry VIII. and John Fisher is a most striking monument of the
unity and antiquity of the faith, a sort of beacon to show all in
the great impending shipwreck of religion in England what
direction they must take in order to find safety.

    [Footnote 38: The principle of authority in the church.]

You who seek the unity of the faith, then, "one heart and one
soul," [Footnote 39] see in what splendor she shines here.

    [Footnote 39: Acts iv. 32.]

{261}

It is the King of England, and with him the most pious and
learned English bishop of the sixteenth century, who makes his
profession of faith, who glories in his submission to the
authority of the pope, who defends the seven sacraments. Does a
single bishop protest? Are Oxford and Cambridge silent? Do the
secular and regular clergy, the parliament, the laymen of every
condition of life, all acquiesce? Does not a single Englishman
present this respectful remonstrance: "Sire, you are sacrificing
the rights and prerogatives of your crown! A King of England
submit to the pope! Is not one king the supreme head of the
church? You defend seven sacraments: how so when there are only
two?"

It was, then, evidently the faith of England that Henry VIII. and
John Fisher defended; and this monument, reared before the schism
and different creeds that it has created, shows us that those who
would dare to deny the doctrines there put forth would be
considered innovators, which, in the church of Jesus Christ, has
always been considered synonymous with heretics.

But if this book is the monument of the faith of England in the
sixteenth century, before 1534, it is at the same time a monument
of the Roman faith, that is to say, of the faith of the Catholic
Church. At that time, when the pontiffs were more than usually
vigilant on account of the heresies which were springing up in
the various countries of Europe, two popes, Leo X. and Clement
VII., were not content with sanctioning the work of Henry VIII.,
but gave and confirmed to him the title of the "Defender of the
Faith." England declared her belief; Rome, and through her the
Catholic Church, answered: "Your faith is ours; we congratulate
you on your able defence of it." Here was indeed unity and
unanimity.

Is this all the light that we can gather from this source? This
monument was erected in the midst of the religious life of
England, between its Roman Catholic past, of more than a thousand
years from the birth of the Anglo-Saxon Church, and its
schismatic future, which would count more than three hundred
years. Nowhere can one better stand to see the different policies
and course travelled by England than here: once as the cherished
daughter of the Roman Church, the sister of Catholic nations; and
then how she has changed since she rebelled against Rome, and has
gone on in her isolation, sufficient for herself, Christian in
her own way, even while an oecumenical council was assembled.

The Roman Catholic past of England is known by the certain
evidence of history; and from the monument of Henry VIII., which
can well be considered its terminus, we propose to cast a hasty
glance at its most distant events; and of these by far the most
interesting are the glorious acts of the pontificate of Pope St.
Gregory the Great, who sent missionaries to convert his dear
English, although yet idolaters, and who chose their first bishop
from the Benedictine monks of his convent at Rome. What unity,
what unanimity between Rome and England in the time of the monk
St. Augustine! It was the union of a daughter and mother: it was
precisely the same union, the same faith, in the sixth as in the
sixteenth century, until 1534.

The sixth century makes us go far back in the history of the
church; but, in admiring the apostolic works of St. Augustine and
his companion, we find about them precious and striking witnesses
of a past yet more distant.
{262}
St. Augustine convokes the bishops of the Britons to beg them to
aid him in converting the Saxons to Christianity. He
acknowledged, then, that the Britons were in the same communion,
and professed the same Roman Catholic faith. Indeed, if the
Britons were wrong in refusing their help, it was only because of
their hatred against their oppressors, for the ancient British
Church was never separated from the communion of the Roman
Church, never lost the purity of the Catholic faith. [Footnote
40]

    [Footnote 40: See _The Monks of the West_,
    by M. le Comte de Montalembert.]

Pelagius, it is true, was a Briton, and his heresy, which he
first sowed at Rome, was not long in reaching Great Britain, yet
it never took deep root there. The British Catholics sent a
deputation to the bishops of Gaul, urging them to send a number
of missionaries to them. Pope Celestine, warned of the danger to
the faith, sent St. Germain of Auxerre; the bishops of Gaul,
assembled for this purpose, added St. Loup of Troyes. These two
great bishops left their peaceful flocks in all haste to come to
the rescue of the invaded folds; and while they were working so
faithfully for the glory of God and of his holy church, all
Catholic Gaul was praying most fervently for its sister, Great
Britain. Pelagianism was vanquished and found no home in the land
of Pelagius; it was in another land that it made its most
deplorable ravages.

Thus it was in Great Britain that the bishops, who are
established by the Holy Spirit to govern the church, [Footnote
41] triumphed over this sad and insidious heresy, when they were
free to exercise their divine mission in that country, and when
they were closely united to the centre of unity.

    [Footnote 41: Acts xx. 28.]

There was something like it in the fourteenth century, when the
heresy of Wickliff arose. He was condemned by the council of
London, (1382,) although an Englishman, and one who had studied
at Oxford, and who had been the principal of the College of
Canterbury, at once the flatterer and the favorite of his
sovereigns. His doctrine, which contained the germ of all the
Anglicanism of the time of Elizabeth, caused considerable trouble
in England; but, thanks to the firmness of the episcopate, these
troubles are not to be compared with those from which Bohemia
suffered, where John Huss taught the same heresy.

Before the Anglican "reform," which has created a system before
unheard of, and which unites calumny with historical delusions,
every Englishman was proud to claim for his country the honor of
having preserved the faith always in its purity from the time
that the gospel had first been preached there. [Footnote 42]

    [Footnote 42: According to the Venerable Bede, Catholic
    missionaries were sent there in the second century of our
    era, by Pope Eleutherius.]

Was England, then, in error? If so, she has deceived herself and
all Christendom; and this universal error has lasted from the
pontificate of Pope St. Eleutherius, to that of Pope Clement
VII., a period of more than thirteen hundred and fifty years! We
must say that anyone who looks upon this fact as of slight
importance would greatly astonish us. Where do they think that
the true church of Jesus Christ was during these long centuries,
that church against which the gates of hell shall not prevail?
[Footnote 43] Did it disappear, this city of God, which was to be
placed on the mountain and seen by all people? [Footnote 44]
Surely the spirit of delusion and darkness must be very potent
when it can make a pious Englishman declare that the glory of the
English Church was reduced to nothing before the sixteenth
century, and that then Henry VIII. and Cranmer, an infamous
libertine and his servile courtier, were raised up to open a new
career to her.

    [Footnote 43: St. Mark xvi. 18.]

    [Footnote 44: St. Matthew v. 14.]

{263}

Yet England, notwithstanding its modern religious state, is not
revolutionary. She loves order as warmly as she does liberty.
Even in religion, she desires by subordination the only means of
preserving it.

How much light for Anglicans of good faith (and they are
numerous) shines in the violent and even indecent attacks made by
their preachers and historians upon the greatest names of
Catholic England--names that England revered in former times with
the whole Christian world--names still dear to the Catholic
Church, albeit they are now almost unknown in England. To efface
so much glory, it was needful that a new kind of glory should
appear and dazzle by its very contrast.

At the end of 1534, and still more definitively in 1559, at the
commencement of the reign of Elizabeth, the Roman Catholic Church
and the Anglican Church were violently separated; they no more
profess the same creed, they have no longer the same worship,
their hierarchies are strangers, they mutually reproach each with
not being the true church of Jesus Christ. It is from the
monument of Henry VIII. and John Fisher that we can see the
different paths they followed and the daily increasing difference
which has separated them.

For the Roman Church this epoch was one of those glorious
epiphanies which our Lord Jesus Christ prepares for it in
different times, and of which the joys are sown in tears. After a
sterile and desolate winter a spring appeared for the divine
tree, full of sap, and perfumed with celestial blossoms, followed
by a summer and autumn, rich in precious fruits of sanctity, of
knowledge, and charity. The Council of Trent was convoked in 1542
by Paul III. for the spread and exaltation of the Christian
faith, for the extirpation of heresies, the peace and union of
the church, _for the reformation of the clergy and the
Christian people_, for the repression and extinction of the
enemies of the Christian name. The evils that existed were
fearful. The holy council, with the divine assistance, acquitted
itself of its task in a manner which would bring a speedy and
certain remedy to all the prevalent abuses. God, the supreme King
of kings, recompensed so many generous efforts on the part of his
faithful people by according to them, before the end of the
sixteenth century, under the glorious pontificate of St. Pius V.,
that memorable victory of Lepanto, which crowned the work of the
crusades and shattered for ever the power of the Mussulman.

But what avail the laws the most salutary in the bosom of nations
profoundly ignorant and deeply corrupt, if there do not rise in
their midst men powerful in word and work to instruct them, and,
above all, to regenerate them by the irresistible attraction of
the most heroic virtue? It was then God raised up in Italy, in
France, in Spain, in Germany, _true reformers_, who, after
the example of their divine Master, began to act before they
began to teach. Their names are too well known to need mention
here. They compelled men to acknowledge the divine tree by its
fruits. They professed the faith proclaimed by the Council of
Trent, which was nothing else than the faith of Nice in its
legitimate development. The faith of Nice was the faith of the
apostles. This faith of the apostles, of Nice, of all the
oecumenical councils, is the faith to-day of the Roman Church in
the solemn profession of faith of Pius. IV., which is a
_résumé_ of all the doctrine of the holy Council of Trent.

{264}

As for England, in separating from the Roman Church she commenced
the history of her variations: she entered upon that downward
path of religious decline which naturally ends in a sudden
descent into the gulf of scepticism. With a creed subject to the
changing will of man, she was Anglican after one fashion under
Henry VIII., after another fashion under Edward VI., after a
third under Elizabeth, and now, to the inexpressible confusion
and grief of those pious Christians born and nurtured in the
bosom of the established church, she has arrived, step by step,
at a point where she offers the spectacle of a chaos of
incoherent doctrines, some true, some false, some orthodox,
others heretical, some pious, others monstrously wicked, but all
tolerated out of respect for the genius of the individuals who
took the pains to invent them; all publicly and peaceably taught
beneath the standard of the Thirty-nine Articles. _Le pavilion
couvre la marchandise_.

While so many great servants of God and his poor, venerated and
blessed throughout the rest of Christendom, adorned the Roman
Church, unfortunate England, shut up in its island and still
closer imprisoned by an atrocious religious persecution, saw
generations of her children grow up in hate, contempt, and horror
of popery and papists. Every source of education, all the pulpits
of the Anglican Church, all books allowed to be published, helped
to keep up this spirit of ignorant and bigoted hate against the
church of God.

While St. Vincent de Paul, that great reformer of the clergy and
saintly founder of world-wide works of charity, prepared,
together with so many other apostolic men, the glory and
prosperity of our present great age; in sanctifying the family,
divinely instituted as the practical school of social virtues; in
arousing a spirit of generous devotion and sacrifice which led
men to comfort all forms of misery and reconcile rich and
poor--those brethren so easily made enemies--England was
deprived of all her religious orders, consecrated in former times
to the service of the poor and the sick, to the education of
youth, to the stubborn labors of science, to the contemplation of
divine things, to the crucified life, the life of prayer, the
life of the soul, against which the world blasphemes because it
cannot comprehend it. She lost the blessings of a celibate
clergy: she was despoiled of the sacred patrimony of the poor by
her king and lords, who distributed it among themselves, together
with the greater part of the wealth of the church, as the enemy's
spoils are divided and shared after a victory. (We intend to be
polite.) England beheld the wound of pauperism open wider each
day, and found herself forced to have recourse to the poor-tax,
unheard of in old Catholic times. Within her boundaries will be
found to-day an excessive wealth in face of poverty unknown
elsewhere. By the constant progress of science and industry,
machine labor tends to replace the labor of the individual, and
self-aggrandizement diminishes wages in proportion as it augments
the daily task of the workman. What a harvest would be offered to
the works of Catholic charity if her divine activity were only
there to replace the horrible workhouses where souls are
withering and dying! We yet have in France and elsewhere the
money of St. Vincent de Paul in an innumerable number of works of
charity truly Christian, and that enables us to live without
taxing the poor.

{265}

Such are the different paths which the Roman and Anglican Church
have followed since the deplorable schism of Henry VIII., renewed
and aggravated under Elizabeth. If before his death Henry VIII.
had repented of his wicked attack upon the church, what would he
have been obliged to do to reconcile himself with Rome? He would
have needed only to return to that profession of faith which he
made in his book against Luther. Since the beginning of the
Anglican schism, and at any point of its successive variations,
any Englishman, to return to the bosom of the Catholic Church,
would have nothing to do but to return to that same profession,
conformable in every point to the profession of faith of Pius IV.
This is what has been done in our own day by Father Spencer,
Archbishop Manning, Fathers Newman and Faber, Palmer and
Wilberforce, and a host of others, eminent for their virtues,
their knowledge, their public and private character, whom no
Englishman capable of appreciating the merit of sacrifices made
for God and in fidelity to conscience can name without respect
and pride.

But possibly some of our readers may be astonished that we insist
so strongly upon the book written by Henry VIII., for it might
seem that the shameful life of the author reflects discredit upon
the work. Let us not be mistaken. In the first place, when Henry
VIII. wrote against Luther, he was very far from being the
monster of iniquity which he became afterward, and whose history
I leave to the severe judgment of a Christian Tacitus. Again, it
is important to understand that Henry VIII. was not the sole
author of this monument of his former faith reared by his hand
fourteen years before his apostasy. The universal judgment of
critics has always attributed the more solid part of the work, at
least, to John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, who assumed
ostensibly all the responsibility of it in the public defence he
made of it.

Thus we see, on the one hand, Henry VIII., who, after putting
forth his work with so much ostentation, belied it without shame
and strove to mutilate it; and, on the other, John Fisher, who
plants it upon the immovable rock where he had taken his place,
and with glorious magnanimity sacrifices his life to defend it
This is the choice offered. He who returns to the ancient faith
of Henry VIII. separates himself from the tyrant and the
murderer, and joins himself to the company of his victim. He
ranks himself beside the glorious martyr who, during the second
half of King Henry's reign, was, of all the episcopate of
England, the only guardian left of English honor, and the last
champion of the liberty of conscience.

An unwelcome truth, but a hard fact. In 1521, at the time of the
publication of the king's book against Luther, the whole English
episcopate most undoubtedly believed in the primacy of the pope
with Fisher, with Henry VIII., with all the Catholic Church, and
in no sense believed in the spiritual supremacy of the king. Then
there was unity and unanimity, and the present and past of
England were in harmony. But in 1534 the king changes his
doctrine, and with him the whole episcopate and parliament. One
English bishop only was found to display the firmness of a Basil,
a Hilary, an Athanasius, an Ambrose, a Chrysostom, a Lanfranc, an
Anselm, an Edward, a Thomas of Canterbury. The number of the
cowards does but make the immortal beauty of the contrast shine
out with the greater splendor. How many rough stones are not
thrown together pell-mell in their shapelessness and obscurity,
to form the foundation of the pedestal of one chosen stone,
carved with the sublime inspiration of genius by the chisel of a
Michael Angelo, to become the statue of a great man!

{266}

If John Fisher, like the heroic Thomas More, had not the support
of his own nation, he had that of all Christendom. Yes, the
monument of John Fisher is worthy to become the rallying point of
every generous-hearted Christian Englishman, who ardently looks
for the realization of the promise and dearest wish of our common
Redeemer and Saviour, Jesus Christ--There shall be one flock and
one Shepherd.

With what indescribable emotion the heart of an Englishman must
beat when, after a long interior combat with so many prejudices
in which he has been nurtured, he at last breaks the chains of
his slavery, and when, feeling himself free with that liberty
which only a Catholic can feel, he cries out: "I'll do it: I
abjure the schism of Henry VIII., the creed of Cranmer and
Parker; I will go back to the faith of John Fisher!"

Such, doubtless, were the sentiments of the pious and learned
Robert Wilberforce when he returned to the bosom of the holy
Catholic Church. His words, so serious, so marked by the ardent
love of truth, so touching in their tone of respect and fraternal
charity for his adversaries, fall upon our ears in accents of
majestic solemnity as they echo back to us from the depths of the
tomb. This is what his hand has written whose memory is enshrined
in the noblest hearts:

  "When national distinctions cease to exist, and mankind, small
  and great, are assembled before God, it will be seen whether it
  was wiser, like Henry VIII. and his minion Cromwell, to break
  up the Church Catholic for the sake of ruling it, or, like More
  and Fisher, to die for its unity."


--------


    Seventy-three.

  Be merry as May,
    If you want to be
  As merry and gay,
    At seventy-three.

  To be merry and gay
    Though, at seventy-three,
  Argues Life's primal May
    Spent virtuously.

      T. K.


--------



{267}

    A Winged Word.

    "O power of life and death
     In the tongue! as the preacher saith."


Mr. Basil Andrew paused in writing and held his pen suspended,
his breath also slightly in suspense, as he contemplated his
subject anew. He had been reviewing a theological work just
published; but his thoughts had developed as he dwelt on them,
and were no longer a plan, but the torso of a plan.

He sat like one in a trance while the new idea grew; grew slowly,
almost painfully, seeming to find scant room in his brain, albeit
his brows were wide. Touches from the utmost limits of his nature
and his experience shaped and modified it: the swell of feeling
with the ray of intellect that ruled its tide; vague emotions and
vaguer speculations, in whose mists sparks of truth were
dissipated, from whose sudden meeting had sometimes sprung the
electric flash of intelligence; aspirations that had climbed
their Jacob's ladder, reason fixing the rounds till the climbers
took wings, and dazzled her with their transfigured faces;
fragments of knowledge hard and sharp-edged; stray conclusions
finding their premises, and stray premises their
conclusions--mallet and handle for blows--all working the shape
till there it stood in his brain, the perfect form of a truth.

One instant he contemplated it with rapture, while it glowed
alive under his gaze; the next, he looked outward and perceived
its relations with the world. As he did so, a wave of color swept
over his face; and, heart failing, that form was no longer to him
a living truth, but the statue of a truth.

"I might have known," he muttered, flinging his pen aside, "for
me, at least, 'all roads lead to Rome.' I believe I am
bewitched."

With that flush still upon his face, he rolled up the unfinished
manuscript, and deliberately laid it on the coals that burned
redly in the grate, where it quivered like a sentient thing. One
might fancy that the thoughts just warm from his brain still
retained some clinging sensation, telling where their rest had
been, as, stepping ashore, for a while we continue to feel the
motion of the sea on which we have been tossing. Then the edges
of the leaves blackened, slender fingers of flame stole over
them, opened them out, drew rustling leaf from leaf, scorching
them, till one sentence started out vivid as lightning on a
cloud, that sentence on which he had paused, finding it not a
conclusion, but an indication. Then a strong draught caught the
yet quivering cinders and carried them up the chimney.

"There they go in a swirl, like Dante's ghosts," he thought; and
turned away to look out into the north-eastern storm that, having
brushed the bloom from a crimson sunrising, was now, at
afternoon, rushing in power over the city. The air was thick with
snow, through which, far aloft, dark objects occasionally sailed
with the wind-witches, probably. Passers struggled in wind and
drift, and the houses seemed not sure of their footing, and had a
forlorn and smothered aspect. But Mr. Andrew perceived with
satisfaction that the mansion in which he dwelt maintained its
dignified dowager port, and that, if ever a feathery drift
presumed to alight on the doorsteps, an obsequious little flirt
of wind darted round a corner of the house and whisked it off.

{268}

While the gentleman stood there, the door of the room opened for
the first time in three hours, and Miss Madeleine, Mrs. Hayward's
niece, came in with a book in her hand. He watched her as she
crossed the room without noticing him, and, when she had seated
herself at another window, he breathed out, "How sweet is
solitude!" speaking in one of those cloudy, golden voices, such a
voice as might have swept over the chords of David's harp when
David sang.

The lady looked up, brightening for an instant as though shone
upon. Then she opened her book, and Mr. Andrew returned to his
table and read also. And there was silence for another hour.

Mr. Basil Andrew was in person rather superb, tall till he bent
slightly with a languid grace, which also hung about his motions
and his speech. But when he was excited, these mists were
scorched up. Then he grew erect as a palm-tree, the not large but
beautifully shaped eyes flashed out their crystalline blue, and
delicate lines trembled or hardened in mouth and nostril. Then,
too, it appeared that those tones of his could ring as well as
melt. If it be true that "soul is the form, and doth the body
make," the philosophical reader may be able to guess the shape of
his nose and chin. Lavater would have pronounced favorably
concerning his intellect from seeing only that significant inch
across the brows. In color he was white and flaxen-haired, but
had some indefinable glow about him, like a pale object seen in a
warm light.

Mr. Andrew at thirty-five years of age found himself in that
pause of life which, in natures too well poised for violent
reaction, comes between the disgust of unsatisfying pursuit and
the adoption of higher aims, or the disdainful and
half-despairing resumption of the former life. He awaited the
inspiring circumstance which should waft him hither or thither,
or perhaps for his soul to gather itself and make its own will
the wind's will, whichever might be more potential. Pending this
afflatus, interior or exterior, he rested upon life

  "As idle as a painted ship
   Upon a painted ocean."

Miss Madeleine was a well enough young woman, baptized into the
church, but from an early age subjected to Protestant influences;
oscillating between the two, never very conspicuously Catholic
except when the faith was assailed, then _plus Arabe que
l'Arabie;_ at other times following out Protestantism to its
ultimate pantheism. She had a dimly remembered father and mother
somewhere in church suffering or triumphant, and occasionally,
when life seemed to her unstable, she sent out a little prayer
for or to them, a prayer too weak to find olive-leaves. This
young woman was not without power, but it escaped in reverie and
dreaming; what she meant to do so vividly imagined that she
rested there as on accomplished work. Too impetuous and flimsily
ambitious to think with profit, her mind was encumbered with
fragments of thought, often with a sparkle in them, like the
broken snow-crystals she now dropped her book to watch. In fine,
her outer life was a purposeless stupor, her inner life one of
Carlyle's "enchanted nightmares" in miniature.

{269}

As the clock struck four, Mr. Andrew closed his book and
approached his companion.

"I have been reading Thoreau's description of autumn woods," she
said, "and I feel all colored. I am steeped in crimson, and
purple, and amber, and rich tawny browns. My eyes are violet, and
my hair is golden."

"Your hair is brown, and your eyes are gray," was the
matter-of-fact reply, it being Mr. Andrew's opinion that the
girl's mind needed ballast.

"What book have you there?" she asked, settling into place.

"Oh!" just aware he still held it, "it is Father de Ravignan's
_Society and Institute of the Jesuits_--very good if one
desires information on the subject. Moreover, one is charmed to
learn that Père de Ravignan, though himself a Jesuit, has been a
magistrate and a man of his time; also that he is still a man,
and, _par excellence_, a Frenchman. The good father becomes
a little Hugoish and staccato when he refers to himself."

Since she still waited, watching him with eager, imperative eyes,
he went on. "You know the story of the Florentine and Genoese who
wished to compliment each other: 'If I were not a Genoese, I
should wish to be a Florentine,' said one. 'And I,' said the
other, 'if I were not a Florentine, should wish to be--' 'A
Genoese!' suggested the other. 'No, a Florentine!' So I, if I
were not a free-thinker, would wish to be--"

"A Catholic!" the girl broke in. "Don't deny. You already tire of
your Theodore Parker, whose intellect was to him what astronomers
call a crown of aberration. You have but to look at the church,
and faith is easy! How beautiful are thy steps, O prince's
daughter!"

"Very pretty, but not very conclusive," was the cool comment.
"You once said to me, 'Epithets are not arguments.' Allow me to
retort that apostrophes are not arguments. By the way, how
impossible it is to calculate on where you may be found, except
that it is sure to be 'in _issimo_.' The arc of your motion
takes in both poles."

Miss Madeleine relapsed again immediately, and with a somewhat
weary expression.

At the same moment the door opened wide, and Mrs. Hayward
entered, producing the effect of being preceded by a band of
music. This lady of fifty was ample, rustling, and complacent,
and, being lymphatic, was called dignified. If, on being left a
widow in straitened circumstances, and finding herself obliged to
take a few boarders, Mrs. Hayward had felt any sense of
diminished social lustre, no one had perceived it. "They pay my
housekeeping expenses," she said serenely; and immediately that
seemed the end of their being.

There is something imposing in the suave conceit of such persons.
Possessing themselves so completely, they also possess those who
approach them, abashing larger and more slowly ripening natures.
Names respectfully pronounced by them become at once names of
consequence, and trivial incidents by them related swell into
significant events. If they are something, then I am nothing, is
the thought with which we approach them; and the fact that they
are something seems so clear that the mortifying conclusion is
inevitable.

After this lady followed Mrs. Blake, obviously the wife of Mr.
Blake, also the mother of an uproarious boy of six years who
accompanied her, and who was at this moment quieted by the
possession of an enormous cake which he was devouring.

{270}

"O the cherub!" cried Miss Madeleine wickedly. "That child has
genius. See, he eats his cake in the epical manner, beginning in
the middle. Little pocket edition of his papa! Only," in an aside
to her aunt, "I hope they haven't stereotyped him. And here comes
his papa now."

A bang of the street-door, and enter Mr. Blake, rubbing his
hands, and quoting,

  'It is not that my lot is low,
  That bids the silent tear to flow;'

it is the cold. No, my son; no kiss now. Sydney Smith says that
there is no affection beyond seventy or below twenty degrees
Fahrenheit. Wait till I rise to the paternal temperature."

Mr. Blake was assistant editor of a second-class magazine,
considered himself literary, and had a way of saying "we
scribblers" to Mr. Andrew, which made that gentleman stiffen
slightly. While the one entertained the ladies with an account of
the immense amount of literary labor performed by him since
breakfast, the other looked from the window and absently watched
the wild wind curl itself to edge off the crest of a drift,
curling it over like the petal of a tuberose, but more thinly,
hanging, wavering, flake to flake, daintily and airily touching
the frail crystals.

"Oh! there's to be a great Christmas at your cathedral
to-morrow," Mr. Blake said to Madeleine, as they went out to
dinner. "Bassoon's going to sing, and Kohn's orchestra to play.
It will be worth seeing and hearing, especially at five o'clock.
I mean to go if I can wake. And you?"

"Yes," Madeleine said, glancing at Mr. Andrews, who flushed a
little as he nodded acquiescence.

"'Similia similibus curantur,'" he thought. "I'll go and get
cured."

"They really do things of that sort well at the cathedral," said
Mrs. Hayward patronizingly, seeming to pat a personified
cathedral on the head as she softly touched the table with her
plump white hand.

Madeleine groaned inwardly.

"Mr. Andrew," she said, "what should put me in mind of the frog
that tried to swell to the size of an ox?"

Mr. Andrew found himself unable to guess.

"But wouldn't it have been odd," she pursued, with the air of a
philosophical child, "if the frog had succeeded, and had swelled
to the size of an ox?"

Mr. Andrew admitted that it would have been a phenomenon.

"But," she concluded, with an air of infantile _naiveté_,
"it wouldn't have been anything but a great frog, would it?"

"My dear, what are you talking about?" said her aunt. "Pray eat
your dinner."

"Christmas-eve is a fast-day of obligation," says Madeleine.

A little raising of three pairs of eyebrows fanned the flame.
This young woman had a tongue of her own, and while the others
dined she entertained them with a theological discourse, which,
if not always logical, had some telling points, and which
certainly did not assist the digestion of her hearers. They sat
with very red faces, choking a little, but trying to appear
indifferent.

"Do people take bitters with their dinner?" asked Mr. Andrew, at
length. "I should think it would spoil the taste."

"I must say, Madeleine," Mrs. Hayward interposed, "that,
considering you address Protestants, and that we are all friends
of yours, you show very little regard for our feelings."

{271}

The best thing that could have been said. Madeleine melted at
once.

"O auntie!" she cried penitently, "'it is not that I love Caesar
less, but Rome more.' I own that it is you who have shown the
Christian spirit, and reminded me that centuries ago to-night the
angels sang 'Peace on earth.' I'm going to banish myself in
disgrace to the parlor. Rest you merry."

Going, into the parlor, she saw all out-doors suffused with a
soft rose-color, a blush so tender and evanescent that it seemed
everywhere but where the eye rested. "The sky side of this storm
is all a sea of fire," she thought, throwing up the window, and
drawing in a delicious breath of mingled sunshine, west wind, and
frost. "How the clouds melt! And the winds and sunbeams, with
their convex gleams, build up the blue dome of the air."

Coming in later, the others found her sitting at the piano in the
amethystine twilight, and singing a faint and far-away sounding
Gloria.

"Hush!" said Mr. Blake, pausing on the threshold, "the evening
stars have begun, that the morning stars may know. See them all
of a tremor on that sky!"

Listening to those strains of threaded silver, Mr. Andrew sat
looking into the twilight through which the grander
constellations burned with outlines unblurred by the lesser
stars. There was Orion, erect, with his girdle of worlds; Taurus,
with starred horns lowered; the Dogs, witnessed to by the liquid
brilliance of Sirius, matchless in shifting hues; the Lion, just
coming out of the East, his great paw resting on the ecliptic;
all those hieroglyphs of fire in which God has written his
autograph upon the heavens.

"What a pretty myth it was," he thought, "that of the
morning-stars singing together. And that other of the star of
Bethlehem!" He half-wished he could believe those things, they
saved so much weary thought, so much maddening speculation.
Sometimes, while straining to grasp at extraordinary knowledge,
he had felt as though falling from a giddy height into an outer
darkness, and had drawn back shuddering, eager to catch at some
homely fact for support. He smiled now mockingly to himself.
"Perhaps the stars did sing. Like a child, I'm going to make
believe they did, and that one 'handmaid lamp' did attend the
birth of Jesus." It was easier to believe anything while he
listened to that Gloria. For, disregarded as Miss Madeleine might
be at other times, when she sang she was regnant. Her voice was
magnetic enough to draw the links from any man's logic.

Ceasing, she called Mr. and Mrs. Blake to the piano, and the
three voices sang Milton's Hymn on the Nativity.

It is astonishing how magnificently some small-souled persons do
contrive to sing, expressing sentiments which they must be
totally incapable of experiencing. Mrs. Blake sang a superb
contralto, and the three perfect voices struck fire from one
listener's heart as they beat the emphatic rhythm of that
majestical measure.

All but Miss Madeleine went to bed early. She kept vigil, and was
to call them. They seemed scarcely to have slept when they heard
her voice ring up the stairs in the muezzin which she
christianized for the occasion, being in no mood to call Mohammed
a prophet:

  "Great is the Lord! Great is the Lord!
   I bear witness that there is no God but the Lord!
   I bear witness that Jesus is the Son of God!
   Come unto prayer--come unto happiness--
   Great is the Lord! Great is the Lord!
   There is no God but the Lord!
   Prayer is better than sleep--prayer is better than sleep!"

{272}

As the last word died upon the air, every foot touched the floor,
and in half an hour the party had gathered as wild as witches.

Mr. Andrew came down late and grumbling. "Cannot we hear music
and see candles without getting out of bed for the purpose at
such unearthly hours? I had just gone to sleep, and was in
Elysium. Miss Madeleine, why should you say that prayer is better
than sleep? We are not going to pray; we are going to hear
demi-semi-quavers, and Mr. Bassoon's C in the deeps. I'll go to
bed again."

"Possibly we may pray, Mr. Andrew," she said in a low tone. "I
have been thinking to-night, and it seems to me that God had a
Son, and that he will come down this morning and stand in the
midst of the candles."

A Catholic, unless a convert, can scarcely understand the
emotions of a stranger who enters a church for the first time on
one of our great festivals. That "cool, silver shock" must be
taken from another element. Our party stepped from the dim and
frosty starlight into an illumination more dazzling than
daylight, into a warmth that was fragrant with flowers, into a
crowd where every face had a smile dissolved in it. And over all
waved a sparkling tissue of violin music from the orchestra.

"By George!" was Mr. Blake's only audible comment.

"It is like the Arabian Nights!" exclaimed his wife.

"Turns up the mastodon strata in them," whispered Mr. Andrew to
the lady on his arm.

They were shown to seats, and sat watching the steadily
increasing crowd, and the altar that was a pyramid of fire. The
worshippers were, of course, various: ragged Irish women, whose
faith invested them with better than cloth of gold; rich ladies,
sweeping in velvets and sables, but with thoughts of better
things in their faces; ambitious working-girls, finer than their
mistresses. A pretty young woman came into the slip in front of
our party, her face beautifully arranged to represent modesty and
sweetness. She cast a glance behind at her audience, then sank
upon her knees and beat her breast with one hand, while she
arranged her bonnet-strings with the other. This performance at
an end, she faced about and closely scanned the gallery, turning
again and again till those behind her began to feel annoyed.

"I do wish he'd come!" said Madeleine impatiently.

"He has come," whispered Mr. Andrew, as the young woman suddenly
returned toward the altar, and began a series of languishing
attitudes and prostrations, all her _repertoire_ of
theatrical devotion.

A grand-looking man next attracted their attention, walking past
with the unmistakable sailor roll. His head was erect, and his
massive shoulders looked fit for Atlas burdens; but the clear,
blue eyes were gentle, and his face was full of a beautiful
solemnity and reverence. As he walked, the long, tawny beard
flowing down his breast waved slightly.

Madeleine gave Mr. Andrew's arm a delighted squeeze, and
whispered,

  'With many a tempest had his beard been shaken.'

Fancy him on the ship's deck, in mid-ocean, in darkness and
storm, beaten by the wind, drenched with spray, the lightnings
blazing and the thunders crashing about him, shouting to the men
to cut the mast away!"

{273}

Here the organ and choir broke forth in glad acclaim, and the
procession came winding in from the sacristy. Cloth of gold and
cloth of silver, lace and fine linen, and crimson and purple, all
combined, gave the effect of a many-jewelled band coiled about
the sanctuary.

Attending alternately to the altar and the choir, Mr. Andrew
tried to believe it all a vain pageant; but thoughts will enter,
though the doors be shut. What a stupendous thing, he thought, if
the Real Presence were true; if, as this girl said, God had a
Son, and he should come down this morning and stand in the midst
of the candles!

For one instant he was dazzled and confounded by the possibility;
the next, he recoiled from it.

"Gloria in excelsis" sang the choir with organ and orchestra in
many an involved and thrilling strain, a pure melody springing up
here and there from the midst, voice and instrument meeting and
parting, catching the tone from each other, swelling till the
vaulted roof of the cathedral rang, fading again, dropping away
one after another, till there was left but a many-toned sigh of
instruments, and one voice hanging far aloft, with a silvery
flutter, upon a trill, like a humming-bird sucking the sweetness
from that flower of sound. A pause of palpitating silence, then
an amen that set swinging the myrtle vines hanging over the St.
Cecilia in front of the organ, and made the pennons of blue and
scarlet that hung about the altar wave on their standards.

Contrary to custom, there was to be a sermon at that Mass, and,
as the preacher ascended the pulpit, Mr. Andrew said to himself:
"If Christ was the Son of God, he is on that altar; and if there,
I wish he would speak to me by this man."

He hoped to hear an argument to prove the divinity of Christ, not
aware that his reason had already been pampered with such until
it had grown insolent. The speaker, however, handled his subject
quite otherwise. Assuming that divinity, he took for his theme,
"what thoughts should fill the mind, what sentiments dilate the
heart," on the feast of the Nativity. Calling up before them
then, in a few words, a picture of that scene at once so humble
and so marvellous, and pointing to the mysterious babe, he boldly
announced on the threshold of his discourse the difficulties
connected with the dogma for which he demanded their homage:

"This babe is a creature as you and I: this babe is the Creator
of all contingent being. This babe is just born; this babe is
from all eternity. This babe is contained in the manger; this
babe pervades all space. It suffers: hear its cries! It enjoys
bliss beyond power of augmentation. It is poor: see the
swaddling-clothes! To it belong the treasures of the universe.
Here present are husband and wife; yet I am required to believe
that her the Holy Spirit overshadowed, a virgin conceived, a
virgin bore a Son."

Not Ulysses' arrow flew through the rings with surer, swifter aim
than these words through the winding doubts that had bound that
listener's heart. It was too sublime not to be true! Almost the
triumphant paradox--I believe, because it is impossible--broke
from his lips. The human mind was incapable of inventing a
falsity so glorious.

In that tumult of feeling he lost what came next; but, listening
again, heard: "If I must bow down and worship, I elect him as the
object of my adoration whose dwelling is in light inaccessible,
who is inscrutable in his nature, and incomprehensible in his
works."

"Amen!" said Basil Andrew.

{274}

"A virgin conceived, a virgin bore a Son," repeated itself again
and again in his thought. All the singing of voices and the
playing of instruments were because of that; all the splendor of
the festival, the gathering of the crowd in the midst of the
winter night, were for that. "O sweetest and most glorious mother
in all the universe!" he thought, bowing where it is, perhaps,
most difficult for a convert to render homage.

Clouds are unsubstantial things for anything but rainbows to
stand on, and even they find but vanishing foothold. Had that
delight in Basil Andrews's heart warmed only his imagination, it
would have faded with the moment; but thought and study had done
their part, and that uprising of the heart was Pygmalion's kiss
to his statue. The feeling with which he turned to leave the
cathedral was one of thankful content with perfected work.

Pausing in the vestibule for the crowd to pass, he looked back
with a tender fear toward the altar.

Poor Madeleine's religion was iris and the cloud. She had known
well what was going on in her companion's mind, and, as she stood
waiting with him, a text went sighing through her memory like a
sighing wind. "_I say unto you that the kingdom of God shall be
taken from you, and shall be given to a nation yielding the
fruits thereof._" While she, a child of the church, had given
it a fitful obedience more insulting than a consistent disregard,
this man had toiled every step of the way from a far-off heresy,
and, passing by her as she loitered outside, had walked into the
very penetralia.

She stood looking gloomily out into the morning that was one
cloudless glow of pale gold.

"The air has crystallized since we came in," she said, "and we
are shut inside a great gem, like flies in amber. We will have to
stay here for ever."

He bent a smiling face toward her as they went out into the
morning, and said softly: "How beautiful are thy steps, O
Prince's daughter! You were right, Madeleine!"

A fortnight from that day Madeleine Hayward stood on the steps of
her aunt's house, saying good-by to its inmates. A Southern girl,
the cold skies of the North froze her. She wanted to get into a
warmer sunshine, and, being prompt and determined, obstacles
vanished before her.

"Mr. Andrew," she said, as he gave her his arm to the carriage,
"I am sorry I can't stay to be your god-mother."

"I wouldn't have you," he said. "I'm going to have my old nurse."

Madeleine took her seat in the carriage, gave a smiling nod
toward the group in the door, then held a cold hand out to her
companion.

"When you are a priest, and when you hear that I am dead, say a
Mass for me," she said faintly, then turned her face resolutely
away.

The violent color that had risen to the gentleman's face at her
words faded into a paleness as he went up the steps. By what
power did that girl sometimes divine the thoughts which he had
not yet owned to himself?

But she was a prophetess.

--------

{275}


    Translated from the French of L. Vitet.

    The Present Condition of Christianity in France


Some time ago M. Guizot published the second series of his
_Meditations on the Christian Religion_. He is now
prosecuting right valiantly, and will ere long have completed,
the noble task that won for him two years since so novel a
triumph among his many victories, and crowned his illustrious
life with what may be considered its brightest glory. That
calmest and most serene of creeds, a lucid definition and summary
of the fundamental dogmas of Christianity, viewed from the
highest stand-point, in all their native simplicity and grandeur,
was greeted, it will be remembered, with gratitude by some who
looked upon it as furnishing most timely aid, and with respect
and partial embarrassment by others; and so marked was its effect
that the most exciting religious polemics were for the time being
quieted. The first series referred to the very essence of the
Christian religion; what is the subject of the second?

The author, in his preface, had thus drawn the general plan of
the work: First, the essence of Christianity, next its history,
then its present condition, and, finally, its future. Thus a
complete history of Christianity was really promised us. The plan
determined upon had, perhaps, some advantages. The history of
Christianity is nowadays the point that anti-christian critics
would show to be vulnerable, and the portion of the armor they
seek to penetrate. The public, however, after a moment's
surprise, has of itself meted out partial justice to this manner
of attack; or at all events, new attempts, as skilfully devised
as the first, have been received with a coolness of good augury
that weakens vastly the importance of previously achieved
successes. Was it not most opportune, then, to enlighten still
more and at once a public whose _furore_ had but just died
away? was it not most important not to adjourn, even by a brief
delay, a decisive refutation? As for ourselves, we yearned to
behold, striving with the new-comers of criticism and
history--who claim to be their masters and almost their
inventors--him who, nearly half a century since, founded in our
land modern historical criticism. By setting face to face with
their rash assertions the true and severe laws of historic
certainty; by taking down, piece by piece, their most cleverly
contrived scaffolding; by reducing to naught their credit, was
not the writer rendering to Christianity a most great and needed
service?

M. Guizot has thought that there was something still more urgent
to be accomplished; without abandoning his original idea,
involving the four series, he has inverted their order of
sequence; he now dwells upon the present state of Christian
beliefs. At a later day he proposes to resume the discussion of
historical questions, dilate upon the authority of holy books,
continue his commentary on the concord of the Scriptures, and his
arguments concerning technicalities and minor details;
subsequently he will try to look into the future.
{276}
At present, he has but one care, one thought: he wishes to know
what is occurring, or rather what men are believing, around him.
To place in the strongest light the present state of
Christianity; to enumerate its armies and those of its opponents,
and establish a comparison between the strength of both; thus to
summon all Christians to awaken to a sense of the events
concerning the common safety; to teach them not to be deceived
either as to their might or as to the magnitude of the perils
besetting them, and to guard against a feeling of treacherous
security as against cowardly discouragement; this it is that
engrosses his attention, and, forming the subject of all his
thoughts, indicates to him that which he is to consider his first
duty. As he says himself, he supplies the most pressing
emergency, and, hurrying to the spot where the struggle is
commencing, rushes into the thick of the fight.

We can readily understand his impatience. All other questions
become unimportant when compared with such a problem. No
eagerness can be more legitimate than that of M. Guizot, and the
investigation which it is necessary to make is surely the most
serious and interesting that could be prosecuted. Let us add that
few inquiries are as intricate and as difficult.

It is not, in fact, the mere exterior and apparent state of
Christianity that it is necessary to depict; but its life, its
action, its power, which simple statistics can by no means
describe. Figures may set forth how many churches there are in
France; how many priests, congregations, and convents; how many
children are baptized, and couples married; how many dying
mortals receive spiritual succor; but after these computations
are completed, are they of any genuine value? Though the civil
code is not compulsory as to the choice of a religion, and though
each one be free to elect his own belief, does it follow that the
conclusion arrived at is always the result of proper reflection?
Are all those who, either from early childhood, through the
medium of their parents, or in after life and by their own free
will, on certain solemn days, publicly proclaim their adherence
to Christianity, real and true Christians? How many can you
designate who knew what they were doing, who did not simply
conform with a custom, and for whom the sacred contract did not
become at once a dead letter? To arrive at a correct estimate as
to the actual strength of Christianity, we must not consult
registers, but make researches in the bosoms of families, and
descend into the depths of consciences. Thus should we make our
soundings to ascertain the state of Christian belief. We admit
that such a mode of investigation would be impracticable; we must
be content, therefore, with less precise data, and pass judgment
upon apparent events. Draw a parallel, then, between Christianity
as it was in the early part of the century and Christianity as it
is, criticise the two periods in accordance with the same rules,
make allowances for deceptive appearances on both sides, and
exclude from your calculation the apocryphal believers who are
only Christians in name; however numerous the false men and
things at present, you will, nevertheless, be compelled to
concede that in our country, during the past sixty years,
Christianity has at least taken root again in the soil, that it
has recovered its life, and that its progress has been
undeniable.

{277}

M. Guizot describes the phases of the resurrection or rather the
awakening of Christianity; the comprehensiveness of his views and
the choiceness of his expressions render this largely developed
portion of his work of absorbing interest. We have, however, no
intention to attempt its analysis. In these later meditations, as
in those that precede them, one would in vain seek to follow the
author step by step. His work alone can speak for its contents; a
person must peruse it, or abandon the idea of becoming acquainted
with it. Let us only point out the plan the writer has drawn, and
notice the succession of his thoughts. From its commencement, by
a natural division, the volume to which we allude forms two
parts: one relates to Christianity, the other to its adversaries.
What do we see in the first? The narrative of the Christian
awakening, or rather an _exposé_ of the religious beliefs in
France since the year 1800. This is a composition in which the
incidents follow each other in natural sequence, an historical
painting as well as a picture-gallery, comprising none but
portraits from nature, such as M. Guizot, with that firmness and
concision that characterize in few words ideas as well as men,
can produce; portraits full of expression and life, though always
of a sober coloring and subdued effect. M. Guizot had abundant
opportunities for word-painting, for sitters were not scarce.
Evidently Providence was resolved, from the beginning of the
century, to repair by almost perceptible progress the effects of
the great disaster of Christianity, and the damage caused by the
cataclysm into which it seemed to have sunken. How numerous the
men who suddenly came into existence, each worthy of the mission
to be entrusted to him! How marked the contrast with the days
gone by, when there was none to shiver a lance for that ancient
religion still replete with honors, wealth, and apparent life,
but without credit, without influence upon souls, without new
adepts, and gradually forsaken, like unto those tottering
edifices whose abandonment ere their fall is decreed by a
prophetic instinct! The scaffold was needed to restore it to
life. The first symptom of regeneration was observed when humble
priests and monks, who, a day previous, were heedless of their
duty, arose as intrepid and as ready for martyrdom as if theirs
had been austere lives, passed in the desert or in the darkness
of the catacombs. Then a brighter signal and one more easily
understood was to be given by two men, who, each in his sphere
and within the limits of his power, were really the earliest
promoters of the Christian awakening. We refer to a great
politician and to a great writer--to the First Consul and to M.
de Chateaubriand, to the Concordat and to the _Genius of
Christianity_. There is nothing artificial nor strained in
this connection; for these two men and these two works, at the
commencement of this century, played the most important part in
the work of resurrecting the traditions of Christianity. M.
Guizot speaks of Bonaparte and Chateaubriand in a rare spirit of
justice and impartiality. Though possessed of little sympathy for
them, and aware that their works have become antiquated and, so
to say, somewhat out of fashion, he asserts quite warmly that the
_Genius of Christianity_, despite its imperfections, is a
great and powerful work, such as only appears at long
intervals--one of those productions that, having deeply moved
men's souls, leave behind them traces never to be effaced. And as
for the Concordat, albeit the sincerest friends of Christian
beliefs point out nowadays with sadness, if not with bitterness,
its defects and dangers, M. Guizot concedes that, in 1802, its
promulgation was, on the part of the First Consul, an act of
superior intelligence rather than of despotism, and, for the sake
of religion, the most opportune and necessary of events, the
_sine qua non_ condition of the existence of Christianity.
{278}
He thinks that, after ten years of revolutionary orgies, a solemn
recognition of religion by the state was needed to endow it with
that influence, dignity, and stability which it had totally lost.

In this respect, we share M. Guizot's opinion, certain
reservations, however, being made. The Concordat was a welcome
gift; neither its timely advent nor the necessity for it can be
disputed. Why? Because two years previous the national movement
of 1789 was suddenly transformed into an abdication, by which one
man benefited. If, instead of submitting to this saviour, half
out of lassitude and half out of enthusiasm, France had had the
energy, by making a supreme effort, and, perhaps, at the cost of
new calamities, to see to her own safety and remain mistress of
her fate, the Concordat would have been an unneeded blessing.
Christianity would have had more labor and expended more time in
regaining the lost ground; it would not have obtained possession
at once, by the scratch of a pen, and between sunrise and sunset,
of all its presbyteries and churches; it would have recovered
them little by little, after having conquered men's souls. Had it
had no other staff of support but its flock, it would have
neglected nothing to strengthen it and increase its numbers; it
would have won the confidence of the people and obtained their
acceptance of it as a counsellor, a father, a friend, and would
not have been looked upon as an emigrant, amnestied and recalled
by tolerance, favor, and an act of authority, and thus placed
under obligations to one man, and made the vassal of his power.
It is not sufficient that one should be cured of a fatal disease;
the remedy, in destroying the evil, must not leave the patient
with an altered constitution or impaired vitality. The Concordat
undoubtedly delivered us from a great affliction for a nation,
and saved us from a complete divorce from God; it restored
Christianity to France, but restored it less robust and less
prepared for the strife, less life-like and less popular, and in
a less fit condition to face the danger than if the old beliefs
had been compelled, when born anew, to clear their own pathways.
In religion, as in politics, France still feels, and will
probably ever experience, the effects of having been saved by the
events of the 18th of _Brumaire_.

That which we must admit with M. Guizot is that, when, in these
later days, we criticise the work of our fathers, written upward
of sixty years ago, we can speak of them with wondrous facility.
Their doubts are at hand to enlighten us. But we must carry
ourselves back to 1802, and behold flocks without shepherds,
tombs without prayers, and cradles without baptismal fonts! Where
is the proud and far-seeing Christian who would then have
refused, as a destructive present, in the name of his belief and
for the sake of his faith, a _régime_ that did the work of
Christian restoration, and by the touch of a magic wand repaired
all the evils that bore it down? No one then would have even
dreamed of such a paradox. Let us, therefore, blame with
indulgence, and to a certain degree only, the men who invented
the compromise, although the consequential events subsist, and
when we examine the present state of Christian belief, we cannot
avoid meeting at every step the still evident traces of defective
origin, and its resurrection by process of law.
{279}
Even as the government of the Restoration, despite its sincerest
efforts and never-failing good-will, was never absolved by France
from the reproach that attached to its self-commitment by
friendship with the Emperor Alexander and Lord Wellington, even
so Christianity in this land, during the past sixty years, is
partly indebted for its weakness, and for the prejudices that
maintain it in a state of excitement, to the honor of having had
for a godfather the Emperor Napoleon. Sheltered and warmed under
the purple, and having become an imperial pensioner, Christianity
acquired, against its will, a certain need of protection and
certain habits of submission and almost of complaisance, which
having rendered it under some _régimes_ a party to the acts
of the government, has caused it to be called upon to share the
responsibility of many errors, and exposed it to the perils of
unpopularity.

Within the sixty years gone by, have we not seen by a transient
example how much religion would have gained by remaining on less
compromising terms with the heads of the nation and boldly
dispensing with their favors? There was once a government whose
members were imbued with profound respect for the religious
interests of the country, and who were always ready to render
unto its ministers the most kindly offices; this same government,
however, from its earliest days, was viewed with coldness and
hostility by a certain number of Catholics and a great portion of
the clergy; is it not known how favorable that attitude proved to
Catholicism itself? For eighteen years it was looked upon as
possessed of no credit, and, for that very reason, each day
acquired more and more power, not, indeed, in public places and
in ante-chambers, but in men's consciences. It may be boldly
asserted that the greatest and most definite progress which the
Christian religion can justly claim for itself since the
commencement of the present century was made during that period.
We do not deduce from this fact that systematic hostility to the
ruling powers is necessary for the propagation of religious
ideas, for intestine strifes are evils and not to be fomented;
but that the sacred ministry, to have influence upon rulers, must
possess a degree of independence carried even to the extent of
pride, and bringing into prominence its abandonment of all things
earthly, and its absolute indifference to worldly interests.

From 1830 to 1851, whatever may have been the true motives of its
estrangement and indifference, the Catholic clergy was benefited
by the situation. It had prospered and increased in numbers, it
had won for itself, to the great advantage of Christian belief,
the esteem, the respect, and even the minds of persons who, until
then, had been rebellious and inclined to disparage it. Was it
aware of the cause of this unusual kindliness of feeling? Did it
comprehend how much this was to be preferred, for the cause of
religion and for its own sake, to former courtly favors? Has it
since guarded against the temptations which have surrounded it?
Has it persevered in burning incense before God only, in adoring
none but him? Have not more earthly and apparently less
disinterested bursts of enthusiasm caused it to lose a goodly
portion of the conquered ground? These are questions which it may
be well not to look into too deeply; but enough is known
concerning them to enable us to understand how it came that,
during the fifteen years that have just elapsed, the radical vice
of the Concordat, the spirit in which it was framed, the danger
of establishing between Christianity and the absolute power a
so-called natural alliance, a kind of necessary complicity, have
awakened in the hearts of some Christians objections, fears, and
antipathies now more active and potent than ever.

{280}

We next behold one of the great incidents of the Christian
awakening whose history M. Guizot recounts. The First Consul, by
raising the altar from the dust, partly obeying the great views
of his genius, and partly yielding to his despotic instincts; M.
de Chateaubriand, by moving and delighting French society by the
revelation of the treasures of Christian poetry, of the existence
of which it was unaware; M. de Bonald, by honoring the
governmental traditions of the old _régime_ by translating
them into metaphysical theories; M. de Maistre, by outpouring, in
floods of fiery eloquence, overwhelming invective against the
revolutionary spirit; all these but paid homage to noble ruins,
and, hurling indignation at the destroyers, made a generous
attempt to rehabilitate the past, to glorify it, and to give it
renewed life. The important questions, the questions of the
future, are not yet propounded. It is not sufficient that
Christianity should be restored; it must be given health, and
taught to live in peace and friendship with a power henceforward
beyond all estimate, with an irresistible force--that of modern
civilization. How could the Christian, and more especially the
Catholic Church, be led to acknowledge the liberty of civil
society as constituted by the French revolution? How could that
society be brought to respect the just rights of the church? Such
was the problem that could not fail to speedily appear.

Until the year 1830, the question was only foreshadowed; its
solution was by no means urgent. As Catholicism had recovered
under the government of the Restoration its former privilege as a
state religion, reconciliation, or a reciprocal tolerance between
itself and society, was no longer in discussion. It was
understood that its portion was to be secured by an actual
struggle, and the secular power was at its disposal--without
violence, with due moderation, but not without injury to its
authority and detriment to its influence upon men's souls. The
Catholic religion had to assume the responsibility as well as
accept the profits of its privileged situation. Subsequent to
1830, circumstances changed. Inasmuch as the words "state
religion" had been erased from the constitutional compact, no one
religion could lay claim to special immunities or occupy an
exceptionally exalted position. All enjoyed equal rights.
Whatever the number of their adherents, as soon as they were
recognized by and receiving a subsidy from the state, the law
held them to be equally sacred and deserving of respect. The
neutral attitude of the government excited the anger of some
Catholics. In their opinion, privilege was the very essence, the
normal and vital condition of their belief. The powers of the
day, by reducing them to the slender diet of equality and common
rights, was guilty not only of indifference and culpable
abandonment, but of spoliation and persecution. Their complaints
were loudest because their adversaries feigned to have won a most
brilliant triumph. Extremes meet: on both sides a firm belief
prevailed that, without special support, without the favors of
the magistracy and the soldiery, Catholicism had no chance of
life, and that, both armies being provided with equally effective
weapons, it could never withstand the onslaughts of the foe.
{281}
The conduct of the persons interested, however, differed; for
some wished to be regarded as martyrs, and cursed the atheism of
the government, charging it with bringing about the inevitable
ruin of the faith; whilst others reproached the same government
for its supposed weakness toward the once privileged religion,
and accused it of prolonging its existence by secretly favoring
it.

During the progress of this conflict there was gradually formed a
group of Catholics who contemplated events in an entirely new
light. They were all young in years and men of the age; their
hearts throbbed with the noble thoughts of liberty and
independence that were maddening France for the second time, and,
seemingly, carrying the nation back to the dawn of 1789. What did
these fervent and sincere Christians, animated by a firm resolve,
propose to do? Were they to sacrifice to their religious faith
that political faith just born within them? To what end? What was
to prevent them from being both Catholic and liberals? In what
respect were the principles of the evangels and those of a free
government incompatible with each other? Was not the government
of the church, in the early ages, the result of the free choice
of the faithful? Were not respect for human liberty, love of
justice, and opposition to tyranny and barbarity, the glory and
actual essence of Christian belief? Had not they who for three
centuries had linked religion to the fortunes and precepts of the
old monarchy, and identified it with them, really deformed
Catholicism?

When these men had become thoroughly convinced not only that
their views and their faith were, by no means irreconcilable, but
also that it was their duty as Christians to render the church
the greatest of all services by checking its retrogressive
tendency and reconciling it with the world and with modern ideas,
they inaugurated the campaign, unfurled their flag, organized a
committee, and commenced the publication of a journal, neglecting
none of the means by which to disseminate their ideas and gain
accessions to their ranks. Had they been so fortunate as to
choose, not a more eloquent, but a less rash and more
unimpassioned chief than the Abbé de Lamennais; had the noble
minds, the brave hearts, the wondrous talent centred in those
grouped around him belonged to men of riper years; had his
adherents been less fiery and impatient, and less prejudiced
against a new power which was still insecure on its foundation,
but was imbued with the spirit of true liberty to such a degree
that it imperilled its own existence every day to avoid attacking
the rights of its adversaries, and thus overstep the limits of
the law; had they understood what service their cause could have
expected of that government on the sole condition of not
demanding impossibilities, of not harassing and chiding it on all
occasions, and of not aiding and abetting its destroyers; in a
word, had the same talent, ardor, sincerity, and devotedness been
coupled with greater experience, prudence, and practicability,
perhaps, after thirty years had gone by, the great work of
effecting a reconciliation between the church and the spirit of
the age would be more thoroughly comprehended and approved than
it is at present. The boldness of the opinions professed from the
commencement by liberal Catholics increased the difficulty and
rendered the problem more complicated.
{282}
Their enterprise would certainly not have been one of easy
achievement had it even been reduced to the simplest form. Was it
not enough to ensure the acceptance, by a majority of the clergy
and of the faithful, of the definite results of the revolution,
the for ever acquired rights of civil society the blessings of
liberty as understood by the July government and by all truly
free governments; of liberty based upon the sovereignty of the
law, a respect for the rights of all, for the rights of the power
as for those of the poorest citizen? By preaching to Catholics
extreme liberalism, without either limits or guarantee, Utopian,
absolute, aggressive, and revolutionary liberalism, such as was
advocated by _l'Avenir_, the organ of the Abbé de Lamennais
and his young friends, they compromised everything, put an end to
all attempts at encouragement, terrified those whom they sought
to convert, and furnished a pretext to the faithful, in the event
of an opportunity being offered them, to throw themselves, out of
prudential considerations, into the arms of the absolute power.

The same ardor that carried them, in politics, even to the
practice of liberty unrestrained, led them, in religion, to the
recognition of the principles of excessive obedience. They never
dared dispense with the explicit approval of Rome; her silent
consent was deemed insufficient. They ever sought to elicit a
reply, notwithstanding the expectant reserve usually and most
prudently maintained by the Holy See previous to passing judgment
upon any new enterprise. They required a notice or a formal
decision. With this object in view, they never hesitated to risk
their all; they ceased not their endeavors until the Holy Father
had sanctioned or disapproved their action. Then, after the
sentence had gone forth, after such words of censure, as might
have been anticipated, had been uttered, they were compelled,
under pain of rendering themselves amenable to a charge of
revolt, to submit, to bow their heads and abandon the field, to
the great detriment of the cause in which they labored. Not only
had they lost their authority over the minds of a certain portion
of the faithful, as was seen when, a few years later, weary of
inaction, they reentered the arena, but they had brought about
another and greater misfortune: they had made the court of Rome
enter, before the time had come, and without the slightest
necessity for such a proceeding, upon the course that she now
follows, kept to it by her own words. Is it not possible that,
had she been questioned at a later day, in other terms and under
other circumstances, her reply might have been different?

But it happens that we cannot but admit that, though since the
beginning of this century Christianity has achieved in France
great and true progress; though valiant adherents and illustrious
champions have arisen; though it has recovered little by little a
portion of its domains; though it has in certain respects
extended the field of its conquests, one success is wanting, one
victory has not been achieved, the work commenced in 1830 is
still unfinished, the question is no nearer its solution, the
_entente cordiale_ is not yet established, and the treaty of
peace between Christianity and the spirit of the times has not
yet been concluded.

Some persons find consolation for this state of affairs: the
attempt to remedy it has borne in their eyes a chimerical
appearance, and they look upon the discord which most men would
quell as most natural.
{283}
Has not this manner of war, they say, ever raged between the lay
spirit and the religious spirit? Has not Christianity, since its
infancy, been destined to blame and combat, century after
century, the prevailing ideas and tastes; has not this been its
part, its mission, and, it may be said, its glory? Why seek to
change that which has always been? Christian faith is now, as
ever, quite intolerant toward the age in which it thrives: do not
interfere with events; it must be so. To these arguments we would
answer by stating that, not to discriminate between two objects
as distinct from each other as the spirit of the age which, to
speak in general terms, is the worldly spirit, that train of
never-changing passions and vices reappearing at all periods
under slightly different forms--and the spirit of each age taken
separately--that is to say, the uniformity of ideas, manners, and
institutions which give to the society of each century its
peculiar traits--is to quibble as to the significance of words
and deal in mere equivocation. That Christianity is the natural,
permanent, and necessary adversary of the worldly spirit and of
the vices and passions of men; that it is such at all times, in
all places, in the present as in the past; to assert that to give
its followers a word of advice as to the adoption of innovations
under any of these heads would be to mistake and forget its real
reason to exist, is incontestable: but to affirm that its very
character renders it incapable of adaptation to the spirit of
such and such an epoch, and that it can only blame and oppose the
ideas, tendencies, and laws of the days in which it lives, is to
give to the testimony of history, to the most self-evident and
authentic facts, a singular denial. Compare the latter centuries
of the empire of the West and the first of the feudal ages: was
the state of society, were the manners, customs, and institutions
of those days the same? Could aught have been more dissimilar and
contradictory? Yet, did not Christianity first uphold the empire
until it crumbled into the dust, and subsequently aid most
cheerfully and efficaciously in the establishment of the feudal
power? Again, when the monarchical system gradually regained the
ascendency and triumphed over feudal anarchy, did Christianity
prove an obstacle to the movement? Did it offer any opposition to
the change? Did it not submit to it with a good will? Did it not
share the ideas, principles, and even the good fortune and
greatness of royalty? What we now demand of it is, to do once
more that which it has always done, to recognize without regret
and without hostility a necessary and irrevocable change--a
change in conformity with the nature of circumstances, and
therefore legitimate; in a word, we call upon it to treat the
modern spirit of the day as it has treated all other modern
spirits that have successively appeared.

Why should a reconciliation be at present peculiarly difficult
and embarrassing? Are thoughts of liberty foreign and unknown to
Christianity? Has Christianity never acted in accordance with
them? Have not those thoughts watched, rather, over the cradle of
religion? Has not that system of elections, discussion, and
censure which honors our modern spirit come forth from the very
womb of the church? To make peace with liberty, to become suited
to its rule, to understand and bless its gifts, does not imply
the necessity of absolving it from its errors, approving its
crimes, or making the slightest concession to disorder and
anarchy.
{284}
Never mind, it will be said, do not mingle religion and party
questions, do not inspire it with any interest in wrangles of
such a kind. The more persistently Christianity stands aloof from
the affairs of this world, the more solid will be the foundation
of its power. With these views we cordially agree, and but
recently dwelt upon their importance; but of however little
moment politics or worldly affairs be to them, however deeply
engrossed by prayer and good works, can the most religious mind
and the clergy itself live on this earth in utter ignorance of
events? To attack the vices, meannesses, and misdeeds of the
time, must they not know them, and by their own knowledge? We ask
of those pious souls who are most terrified by the coupling of
the words liberalism and religion, do _they_ complain
because eloquent speakers denounce and stigmatize from the pulpit
the wanderings of the spirit of modern times and the
revolutionary delirium, those impious doctrines, the curse of
families and society? If religion is to wage war upon civil
liberty, ought it not to be authorized to allude to beneficial
freedom? Ought it not to be encouraged to speak of it in kindly
terms, to place it in the brightest light, to make us understand
and cherish it? If not, what is Christianity, and what fate have
you in store for it? Would you make of it but a puny doctrine, a
privilege to be enjoyed by a few chosen ones only, the tardy and
solitary consolation of those whom old age and grief separate
from the world? If you seek nothing else of it, if it be
sufficient for you to have it live just enough to prevent the
recording of its death, like a ruin guarded by archaeology, and
preserved and respected in its tottering condition, then keep it
apart from the rising generation, from the flood of democracy;
let it be isolated and grow old; let it seek a place of
concealment, and there, contenting itself with the praises of the
past, dwell in disdain of the present, lacking indulgence for all
persons and things--chagrin, morose, and unpopular. But if, with
a better understanding of its true destiny, you desire it to
exercise a salutary influence not only upon yourselves and your
friends, but upon all humanity; if you wish it to enter into the
hearts of all your brothers, young and old, small and great--to
inspire men with the spirit of justice and truth--to transform,
purify, and regenerate them, let it speak to them in their own
language; let it become interested in their ideas; let it suit
itself to their peculiarities--not like a weak flatterer, but as
a loving father, who takes unto himself his children and becomes
a child for their sake, by sharing their tastes while correcting
their errors, guarding them from the perils of life, and pointing
out to them the narrow and straight paths of wisdom and truth.


    To Be Concluded In Next Number.

--------

{285}

        New Publications.


  Kathrina, Her Life And Mine, In A Poem.
  By J. G. Holland. New York:
  Charles Scribner & Co. 1867.

There can be little doubt that this is more than a commonplace
poem. The narrative has a charming simplicity about it, and is
happily told; the rhythm is smooth and graceful; and the
language, with the exception of a rather too free use of words
tortured into English from the Latin and German, both choice and
appropriate. In a first perusal of it, which will not be our
last, (for it is a book which will bear more than one reading,)
two points in the narrative impressed us disagreeably--the
revelation of his future career to the hero when but a child
rambling over the mountains, and the suicide of his mother. These
incidents were a part of the author's plan, and had to be told;
but they are both forced and unnatural, the more apparently so
because all other threads of romance which run through the story
are closely woven in harmony with real life. Very many passages
are marked by the truest pathos, with here and there touches of
quiet humor worthy of a Dickens. There is a deeper moral lesson
inculcated in this poem than we think will be appreciated or even
perceived by the mass of Dr. Holland's readers; and we venture to
predict that it will be either entirely overlooked, or made the
subject of ridicule by the majority of the Protestant or
rationalistic journals and reviews which may notice the volume.
We say this boldly, because we know that it elucidates a doctrine
entirely foreign to their experience, and is based upon
principles of life asserted only by the Catholic religion. What
the author has endeavored to bring out is nothing new in Catholic
ascetic theology. It is the old cry of St. Augustine:
"_Inquietum est cor nostrum, Deus, donec requiescat in te._"
God is the supreme illumination of the soul, and the object of
its highest aspirations. Life without God is a life of
disquietude, of disgust, and disappointment. The hero is made to
learn this truth through years of self-worship, of
creature-worship, and of world-worship. His mind passes from
ignorance to indifference, from that to scepticism, infidelity,
despair. A true and sad picture of many noble souls who, in our
age and country, grow up under the sterile influence of the
spirit of naturalism, the revolt of reason without the guidance
of faith against Protestantism. There is more than one who will
read the story of his own life depicted in Dr. Holland's poem.
Such will read it with more than an ordinary interest, and find,
we trust, some glimpses of that hidden truth whose clear
statement can only be found in the teachings of that religion
which shows man his true destiny and has the mission to guide him
to it.

We do not think the author is himself wholly aware of the
ultimate logical consequences of the principles of life he has
here developed. A study of Catholic ascetic theology, the perusal
of a few books like the _Imitation of Christ_, Henry Suso's
_Eternal Wisdom_, or Father Baker's _Sancta Sophia_
would be, if we mistake not, a revelation to him. In conclusion,
we cannot refrain from quoting one of those passages which
confirm the truth of the impressions we have received and the
reflections we have made. The hero, chagrined with the
disappointments of his career, finding the idols he has
worshipped turned to clay, deprived of all human consolation,
disgusted with the hollowness and unreality of his sceptical
life, at last turns to Him whom he had shunned, and yields his
soul to that higher will whose inspirations he had all his life
long so vainly rebelled against.

{286}

        "Then the impulse came,
  And I poured out like water all my heart.
  'O God!' I said, 'be merciful to me
  A reprobate! I have blasphemed thy name,
  Abused thy patient love, and held from thee
  My heart and life; and now, in my extreme
  Of need and of despair, I come to thee.
  Oh! cast me not away, for here, at last,
  After a life of selfishness and sin,
  I yield my will to thine, and pledge my soul--
  All that I am, all I can ever be--
  Supremely to thy service. I renounce
  All worldly aims, all selfish enterprise,
  And dedicate the remnant of my power
  To thee and those thou lovest. Comfort me!
  Oh! come and comfort me, for I despair!
  Give me thy peace, for I am rent and tossed!
  Feed me with love, else I shall die of want!
  Behold! I empty out my worthlessness,
  And beg thee to come in, and fill my soul
  With thy rich presence. I adore thy love;
  I seek for thy approval; I bow down
  And worship thee, the Excellence Supreme.
  I've tasted of the sweetest that the world
  Can give to me; and human love and praise,
  And all of excellence within the scope
  Of my conception, and my power to reach
  And realize in highest forms of art,
  Have left me hungry, thirsty for thyself.
  Oh! feed and fire me! Fill and furnish me!
  And, if thou hast for me some humble task--
  Some service for thyself, or for thy own--
  Reveal it to thy sad, repentant child,
  Or use him as thy willing instrument.
  I ask it for the sake of Jesus Christ,
  Henceforth my Master!'"

This beautiful prayer is the true climax of the poem. There is
not a word in it we could wish to see suppressed or a sentiment
altered. There are deep truths written in those few lines, well
put and timely uttered in a worldly-minded age like ours.

We observe the work placarded about the city as "Timothy
Titcomb's last poem." We are glad to see that this paltry _nom
de plume_ does not deface the title-page of the publication.

----

  The Votary. A Narrative Poem.
  By James D. Hewett.
  New York: G. W. Carleton & Co. 1867.

"Great wits jump." This poem of Mr. Hewett is like Dr. Holland's
_Kathrina_--the story of a false and disappointed ambition.
The hero, Rudiger, loves Sybilla, goes forth to seek a famous
name, sacrifices his honor to the greed of ambition by forgetting
his first vows, and espousing Adelaide, the daughter of an
influential and rich politician. His wife, discovering his
infidelity to Sybilla and his subsequent remorse, becomes
jealous, charges him with having buried his heart in the grave,
(for Sybilla died of grief,) but offers to receive him back to
her affections if he can say his love is now wholly hers. This,
unfortunately, he cannot honestly do, and flies from his home for
ever, betaking himself to some religious brotherhood, there to do
penance, and labor, preach, and pray for a purpose which, to
judge from the sensual character of the entire poem, is too
vaguely described to allow us to be quite sure what is meant:

  "He fathomed now the mighty truth that Love--
   Love, the sole axis on which earth is swung--
   Is the prime essence of the Deity,
   And Intellect subservient to Love:
   And that true glory is to serve, and bleed,
   If need be, in Love's blessed cause."

And so he becomes a missionary to foreign parts:

  "To teach all men the everlasting truth,
   The blest, eternal truth of perfect Love,
   I will go forth. I'll preach it far and wide.
   To earth's last threshold will I pierce my way,
   And speak to all the dwellers there of Love."

And again:

  "Henceforth to Love my life I dedicate--
   God's love, including every human phase."

This would do if we were not so painfully impressed by the
perusal of the whole poem, that the author's highest idea of love
is a sort of deification of the sensual. Being false to his troth
to Sybilla he calls "losing love's divine repast," in the very
line preceding our last quotation above. We do not like the book.
Its moral tone is not healthy. The poem is, however, full of rich
imagery, and evidences no little dramatic power; but the rhythm
is not always faultless, such words as "of" and "the" frequently
forming the last syllable of the verse, and couplets like the
following are not uncommon:

  "With fitful step, across a verdurous lawn
   Close venueing a dwelling, paced a youth."

Happily, we think, for the strength of our language, we are
becoming every day less and less tolerant of these attempts to
foist foreign words upon it.

----

{287}

  Uberto; or, The Errors of the Heart.
  A Drama in Five Acts.
  By Frank Middleton. New York. 1867.


The writing of a drama is reckoned a bold project, for there is
scarce any sort of literary production apt to meet with severer
treatment at the hands of critics. The present one, however,
possesses merit enough to command their respect, if it does not
win their praise. The plot is well conceived, and the characters
sustained and combined with more than ordinary ability. The
speeches are, however, rather too lengthy, and become in many
places prosy. The little comedy introduced, of the loves of
Bellamori and Bonita, detracts considerably from the merit of the
tragedy, and is forced upon our notice, most unseasonably, in the
preparation for the final tableau.

------

  History Of Blessed Margaret Mary,
  a Religious of the Visitation of St. Mary;
  and of the Origin of Devotion to the Heart of Jesus.

  By Father Ch. Daniel, SJ.
  Translated by the authoress of the
  _Life of Catharine McAuley._
  New York: P. O'Shea.


The subject of this memoir is celebrated in church history and in
Catholic theology. In church history she was the instrument
chosen by God to introduce a new feast, to render public and
obligatory in worship what had been merely a matter of private
and voluntary devotion, and against which for years all the
learning and determination of Jansenism unsuccessfully battled.
In Catholic theology she was the means developing another branch
of divine truth and asceticism. She popularized the Devotion to
the Sacred Heart of Jesus, made devotion to it the characteristic
of one religious order of women; and its name become the title of
another. Margaret Mary Alacoque is the apostle of the Sacred
Heart of Jesus.

She was a young girl, who, led by the power of grace, entered the
Visitation Order, sanctified her soul, fulfilled the mission
appointed for her by God, died a saint, and after death was
beatified by the church.

The history before us tells admirably the story of her life. It
is an agreeable narrative, full of edification, of pleasant
anecdotes, and interesting details.

The best biographies in the world are those of the saints. They
not only give us information, but they make us better It is
impossible to read the life of one devoted to God's service, full
of the spirit of Christian love and sacrifice, without being
stirred up to imitate, in some degree, the example set before us.
The world has its heroes, it is true, and makes the most of them;
but religion has hers also, and it is not surprising if she does
the same; the less so, as those whom she exalts and honors are in
every respect so much the more worthy of our admiration and
reverence.

He does a positive good to humanity, therefore, who calls
attention to the life and deeds of the Christian hero. That was a
good answer of the holy father. "I am complained of," said he,
"for canonizing so many saints; but it is a fault I cannot
promise to amend. Have we not more need than ever of intercessors
in heaven, and models of religious virtue in the world?"

The style of the translation of the present memoir does not
please us. It bears signs of haste and literary carelessness.
Whatever may be the character of the original French of Father
Daniel, the English of this is verbose, weak, and tiresome. It
makes the book larger, it is true, to use twice as many words as
are needful, and to select the longest words of the dictionary to
say what one wants to say; and we may add, it makes it heavier,
too. It is a common fault of religious biographies. Neither is
the style of the publication praiseworthy. Its typography is
close and heavy, and presents anything but an inviting page. If
this book were read to us, we should go to sleep; and if we were
to read it through ourselves without giving our eyes frequent
repose, we should seriously damage our eye-sight.

Nevertheless, it is a good book; it is written on a good subject,
and will do good; and as such our thanks are due to both
translator and publisher, whose efforts toward the formation of a
Catholic literature and the fostering of Catholic piety in the
reproduction of works like the present will not fail of earning a
higher reward than any amount of commendation on our part is
worth.

--------

{288}


  The Battle-fields of Ireland, From 1688 to 1691,
  including Limerick and Athlone, Aughrim, and the Boyne.
  Being an outline of the History of the Jacobite
  Wars in Ireland and the Causes which led to it.
  1 vol. 12mo, pp. 323. New York: Robert Coddington. 1867.


Those who wish to read that portion of the sad record of
Ireland's checkered history which led to its subjugation to the
Prince of Orange will find this volume sadly interesting. Like
all of Ireland's history since the advent of Strongbow and his
robbers, it presents the usual amount of blunders, mistakes,
jealousies, and treachery on the part of those who should have
been faithful to their country. This epoch in Ireland's history
has been familiar to us since boyhood, and we think the author
has done his part of the work faithfully and honestly. His
description of the battles of the Boyne and of Aughrim are
concise and in the main correct; but we think he overestimates
William's army in the first-mentioned battle. His assertion, in a
note on page 304, that the doggerel, known as the "Battle of
Aughrim," was written by Garrick, is an error. It was the
production of Richard Ashton, an Englishman.

The book is handsomely printed, and makes a very
respectable-looking volume.

------

  The Life Of St. Aloysius Gonzaga, of the Company of Jesus.
  Philadelphia: Peter F. Cunningham. 1867.

The republication of the English edition of this life will meet,
we are sure, with universal and hearty commendation. Such a book
as this is one for all Catholic parents to present to their
children, that they may learn how one may become a saint even in
youth. Reading the lives of such holy young men as a St. Aloysius
or a St. Stanislaus Kostka, our memory goes back to the friends
of our own youth, when they with ourself thought it necessary to
wait until we grew to be men before we could "get religion." We
advise our readers to do what we would wish to do ourself--give a
copy of this book to every Protestant young man of their
acquaintance. The perusal of it will show them how a Catholic boy
gets religion when he is baptized a Christian, and may possess
religion in its perfection and be a saint at an age when a
Protestant boy is not expected to have any religion at all.

------

  Little Pet Books.
  By Aunt Fanny.
  Containing Books 1, 2, and 3.
  New York: James O'Kane, 484 Broadway.

These little books are the best ones with which we are acquainted
for children. They contain pleasing stories, written in plain,
small words, not more than five letters to each word--a difficult
task, but one which the gifted authoress has accomplished in a
most satisfactory manner. The illustrations are good, and the
books are printed on good paper, bound in good style, and put up
in a neat box, making the set one of the best presents that one
could give, of this kind of books, to a child.

------

From P. O'Shea,

  _Life of Lafayette_, written for children,
  by E. Cecil, 218 pages, 12mo.

  _The Bears of Angustenburg,_ an Episode in Saxon History,
  by Gustave Nieritz;
  translated by Trauermantel;
  251 pages, 12mo.

  _Hurrah for the Holidays_,
  or The Pleasures and Pains of Freedom;
  translated from the German;
  220 pages, 12mo.

  _Nannie's Jewel Case_, or True Stories and False;
  Tales translated from the German by Trauermantel;
  223 pages, 12mo.

  _Well Begun is Half Done_,
  or The Young Painter and Fiddlehanns;
  Tales translated from the German of
  Richard Baron and Dr. C. Deutsch;
  246 pages, 12mo. Price, $1.25 each.

------

From D. & J. Sadlier & Co., New York,

  _The Book of Oratory_, compiled for the use of Colleges,
  Academies, and the High Classes of Select Schools.
  By a member of the Order of the Holy Cross,
  1 vol. 12mo, pp. 648.

------

From Fowler & Wells, New York,

  _An Essay on Man_, by Alexander Pope,
  and _The Gospel among the Animals_,
  by Samuel Osgood, D.D. Paper.

--------

{289}


    The Catholic World.


    Vol. VI., No. 33. December, 1867.

------

  The Third Catholic Congress Of Malines.


The ancient city of Malines, which has once more been the seat of
one of those remarkable Catholic congresses already described in
our pages, is well worthy of the distinguished honor conferred
upon it by these illustrious assemblages. A few words of
description will not, therefore, be amiss, as introductory to our
sketch of the proceedings of the congress of last September.

The province of South Brabant, in which the city of Malines, or,
as it is called in Flemish, Mechelen, is situated, has had a most
varied and eventful history. Having originally formed a part of
the province of Belgic Gaul, under the Roman empire, it was
successively included in the domains of the Frankish and
Austrasian kingdoms, and of the duchy of Lorraine. In the year
1005, Brabant, including North Brabant which is now a province of
Holland as well as the Belgian province of South Brabant, was
erected into a duchy. Godfrey of Bouillon was one of its dukes.
Its independence ceased in 1429, when it was annexed to Burgundy.
In 1484 it passed under the dominion of the emperor of Germany,
at the death of Charles V. was transferred to Spain, again
reverted to Germany at the beginning of the eighteenth century,
was annexed by conquest to France in 1794, taken from France and
annexed to Holland by the Congress of Vienna, and finally, by the
revolution of 1830, became a portion of the new kingdom of
Belgium, to which we wish perpetuity and prosperity with our
whole heart.

South Brabant covers an area of 1269 square miles, containing a
population of about 750,000. It is a flat, well-wooded country,
crowded with beautiful towns and villages, intersected by several
rivers and canals, cultivated throughout like a garden, and alive
with thrift and industry. The city of Malines is at the point of
intersection of the principal Belgian railways, about fifteen
miles from Brussels, and at the same distance from Antwerp and
Louvain. The river Dyle partly encircles and partly intersects
the city, affording pleasant walks, well shaded, on the
outskirts, and creating some most picturesque scenes within the
town, by winding among some of the streets, whose residences and
warehouses front upon the river.
{290}
The railway depots have been kept, by the city authorities, on a
remote outskirt of the town, so that its quiet and antique
streets are not disturbed by the noise and bustle of the trains.
Nor are they disturbed by any other kind of noise or bustle.
Whatever business is done there seems to be out of sight and
hearing. It is the most quiet, tranquil, and clean city that can
possibly be imagined. In the centre is a great public square,
upon which are situated the cathedral, the headquarters of
administration, the military barracks, located in a very antique
and picturesque building, the museum, and two hotels, as well as
numerous shops and houses. In the centre of the square stands a
statue of Margaret of Austria. The city contains a population of
33,000. The streets are wide and regular, but winding. Nearly all
the buildings are white, being either constructed of white stone,
or covered with a very fine and durable white stucco. Among them
are numerous residences of great comfort and elegance, some of
them really palatial, although their exterior surface is
perfectly plain and simple, without porches, balconies, or grand
entrances, to relieve their monotonous smoothness, or break up
the continuity of white wall which gives Malines the appearance
of a city of mural monuments. The great metropolitan cathedral of
St. Rumbold, in the Grand Place, presents, however, a striking
contrast to this general effect of uniform and brilliant
whiteness, by its vast mass of dark stone and its immense
unfinished tower, 340 feet high, which domineers in dark, sombre
grandeur over the city. Returning on the Saturday night before
the congress to Malines, from Ostend, in company with a friend
who has travelled throughout all Europe and seen all its finest
churches, we were particularly impressed by the great beauty of
the picture presented by the Grand Place and the cathedral in a
very clear moonlight and our friend remarked that he never saw
anything more grand than the view of the vast, dark cathedral,
overshadowing the white walls of the adjacent buildings, and
towering above them in strong relief against their moon-bright
surfaces. Notwithstanding the sneers of M. Baedeker, the
cathedral of Malines is a truly grand and imposing church. It was
commenced in the twelfth and completed in the fifteenth century;
the tower, which is slowly growing upward toward its proposed
height of 480 feet, was commenced in 1452, with the aid of
contributions from the pilgrims who resorted there to gain the
indulgences of the crusade, granted by Nicholas V. The patron
saint of the cathedral, called in French St. Rombaut, in Flemish
St. Rumbold, and in English St. Rumold, was the first apostle of
Brabant. He is supposed by many writers to have been an Irishman,
although others think that he was an Englishman. Not being able
to form any opinion of our own on this point, we will take leave
to quote what Alban Butler says on the subject:

  "The place of St. Rumold's birth is contested. According to
  certain Belgic and other martyrologies, he was of the blood
  royal of Scotland (as Ireland was then called) and Bishop of
  Dublin. This opinion is ably supported by F. Hugh Ward, an
  Irish Franciscan, a man well skilled in the antiquities of his
  country, in a work entitled _Dissertatio Historica de vitâ et
  patriâ, S. Rumoldi, Archiepiscopi Dubliniensis_, published
  at Louvain, in 1662, in 4to. The learned Pope Benedict XIV.
  seems to adjudge St. Rumold to Ireland, in his letters to the
  prelates of that kingdom, dated the 1st of August, 1741,
  wherein are the following words: 'If we were disposed to
  recount those most holy men, Columbanus, Kilianus, Virgilius,
  _Rumoldus_, Gallus, and many others who brought the
  Catholic faith out of Ireland into other provinces, or
  illustrated by shedding the blood of martyrdom.' (_Hib. Dom.
  Suppl_. p. 831.) On the other hand, Janning, the Bollandist,
  undertakes to prove that St. Rumold was an English Saxon."
  [Footnote 45]

    [Footnote 45: Butler's _Lives of the Saints_, July 1.
    Note.]

{291}

Whether St. Rumold was Irish or English, at all events his
reputation as an Irish saint obtained for us the pleasure of
having two very agreeable priests from Ireland to dine with us
one Sunday afternoon, who had stopped _en route_ for
Aix-la-Chapelle in order to visit the cathedral.

St. Rumold, after spending the earlier part of his life in a
monastery, went to Rome in order to receive the apostolic
blessing of the pope and authority to preach the faith in the
then heathen country of Lower Germany. He was consecrated bishop
at some period of his missionary life, when we are not informed,
and converted a great number of the people of Brabant. He was
assassinated by some wicked men whose crimes he had reproved, on
the 24th of June, 775, and is therefore honored as a martyr. A
church was built to honor his memory and receive his relics at
Malines, and these are still preserved and venerated in the
present cathedral, the successor of the original church of St.
Rumbold. The church of Malines was made a metropolitan see by
Paul IV., and is now the primatial see of Belgium, including
Brussels within its diocesan limits. In more recent times, the
archbishops have usually been raised to the dignity of cardinals.
The Cardinal de Frankenberg, who governed the see in the reign of
Joseph II., distinguished himself by his firm opposition to the
anti-catholic policy of that emperor. Cardinal de Mean, who died
in 1831, and has a beautiful monument in the cathedral, has left
behind him the reputation of an intrepid and valiant defender of
the rights of the church in most difficult and dangerous times.
Cardinal de Sterckx is the present Archbishop of Malines, a
prelate advanced in years, but still retaining the full vigor of
mind and body, and universally beloved for his patriarchal
benignity and mildness of character, as was evident by the
genuine and heartfelt warmth of the expressions of attachment
which greeted his presence at the congress.

The chapter consists of twenty-two resident canons, who chant the
entire office with great solemnity every day. The interior of the
cathedral is imposing, and contains some fine pictures,
especially a Crucifixion by Vandyke, a Last Supper by Wouters,
and other paintings by Flemish masters. The chimes of the
cathedral tower, which are unusually melodious and joyous in
their tone, ring at the striking of the hours and half-hours, and
on many other occasions, especially on festivals and their eves,
when they are rung almost without cessation during the greater
part of the day, with a very festive and enlivening effect.

There are eight or ten other churches, some of them very large
and of imposing architecture, the most remarkable of which is the
church of Notre Dame d'Hanswyck, on the outskirts of the city,
containing a picture by Rubens of the miraculous draught of
fishes. St. John's church has a picture of the Adoration of the
Magi, and several smaller pictures, all by Rubens, forming an
altar-piece with wings on the high altar.
{292}
St. Peter's was formerly the Jesuits' church, and some adjacent
buildings were once used as a novitiate. Here the B. John
Berchmans, whose picture is in the church, lived for a time; and
here are still memorials of the noble order so unjustly expelled
from their peaceful home, in a beautiful marble statue of St.
Francis Xavier placed in a recumbent position under the high
altar, and in a series of large paintings on the side walls
representing scenes in the life of the saint. The carved work of
the pulpit and the confessionals in this church is remarkably
fine, and in general this is the case throughout Belgium.

There is a large and commodious grand seminary at Malines, a
little seminary, which is on a corresponding scale of
completeness and extent, and a college. There are several
religious communities of men and women, and, under the care of
one of the latter, a very extensive and well-built hospital of
recent construction.

The motto of the city, _In fide constans_, was conferred
upon it two centuries and a half ago by one of the emperors of
Germany, and is still appropriate, notwithstanding the strenuous
and in part successful efforts of the anti-catholic party to
seduce the population from their fidelity to the church. Malines
is still one of the most thoroughly and openly Catholic cities of
Europe. It would be impossible to find more intelligent,
courageous, warm-hearted, or devout Catholics than are found in
great numbers among the nobility and higher classes. A large
proportion of the people are also, as indeed throughout Belgium,
especially in the country places, sincerely attached to their
religion and in the habit of complying with its duties.
Nevertheless, even in Malines that infidel clique calling itself
the liberal party, which has the control of the administration,
is able to influence a sufficiently large number of the voters to
carry all the elections. We were informed by intelligent
gentlemen of Malines that this is due in great measure to the
official patronage in connection with the railway system, which
is a state affair, and places a great number of appointments in
the hands of the government. A large class are also excluded from
voting in Belgium by the peculiar law of property qualification.
The keepers of estaminets, as the drinking-shops are called, are
also there as here a very numerous class, and possessed of great
influence in politics, all of which is on the side of the
pseudo-liberals.

The liberal party is undoubtedly thoroughly anti-catholic and
infidel in its principles and aims. Nevertheless, as the devil
knows better than to send up his carte-de-visite with his name
and likeness on it, the leaders of that party are adroit and
plausible enough to carry with them not only the portion of the
people which is corrupt, but also a number of good and
well-meaning Catholics, as well as a large number of those who
are apathetic and indifferent. All the bad Catholics are
liberals, we were told, but not all the liberals are bad
Catholics. It is a great disgrace, however, to such an ancient
and Catholic city as Malines, that the anti-catholic party should
rule it, and we hope the stain on its escutcheon may ere long be
wiped off.

On the Sunday morning before the opening of the congress, it was
difficult to imagine that anything of the sort was at hand.
Everything looked as quiet as usual, and there were no visible
signs of any great influx of strangers. All at once, however, the
congress came, like the sun bursting suddenly in its full
splendor out of a cloud.
{293}
The preparations had been made quietly but efficiently, and
during the latter part of Sunday afternoon one became aware all
at once of something going on. The city appeared to become full
at once, as if by magic, of a thousand or more of clergymen and
lay gentlemen from various parts of Belgium, France, and other
countries of the world, and even a few adventurous ladies made
their appearance at the _tables d' hôte_ of the hotels. The
central bureau of the congress held its preliminary session on
Sunday afternoon, and during the ceremony of tea, at our hotel on
the Grand Place, M. Ducpetiaux, the founder, the prime mover, and
the secretary-general of the congress, made his appearance, with
various red and blue tickets and printed programmes in his
pockets, which indicated that the ball was about to open.

Under the guidance of this experienced pilot, we put out into the
hitherto unknown sea of congressional life, by crossing the Grand
Place toward the cathedral, to take part in a reunion given by an
association of young men, called "The Circle of Loyalty." As we
approached the place of meeting, the first object which greeted
our eyes was a brilliant, semicircular jet of gas over the arched
entrance to a garden enclosed by a high wall, forming the words,
"_Cercle Catholique._" A crowd of juvenile Flamanders with
their broad backs and good-humored countenances, watched, and
chatted, and peeped about the outside, as is always the case with
the boys of all countries whenever there are great doings going
on from which they are excluded. Inside the gate, which was
vigilantly guarded by well-dressed young men clothed with the
usual badges of office, we found ourselves in the midst of a
garden filled with a gay and talkative crowd of priests in
various sorts of ecclesiastical costumes, and of gentlemen of all
ages and many countries, all making themselves as social and
happy as possible. Passing through the garden, we were ushered
into the large and commodious building which forms the hall of
the association, and which was also filled with the members of
the circle and of the congress from top to bottom. In the first
room we entered, we found the president of the circle, M. Cannart
d'Hamalle, one of the principal gentlemen of Malines, and a
member of the Belgian senate, in full evening dress, receiving
the members as they arrived, with that courtly and at the same
time cordial politeness in which the Belgians excel all others.
From the lower apartments of the hall we were soon summoned to
the audience-room above, where speeches were made and applauded
_con amore_, and a musical entertainment given by a choir
and orchestra, consisting of Belgian national hymns, the hymn of
Pius IX., and concluding with an exquisite _morceau_ on the
violoncello by a young artist of merit, which was vehemently
applauded. These social reunions were continued without the
formalities every evening during the week.

The congress was opened on the next morning. The place of meeting
was the little seminary, situated on the outskirts of the city,
near the boulevard which skirts the banks of the river Dyle. The
grounds and buildings of the seminary are extremely convenient
for the purpose. The buildings are extensive, and, together with
the high wall connecting them, enclose a large, quadrangular
space. Within this space the members of the congress assembled at
an early hour on Monday.
{294}
The entrances were guarded by young men of the Circle of Loyalty,
who formed a body of volunteer police and commissariat during the
sessions of the congress, performing their duties in such a
manner as to receive well-merited eulogiums approved by the
entire assembly, the most eloquent and delicate of which came
from the lips of the Count de Falloux. The illustrious statesman
and orator, with that felicity and charming grace of manner and
expression which are his peculiar characteristics, uttered the
sentiment, during one of his speeches, that the array of Catholic
youth in attendance upon the congress was its most beautiful and
attractive feature, and seemed, as it were, like a little legion
of Stanislas Kostkas.

In the enclosure of the seminary, everything was arranged which
could facilitate the business of the congress or promote the
comfort and convenience of its members. A post-office, booths for
the sale of newspapers and for writing letters, a restaurant
where refreshments could be obtained at all hours, and where a
dinner was provided every day, with other similar conveniences,
were established on the premises. The assembly-room was a large
exhibition hall, tastefully decorated with the busts of the pope
and king, the flags of various nations, and appropriate mottoes.
All the members of the congress were furnished with a ticket of
membership; no other persons being admitted within the enclosure,
except a few ladies, for whom seats were reserved. Special
tickets for reserved places and the platform were given to the
foreign members and others specially privileged. The number of
members in attendance during the week was about three thousand, a
large proportion of whom were assembled at the place of
rendezvous on Monday morning, the majority being clergymen
dressed in the various ecclesiastical costumes of Belgium,
France, and Germany, with a sprinkling of the picturesque habits
of the old religious orders. At the appointed hour, all moved in
a procession, not remarkably well ordered, but very dignified and
respectable in appearance, to the cathedral, through a double
hedge of citizens lining the streets, by a pretty long route,
along which many of the houses and shops were decorated with
banners, armorial bearings, and other ornaments of a festal and
welcoming nature. After the arrival of the procession, pontifical
Mass was celebrated by the cardinal, a number of Belgian and
foreign bishops and prelates assisting, and the procession
returned once more to the seminary, where the opening session was
held.

The cardinal, who is always the honorary president of the
congress, on his arrival at the hall of assemblage, assumed the
chair amid loud cheers and vivas, and, after pronouncing a short
prayer, delivered a brief and paternal allocution. At the close
of his allocution, he descended from the platform to a chair in
front of it, near which were placed chairs for the prelates.
Among the foreign bishops assisting at the congress were the
Patriarch of Antioch, the Archbishop of Bosra, Vicar-Apostolic of
Bengal, the Vicar-Apostolic of Alexandria, the Archbishop of Rio
Grande in Brazil, the Bishop of Vancouver, the Bishops of Natchez
and Charleston, U. S., and Chatham, N. S.; Mgr. de Merode was
also present during the early part of the session. Mgr.
Dupanloup, Père Hyacinthe, and the Count de Falloux came by
special invitation as the great orators of the congress. A few
clergymen and gentlemen from Germany, Italy, Poland, Spain,
Holland, and America, a moderately large number from France, and
some scattering individuals from almost everywhere, representing,
it was said, eighteen different nations, made up the foreign
element of the congress.
{295}
Among the more distinguished foreign members of the congress,
were Mgr. Kubinski, rector of the seminary of Pesth, in Hungary;
Mgr. Woodlock, rector of the Catholic university of Dublin; F.
Formby, of England; Mgr. Sacré, rector of the Belgian College in
Rome; Baron de Bach, formerly Austrian ambassador at Rome;
Chevalier Alberi of Florence; Viscount de la Fuente, professor of
canon law in the University of Madrid; Don Manè y Flaquer, an
eminent Spanish publicist; Count Cieszkowski, of Poland; the Abbé
Brouwers, editor of the _Tyd_, of Amsterdam, etc. The
strangers were treated with marked distinction and the most
cordial kindness by their Belgian _confrères_. Nevertheless,
apart from the brilliant orators from abroad, whose eloquence was
chiefly directed to an object identical with the special and
local purposes of the active members of the congress, the
international character of the assembly was much less marked than
in former years. England had but one representative, F. Formby,
and other European countries were not strongly represented, with
the single exception of France. Germany had its own congress a
week after the one at Malines; and it appears probable that the
Catholic congresses will become hereafter more and more
exclusively national, occupied with local affairs of practical
necessity, and having less of the character of international
_réunions_. The Baron della Faille, in an article published
in _La Revue Generale,_ seems, however, to regret this
tendency, and to desire that the congress should become more of
an international reunion. The late congress was especially marked
by this practical and business-like character, and, if it fell
behind the former ones somewhat in numbers and _éclat_, was
probably increased in practical utility by this very
circumstance. This is precisely the view taken in the
_Compte-Rendu_ of the congress published in _Le
Catholique_ of Brussels:

  "Its labors went more directly to their object, had something
  about them stronger and better developed, and a more practical
  character. The accessory aspects occupied a smaller space.
  Eloquence, even--we speak of the eloquence of words, not of
  realities--played a lesser _rôle_. We may say that
  rhetorical display scarcely appeared at all, and that there was
  a decided preference for the reality of ideas and facts. Read
  the details of the general sessions and of the sections. You
  will see there fewer speeches for effect, but more that give
  information and instruction. The congress meddled little with
  speculations, properly so-called; it did not set forth any
  religious or political metaphysics; it proceeded to its end by
  the shortest and surest routes. The rights of the church, its
  necessities, the liberty which it needs, its perils and trials
  in various countries, the organization and results of pious
  undertakings, the means of propagating them, the precise and
  urgent duties of Catholics in respect to religion, such were
  the matters principally discussed."

It may be well to state also, in this connection, that purely
political discussions were prohibited in the congress, and
strictly excluded from its deliberations.

The Cardinal Archbishop of Malines, as we have said, is always
the honorary president of the congress, and it is by him that the
sessions are solemnly opened and closed. The active presidency is
confided to some distinguished Belgian nobleman, and this high
office has been hitherto filled by the Baron de Gerlache, a
statesman and patriot of one of the most illustrious families of
the kingdom, who was the president of the national congress by
which the constitution was established, and until of late the
chief judge of the court of cassation.
{296}
The Baron de Gerlache having resigned the office of president of
the Catholic congress on account of his advanced age and
infirmities, he was associated with the cardinal as honorary
president, in order to testify the gratitude and veneration of
the Catholics of Belgium for his illustrious career of public
service; and the office of active president was left vacant. Its
duties were performed with great dignity and ability by the first
vice-president, Baron Hippolyte della Faille, a senator and
leading Catholic statesman. The other vice-presidents were
Viscount Kerckhove, Mgr. Laforet, rector magnificus of the
University of Louvain, Viscount Dubus de Gisignies, senator, and
Count de Theux, honorary vice-president, to whom were added as
honorary vice-presidents the Count de Falloux and a number of the
other foreigners present. The central bureau, which is a supreme
council of management, was composed of the active
vice-presidents, M. Ducpetiaux, secretary-general, with four
other secretaries and a treasurer, and ten other gentlemen of
distinguished rank and character, three of whom are clergymen and
seven laymen. The presidents of the sections were Count Legrelle,
Canon de Haerne, Mgr. Laforet, Viscount Dubus de Gisignies, and
M. Dechamps, with a number of vice-presidents and secretaries.
About fifty or sixty clergymen and lay-gentlemen of rank are thus
placed at the head of the congress as members of the central and
subordinate bureaux, constituting really the working congress.
The great mass of the members, the majority of whom are clergymen
of Belgium, constitute the audience, and cooperate chiefly by
their presence and sympathy, although any member is at liberty to
attend any section and gain a hearing for himself, if he has
anything to propose to the attention of his colleagues. The
measures to be proposed are initiated by the central bureau, sent
down to the appropriate section for discussion and preparation,
and, after approbation by the central bureau, laid before the
congress for their ratification, which is usually given without
further discussion, either by acclamation or by a formal vote.
The real business meetings are consequently those of the bureaux
and sections, the general sessions being devoted to hearing
speeches, addresses, and reports. The sections meet during the
morning, the members attending any of them they may choose. They
are five in number. The first section is occupied with works of
Catholic piety, the second with social science and works of
general public improvement, the third with education, the fourth
with Christian art, and the fifth with the Catholic press.

The general sessions are held during the afternoon, and at the
last congress one of the evenings was devoted to a musical
entertainment; another to a _fête_, given by the city, in
the Botanical Garden; and the others were spent, by many of the
members, in social conversation at the Catholic circle.

Before we give a _résumé_ of the proceedings of these
sectional and general sessions of the late congress, it may be
well to state the reasons, objects, and guiding principles in
view of which the assemblage of these congresses at Malines has
been inaugurated and carried on. A great deal has been already
published in our former numbers upon this topic; but as our
readers may have forgotten it, and not care to look it up afresh,
we think it will enable them to appreciate the proceedings of the
congress we are describing more thoroughly, if we furnish them
the substance anew in a brief and summary manner.
{297}
In making this explanation, we shall be guided by the published
and official statements of His Eminence the Cardinal de Sterckx,
the Baron de Gerlache, and M. Ducpetiaux, which are to be found
in the authentic documents of the first congress.

The necessity of the times which induced the leading Catholics of
Belgium to conceive and execute the plan of convoking a general
assembly of the clergy and laity of the kingdom, under the
auspices of their primate and bishops, was the peculiar condition
of the Catholic Church in relation to the civil administration of
the state. The revolution of 1830, which severed Belgium from
Holland and made it an independent kingdom, was accomplished by
the concurrence of the Catholic majority of the nobility and
people with the smaller but more active and enterprising liberal
party who were the originators of the movement. By a similar
concurrence and compromise between these two totally different
elements, a constitution was formed on principles of very
enlarged civil and religious liberty, and a Protestant prince,
Leopold I., was called to the throne. The late king is usually
spoken of by Catholics as a monarch of honorable and upright
character, who endeavored to fulfil the duties entrusted to him
in a just and impartial manner. Nevertheless, it is quite true
that the position of affairs with a Protestant sovereign at the
head of a Catholic people was an anomalous one, most unfavorable
to the interests of the church and affording the greatest
facilities to the so-called liberals to obtain a predominant
influence in the state. The Catholic nobility and gentry, whose
position, intelligence, and wealth made them the most capable of
taking the principal part in directing political affairs, seem to
have been too apathetic, and to have confided too much in the
sincerity, loyalty, and good faith of the opposite party. The
consequence was, that this party was allowed to get the control
into its own hands, and enabled to secure an amount of influence
over the people, who are fundamentally good, but too apathetic to
their own highest interests, which has proved very dangerous, and
has threatened to prove very disastrous, to religion. The
accusation publicly made against this party by the gravest and
most high-minded statesmen of Belgium is, that it has pursued an
unremittingly perfidious policy in direct violation of the
constitution, the end of which is to deprive the Catholic Church
of that liberty and those rights solemnly guaranteed to it by the
fundamental law of the realm, and, as far as possible, to
decatholicize and unchristianize the people. The Catholic
congress was called together and organized in order to unite the
most influential laymen of the kingdom with the leading members
of the clerical order, to take counsel together and adopt
measures for counteracting this anti-catholic, infidel policy of
the pseudo-liberal party. The honor of originating this glorious
and happy enterprise, and of doing more than any other individual
to promote its success, is ascribed by unanimous consent to M.
Edouard Ducpetiaux, of Brussels, a gentleman whose name deserves
to be enrolled with those of the most illustrious benefactors of
his country.
{298}
M. Ducpetiaux is a gentleman of wealth and high education, the
author of some valuable works on social science, a corresponding
member of the French Institute, and was formerly
inspector-general of the prisons and public charitable
institutions of Belgium. It is impossible to find in the world a
man more genial, kind-hearted, unassuming, and energetic in
prosecuting every benevolent work or one more enthusiastically
beloved by those who are associated with him in the noble cause
of promoting the Catholic faith in Belgium and Europe. Happily
for the interests of religion in this ancient Catholic country, a
number of other gentlemen of the highest standing and the most
thorough Catholic loyalty cooperated with him in his great
undertaking. The wise, generous, and unfaltering patronage and
support of the venerable primate of Belgium, the Cardinal
Archbishop of Malines, crowned it with that sanction and imparted
to it that spirit of union with the Holy Roman Church and the
hierarchy, which are the guarantee of its genuine Catholicity and
the vital principle of its activity. The congress was intended to
serve as an instrument for thwarting the destructive policy of
the infidel party by combining together those zealous and loyal
Catholics who, in their isolation and separation, were in danger
of losing courage; revealing to them their real strength,
animating their faith and ardor by able and eloquent addresses
from the most illustrious champions of the church, concerting and
taking means to carry out all kinds of measures for preserving
and extending a Catholic spirit among the people. The more
precise and definite objects to be aimed at were, to win for the
church the full and perfect possession of her liberty and other
divine rights, to promote the cause of Catholic education, to
make known and give new impetus to all kinds of religious and
charitable works and associations already existing, as well as to
found new ones; to provide for the publication of books, tracts,
magazines, and newspapers devoted to the sound and wholesome
instruction of the people; to preserve, restore, and augment the
treasures of religious art; and to work for social reform by
alleviating the burdens, miseries, and privations of the laboring
classes. The special reason for calling a congress for these
purposes was, in order that the nobility and other influential
classes of the laity might be brought into direct and immediate
cooperation with the clergy for promoting and defending the
sacred cause of religion. The words of the Most Eminent Cardinal
de Sterckx carry with them such a weight of authority and wisdom
on this head, not only on account of his position as primate of
the Belgian hierarchy, but also from the still higher rank which
he holds as a prince of the Roman Church, and from the fact that
he has spoken and acted throughout after seeking counsel and
direction from the Holy Father, as well as from his own high
personal character, that we will make a citation of them from his
allocution at the opening of the first congress:

  "It is true, gentlemen, that the government of the church
  belongs to the clergy; it is true that it is to the sovereign
  pontiff, to the bishops, and to the priests that the deposit of
  faith and the care of souls has been confided. It is to them
  that the divine Founder of the church has said: _'Go, teach
  all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of
  the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.'_ It is to them that He has
  said: _'You are the light of the world, you are the salt of
  the earth.'_ Nevertheless, the Christian laity are also
  called to contribute to the propagation of the gospel, to
  sustain and defend the church of God.
{299}
  By baptism they have become the children of the church, and
  they are bound to take to heart the interests of their mother;
  by confirmation they have become soldiers of the church, and
  they are bound to defend her against the attacks of her
  enemies. It is, moreover, by the practice of good works that we
  are all obliged, both ecclesiastics and laymen, to secure our
  salvation. '_Strive_,' says the prince of apostles to all
  Christians without distinction, '_strive to secure your
  vocation and election by the practice of good works_.'

  "But, if such is the duty of the laity, they ought to concert
  together in order to fulfil it with zeal and perseverance; they
  ought to combine and form associations; they ought to confer
  together, in order to plan the means of doing with more
  certainty and success that which they could only do in a very
  incomplete manner if they were abandoned to their own
  individual capacities."

We add one more sentence from the same allocution, which
manifests the genuine and large-minded liberality of sentiment so
conspicuous in this wise and venerable prelate and in the body of
eminent men who have