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Title: The Catholic World, Vol. 26, October, 1877, to March, 1878 - A Monthly Eclectic Magazine
Author: Rameur, E.
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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                                  THE

                            CATHOLIC WORLD.


                                   A

                            MONTHLY MAGAZINE

                                   OF

                    GENERAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.

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

                               VOL. XXVI.

                     OCTOBER, 1877, TO MARCH, 1878.

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

                               NEW YORK:
                    THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY
                                COMPANY,
                           9 Barclay Street.

                                  ---

                                 1878.


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



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

                             Copyrighted by
                             I. T. HECKER,
                                 1878.

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



              THE NATION PRESS, 27 ROSE STREET, NEW YORK.



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



                               CONTENTS.


     A Final Philosophy,                                       610

     A Glance at the Indian Question,                          195

     A Great Bishop,                                           625

     A Legend of Dieppe,                                       264

     A Ramble after the Waits,                                 485

     A Silent Courtship,                                        39

     A Sweet Revenge,                                     179, 384

     Among the Translators,                               309, 732

     Africa, Religion on the East Coast of,                    411

     Catholic Circles for Working-men in France,               529

     Charles Lever at Home,                                    203

     Christianity as an Historical Religion,              434, 653

     Church of England, Confession in the,                     590

     Compostella, St. James of,                                163

     Confession in the Church of England,                      590

     Criminals and their Treatment,                             56

     Descent of Man, The,                                      496

     Dieppe, A Legend of,                                      264

     Dr. Draper and Evolution,                                 774

     Evolution, Dr. Draper and,                                774

     Fortifications of Rome, _Civiltà  Cattolica_ on           403
       the,

     Free-Religionists, The,                                   145

     French Home Life,                                         759

     Froude on the “Revival of Romanism,”                      289

     Froude on the Decline of Protestantism,                   470

     German Element in the United States,                      372

     Hedge-Poets, The Irish,                                   406

     Holy Cave of Manresa, The,                                821

     How Steenwykerwold was Saved,                             547

     Indian Policy, our New, and Religious Liberty,             90

     Indian Question, A Glance at the,                         195

     Industrial Crisis, Character of the Present,              122

     Ireland in 1878,                                          721

     Irish Hedge-Poets, The,                                   406

     Isles of Lérins, The,                                     685

     Italy, The Outlook in,                                      1

     Jamaica, Religion in,                                      69

     Lérins, The Isles of,                                     685

     Lever at Home,                                            203

     Man, The Descent of,                                      496

     Manresa, The Holy Cave of,                                821

     Marguerite,                                                73

     Marquette, Father James, Death of, and Discovery          267
       of his Remains,

     Michael the Sombre,                                  599, 791

     Mickey Casey’s Christmas Dinner-Party,                    512

     Mont St. Michel, The Last Pilgrimage to,                  128

     Mormonism, The Two Prophets of,                           227

     Mystery of the Old Organ,                                 356

     Organ, The Mystery of the Old,                            356

     Our New Indian Policy and Religious Liberty,               90

     Papal Elections,                                     537, 811

     Philosophy, A Final,                                      610

     Pilgrimage, The Last, to Mont St. Michel,                 128

     Pius the Ninth,                                           846

     Polemics and Irenics in Scholastic Philosophy,            337

     Preachers on the Rampage,                                 700

     Protestantism, Froude on the Decline of,                  470

     Protestant Episcopal Convention and Congress,             395

     Religion in Jamaica,                                       69

     Religion on the East Coast of Africa,                     411

     Roc Amadour,                                               23

     Romanism, Froude on the Revival of,                       289

     Rome, The _Civiltà Cattolica_ on the                      403
       Fortifications of,

     Science, The God of “Advanced,”                           251

     Scholastic Philosophy, Recent Polemics and Irenics        337
       in,

     St. Hedwige,                                              108

     St. James of Compostella,                                 163

     The Character of the Present Industrial Crisis,           122

     The God of “Advanced” Science,                            251

     The Home-Rule Candidate,                             669, 742

     The Late Dr. T. W. Marshall,                              806

     The Little Chapel at Monamullin,                     213, 322

     The Old Stone Jug,                                        638

     The Two Prophets of Mormonism,                            227

     United States, The German Element in the,                 372

     Waits, A Ramble after the,                                485

     Wolf-Tower, The,                                          449

     Working-men in France, Catholic Circles for,              529

     Year of Our Lord 1877, The,                               560

     Footnotes                                                 860


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



                                POETRY.


     A Child-Beggar,                                           683
     After Castel-Fidardo,                                     789
     A Little Sermon,                                          713
     A Mountain Friend,                                         21
     At the Church-Door,                                       382

     Between the Years,                                        433
     Blessed Virgin, The,                                      731
     Brother and Sister,                                       652

     Ceadmon the Cow-Herd,                                     577

     Faber, To F. W.,                                          305

     In Retreat,                                               699

     Order,                                                    212
     Outside St. Peter’s,                                      756

     Smoke-Bound,                                              161

     Sonnet,                                                   405

     The Bells,                                                 88
     The River’s Voice,                                        535
     “There was no Room for Them in the Inn,”                  668
     To the Wood-Thrush,                                       250
     Tota Pulchra,                                             355

     Witch-Hazel, To the,                                      447


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



                           NEW PUBLICATIONS.


     A Life of Pius IX. down to the Episcopal Jubilee,         135

     Almanac, Catholic Family,                                 572

     Almanac and Treasury of Facts for the year 1878,          860

     Ancient History,                                          432

     Annals of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart,                   144

     Antar and Zara,                                           431

     Bible of Humanity, The,                                   143

     Bibliotheca Symbolica Ecclesiæ Universalis,               284

     Blanche Carey,                                            140

     Catacombs, A Visit to the Roman,                          859

     Catechism of Christian Doctrine,                          137

     Catholic Parents’ Friend, The,                            144

     Charles Sprague, Poetical and Prose Writings of,          143

     Christianity, The Beginnings of,                          425

     De Deo Creante,                                           426

     Eternal Years, The,                                       575

     Evidences of Religion,                                    572

     God the Teacher of Mankind,                               137

     Grammar-School Speller and Definer, The,                  139

     Human Eye, Is the, Changing its form under the            860
       Influences of Modern Education?

     Iza,                                                      575

     Jack,                                                     143

     Knowledge of Mary,                                        715

     Letters of Rev. James Maher, D.D.,                        141

     Life of Marie Lataste,                                    134

     Life of Pope Pius IX., A Popular,                         135

     Lotos-Flowers,                                            573

     Marie Lataste, The Life of,                               134

     Mary, The Knowledge of,                                   715

     Materialism,                                              859

     McGee’s Illustrated Weekly,                               143

     Mirror of True Womanhood,                                 719

     Miscellanies,                                             281

     Missa de Beata Maria,                                     139

     Modern Philosophy,                                        428

     Mongrelism,                                               142

     Monotheism,                                               571

     Morning Offices of Palm Sunday, Holy Thursday, and        858
       Good Friday,

     Nicholas Minturn,                                         575

     Records of a Quiet Life,                                  859

     Recueil de Lectures,                                      288

     Repertorium Oratoris Sacri,                               574

     Roman Catacombs, A Visit to the,                          858

     Sadlier’s Elementary History of the U.S.,                 432

     School Hygiene, Report upon,                              136

     Shakspeare’s Home,                                        719

     Specialists and Specialties in Medicine,                  142

     Standard Arithmetic. No. I.,                              287

     Standard Arithmetic. No. II.,                             288

     Sunday-School Teacher’s Manual,                           575

     Suppression of the Society of Jesus in the                429
       Portuguese Dominions, History of the,

     Surly Tim,                                                574

     The Beginnings of Christianity,                           425

     The Fall of Rora,                                         431

     The Life of Pope Pius IX.,                                135

     Vesper Hymn-Book, The New,                                573

     What Catholics Do Not Believe,                            719


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



                                  THE

                            CATHOLIC WORLD.


                  VOL. XXVI., No. 151.—OCTOBER, 1877.


                         THE OUTLOOK IN ITALY.


           I.—WHAT IS THE MEANING OF RECENT EVENTS IN ITALY?

The revolutionary movement in Italy headed by Victor Emanuel has, step
by step, trampled under foot every principle of religion, morality, and
justice that stood between it and its goal. No pretext of the welfare of
a people, even when based on truth, can ever make perfidy and treachery
lawful, or furnish a covering of texture thick enough to hide from
intelligent and upright minds so long and black a list of misdeeds as
the Piedmontese subjugation of Southern Italy contains. “All iniquity of
nations is execrable.” What is more, the catalogue of the crimes of this
revolution is by no means filled, and, what is worse, the future
forebodes others which, in their enormity, will cast those of its
beginning into the shade. That the natural desire for unity among the
Italian people might have been realized by proper and just means, had
the religious, intelligent, and influential classes exerted themselves
as they were in duty bound to do, there is little room for reasonable
doubt. For it would be an unpleasant thing to admit that civilized
society, after the action of nineteen centuries of Christianity, could
find no way to satisfy a legitimate aspiration, except by a process
involving the violation and subversion of those principles of justice,
right, and religion for the maintenance and security of which human
society is organized and established. It is indeed strange to see the
Latin races, which accepted so thoroughly and for so long a period the
true Christian faith, now everywhere subject to violent and
revolutionary changes in their political condition. How is this to be
reconciled with the fact that Christianity, in response to the primitive
instincts of human nature, and in consonance with the laws which govern
the whole universe, aims at, and actually brings about when followed,
the greatest happiness of man upon earth while securing his perfect
bliss hereafter? For so runs the promise of the divine Founder of
Christianity: “A hundred-fold more in this life, and in the world to
come life everlasting.”

What has beguiled so large a number of the people of Italy, once so
profoundly Catholic, that now they should take up the false principles
of revolution, should accept a pseudo-science, and unite with secret
atheistical societies? How has it come to pass that a people who poured
out their blood as freely as water in testimony and defence of the
Catholic religion, whose history has given innumerable examples of the
highest form of Christian heroism in ages past, now follows willingly,
or at least submits tamely, to the dictation of leaders who are animated
with hatred to the Catholic Church, and are bent on the extermination of
the Christian faith, and with it of all religion?

Only those who can read in the seeds of time can tell whether such signs
as these are to be interpreted as signifying the beginning of the
apostasy of the Latin races from Christianity and the disintegration and
ruin of Latin nations, or whether these events are to be looked upon as
evidence of a latent capacity and a youthful but ill-regulated strength
pointing out a transition to a new and better order of things in the
future.

Judging from the antecedents of the men placed in political power by
recent elections in Italy, and their destructive course of legislation,
the former supposition, confining our thoughts to the immediate present,
appears to be the more likely. It is not, therefore, a matter of
surprise that Catholics of an active faith and a deep sense of personal
responsibility feel uneasy at seeing things go from bad to worse in
nations which they have been accustomed to look upon as pre-eminently
Catholic. Nor is it in human nature for men of energetic wills and
sincere feelings of patriotism to content themselves when they see the
demagogues of liberty and the conspirators of atheistical secret
societies coming to the front and aiming at the destruction of all that
makes a country dear to honest men. Nowhere does the Catholic Church
teach that the love of one’s country is antagonistic to the love of God;
nor does the light of her faith allure to an ignoble repose, or her
spirit render her members slaves or cowards.

Serious-minded men, before going into action, are wont to examine anew
their first principles, in order to find out whether these be well
grounded, clearly defined, and firm, and also whether there may not be
some flaw in the deductions which they have been accustomed to draw from
them. An examination of this kind is a healthy and invigorating
exercise, and not to be feared when one has in his favor truth and
honesty.

                  Copyright: Rev. I. T. HECKER. 1877.


                        II.—THE UNITY OF ITALY.

The idea of unity responds to one of the noblest aspirations of the
soul, and wherever it exists free from all compulsion it gives birth to
just hopes of true greatness. Would that the cry for unity were heard
from the hearts of the inhabitants of the whole earth, and that the
inward struggle which reigns in men’s bosoms, and the outward discord
which prevails between man and man, between nations and nations, and
between races and races, had for ever passed away!


              “When will the hundred summers die,
                 And thought and time be born again,
               And newer knowledge, drawing nigh,
                 Bring truth that sways the hearts of men?”


Unity is the essence of the Godhead and the animating principle of God’s
church; and wherever her spirit penetrates, there the natural desire for
unity implanted in the human heart is intensified and universalized, and
man seeks to give to it an adequate embodiment in every sphere of his
activity. It was this natural instinct for unity guided by the genius of
Catholicity that formed the scattered tribes of Europe of former days
into nations, uniting them in a grand universal republic which was
properly called Christendom. Who knows but, as there reigned, by the
action of an overruling Providence, a political unity in the ancient
world which paved the way for the introduction of Christianity, that so
there may be in preparation a more perfect political unity of peoples
and nations in the modern world to open the way for the universal
triumph of Christianity?

But there is a wide difference between recognizing that political unity
is favorable to the strength and greatness of nations and the spread and
victory of Christianity, and the acceptance of the errors of a class of
its promoters, the approval of their injustice, or a compromise with
their crimes.


             “When devils will their blackest sins put on,
             They do suggest at first with heavenly shows.”


The actual question, therefore, is not concerning the union of the
Italian people in one nation, or whether their present unity will be
lasting, or revoked, or by internal weakness be dissolved, or shaped in
some way for the better. But the actual and pressing question is, How
can Italy be withdrawn from the designing men who have managed to get
control over her political government under the cloak of Italian unity,
and who are plainly leading her on towards a precipice like that of the
French Revolution of 1789, to be followed by another of even more
atrocious notoriety—that of 1871? He must be blind to the sure but
stealthy march of events who does not see that, under the control of the
present party at the head of the legislative power, Italy is rapidly
approaching such a catastrophe. A few thousand frenzied men held and
tyrannized over France in 1789; a greater number in Italy—which, like
all Europe, is worm-eaten by secret societies—are only waiting for the
spark to produce a more destructive explosion, when the character of
their leaders and the more inflammable materials they have to work upon
are considered.

There is running through all things, both good and evil, an
unconquerable law of logic. What is liberalism on Sunday becomes license
on Monday, revolutionism on Tuesday, internationalism on Wednesday,
socialism on Thursday, communism on Friday, and anarchy on Saturday. He
who only sees the battered stones made by the cannon fired against its
walls when the Piedmontese soldiers entered into Rome by Porta Pia, sees
naught. There are more notable signs than these to read for him who
knows how to decipher them. In the invasion and seizure of the temporal
principality of the head of Christ’s church, which had stood for
centuries as the keystone of the Christian commonwealth, the
independence of nations was overthrown, international law trampled under
foot, and the sacred rights of religion sacrilegiously violated. It was
then—let those who have ears to hear listen—that rights consecrated
through long ages, and recognized by 200,000,000 of Catholics to-day,
were broken in upon by the Piedmontese army; and yet men are found to
wonder that the violation of these rights by the Italian revolutionary
party should fire with indignation the souls of the faithful in all
lands. But revolution will take its course; and so sure as the
Piedmontese entered by Porta Pia into Rome and took possession, and held
it until the present hour, so sure is it that the conspirators of the
secret international societies will in turn get possession of Rome and
do their fell work in the Eternal City. “They that sow wind, shall reap
the whirlwind.”

Who foresaw, or anticipated, or even dreamed of the atrocities of the
Commune in Paris of 1871? What happened at Paris in the reign of the
Commune will pale in wickedness before the reign of the
internationalists in Rome. As Paris represents the theatre of
worldliness, so Rome is the visible sanctuary of religion. _Corruptio
optimi pessima._

Is there a man so simple or so ignorant of the temper and designs of the
conspirators against civilized society in Europe, as well as in our own
free country, who fancies that these desperate men will shrink from
shaping their acts in accordance with their ulterior aims?

No one who witnessed the reception of Garibaldi in Rome in the winter of
1875 can doubt as to who holds the place of leader among the most
numerous class of the population of Italy. The views of this man and the
party to which he belongs are no secret. “The fall of the Commune,” he
wrote in June, 1873, “is a misfortune for the whole universe and a
defeat for ever to be regretted.... I belong to the internationals, and
I declare that if I should see arise a society of demons having for its
object to combat sovereigns and priests, I would enroll myself in their
ranks.” It is only the well-officered, strictly disciplined, and large
army of Victor Emanuel that hinders Garibaldi from hoisting the red flag
of the Commune in Rome and declaring an agrarian republic in Italy. But
how long will the Italian army, with the present radicals at the head of
affairs, remain intact and free from demoralization?


                   “The heights infected, vales below
                    Will soon with plague be rife.”


The army is drawn from a population which the internationalists have
penetrated and inoculated with their errors and designs, and their
emissaries have been discovered tampering and fraternizing with the
troops.

Who can tell how near is the hour when St. Peter’s will be officially
declared the pantheon of red-republican Italy, and the statue of
Garibaldi will be placed on the high altar where now stands the image of
the Crucified God-Man? This will not be the end but the prelude to the
final act of the present impending tragedy, when the black flag will be
unfurled and the palaces of Rome, with St. Peter’s and the Vatican, and
all their records of the past and centuries of heaped-up treasures of
art, will be reduced by petroleum and dynamite to a shapeless heap of
ruins. To those who can tell a hawk from a handsaw this is the hidden
animus and the logical sequence of the entrance of the Piedmontese army
into Rome. This is the real reading of the hand-writing on the walls of
Porta Pia:

    “Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return To plague the
    inventor. This even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of
    our poisoned chalice To our own lips.”

But is there not a sufficient number of conservatives in the present
national party of Italy to stop the men now at the head of affairs
before they reach their ultimate designs? Perhaps so; it would be
pleasant to believe this. But the present aspect of affairs gives but
little hope of this being true. These conservatives, who did not, or
could not, or would not stop the spoliation of the property of the
church and the trampling upon her sacred rights; these conservatives,
who did not take measures to hinder the Italian radicals from possessing
themselves of the legislative power of the present government and
pursuing their criminal course—these are not the men to build one’s
hopes upon in stemming the tide that is now sweeping Italy to her
destruction. The dictates of common sense teach us to look to some other
quarter for hopes of success.


                  III.—THE MISSION OF THE LATIN RACE.

How much of the present condition of the Latin peoples, politically,
commercially, or socially considered, can be satisfactorily explained or
accounted for on the score of climate, or on that of their
characteristics as a race, or of the stage of their historical
development, or of the change made in the channels of commerce in
consequence of new discoveries, it is not our purpose to stop here to
examine or attempt to estimate and decide. One declaration we have no
hesitation in making at the outset, and that is: If the Latin nations
are not in all respects at the present moment equal to others, it is due
to one or more of the above-enumerated causes, and not owing, as some
partisans and infidels would have the world believe, to the doctrines of
their religious faith.

The Catholic Church affirms the natural order, upholds the value of
human reason, and asserts the natural rights of man. Her doctrines teach
that reason is at the basis of revelation, that human nature is the
groundwork of divine grace, and that the aim of Christianity is not the
repression or obliteration of the capacities and instincts of man, but
their elevation, expansion, and deification.

The Catholic Church not only affirms the natural order, but affirms the
natural order as divine. For she has ever held the Creator of the
universe, of man, and the Author of revelation as one, and therefore
welcomed cheerfully whatever was found to be true, good, and beautiful
among all the different races, peoples, nations, and tribes of mankind.
It is for this reason that she has merited from those who only see
antagonism between God and man, between nature and grace, between
revelation and science—who believe that “the heathen were devil-begotten
and God-forsaken,” and “this world a howling wilderness”—the charge of
being superstitious, idolatrous, and pagan.

The special mission of the people of Israel by no manner of means sets
aside the idea of the directing care of divine Providence and the
mission of other branches of the family of mankind. The heathens,
so-called, were under, and are still under, the divine dispensation
given to the patriarch Noe; and so that they live up to the light thus
received, they are, if in good faith, in the way of salvation. The
written law given by divine inspiration to Moses was the same as the
unwritten law given to Noe and the patriarchs, and the patriarchal
dispensation was the same as was received from God by Adam. There is no
one rational being ever born of the human race who is not in some sort
in the covenanted graces of God. It is the glory of the Catholic Church
that she exists from the beginning, and embraces in her fold all the
members of the human race; and of her alone it can be said with truth
that she is Catholic—that is, universal both in time and space:
_replevit orbem terrarum_.

Affirming the natural order and upholding it as divine, the Catholic
Church did not hesitate to recognize the Roman Empire and the
established governments of the world under paganism, and to inculcate
the duty, “Render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar’s.” Hence she
willingly accepted alliance with the Roman state when Constantine became
a Christian, and approved, but with important ameliorations, the Roman
code of laws; and of every form of government, whether monarchic or
democratic, established among the Gentile nations of the past or by
non-Christian peoples of the present, she acknowledges and maintains the
divine right.

The great theologians of the church, after having eliminated the errors
and supplied the deficiencies of the philosophy of Plato and Aristotle,
accepted and employed their systems, and the labors of these “immortal
heathens” have contributed no little to the glory of Christianity. It is
to the labor of Christian monks that the world is indebted for what it
possesses of the writings of the genius of the “heathen” poets,
moralists, and other authors. It was the church’s custom to purify the
heathen temples by her blessing, and transform their noble buildings,
without altering their structure, into Christian temples. It was in the
bosom of the Catholic populations of Italy that the revival of classical
literature and art took its rise in modern Europe. Notwithstanding the
extravagance of some of its votaries, which called forth the righteous
indignation and condemnation of Savonarola, its refining influence,
combined with the wealth due to industry and commerce, elevated the
Italian cities to a height of civilization that has not been surpassed,
if equalled, by the foremost nations of our day. When the ships of Spain
covered every sea with commerce, and its activity broke through the
confines of the known world and discovered, by the guiding genius of
Columbus, a new continent; when it was said of Spain that the sun never
set upon its realms; when Spain was most productive of great warriors,
great statesmen, great artists, and great saints, it was then, and
precisely because of it, that Spain was most profoundly and devoutly
Catholic.

All the joys that spring from the highest intellectual and artistic
culture, the happiness derived from man’s domestic and social
affections, the gratification of the senses in the contemplation of the
beauty of all creation, and the pleasure drawn from the fruits of
industry and commerce—all these, when pure, are not only consistent
with, but form a part of, the life and worship of the Catholic faith.
The very last accusation for an intelligent man to make against the
Catholic Church is that she teaches a “non-human” religion.

No political government, at least in modern times, has ventured to rely
so far upon the natural ability of man to govern himself as that of the
republic of the United States. It may be said that the government of
this republic is founded upon man’s natural capacity to govern himself
as a primary truth or maxim. It assumes the dignity of human nature,
presupposes the value of man’s reason, and affirms his natural and
inalienable rights.

These were declarations of no new truths, for they spring from right
reason and the primitive instincts of human nature, and belong,
therefore, to that natural order which had ever been asserted and
defended by the great theologians and general councils of the Catholic
Church. These truths underlie every form of political government founded
in Catholic ages, correspond to the instincts of the people, and were
only opposed by despots, Protestant theologians, and the erroneous
doctrines concerning the natural order brought into vogue by the
so-called Reformation.

Our American institutions, in the first place, we owe to God, who made
us what we are, and in the next place to the Catholic Church, which
maintained the natural order, man’s ability in that order, and his free
will. Under God the founders of our institutions owed nothing to
Englishmen or Dutchmen as Protestants, but owed all to the self-evident
truths of reason, to man’s native instincts of liberty, to the noble
traditions of the human race upheld by God’s church and strengthened by
the conviction of these truths; their heroic bravery and their stout
arms did the rest.

This is why Catholics from the beginning took an integral part in the
foundation and permanent success of our republic. Among the most
distinguished names attached to the document which first declared our
national independence and affirmed the principles which underlie our
institutions will be found one of the most intelligent, consistent, and
fervent members of the Catholic Church. The priest who was first
elevated to the episcopate of the Catholic hierarchy in the United
States took an active part in its early struggles, and was the intimate
friend of Benjamin Franklin and an associate of his on a mission to
engage the Canadians to join in our efforts for independence.

The patriotism of Catholics will not suffer in comparison with their
fellow-countrymen, as is witnessed by the public address of General
Washington at Philadelphia immediately after the close of the war with
England. And when they now come to our shores from other countries, it
matters not what may have been the form of their native governments,
they are at once at home and breathe freely the air of liberty.

Sincere Catholics are among our foremost patriotic citizens, and,
whatever may befall our country, they will not be found among those who
would divide her into factions, or who would contract her liberties, or
seek to change the popular institutions inherited from our heroic
forefathers. Catholic Americans have so learned their religion as to
find in it a faithful ally and a firm support of both political and
civil liberty.

Nowhere, on the other hand, does the Catholic Church reckon among her
members more faithful, more fervent, and more devoted children than in
the citizens of our republic. Everywhere the Catholic Church appears at
the present moment under a cloud; there is only one spot in her horizon
where there breaks through a bright ray of hope of a better future, and
that is in the direction of our free and youthful country. What better
test and proof of the Catholic Church’s sanction of the entire natural
order can be asked than her unexampled prosperity in the American
republic of the United States?

If the Latin peoples are backward in things relating to their political
or material or social prosperity, or in any other respect, in the
natural order, this is not to be laid to the charge of the Catholic
faith. If the races are not wanting to her, the church will never be
wanting to the races.

The force which is at work in the actual turmoil in Italy we are firmly
convinced will renew the Catholic faith, and open up to its people—let
us hope without their passing through a catastrophe feared by many, and
not without grounds—a new and better future.


                        IV.—THE CATHOLIC CHURCH.

They are blind to the lesson which every page of the history of the
Catholic Church teaches who indulge in the fancy that the Christ laden
and guided bark of Peter will not ride safely through the present
world-wide, threatening storm. As the fierce beating of the storm
against the majestic oak fixes its roots more firmly in the soil and
strengthens and expands its limbs, so by the attacks of calumny the
militant church of Christ is made better known, by persecution she is
strengthened, and the attempts at her overthrow prepare the way for new
and more glorious triumphs.

The pages of history point out in other centuries dangers to the
existence of the church equal to those of the present crisis, through
which she passed with safety and renewed strength. A master-pen in
word-painting has given a picture of one of those critical periods, all
the more striking as the events which it portrays are within the memory
of men still living, and also because the writer is famed for anything
rather than Catholic leanings. “It is not strange,” he says, “that in
the year 1799 even sagacious observers should have thought that at
length the hour of the Church of Rome was come, an infidel power
ascendant, the pope dying in captivity, the most illustrious prelates of
France living in a foreign country on Protestant alms, the noblest
edifices which the munificence of former ages have consecrated to the
worship of God turned into temples of victory, or into banqueting houses
for political societies, or into theophilanthropic chapels. Such signs
might well be supposed to indicate the approaching end of that long
domination. But the end was not yet. Again doomed to death, the
milk-white hind was still fated not to die. Even before the funeral
rites had been performed over the ashes of Pius VI. a great reaction had
commenced, which, after the lapse of more than forty years, appears to
be still in progress. Anarchy had had its day. A new order of things
rose out of the confusion, new dynasties, new laws, new titles, and
amidst them emerged the ancient religion. The Arabs have a fable that
the Great Pyramid was built by antediluvian kings, and alone, of all the
works of men, bore the weight of the Flood. Such as this was the fate of
the Papacy: it had been buried under the great inundation, but its deep
foundations had remained unshaken; and when the waters had abated it
appeared alone amid the ruins of a world which had passed away. The
republic of Holland was gone, the empire of Germany, and the great
Council of Venice, and the old Helvetian League, and the house of
Bourbon, and the parliaments and aristocracy of France. Europe was full
of young creations—a French Empire, a kingdom of Italy, a Confederation
of the Rhine. Nor had the late events affected only territorial limits
and political institutions. The distribution of property, the
composition and spirit of society, had, through great part of Catholic
Europe, undergone a complete change. _But the unchangeable church was
still there._”[1]

Three centuries of protests against the idea of the church and of her
divine authority have served to bring the question of the necessity of
the church and the claims of her authority squarely before the minds of
all men who think on religious subjects. So general was the belief in
them before the rise of Protestantism that theological works, even the
_Sum_ of St. Thomas, did not contain what is now never omitted by
theological writers: the “Tractatus de Ecclesia.” The violent protests
of heresy, joined with the persecutions of the despotic power of the
state, have ended in showing more clearly the divine institution of the
church, and proving more conclusively her divine authority.


                      “In poison there is physic.”


The idea of the church is a divine conception, and the existence of the
church is a divine creation. The church as a divine idea lies hid in
God, and was an essential part of his preconceived plan in the creation
of the universe. Hence the error of those who consider the church as the
creation of “an assembly of individual Christian believers”; or as the
product of the state, as in Prussia, Russia, England, and other
countries; or as the effort of a race, as Dean Milman maintains in his
_History of Latin Christianity_; or as “the conscious organization of
the moral and intellectual forces and resources of humanity for a higher
life than that which the state requires.” Hence also the failure of all
church-builders and inventors of new religions from the earliest ages
down to the Luthers, Calvins, Henry VIIIs., Wesleys, Charles Foxes,
Mother Ann Lees, Joe Smiths, Döllingers, and Loysons, _et hoc genus
omne_. Poor weak-minded men! had they the slightest idea of what the
church of God is, or had they not become blind to it, they would sooner
pretend to create a new universe than invent a new religion or start a
new church. The human is impotent to create the divine.

Christ alone could replace the Jewish Church by his own, and that
because he was God. And this substitution was accomplished, not by the
way of a revolutionary protest, but in the fulfilment of the types and
figures of the Jewish Church and the realization of its divine
prophecies and promises. The ideal church and the historical church
which have existed upon earth from Adam until Noe, and from Noe until
Moses, and from Moses until Christ, and from Christ until now, which is
the actual Catholic Church, are divine in their idea, are divine in
their institution, are divine in their action, and their continuity is
one and unbroken. The church can suffer no breaks without annihilation.

God created man in his own image and likeness, and supplied from the
instant of his creation all the means required for man to become one
with himself. This was the end for which God called man into existence.
This commerce and union between God and man, with the means needed to
elevate man to this intercourse and to perpetuate and perfect these
relations in an organic form, constitutes the church of God.

The great and unspeakable love of God for man led God, in the fulness of
time, to become man, in order to make the elevation of man to union with
himself easier and more perfect. To this end the God-Man, while upon
earth, declared to his apostle Peter: “I will build my church, and the
gates of hell shall not prevail against it.”

This places beyond all doubt or dispute the fact that Christ built a
church, and therefore its institution was divine. Moreover, it is clear
by these words, not that his church should be free from the attacks of
every species of error and wickedness which lead to hell—they rather
imply the contrary—but that these attacks should never prevail against
her, corrupt, overcome, or destroy her.

He added: “Lo! I am with you always, even to the consummation of the
world!” This promise connects Christ’s presence with his church
inseparably and perpetually. Hence once the church, always the church.
The whole world may go to wreck and ruin sooner than Christ will desert
his church. “Heaven and earth shall pass, but my words shall not pass.”
Let, then, attacks come from any quarter, let revolutions shake the
foundations of the world and conspirators overthrow human society, let
anarchy reign and her foes fancy her destruction—the Catholic Church
will stand with perfect faith upon this divine _Magna Charta_ of her
Founder as upon an adamantine rock.

Before Christ’s ascension he appointed the rulers in his church; he gave
“some apostles, and some prophets, and other some evangelists, and other
some pastors and doctors, for the perfecting of the saints, for the
ministry, for the edifying the body of Christ.” He commanded them to
tarry in Jerusalem until they should receive the Holy Ghost. When the
days of Pentecost were accomplished, the Holy Ghost descended upon them
visibly, “and they were all filled with the Holy Ghost.” That was the
moment when the divine institution of the church was completed, and then
began her divine action upon men and society that never was to cease
while the world lasts. The past dispensations of God were all fulfilled
in Christ, and his church, which was to embrace all mankind in her fold
and guide humanity to its divine destination, was divinely established.

It is quite natural that those races which, by God’s providence, have
been intimately connected with the church from her cradle should be
inclined to think that the church is confined to their keeping and is
inseparable from their existence. Christianity and the church are
undoubtedly affected in their development by the peculiarities of the
races through which they are transmitted, and it is natural that they
should accentuate those truths and bring to the front those features of
organization which commend themselves most to the genius, instincts, and
wants of certain races. This is only stating a general law held as a
maxim among philosophers: _Whatever is received, is received according
to the form of the recipient_. Thus, the contact of the church with the
intellectual gifts of the Greeks was the providential occasion of the
explicit development and dogmatic definition of the sublimest mysteries
of the Christian revelation. And through her connection with the Latins,
whose genius runs in the direction of organization and law, the church
perfected her hierarchy and brought forth those regulations necessary to
her existence and well-being known under the name of “Canon Law.”

The objective point of Christianity, the church of Christ, is to embrace
in her fold all mankind; but she is, in her origin, essence, and
institution, independent of any human being, or race of men, or state,
or nation.

The Italians, the Spaniards, the French, or any other nation or nations,
may renounce the faith and abandon the church, as England and several
nations did in the religious revolution of the sixteenth century, yet
the church exists and is none the less really and essentially Catholic.
The church has existed in all her divinity without including any one
nationality or race, and, if it please God, can do so again. The sun
would give forth its light the same though there were no objects within
the reach of its rays, as when they are reflected from nature and
display all their hidden beauty; so the divinity of the Catholic Church
would exist in all its reality and power the same though there were no
Christians to manifest it by their saintly lives, as at some future day
when, after the victory over her enemies, she will unite in one the
whole human race, and all her hidden glory will be displayed.

This law also holds good and is applicable to her visible head, the
supreme pastor of the faithful. The pope, as pope, was no less the
father of the faithful and exercised his jurisdiction when driven into
the Catacombs, or violently taken by a despot and imprisoned at
Fontainebleau, or, as at present, forced by the action of a desperate
faction of Italians into retirement in the Vatican, than when his
independence and authority were recognized and sustained by the armies
of the Emperor Constantine or defended by the sword of Charlemagne, the
crowned emperor of Christendom.

“The pope,” to adopt the words of Pius IX., “will always be the pope, no
matter where he may be, in his state as he was, to-day in the Vatican,
perhaps one day in prison.”

The perpetuity of the Catholic Church is placed above and beyond all
dangers from any human or Satanic conspiracies or attacks in that
Divinity which is inherently incorporated with her existence, and in
that invincible strength of conviction which this divine Presence
imparts to the souls of all her faithful children. It is this indwelling
divine Presence of the Holy Spirit from the day of Pentecost which
teaches and governs in her hierarchy, is communicated sacramentally to
her members, and animates and pervades, in so far as not restricted by
human defects, the whole church. Hawthorne caught a glimpse of this
divine internal principle of life of the Catholic Church and embodied it
in the following passage: “If there were,” he says, “but angels to work
the Catholic Church instead of the very different class of engineers who
now manage its cranks and safety-valves, the system would soon vindicate
the dignity and holiness of its origin.”[2] This statement put in plain
English would run thus: The Catholic Church is the church of God
actualized upon earth so far as this is possible, human nature being
what it is. The indwelling divine Presence is the key to the Catholic
position, and they who cannot perceive and appreciate this, whatever may
be their grasp of intellect or the extent of their knowledge, will find
themselves baffled in attempting to explain her existence and history;
their solution, whatever that may be, will tax the faculty of credulity
of intelligent men beyond endurance; and at the end of all their efforts
for her overthrow these words from her Founder will always stare them in
the face: “Non prævalebunt”—“the gates of hell shall not prevail against
her.” If this language be not understood, perhaps it may be in its
poetical translation:


               “The milk-white hind was fated not to die.”


The radical party now in power in Italy may succeed in ruining their
glorious country, but they may rest assured that this does not include,
as her foes foolishly and stupidly imagine in every turn of her eventful
history, the ruin of the Catholic Church. “What God has made will never
be overturned by the hand of man.”


                            V.—THE SYLLABUS.

One of the principal offices of the Catholic Church is to witness,
guard, and interpret the revealed truths, written and unwritten, which
was imposed upon her by Christ when he said: “Go and teach all nations
whatsoever I have commanded you.” This duty she has fulfilled from age
to age, in spite of every hindrance and in face of all dangers, with
uncompromising firmness and unswerving fidelity, principally by the
action of her chief bishop, whom Christ charged to “feed his sheep and
lambs” and “to confirm his brethren.” This Supreme Pastor, in watching
over the sheep of Christ’s flock, has never failed to feed them with the
truths of Christ, and, lest they should be led astray, he has pointed
out and condemned the errors against these truths one by one as they
arose.

Whatever some critics may have to say as to the form in which the
Syllabus has been cast, or as to the technical language employed in its
composition, this document nevertheless is all that it purports to
be,—an authoritative and explicit condemnation of the most dangerous and
subversive errors of our epoch.


                                     “That last,
                 Blown from our Zion of the Seven Hills,
                 Was no uncertain blast!”


Were the Syllabus the product of the private cogitations of an Italian
citizen named John Mary Mastai Ferretti, promulgated and imposed upon
the unwilling consciences of Catholics by his personal authority,
Catholics would indeed have reason to resist and complain. But the
violent opposition, the hostility and hatred, that the Syllabus has
excited among so many non-Catholics and leading minds is a cause of no
little surprise.


                 “What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
                  That he should weep for her?”


Suppose things were as they dream them to be, the attitude of that
venerable Pontiff in the Vatican, powerless to do physical harm to any
one, even if he would, standing up in the sole strength of his
convictions, and, in spite of the clamors of fanatics, the rage of
conspirators, and the threats of the prime ministers of powerful
empires, proclaiming to them and the world that what they hold to be
truth is a lie, what they maintain to be right is wrong, and what they
desire as good is evil—this presents the most august and sublime figure
the nineteenth century has witnessed. O noble old man! well dost thou
merit to be placed among the great men of the holy church, and as chief
pastor to be ranked on the pages of her history in the list of her
heroic and saintly pontiffs, with her Leos and Gregories.

But read the Syllabus—and few of its opponents have done this; take the
trouble to understand rightly what you have read—and fewer still have
taken this pains—and if you have not lost sight of the prime truths of
reason, and have any faith left in the revealed truths of Christianity,
you must at least assent to its principal decisions and approve of its
censures. For its condemnations are chiefly aimed against pantheism,
atheism, materialism, internationalism, communism—these and similar
errors subversive of man’s dignity, society, civilization, Christianity,
and all religion. What boots it that these distinctive errors are
cloaked with the high-sounding and popular catch-words, “intellectual
culture,” “liberty of thought,” “modern civilization,” etc., etc.? They
are none the less errors, and all the more dangerous on account of their
attractive disguise.

The opposition of those who are not internationalists and atheists to
the condemnation and censures contained in the Syllabus, can be
explained, putting it in the mildest form, on the ground of their lack
of the sense of the divine authority of the church and its office, and
the misapprehension or misinterpretation in great part of its language.
For at bottom the Syllabus is nothing else than the Christian thesis of
the nineteenth century, as against its antithesis set up by modern
sophists and conspirators, who openly put forth their programme as in
religion atheism, in morals free-love, in philosophy materialism, in the
state absolute democracy, in society common property.

This, then, is the significance and the cause of the rage which it has
called forth: the Supreme Pastor of Christ’s flock, with his vigilant
eye, has detected the plots of those who would overthrow the family,
society, and all religion, and, conscious of the high obligations of his
charge, would not in silence take his repose, but dared, in protection
of his fold, to cry aloud and use his teeth upon these human wolves, and
thus warn the faithful and the whole world of their impending danger.
This is the secret of the outcry against the Syllabus and Pius IX.
Herein is the _Quare fremuerunt gentes_. But does not the Syllabus
declare that there can be no reconciliation between the Catholic Church
and modern civilization? O blind and slow of heart! do you not know that
modern civilization is the outcome of the Catholic Church? What was the
answer of Christ to Satan when he offered to him “all the kingdoms of
the world and the glory of them”? “Begone, Satan!” Which means, What you
offer is already mine, and not yours to give; away, hypocrite and
deceiver! So to-day, when the declared enemies of Christian civilization
come in disguise to the Catholic Church and insist upon her
reconciliation with modern civilization, she replies with Christ:
Begone, Satan; modern civilization is the product of the Catholic
Church, and not yours, and not under your protection or jurisdiction;
away, hypocrites and conspirators!

Reconciliation with what these conspirators call “modern civilization”?
Do men who have their wits about them know what this means? This means
the overthrow of the great institutions of society, which have cost
nineteen centuries of toil and struggle of the noblest men and women of
the race. And for what? Only for the tyranny of a commune of declared
atheists, the emancipation of the flesh, and the reign of Antichrist.
Thank God! there is one man who cannot be bought by bribes, or won by
flattery, or made to stoop by fear; who dares meet face to face the foes
of Christ and the enemies of mankind, open his mouth and lift up his
voice, and, in answer to these hypocritical invitations, speak out in
tones that ring in the ears of the whole world and can never be
forgotten: “Non possumus.”

The question is not whether the church will be reconciled with modern
civilization. The real question is whether modern society will follow
the principles of eternal justice and right, and reject these false
teachers; whether it will legislate in accordance with the rules of
right reason and the divine truths of Christianity, and turn its back
upon revolution, anarchy, and atheism; whether it will act in harmony
with God’s church in upholding modern civilization and in spreading
God’s kingdom upon earth, or return to paganism, barbarism, and
savagery. The question, the real question which in the course of human
events has become at the present moment among the Latin race a national
question, and particularly so in Italy, is this: “Christ or Barabbas?”
“Now, Barabbas was a robber.”

It is because the Syllabus has placed this alternative in so clear and
unmistakable a light that Satan has stirred up so spiteful and so
wide-spread an opposition to it among his followers and those they can
influence. Here is where the shoe pinches.


                        VI.—THE VATICAN COUNCIL.

It is folly to attempt to interpret any society without having first
discovered its animating principle and fairly studied the nature and
bearings of its organization. How great, then, is the folly of those who
seem not to have even a suspicion that the greatest and grandest and the
most lasting of all societies and organizations that the world has ever
known—the Catholic Church—can be fathomed by a hasty glance! Yet there
are men well known, and reckoned worthy of repute, who bestow more time
and pay closer attention to gain knowledge of the structure and habits
of the meanest bug than they deem requisite before sitting in judgment
on the church of the living God. There is in our day a great variety of
demagogues, and their number is very great, but a truly scientific man
is a _rara avis_.

There are also men standing high in the public estimation, and some of
them deservedly so in other respects, who imagine that the decree of the
Vatican Council defining the prerogatives of the successor of St. Peter
has seriously altered the constitution of the Catholic Church, when it
has done nothing more or less than make the common law of the church,
whose binding force from universal usage and universal reception was
admitted, a statute law.

Starting off from this serious mistake as their premise, they wax warm
and become furious against the Vatican Council and its decree concerning
the Roman Pontiff. And the new-born pity with which they are seized for
benighted Catholics, would be worthy of all admiration, were there not
good grounds to question their common sense or suspect their sincerity.
They talk about “a pontifical Cæsar imposed upon the Catholic Church,”
“priestly domination carried to its highest point of development,” “the
_personal_ infallibility of the pope,” “the Roman Church transformed
into an enlarged house of the Jesuit Order,” “the incompatibility of the
Catholic Church, with its _new_ constitution, with the state,” etc.,
etc. Then follows a jeremiad over “the mental dependency of Catholics,”
and so forth. All this and much more has, according to their opinion,
been accomplished by a single decree of the Vatican Council. Apparently
this class of men look upon the Catholic Church as a mere piece of
mechanism, abandoned to the control and direction of a set of priests
swayed by personal ambition and selfishness, and whose sole aim is to
exercise an absolute tyranny over the consciences of their
fellow-Christians; or as an institution still more absurd and vile, for
heresy and infidelity have in some instances succeeded in so blinding
men’s minds that they do not allow the good the church does as hers,
and, stimulated by malice, heap upon her every conceivable vice and
evil. Christ had to defend himself against the Jews, who accused him of
being possessed by a devil; and is it a wonder that his church should
have to defend herself against the charge of misbelievers and
unbelievers as being the synagogue of Satan? The servant is not greater
than his master.

Even Goethe, in spite of his anti-Christian, or rather his
anti-Protestant, instincts, would have saved these men from their
fanatical blindness and their gross errors by imparting to their minds,
if they were willing to receive it, a true insight into the real
character of the Catholic Church. “Look,” he says, after premising that
“poems are like stained glasses—”


              “Look into the church from the market square;
                Nothing but gloom and darkness there!
                Shrewd Sir Philistine sees things so:
                Well may he narrow and captious grow
               Who all his life on the outside passes.

              “But come, now, and inside we’ll go!
                Now round the holy chapel gaze;
                ’Tis all one many-colored blaze;
                Story and emblem, a pictured maze,
               Flash by you:—’tis a noble show.
                Here, feel as sons of God baptized,
                With hearts exalted and surprised!”[3]


The “Philistines” we are speaking of infuse into the Catholic Church
their own forensic spirit, and fancy that she is only a system of severe
commandments, arbitrary laws, and outward ceremonies enforced by an
external and absolute authority which, like the old law, places all her
children in a state of complete bondage. They are blind to the fact that
the Catholic Church confines her precepts, such is her respect for man’s
liberty, chiefly to the things necessary to salvation, leaving all the
rest to be complied with by each individual Christian as moved by the
instinct of divine grace.[4]

The aim of the Catholic Church is not, as they foolishly fancy, to drill
her children into a servile army of prætorian guards, but to raise up
freemen in Christ, souls actuated by the Holy Spirit—to create saints.

They are also ignorant of the nature and place, of the authority of the
church, as they are of her spirit.

It is the birthright of every member of the Catholic Church freely to
follow the promptings of the Holy Spirit, and the office and aim of the
authority of the church is to secure, defend, and protect this
Christ-given freedom.

To make more clear this relation of the divine external authority of the
church with the divine internal guidance of the Holy Spirit in the soul,
a few words of explanation will suffice.

It is the privilege of every soul born to Christ in his holy church in
the waters of regeneration, to receive thereby the indwelling presence
of the Holy Spirit. It is the bounden duty of every Christian soul to
follow with fidelity the promptings of the Holy Spirit. In order that
the soul may follow faithfully the indwelling Holy Spirit, it must be
secured against all mistakes and delusions and protected against all
attacks from error. Every child of the church has therefore a claim in
justice upon the authority of the church for this security and
protection. But it would be absurd and an intolerable indignity for the
soul to obey an authority that might lead it astray in a matter
concerning its divine life and future destiny; for in the future world
no chance or liberty is left for a return to correct the mistakes into
which the soul may have fallen. Therefore the claim is founded in right
reason and justice that the supreme teaching and governing authority of
the church should be divine—that is, unerring. And it is the intrusion
of human authority in the shape of private judgment, or that of the
state, as supreme, in regard to the truths of divine revelation, that is
the radical motive of the resistance to Protestantism as Christianity on
the part of Catholics.

Now, when the soul sees that the authority which governs is animated by
the same divine Spirit, with whose promptings it is its inmost desire to
comply, and appreciates that the aim of the commands of authority is to
keep it from straying from the guidance of the indwelling divine Spirit,
then obedience to authority becomes easy and light, and the fulfilment
of its commands the source of increased joy and greater liberty, not an
irksome task or a crushing burden. This spiritual insight springing from
the light of faith is the secret source of Catholic life, the inward
principle which prompts the obedience of Catholics to the divine
authority of the holy church, and from which is born the consciousness
of the soul’s filiation with God, whence flow that perfect love and
liberty which always accompany this divine Sonship.

The aim of the authority of the church and its exercise is the same as
that of all other authority—secondary. The church herself, in this
sense, is not an end, but a means to an end. The aim of the authority of
the church is the promotion and the safeguard of the divine action of
the indwelling Holy Spirit in the soul, and not a substitution of itself
for this.

Just as the object of the authority of the state is to promote the
common good and to protect the rights of its citizens, so the authority
of the church has for its aim the common good of its members and the
protection of their rights. And is not the patriotic spirit that moves
the legislator to make the law for the common good and protection of his
fellow-countrymen identically the same spirit which plants in their
bosoms the sense of submission to the law? Consequently, to fix more
firmly and to define more accurately the divine authority of the church
in its papal exercise, seen from the inside, is to increase individual
action, to open the door to a larger sphere of liberty, and to raise man
up to his true manhood in God.

It does, indeed, make all the difference in the world, as the poet
Goethe has so well said, to “look at the church” with “Sir Philistine”
in a “narrow and captious” spirit from “the market square” stand-point,
or to gaze on the church from the inside, where all her divine beauty is
displayed and, in a free and lofty spirit, fully enjoyed.


                VII.—THE VATICAN COUNCIL (_continued_).

To define the prerogatives of the papal authority, and its place and
sphere of action in the divine autonomy of the church, was to prepare
the way for the faithful to follow with greater safety and freedom the
inspirations of the Holy Spirit, and thus open the door wider for a
fresh influx of divine life and a more vigorous activity. Thanks for
these great advantages to the persistent attacks of the foes of the
church; for had they let her authority alone, this decree of the Vatican
Council would not have been called for, and the prerogatives of the
papal functions might have been exercised with sufficient force as the
unwritten and common law, and never have passed into a dogmatic decree
and become the statute law.

The work of the Vatican Council is not, however, finished. Other and
important tasks are before it, to accomplish which it will be sooner or
later reassembled. Divine Providence appears to be shaping events in
many ways since the adjournment of the council, so as to render its
future labors comparatively easy. There were special causes which made
it reasonable that the occupant of St. Peter’s chair at Rome should in
modern times be an Italian. Owing to the radical changes which have
taken place in Europe, these causes no longer have the force they once
had. The church is a universal, not a national society. The boundaries
of nations have, to a great extent, been obliterated by the marvellous
inventions of the age. The tendency of mankind is, even in spite of
itself, to become more and more one family, and of nations to become
parts of one great whole rather than separate entities. And even if the
wheel of change should, as we devoutly hope, restore to the Pope the
patrimony of the church, the claims of any distinct nationality to the
Chair of Peter will scarcely hold as they once held. The supreme Pastor
of the whole flock of Christ, as befits the Catholic and cosmopolitan
spirit of the church, may now, as in former days, be chosen solely in
view of his capacity, fitness, and personal merits, without any regard
to his nationality or race.

It must be added to the other great acts of the reigning Pontiff—whom
may God preserve!—that he has given to the cardinal senate of the church
a more representative character by choosing for its members a larger
number of distinguished men from the different nations of which the
family of the church is composed. This, it is to be hoped, is only a
promise of the no distant day when the august senate of the universal
church shall not only be open to men of merit of every Catholic nation
of the earth, but also its members be chosen in proportion to the
importance of each community, according to the express desire of the
holy œcumenical Council of Trent. Such a representative body, composed
of the _élite_ of the entire human race, presided over by the common
father of all the faithful, would realize as nearly as possible that
ideal tribunal which enlightened statesmen are now looking for, whose
office it would be to act as the arbitrator between nation and nation,
and between rulers and people.

Since the close of the first session of the Vatican Council nearly all
the different nations of Europe have, of their own accord, broken the
concordats made with the church and virtually proclaimed a divorce
between the state and the church. This conduct leaves the church
entirely free in the choice of her bishops; which will tend to bring out
more clearly the spiritual and popular side of the church; to set at
naught the charge made against her prelates as meddling in purely
secular affairs; and to wipe out the stigma of their being involved in
the political intrigues of courts.

Modern inventions and improvements, such as telegraphs, railroads,
steamships, cheap postage, the press, have added time, increased
efficiency, and lent an expansive power of action to men which poets, in
their boldest flights of fancy, did not reach. These things have changed
the face of the material world and the ways of men in conducting their
secular business.

Pope Sixtus V. readjusted and improved in his day the outward
administration of the church—a reform that was greatly needed—and placed
it by his practical genius, both for method and efficiency, far in
advance of his times. This same work might, in some respects, be done
again and with infinite advantage to the interests and prosperity of the
whole church of God.

One of the most, if not the most, important of the congregations of the
church is that _De Propaganda Fide_. It is the centre of missionary
enterprises throughout the whole extent of the world. No other object
can be of greater interest to every Catholic heart, no branch of the
church’s work calls for greater practical wisdom, more burning zeal, and
more energetic efficiency.

There is, perhaps, no position in the church, after that of the papal
chair, so great in importance, so vast in its influence, so wide in its
action, as the one occupied by the cardinal prefect of the Propaganda.
Could it be placed on a footing so as to profit by all the agencies of
our day, it would be better prepared to enter upon the new openings now
offered to the missionary zeal of the church in different parts of the
world, and become, what it really aims to be, the right arm of the
church in the propagation of the faith.

Who can tell but that one of the results of the present crisis in Italy
will lead by an overruling Providence to an entire renewal of the
church, not only in Italy, but throughout the whole world? Such a hope
has been frequently expressed by Pius IX., and to prepare the way for it
was one of the main purposes of assembling the Vatican Council.


                        VIII.—IMPENDING DANGER.

Scarcely any event is more deplorable to the sincere Christian and true
patriot than when there arises a discord, whether real or apparent,
between the religious convictions and the political aspirations of a
people. Such a discord divides them into separate and hostile camps, and
it is not in the nature of things that in such a condition both religion
and the state should not incur great danger. Every sacrifice except that
of principle should be made, every material interest that does not
involve independence and existence should be yielded up without
reluctance or delay, in order to put an end to these conflicts, unless
one would risk on one hand apostasy and on the other anarchy.

The discord which has been sown between the state and the church by the
revolutionary movement in Italy has not only excited a violent struggle
in the bosom of every Italian, but has created dissension between
husband and wife, parents and children, brother and brother, friend and
friend, neighbor and neighbor, and placed different classes of society
in opposition to each other. The actual struggle going on in Italy is
working every moment untold mischief among the Italian people. Already
symptoms of apostasy and signs of anarchy are manifest. Every day these
dangers are becoming more menacing. A way out of this dead-lock must be
speedily found.

The church has plainly shown in ages past that she can live and gain the
empire over souls, even against the accumulated power of a hostile and
persecuting state. She has shown in modern times, both in the United
States and in England and Ireland, that independent of the state, and of
all other support than the voluntary offerings of her children, and with
stinted freedom, she can maintain her independence, grow strong and
prosperous. The church, relying solely upon God, conquered pagan Rome in
all its pride of strength, and, if needs be, she can enter again into
the arena, and, stripped of all temporal support, face her adversaries
and reconquer apostate Rome.

But who can contemplate without great pain a nation, and that nation the
Italian, passing through apostasy and anarchy, even though this be
necessary, in the opinion of some, as a punishment and purification? Can
those who believe so drastic a potion is needed to cure a nation give
the assurance that it will not leave it in a feeble and chronic state,
rendering a revival a work of centuries, and perhaps impossible? Every
noble impulse of religion and humanity should combine to avert so dire a
calamity, and with united voice cry out with the prophet: “Is there no
balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there? Why, then, is not the wound
of the daughter of my people healed?”

The balm that will cure the present wound in Italy is not likely to be
found in a closer alliance of the church with the actual state. For the
state throughout Europe, with scarcely an exception, has placed itself
in hostility to the church, and to expect help from this quarter would
indeed be to hope in vain, and to rivet more closely the shackles which
bind the free action of her members. Is it not the apparent complicity
of the church with some of the governments of Europe, since they have
thrown off the salutary restraints of her authority, that has been one
of the principal causes of the loss to a fearful degree of her influence
with the more numerous class of society, giving a pretext to the tirades
of the socialists, communists, and internationals against her? The
church has been unjustly identified, in the minds of many, with thrones
and dynasties whose acts and policy have been as inimical to her
interests as to those of the people.

In the present campaign it would be far from wise to rely for aid on
states, as states now are—whether they be monarchies, or aristocracies,
or republics, or democracies—or upon contending dynasties; the help
needed in the actual crisis can come only from the Most High. “Society,”
as Pius IX. has observed, “has been enclosed in a labyrinth, out of
which it will never issue save by the hand of God.”

The prime postulate of a sound Catholic is this: The church is divine,
moved by the instinct of the Holy Spirit in all her supreme and vital
acts. The Catholic who does not hold this as a firm and immovable basis
has lost, or never had, the true conception of the church, and is in
immediate danger of becoming a rebel and a heretic, if he be not one
already. Whoso fails to recognize this permanent divine action in the
church, the light of the Holy Spirit has departed from his soul, and he
becomes thereby external to the church. Of this truth De Lamennais,
Döllinger, Loyson, are modern and sad examples. Instead of seeking a
deeper insight into the nature of the church, and drawing from thence
the light and the strength to labor for the renewal of Christianity and
the unity of Christendom, they have become blinded by passion and
deluded by personal conceits, and have fallen into heresy and
sectarianism. For the divine Spirit embodied in the church and the
divine Spirit indwelling in every Christian soul are one and the same
divine Spirit, and they bear testimony to each other, and work together
for the same end.

The errors which menaced the truths of divine revelation and the peace
of society are known and condemned by the supreme authority of the
church. The same voice of the Chief Pastor called a general council to
remove all evils from the church, “that our august religion and its
salutary doctrine might receive fresh life over all the earth.”

Again and again he has exhorted the faithful to uphold and encourage the
Catholic press in defence of religion as one of their important duties,
and followed up his advice by his own personal example.

Everywhere he has approved of the formation of societies for the
advancement of science, art, and education; for the protection and
amelioration of the working-classes; and the meeting of Catholic laymen
for the discussion and promotion of the interests of the church and
society.

“_Prayer, Speech, and the Press_”—these are the watch-words of Pius IX.
These words, which have the impress of the seal of divine grace upon
them, have awakened the universal consciousness of the church. The
church gained her first victories by prayer, by speech, and by writing,
and these peaceful weapons are not antiquated, and, if earnestly
employed, are in our day more than a match for needle-guns, Krupp
cannon, or the strongest iron-clads. Above all, when handled by
Catholics they have the power of Almighty God to back them, and that
strength of conviction in Catholic souls which knows no conquerors.

If there be one thing more than any other that strikes dismay in the
camp of the foes of the church, it is the united action of Catholics in
defence of their faith. Let Italian Catholics act unitedly and, wherever
and whenever they can, act politically, saving their faith and their
obedience; uphold generously the Catholic press; let them speak out
manfully and fearlessly their convictions with all the force of their
souls; and for the rest, look up to God, and the enemies of God and of
his church and of their country will disappear “like the dust which the
wind driveth from the face of the earth.”

“It is time, my brethren, to act with courage.”[5]


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



                           A MOUNTAIN FRIEND.


                              I.—OUR BOND.


            I know not why with yon far, sombre height
              I hold so subtle friendship, why my heart
              Keeps it in one dear corner set apart;
            No rarer glory clothes it day and night
            Than find I otherwhere, yet, whensoe’er
              Amid all wanderings wide by road or crest
              Mine eyes upon those simple outlines rest,
            My heart cries out as unto true friend near.
            Nor holds that half-forbidding strength of form
              Memories more dear than give so deep a grace
              To other heights, yet e’er on yon dark face,
            Sun-lighted be it, or half-veiled in storm,
            I longing gaze with thoughts no words define,
            And feel the dumb rock-heart low-answering mine.


                               II.—NOON.


         I climb the rugged slopes that sweep with strength
           And lines, scarce broken, from the desert wide,
           Beneath whose shadow frailest flowers abide
         And sweetest waters trip their murmuring length;

         I stand upon the crown—the autumn air
           Blows shivering out of scarcely cloud-flecked skies,
           While warm the sunshine on the gray moss lies
         And lights the crimson fires low leaves spread there.
         Beyond, hills mightier far are lifted, stern
           With ancient forest where wild crags break through,
           And, nobler still, far laid against the blue,
         Peaks, white with early snow, for heaven yearn——
         Whose azure depths the quiet shadows wear——
         Crowning my mountain with their distance fair.


                              III.—NIGHT.


          The strong uplifter of the wilderness,
            Holder of mighty silence voiceful made,
            With bird-song drifting from the spruces’ shade,
          By quivering winds that murmur in distress,
          Proud stands my mountain, clothed with loneliness
            That awesome grows when darkness veileth all
            And south wind shroudeth with a misty pall
          Of hurrying clouds that ever onward press,
          As something seeking that doth e’er elude,
            Flying like thing pursued that dare not rest,
            By some wild, haunting thought of fear possessed——
          Not drearness all, the cloud-swept solitude:——
          Through changing rifts the starlit blue gives sign
          Of mountain nearness unto things divine.


                               IV.—DAWN.


          Slow breaks the daily mystery of dawn——
            In far-off skies gleams faint the unfolding light,
            Anear the patient hills wait with the night
          Whose shadow clings, nor hasteth to be gone.
          A passionate silence filleth all the earth——
            No wind-swept pine to solemn anthem stirred,
            No distant chirp from matin-keeping bird,
          Nor any pattering sound of leafy mirth.
          And seems that waiting silence to enfold
            All mystery of life, all doubt and fear,
            All patient trusting through the darkness here,
          All perfect promise that the heavens hold.
          Lo! seems my mountain a high-altar stair
          Whereon I rest, in thought half-dream, half-prayer.


                              V.—ON FIRE.


         Scarce dead the echo of our evening song
           That o’er the camp-fire’s whirling blaze up-soared
           With wealth of hidden human sweetness stored—
         Life-thoughts that thronged the spoken words along;
         Scarce lost our lingering footsteps on the moss,
           When the slow embers, that we fancied slept,
           With purpose sure and step unfaltering crept
         The sheltering mountain’s unsmirched brow across.
         Alas! for straining eyes that through long days
           Of strong-breathed west wind saw the pale smoke-drift
           Its threat’ning pennons in the distance lift,
         So setting discord in sweet notes of praise.
         Yet hath the wounded mountain in each thought
         Won dearer love for wrong, unwilling, wrought.


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


                              ROC AMADOUR.


            La douce Mère du Créatour,
            A l’église, à Rochemadour,
            Fait tants miracles, tants hauts faits,
            C’uns moultes biax livres en est faits.

            —_Gauthier de Coinsy, of the thirteenth century._


There is not a place of pilgrimage in France without some special
natural attraction, from Mont St. Michel on the stormy northern coast to
Notre Dame de la Garde overlooking the blue Mediterranean Sea; from
Notre Dame de Buglose on a broad moor of the Landes to Notre Dame de la
Salette among the wild Alps of Dauphiné; but not one of these has the
peculiar charm of Notre Dame de Roc Amadour in Quercy, which stands on
an almost inaccessible cliff overhanging a frightful ravine once known
as the _Vallée Ténébreuse_. And not only nature, but history, poetry,
and the supernatural, all combine to render this one of the most
extraordinary of the many holy sanctuaries of France. For this is the
place where, as hoary legends tell, the Zaccheus of the Scriptures ended
his days in a cave; where the peerless Roland hung up his redoubtable
sword before the altar of the Virgin; where Henry II. of England, Louis
IX. of France, and so many princes and knights of the middle ages came
to pay their vows; where Fénelon, the celebrated Archbishop of Cambrai,
was consecrated to the Virgin in his infancy, and where he came in later
life to pray at his mother’s tomb; and which has been sung by mediæval
poets and rendered for ever glorious by countless miracles of divine
grace.

On a pleasant spring morning we left Albi to visit the ancient province
of Quercy. From the fertile valley of the Tarn, overlooked by the fine
church of Notre Dame de la Drèche—the tutelar Madonna of the
Albigeois—we entered a dreary, stony region beyond Cahuzac, then came
into a charming country with wooded hills crowned with old towers and
villages, as at Najac, where the railway passes through a tunnel
directly beneath the ancient castle in the centre of the town, and
crosses the Nexos on the other side of the hill, which we found merry
with peasant women washing their linen in the clear stream and hanging
it on the rocks to bleach in the hot sun. The whole region is full of
wild ravines kept fresh by capricious streams and the shadows of the
numerous hills. The wayside grows bright with scarlet poppies, the
cherry-trees are snowy with blossoms, the low quince hedges are aflush
with their rosy blooms, and the pretty gardens at the stations are full
of flowers and shrubbery. We pass Capdenac, supposed by M. de
Champollion to be the ancient Uxellodunum whose siege is related by
Cæsar in his _Commentaries_, also on a high hill around which the river
Lot turns abruptly and goes winding on through a delicious valley, the
water as red as the soil, perhaps owing to the recent rains. Soon after
the country becomes rocky and desolate again, with stone walls instead
of flowering hedges, and flocks of sheep here and there nibbling the
scant herbage among the rocks, looking very much inclined, as well they
may, to give up trying to get a living. The whole region is flat, the
earth is ghastly with the pale stones, everything is subdued in tone,
the horizon is bounded by low, dim hills, the sky becomes sombre and
lowering. But there is something about all this desolation and silence
and monotony that excites the imagination. Even our epicurean friends
felt the strange charm, for this is the region where truffles abound,
scented out by the delicate organ of the animal sacred to St. Anthony
the Great!

We were now in Quercy, which comprises such a variety of soil and
temperature. In one part everything is verdant and flowery, the hills
wreathed with vines and the trees covered with fruit-blossoms, and over
all a radiant sun; perhaps a little beyond is a stunted vegetation, the
trees of a northern clime, and a country as rough and bleak as Scotland,
with long, desolate moors, arid and melancholy in the extreme.

Some way this side of Roc Amadour we came upon the singular gap of
Padirac, where St. Martin is said to have had a race with the devil.
They were both mounted on mules, St. Martin’s a little the worse for
wear, and, starting across the country, they flew over walls and
precipices and steep cliffs, without anything being able to arrest their
course. Satan at length turned to the saint and laid a wager he could
open a gap in the earth no unaided mortal could pass. St. Martin laughed
him to scorn. The angel of darkness then stretched forth his hand, and,
laying on the ground his forefinger, which suddenly shot out to an
enormous length, the earth instantaneously opened beneath it to the
depth of a hundred and fifty feet. “Is that all?” cried the undaunted
saint, as he spurred his beast. The mule sprang across the yawning gulf,
one hundred feet broad, leaving the impress of his hoofs in the solid
rock, as is to be clearly seen at this day. One of these foot-prints
turns out, because, we are told, St. Martin’s mule was lame. This, of
course, made his victory the more wonderful. After this feat the saint,
in his turn, challenged the demon, and, resuming their race, St. Martin
hastily thrust a cross of reeds into the fissure of a rock they came to,
whereupon Satan’s mule reared and plunged and overthrew its rider, to
the everlasting glory of St. Martin and the triumph of the cross. A more
durable cross of stone now marks the spot where this great victory was
won over the foul fiend.

Roc Amadour is in the diocese of Cahors, which is a picturesque old town
built on and around a cliff in a bend of the river Lot. It is quite
worthy of a passing glance and has its historic memories. In ancient
times it bore so imposing an appearance that one of its historians
pretends Cæsar, when he came in sight of it, could not help exclaiming
in his astonishment: “Behold a second Rome!” In the middle ages, if we
are to believe Dante, it was notorious as a city of usurers. He ranks it
with Sodom; but perhaps this was owing to his strong Italian prejudices
against the French popes, for at Cahors was born John XXII., whom he
severely consigns to ignominy. We are shown the castle where this pope
passed his childhood, at one edge of the town. Passing by the
university, we are reminded by a statue of Fénelon, in the centre of a
square called by his name, that he was once a student here. There is
likewise a street named after Clement Marot, whose version of the Psalms
became so popular among the Huguenots. He was born at Cahors, and is now
regarded as one of its chief celebrities, though not tolerated in the
place in the latter part of his life from a suspicion of heresy, then
almost synonymous with treason, which caused him to be imprisoned in the
Châtelet. He thus protested against the accusation:


                        “Point ne suis Lutheriste,
              Ne Zuinglien, et moins Anabaptiste,
              Bref, celui suis qui croit, honore et prise
              La saincte, vraye, et Catholique Eglise.”[6]


Though released, he was obliged to take refuge in Geneva on account of
the use of his paraphrase of the Psalms in the conventicles, but there
he was convicted of misdemeanors, and, by Calvin’s orders, ridden on an
ass and sent out of the city. Neither fish nor flesh, he now sought an
asylum in Italy—“the inn of every grief,” as Dante calls it—and died at
Turin in 1546.

In passing through Quercy we are struck by the constant succession of
old castles bearing some historic name like that of Turenne. Among
others is Castelnau de Bretenoux, associated with Henry II. of England,
on a lofty eminence on the left shore of the Dordogne, overlooking one
of the most beautiful valleys of France, which is said to have inspired
Fénelon with his description of the island of Calypso. A few years since
this vast château was one of the finest specimens of feudal architecture
in France. Its embattled walls and massive towers; the long gallery,
with its carvings and gildings, where the fair ladies of the time of
Louis Treize used to promenade in their satins and rich Mechlin laces,
admiring themselves in the rare Venetian mirrors; the spacious cellars
with their arches; the vaulted stables, and the vast courts with their
immense wells, have been greatly injured by fire and now wear an aspect
of desolation melancholy to behold. Galid de Genouilhac, a lord of this
house, who was grand écuyer in the time of Francis I., and would have
saved his royal master the defeat of Pavia had his advice been listened
to, was disgraced for presuming to admire the queen, and, retiring to
this castle, he built a church, on which he graved the words still to be
seen: _J’aime fort une_.

“Roc Amadour!” cried the guard, as he opened the door of our
compartment, disturbing our historic recollections. We looked out. There
was nothing to correspond with so poetical a name. No village; no
church. Nothing but a forlorn station-house on a desolate plain. Behind
it we found an omnibus waiting to catch up any stray pilgrim, and we
availed ourselves of so opportune a vehicle, rude as it was. We could
not have asked for anything more penitential, so there was no occasion
for scruples. It leisurely took us a few miles to the west, and finally
dropped us mercifully in the middle of the road before a rough wayside
inn that had a huge leafy bough suspended over the door to proclaim that
poor wine only needed the larger bush. We were not tempted to enter. The
driver pointed out the way, and left us to our instinct and the
pilgrim’s staff. There was nothing to be seen but the same dreary
expanse. But we soon came to a chapel in the centre of a graveyard,
where once stood a hospice with kind inmates to wash the bleeding feet
of the pilgrim. Then we began to descend diagonally along the side of a
tremendous chasm that suddenly opened before us, passing by a straggling
line of poor rock-built huts, till we came to the archway of an old
gate, once fortified, that stands at the entrance of a village. This was
Roc Amadour.

Imagine a mountain suddenly cleft asunder, disclosing a frightful abyss
several hundred feet in depth, lined with gray rocks that rise almost
perpendicularly to the very clouds, and, far down at the bottom, a
narrow stream winding sullenly along, looking like one of the fabled
rivers of the _abisso doloroso_ of the great Florentine. Half way up one
side of this _Vallée Ténébreuse_, as it was once called, hangs the
village of Roc Amadour like a cluster of birds’ nests along the edge of
a precipice, over which are suspended several churches, one above the
other, that seem hewn out of the very cliff. These are the famous
sanctuaries of Roc Amadour that have been frequented from time
immemorial.

Several hundred feet above these churches, on the very summit of the
mount, is the old castle of La Charette, with its ramparts overlooking
the whole country. This served in the frequent wars of the middle ages
not only for the defence of the sanctuary below, but of the town of Roc
Amadour, which was then a post of strategic importance, and has its page
in history, as every reader of Sir John Froissart knows.

The sight of this mountain, that looks as if rent asunder by some awful
convulsion of nature, with the castle on its summit; its rocky sides
once peopled with hermits, and still alive with the voice of prayer; the
churches that swell out of the cliff like the bastions of a fortress;
the village on the ledge below; and the dizzy ravine in the depths, is
truly astonishing.

The town looks as if the breath of modern progress had never reached it.
It is the only place in all Europe where we did not meet an Englishman
or an American. One would think the bivalve in which it is lodged just
opened after being closed hundreds of years. There is the Rue de la
Couronnerie, where Henry Court-Mantel was crowned King of Aquitaine.
There are the remains of the house occupied by his father, Henry II. of
England, with the huge well he caused to be dug, from which the
inhabitants still draw water. And there are the remains of the four
fortified gates ruined in the wars of the sixteenth century.

We stopped at the Grand Soleil—a hostel of the ancient time, with an
immense kitchen that would have delighted Jan Steen, with beams black
with the smoke of a thousand fires, hung with smoked hams, and gourds,
and strings of onions, and bright copper kettles—the very place for
roistering villagers such as he loved to paint. It looked ancient enough
to have been frequented by King Henry’s soldiers. It had a very cavern
for a fireplace, with seats at the yawning sides beneath the crook, with
which M. Michelet says the sanctity of the fireside was identified in
the middle ages far more than with the hearth, and curious old andirons,
such as are to be seen at Paris in the Hôtel de Cluny, with a succession
of hooks for the spits to rest on, and circular tops for braziers and
chafing-dishes. Stairs led from the kitchen to the story above, well
enough to mount, but perilous in descent, owing to their steepness.
Everything is rather in the perpendicular style at Roc Amadour. An
invocation to _Marie conçue sans péché_ was pasted on the door of our
chamber, and a statuette of the Blessed Virgin stood on the mantel. The
windows looked out on a little terrace dignified with the name of
Square, where children were playing around the great stone cross. At
table we found the sacrifice of Abraham and other sacred subjects
depicted on our plates, and a cross on the salt-cellar. Roast kid and
goat’s milk were set before us with various adjuncts, after which
patriarchal fare we issued forth to visit the celebrated chapel of Our
Lady of Roc Amadour. We found we had done well in fortifying the outer
man for such an ascent, particularly as the day was far advanced, and
the morning supplies at Albi had been of the most unsubstantial nature.
We passed several houses with old archways of the thirteenth century,
but the most imposing house in the place is a seigneurial mansion of the
sixteenth century, now occupied by the Brothers of the Christian
Doctrine. We soon came to the foot of the staircase leading up the side
of the cliff to the sanctuaries. It consists of about two hundred and
forty steps, partly hewn out of the rock, and is generally ascended by
the devout pilgrim on his knees and with prayer—an enterprise of no
trifling nature, as we are prepared to vouch. On great festivals this
sacred ladder is crowded with people ascending and descending. Their
murmured prayer is a gradual Psalm indeed. The first flight of one
hundred and forty steps leads to a platform around which stood formerly
the dwellings of the fourteen canons consecrated to the service of Mary.
A Gothic portal, with a stout oaken door covered with fine old
scroll-work of iron, leads by another flight of seventy-six steps to the
collegiate church of Saint-Sauveur, one of the six remaining
sanctuaries. Formerly there were twelve chapels built among the rocks in
honor of the twelve apostles, but these all disappeared in the time of
the unsparing Huguenots. Twenty-five steps more, at the left, bring you
to a terrace with the miraculous chapel of Our Lady on one side and that
of St. Michael on the other. Between them, directly before you, is the
cave-like recess in which Zaccheus is said to have ended his days, and
where he still lies in effigy on his stone coffin. _Rupis amator_ he was
called—the lover of the rock—whence St. Amateur, and St. Amadour, the
name given him by the people. _Amadour quasi amator solitudinis_, say
the old chronicles. His body remained here from the time of his death,
in the year of our Lord 70 (we adhere to the delightful old legend),
till 1166, when, according to Robert de Monte, who wrote in 1180, his
tomb was opened at the request of a neighboring lord who was extremely
ill and felt an inward assurance he should be healed by the sacred
relics. His faith was rewarded. The body was found entire, and, on being
exposed to public veneration, so numerous and extraordinary were the
miracles wrought that Henry II. of England, who was at Castelnau de
Bretenoux, came here to pay his devotions. It was now enshrined in the
subterranean church of St. Amadour, where it remained several ages so
incorrupt as to give rise to a common proverb among the people: _Il est
en chair et os, comme St. Amadour_. But when the country was overrun by
the Huguenots, his _châsse_ was stripped of its silver mountings, his
body broken to pieces with a hammer and cast into the fire. Only a small
part of these venerable remains were snatched from the flames.

The terrace between the chapel of Our Lady and that of St. Michael is
called in ancient documents the Platea S. Michaelis. Here all official
acts relating to the abbey were formerly drawn up. The overhanging
cliff, that rises above it to the height of two hundred and twenty feet,
gives it the appearance of a cavern. Built into it, on the left, is the
chapel of St. Michael, on the outer wall of which, suspended by an iron
chain, is a long, rusty weapon popularly known as the sword of Roland.
Not that it is the very blade with which the Pyrenees were once cleft
asunder and so many kingdoms won. That shone as the sun in its golden
hilt, the day the mighty Paladin came, on his way to Spain, to
consecrate it to the Virgin of Roc Amadour and then redeem it with its
weight in silver; whereas this is as dim and uncouth as the veriest spit
that ever issued from a country forge. The wondrous Durandel, to be
sure, was brought back after Roland’s death and hung up before the altar
of Notre Dame de Roc Amadour, to whom it had been vowed, where it
remained till carried off by Henry Court-Mantel, who, adding sacrilege
to hypocrisy, came here in 1183 on the pretext of a pilgrimage, and, in
order to pay the soldiers who served him in his rebellion against his
father, pillaged the holy chapel so revered by King Henry. But his crime
did not remain unpunished. He was soon after seized with a fatal
illness, and died, but not unabsolved, in the arms of Gerard III.,
Bishop of Cahors.

Over Roland’s sword hang the fetters of several Christians delivered
from a terrible slavery on the coast of Barbary by Our Lady’s might.
Among these was Guillaume Fulcheri of Montpellier, whose mother came to
Roc Amadour on the eve of the Assumption to offer a cake of wax to burn
before the image of Mary for the redemption of her son. That same night,
while she was keeping vigil with prayers and tears before the altar of
the Virgin, his fetters were loosened in a mysterious manner, and he
made his escape. One of his first acts on his arrival in France was to
come to Roc Amadour with an offering of gratitude.

So, too, Guillaume Rémond of Albi, being unjustly confined in prison,
with no other hope of liberty but his trust in the power of the glorious
Virgin of Roc Amadour, while he was persevering in prayer during the
night-watches his chains suddenly fell off about the ninth hour, to the
utter amazement of the jailer, who became too powerless to hinder his
escape. He took his fetters with him to hang up before the altar of his
potent protectress.

On the pavement beneath these and other trophies of divine grace is an
old chest with iron bands, fastened with a double lock of singular
mechanism, in which pilgrims centuries ago deposited their offerings.
Just beyond is a doorway over which is painted St. Michael holding the
balance of justice in which we must all be weighed. This door leads by a
winding stone staircase up to St. Michael’s chapel, the oldest of the
existing edifices of Roc Amadour. This singular chapel is built against
the rough cliff which constitutes one side of it, as well as the vault.
It is chilly, and cave-like, and dripping with moisture. A niche at one
end, like an arcosolium in the catacombs, is lined with faded old
frescos of Christ and the evangelists. The windows are low and narrow,
like the fissures of a cave, being barely wide enough for an angel in
each—Michael with his avenging sword, Gabriel and his _Ave_, and Raphael
looking protectingly down on Tobias with his fish. On one side is a
spiral ascent to a balcony over the Platea S. Michaelis, from which the
abbot of Roc Amadour used to bestow his solemn benediction on the crowd
on the great days of pardon.

Descending to the Platea, we stop before the entrance to Our Lady’s
chapel to examine the half-effaced mural paintings of the great
mysteries of her life around the door. Near these can be traced the
outlines of a knight pursued by several spectres, popularly believed to
be the _ex-voto_ of a man who sought to be delivered from the ghosts of
those whose graves he had profaned. But the learned say this fresco
refers to the famous old _Lai des trois Morts et des trois Vifs_ of the
thirteenth century, in which three young knights, gaily riding to the
chase, with no thought but of love and pleasure, meet three phantoms,
who solemnly address them on the vanity of all earthly joys. This
painting was a perpetual sermon to the pilgrims, enforced, moreover, by
the numerous tombs that surrounded the sanctuaries of Roc Amadour. For
many noble families of the province, as well as pilgrims from afar,
wished to be buried near the altar where their souls had gotten grace.
So great was the number buried here in the middle ages that the monks
became alarmed, and refused to allow any more to be brought from a
distance. But Pope Alexander III. issued a bull declaring this place of
burial free to all except those under the ban of the church.

It is, then, with these thoughts of death and the great mysteries of
religion we enter the miraculous chapel around which we have so long
lingered with awe. The season of pilgrimages has not yet fairly opened,
and we find it quiet and unoccupied except by a stray peasant or two,
and a few Sisters of Calvary with sweet, gentle faces. We hasten to drop
our feeble round of prayer into the deep well fed by the devotion of
centuries. Over the altar is the famous statue of Our Lady of Roc
Amadour in a golden niche—black as ebony, perhaps from the smoke of the
candles and the incense of centuries, and dressed in a white muslin robe
spangled with gold. It is by no means a work of high art. Perhaps it is
as ancient as this place of pilgrimage. Tradition says it was executed
by the pious hands of St. Amadour himself, who was doubtless incapable
of expressing the devout sentiments that animated him. It is carved out
of a single piece of wood, and is now greatly decayed. The Virgin is
stiff in attitude. Her hair floats on her shoulders. Her hands rest on
the arms of the chair in which she is sitting, leaving the divine Child,
enthroned on her knee, with no support but that of his inherent nature.
A silver lamp, shaped like a fortress, with towers for the lights, hangs
before her, and beneath is a blazing stand of candles. The profusion of
lights in the chapels of popular devotion throughout France is truly
remarkable. It was the same in the middle ages. The old chronicles tell
us how the mother who sought the cure of a beloved child sometimes sent
his weight in wax to be burned before the powerful Virgin of Roc
Amadour. Others brought candles of the size of the limb they wished to
be healed. And those who had already obtained some supernatural favor
generally sent a candle once a year in token of gratitude. So numerous
were the lights formerly given to this chapel that there was scarcely
room for them. Poets even celebrated this profusion. Gauthier de Coinsy,
one of the most celebrated _cantadours_ of the thirteenth century, among
other poems has left one entitled _Du cierge que Notre Dame de Roc
Amadour envoya sur la vièle du ménestrel qui vièlait et chantait devant
sy image_, relating how our benign Lady accorded one of these votive
candles to a pious minstrel as he was singing her praises: Pierre de
Sygeland was in the habit of entering every church he passed to offer a
prayer and sing a song of praise to the sound of his viol. One day, as
he was prolonging his pious exercises before the altar of Notre Dame de
Roc Amadour, drawing every one in the church around him, both “_clerc et
lai_,” by the melody of his voice, he raised his eyes to the sacred
image of Mary and thus sang: “O sovereign Lady, _Dame de toute
courtoisie_, if my hymn and the sound of my viol be acceptable to thee,
be not offended at the guerdon I venture to implore: bestow on me, O
peerless Lady! one of the many tapers that burn at thy sacred feet.”

His prayer is heard. The candle descends in the presence of five hundred
persons and rests upon his viol. Friar Gerard, the sacristan, accuses
him of using incantations, and, seizing the candle irefully, restores it
to its place, taking good care to fasten it firmly down. Pierre
continues to play. The candle descends anew. The good brother,
suspecting him of magic, is more vexed than before and replaces the
candle. The enraptured minstrel—


                 “_En vièlant soupire et pleure,
                  La bouche chante et li cuers pleure_”


—sighing and weeping, singing with his lips and weeping in
heart—continues sweetly to praise the Mother of God. The candle descends
the third time.


                  “_Rafaict le cierge le tiers saut._”


The crowd, in its transport, cries: “Ring, ring the bells,


                   _Plus biax miracle n’avint jamais_


—greater miracle was never seen.” The minstrel, with streaming eyes,
returns the candle to her who has so miraculously rewarded his devotion,
and continues during the remainder of his life not only to sing the
praises of Our Lady of Roc Amadour, but to offer her every year a candle
still larger than the one she so graciously bestowed on him.

The moral of this old poem dwells on the obligation of honoring God, not
merely with the lips, but with a sincere heart:


                  “Assez braient, et assez crient,
                   Et leurs gorges assez estendent,
                   Mais les cordes pas bien ne tendent.
                             ————
                   La bouche à Dieu ment et discorde
                   S’a li li cuers ne se concorde”


—that is, many bray, and scream, and distend their throats, but their
heart-strings are not rightly attuned.... The mouth lies to God, and
makes a discord, if the heart be not in harmony therewith.

Of the many miraculous chapels of the Virgin, consecrated by the
devotion of centuries, that of Roc Amadour is certainly one of the
oldest and most celebrated. Pope Pius II., in a bull of 1463,
unhesitatingly declares “it dates from the earliest ages of our holy
mother the church.” And Cardinal Baronius speaks of it as one of the
oldest in France. The original chapel, however, built by St. Amadour
himself in honor of his beloved Lady and Mistress, is no longer
standing. That was destroyed several centuries ago by a portion of the
impending cliff that had given way, but another was erected on the same
spot in 1479 by Denys de Bar, bishop and lord of Tulle, whose arms are
still to be seen over the door. This chapel was devastated in 1562 by
the Huguenots, who swept over the country, destroying all that was most
sacred in the eyes of Catholics. They gave not only a fatal blow to the
prosperity of the town of Roc Amadour, but pillaged all the sanctuaries,
carrying off the valuable reliquaries, the tapestry, the sacred vessels
and vestments, the fourteen silver lamps that burned before the Virgin,
the necklaces and earrings, and the pearls and diamonds, given by kings,
princes, and people of all ranks in token of some grace received. Their
booty amounted in value to fifteen thousand livres—an enormous sum at
that period. They only left behind an old monstrance, a few battered
reliquaries, and a processional cross of the twelfth century, carved out
of wood and ornamented with silver, still to be seen. They mutilated the
statues, burned the wood-carvings, and of course destroyed the bells,
which was one of their favorite amusements. The roofless walls were left
standing, however, and the venerated statue of Our Lady was saved, as
well as the sacrificial stone consecrated by St. Martial, and the
miraculous bell that rang without human hands whenever some far-off
mariner, in peril on the high seas, was succored by Notre Dame de Roc
Amadour.

The chapel has never fully recovered from this devastation. It was
repaired by the canons, but their diminished means did not allow them to
restore it to its former splendor. Not that it was ever of vast extent.
On the contrary, it is small, and the sanctuary occupies full one-half
of it. It is now severe in aspect. The wall at one end, as well as part
of the arch, is nothing but the unhewn cliff. The mouldings of the
doorways, some of the capitals, and the tracery of the low, flamboyant
windows are of good workmanship, but more or less defaced by the
fanatics of the sixteenth century and the revolutionists of the
eighteenth, who could meet on the common ground of hatred of the church.

Suspended beneath the lantern that rises in the middle of the chapel is
the celebrated miraculous bell, said to be the very one used by St.
Amadour to call the neighboring people to prayer. It is undoubtedly of
great antiquity. It is of wrought iron, rudely shaped into the form of a
dish about three feet deep and a foot in diameter.

The Père Odo de Gissey, of the Society of Jesus, in his history of Roc
Amadour published in 1631, devotes several chapters to this
_merveilleuse cloche_, in which he testifies that “though it has no
bell-rope, it sometimes rings without being touched or jarred, as
frequently happens when people on the ocean, in danger from a tempest,
invoke the assistance of Our Lady of Roc Amadour, the star of the sea.
Some persons,” he goes on to say, “may find it difficult to believe
this; but if they could see and read what I have the six or seven times
my devotion has led me to Roc Amadour, they would change their opinion
and admire the power manifested by the Mother of God.” The first miracle
he relates is of the fourteenth century, but when he came to Roc Amadour
the archives had been destroyed by the Calvinists, and he could only
glean a few facts here and there from papers they had overlooked. Most
of the cases he relates had been attested before a magistrate with
solemn oath. We will briefly relate a few of them.

On the 10th of February, 1385, about ten o’clock in the evening, the
miraculous bell was heard by a great number of persons, who testified
that it rang without the slightest assistance. Three days after it rang
again while the chaplain was celebrating Mass at Our Lady’s altar, as
was solemnly sworn to by several priests and laymen before an apostolic
notary. One instance the père found written on the margin of an old
missal, to the effect that March 5, 1454, the bell rang in an
astonishing manner to announce the rescue of some one who had invoked
Mary on the stormy sea. Not long after those who had been thus saved
from imminent danger came here from a Spanish port to attest their
miraculous deliverance.

In 1551 the bell was heard ringing, but the positive cause long remained
uncertain. It was not till a year after a person came from Nantes to
fulfil the vow of a friend rescued from danger by Our Lady of Roc
Amadour at the very time the bell rang.

The sailors of Bayonne and Brittany, especially, had great confidence in
the protection of Notre Dame de Roc Amadour, and many instances are
recorded of their coming with their votive offerings, sometimes of salt
fish, after escaping from the perilous waves. The sailors of Brittany
erected a chapel on their coast, to which they gave her name. It is of
the same style as that of Quercy, and the Madonna an exact copy of St.
Mary of Roc Amadour.

In those days, when the miraculous bell was heard the inhabitants of the
town used to come in procession to the chapel, and a solemn Mass of
thanksgiving was sung by the canons amid the joyful ringing of the
bells.


                 “The tuneful bells kept ever ringing
                  While they within were sweetly singing
                  Of Her whose garments drop alway
                  Myrrh, aloes, and sweet cassia.”


St. Amadour’s bell has not ceased to proclaim the power of Christ’s holy
Mother. It is still heard now and then softly announcing the benefit of
having recourse to her efficacious protection.

To many this may sound weird-like, and recall


                    “The wondrous Michael Scott,
                  A wizard of such dreaded fame
                  That when, in Salamanca’s cave,
                  Him listed his magic wand to wave,
                  The bells would ring in Notre Dame.”


We leave such to fathom the mystery. Our part is only that of the
historian. Blessed is he who finds therein something more than sounding
brass or tinkling cymbal!

The holy chapel is no longer adorned with the rich offerings of other
times, but there are still many objects that attest the piety of the
people and the clemency of Mary. On the rough cliff that forms one end
hang a great number of crutches and canes, and models of limbs, in token
of miraculous cures. A glass case suspended on the side wall contains
watches, rings, bracelets, gold chains, lockets, etc., the memorials of
grateful piety. At the side of the altar stand immense Limoges vases, an
offering from that city. And around the chapel are hung several votive
paintings, of no value as works of art, but full of touching beauty to
the eye of faith.

The most interesting of these is one offered by M. and Mme. de Salignac
de Lamothe Fénelon in gratitude for the restoration of their child to
health. The little Fénelon lies with a head of preternatural size in a
long box-like cradle with no rockers. Beside him kneel his father and
mother, the former with a long curled wig, a flowing scarlet robe, over
which is turned a Shaksperian collar, lace at the wrists, his hands
crossed on his breast, and his face bent as if in awe before the Virgin.
Mme. Fénelon wears an amber-colored tunic over a scarlet petticoat, with
deep lace around the low-necked waist. Her hands are prayerfully folded
and her face raised to the Virgin, who appears in the clouds holding in
her arms the infant Jesus, who bends forward with one hand extended in
blessing over the cradle—almost ready to escape from his Mother’s arms.

Madame Fénelon always manifested a particular devotion to Notre Dame de
Roc Amadour, and by her will of July 4, 1691, ordered her body to be
buried in the holy chapel, to which she bequeathed the sum of three
thousand livres, the rent of which continued to be paid till the
Revolution. She is buried near the door that leads to the church of
Saint-Sauveur.

The Château de Salignac, where Fénelon was born, and which had been in
his family from time immemorial, is not far from Roc Amadour. Old
documents go so far as to assert that St. Martial, when he came to
Aquitaine to preach the Gospel in the first century, was hospitably
received at this castle, and that St. Amadour, hearing of his arrival,
went there to see him.

Beyond the miraculous chapel of Our Lady is the church of Saint-Sauveur,
built in the eleventh century for the use of the canons. It is a large
edifice of a certain grandeur and severity of style in harmony with the
cliff which forms one end. Two immense pillars stand in the middle of
the nave, each surrounded by six columns, and between them is a large
antique crucifix quite worn by the kisses of the faithful who come here
to end their pilgrimage at the feet of Christ Crucified.

This church presents a striking aspect on great solemnities, with its
crowded confessionals, the Holy Sacrifice constantly going on at the
different altars amid solemn chants or touching hymns, and the long
lines of communicants moving devoutly to and from the table of the Lord.
Over all is the divine Form of Christ depicted on the arches in the
various mysteries of his earthly life, filling the church, as it were,
with his Presence. On the walls are the majestic figures of some of the
greatest pilgrims of the ages of faith. To mention a few of them: St.
Louis, King of France, came here in 1245 in fulfilment of a vow, after
recovering from a severe illness, accompanied by Queen Blanche, his
three brothers, and Alphonse, Count of Boulogne-sur-Mer, afterwards King
of Portugal. In 1324 came Charles-le-Bel and his queen, with King John
of Bohemia. In September, 1344, came John, Duke of Normandy, eldest son
of Philippe de Valois. In 1463 Louis XI., on his return from Béarn, paid
his devotions to Notre Dame de Roc Amadour on the 21st of July. St.
Englebert, Archbishop of Cologne, of illustrious birth, had such a
tender love for the Blessed Virgin that for many years he fasted every
Wednesday in her honor, and twice during his episcopate he visited her
chapel at Roc Amadour. Simon, Count de Montfort, came here in 1211 with
his German troops, who wished to pay their homage to the Mother of God
before returning to their own country.

To come down to recent times: It was at the feet of the Virgin of Roc
Amadour that M. Borie made his final choice of a missionary life that
won for him the glorious crown of martyrdom in Farther India at the age
of thirty.

The mill where M. Borie was born stands solitary on the border of a
stream, surrounded by chestnut-trees, in a deep, narrow, gloomy valley
of La Corrèze, near Roc Amadour—a humble abode, but the sanctuary of
peace, industry, and piety. When the news of his martyrdom came to this
sequestered spot, his heroic mother was filled with joy, in spite of her
anguish, and his youngest brother cried: “I am going! God calls me to
the land where my brother died. Mother, give me your blessing. I am
going to open heaven to my brother’s murderers!” He went; and we
remember hearing a holy Jesuit Father relate how, like the knights of
the olden time, he made his vigil before the altar of Our Lady of Roc
Amadour the night before he joined the sacred militia of the great
Loyola.

Beneath the church of Saint-Sauveur is the subterranean church of St.
Amadour, with low, ponderous arches and massive columns to sustain the
large edifice above. You go down into it as into a cellar. At each side
as you enter are elaborate carvings in the wood, one representing
Zaccheus in the sycamore-tree, eager to behold our Saviour as he passed;
the other shows him standing in the door of his house to welcome the
divine Guest. On the arches is painted the whole legend of St. Amadour.
Then there is Roland before the altar of the Virgin redeeming his sword
with its weight in silver, and beyond is a band of knights bringing it
back from the fatal battle-field. In another place you see St. Martial
of Limoges and St. Saturnin of Toulouse, coming together to visit St.
Amadour in his cave. And yonder is St. Dominic, who, with Bertrand de
Garrigue, one of his earliest disciples, passed the night in prayer
before the altar of Our Lady in the year 1219.

All that remains of the body of St. Amadour is enshrined in this church
behind the high altar.

A service for the dead was going on when we entered this crypt, with
only the priest and the beadle to sing it. Black candlesticks stood on
the altar, and yellow wax-lights around the bier. The church was full of
peasants with grave, devout faces and lighted candles in their hands.
The funeral chant, the black pall, the motionless peasants with their
lights, and this chill, tomb-like church of the eleventh century, all
seemed in harmony.

The pilgrim, of course, visits the chapel of St. Ann overhanging the
town, and that of St. Blaise, with its Roman arches of the thirteenth
century, built to receive the relics, brought by the Crusaders from the
East, of a holy solitary who lived many years in a cave of the
wilderness, the wild beasts around as submissive to him as to Adam in
Paradise.

The chapel of St. John the Baptist was founded in 1516 by a powerful
lord named Jean de Valon, who became a Knight of St. John of Jerusalem.
Out of piety towards Our Lady of Roc Amadour, he built this chapel,
authorized by the pope, as the burial-place of himself and his family,
and bequeathed the sum of five hundred livres to the prebends, as the
foundation for a Mass of requiem every Monday, and the Mass of Our Lady
every Saturday, for the remission of his sins and those of his friends
and benefactors.

The family of Valon, which still exists, has always shown a remarkable
devotion to Notre Dame de Roc Amadour. We read of a Dame de Valon whose
pilgrimage to this chapel in the twelfth century was marked by a
miracle. This family owned considerable property in the neighborhood,
and had a right to part of the revenues from the sale of the
_sportulas_, or _sportellas_, which were medals of lead bearing the
image of Our Lady on one side and of St. Amadour on the other. Sir
Walter Scott, in his _Quentin Durward_, deridingly depicts Louis XI.
with a number of leaden medals of like character in his hat. The pilgrim
who wore one needed no other safe-conduct in ancient times. His person
was so sacred he could even pass in safety through the enemy’s camp. In
1399, during the war between the French and English, the sanctuary of
Roc Amadour was frequented by both parties, and both camps regarded the
pilgrim hither with so much respect that if taken prisoner he was set
free as soon as his quality was discovered. Three of these old
almond-shaped _sportellas_ are still to be seen in the Hôtel de Cluny at
Paris.

The ancient standard of Our Lady of Roc Amadour was held in great
veneration. It was not only carried in religious processions, but
sometimes to the field of battle. Alberic, a monk of Trois Fonts,
relates that the Virgin appeared three Saturdays in succession to the
sacristan of Roc Amadour, and ordered her standard to be carried to
Spain, then engaged in a critical contest with the Moors. The prior, in
consequence, set forth with the sacred banner and arrived at the plain
of Las Navas on the 16th of July, 1212. The Christians had refused to
give battle the day previous, because it was the Lord’s day, but the
fight began early Monday morning. The Templars and Knights of Calatrava
had been put to flight and the army partly routed. At the last moment,
when all hope seemed lost, the prior of Roc Amadour unfurled the banner
of the Virgin. At the sight of the holy image of Mary with the divine
Babe every knee bent in reverence, fresh courage was infused into every
breast, the army rallied, and the fight was renewed to such purpose that
they smote the infidel hip and thigh. Sixty thousand of the enemy were
slain and a greater number taken captive. The archbishops of Toledo and
Narbonne, the bishop of Valencia, with many other prelates and a great
number of priests, sang the _Te Deum_ on the field of battle. The King
of Castile, Alfonso IX., had always shown a special devotion towards Our
Lady of Roc Amadour. In 1181 he consecrated to her service the lands of
Fornellos and Orbanella, in order, as he says in the charter, to solace
the souls of his parents and secure his own salvation. And, by way of
intimidating the lawless freebooter of those rough times, he severely
adds: “And should any one trespass in the least on this gift or violate
my intentions, let him incur the full wrath of God, and, like the
traitor Judas, be delivered over to the torments of hell as the slave of
the devil. Meanwhile, let him pay into the royal treasury the sum of one
thousand livres of pure gold, and restore twofold to the abbot of Roc
Amadour.”

This gift was afterwards confirmed by Ferdinand III., Ferdinand IV., and
Alfonso XI.

King Alfonso was not the only royal benefactor of the miraculous chapel.
Sancho VII., King of Navarre, for the weal of his soul and the souls of
his parents, gave in 1202 certain rents amounting to forty-eight pieces
of gold, to be employed in illuminating the church of St. Mary of Roc
Amadour. A candle was to burn night and day before the blessed image on
Christmas, Epiphany, Candlemas, Whitsunday, Trinity Sunday, the
Assumption, and All Saints’ day. And twenty-four candles, each weighing
half a pound, were to be placed on the altar on those days. The
remainder of the money was to be used for the incense.

Sancia, wife of Gaston V. of Béarn, and daughter of the King of Navarre,
sent the chapel of Roc Amadour a rich piece of tapestry wrought by her
own royal hands.

Count Odo de la Marche in 1119, during the reign of Louis-le-Gros,
offered the forest of Mount Salvy to God, the Blessed Mary of Roc
Amadour, and St. Martin of Tulle, free from all tax or impost, adding:
“And should any one presume to alienate this gift, let him incur the
anger of God and the saints, and remain for ever accursed with Dathan
and Abiram.”

In 1217 Erard de Brienne, lord of Rameru, allied by blood to the royal
families of Europe, and Philippine, his wife, daughter of Henry, Count
of Troyes and King of Jerusalem, made an offering of two candles to burn
night and day before the image of Notre Dame de Roc Amadour for the
redemption of their souls and the souls of their parents.

Alfonso, Count of Toulouse, brother of St. Louis, presented a silver
lamp to burn before the statue of Our Lady, and another was given by the
Countess de Montpensier, a French princess.

Letters are still extant by which Philip III., King of France, in 1276,
ratified the foundation of his uncle Alfonso, Count of Toulouse,
amounting to twenty livres of Touraine money, to be paid, one-half at
the Ascension and the other at All Saints, to keep a candle constantly
burning before the Virgin of Roc Amadour.

Pope Clement V. bequeathed a legacy to this church in 1314 that a wax
candle might burn continually in Our Lady’s chapel, in her honor and to
obtain the redemption of his soul. It was to be honorably placed in a
silver basin or sconce.

Savaric, Prince de Mauléon and lord of Tulle, celebrated for his
familiarity with military science and the elegance of his poesy, among
other gifts in 1218 gave the lands of L’Isleau, exempt from all tax, to
the church of St. Mary of Roc Amadour.

Louis of Anjou, afterwards King of Sicily, in 1365 ordered twenty livres
to be given annually to this church from his domain of Rouergue, out of
the love he bore the holy Virgin.

The Vicomte de Turenne, in 1396, assigned a silver mark annually from
one of his _seigneuries_ as a contribution to the support of the
miraculous chapel.

On the 22d of June, 1444, the noble and puissant lord, Pierre, Count of
Beaufort, moved by his devotion towards Jesus Christ, the Redeemer of
the world, and to Mary, his glorious Mother, and desirous of procuring
his own salvation and the solace of the suffering souls in purgatory,
assigned to the monastery of Roc Amadour the sum of ten livres annually
from the ferry over the Dordogne at Mount Valent, that a solemn Mass
might be sung every Thursday, at least in plain chant, with three
collects, one in honor of the Holy Ghost, another of the Blessed Virgin,
and the third for the repose of the faithful departed. After Mass the
priest, laying aside his chasuble, was to go daily, with all the clergy
of the chapel, to sing before the statue of Our Lady either the _Salve
Regina_ or the _Regina Cœli_, according to the season, with the _Libera_
or the _De Profundis_, for the repose of his and his wife’s souls and
the souls of his parents.

We could multiply these beautiful examples of devotion to the Blessed
Virgin, but forbear, though it is not useless to recount the deeds of
our forefathers in the faith. They have their lesson for those who know
how to read aright.

Among the glorious prerogatives with which the chapel of Notre Dame de
Roc Amadour is favored is the Grand Pardon, accorded by several popes of
the middle ages, on the feast of _Corpus Christi_ whenever it coincides
with the nativity of St. John the Baptist. This frequently happened
before the correction of the Calendar by Gregory XIII., but it now only
occurs when Easter falls on St. Mark’s day—that is, the 25th of April.
The Grand Pardon comprises all the privileges of a solemn jubilee, and
is gained by all who visit the miraculous chapel on the appointed day,
receive the sacraments with the proper dispositions, pray for concord
among Christian princes, the extirpation of heresy, and the exaltation
of our holy mother the church. So great was formerly the affluence of
the pilgrims on such occasions, as in the jubilee of 1546, the town
could not contain them, and tents were set up in the country round.
Pilgrimages to this ancient chapel are still common.

A remnant of the old palace of the abbot of Roc Amadour is still
standing, but is used for the sale of objects of devotion. Here Arnaud
Amalric, the papal legate, spent the whole winter of 1211, and many
other eminent prelates received hospitality, as the holy martyr St.
Englebert, Archbishop of Cologne. Behind this building a narrow,
dangerous path leads along the side of the cliff to an ancient hermitage
that now bears the title of _Maison à Marie_, where people desirous of
spending a few days in retreat can find an asylum. It hangs like a
bird’s nest on the edge of a fearful precipice, and must be a trying
residence to people of weak nerves. The Sisters of Calvary, who have
charge of it, look like doves in the clefts of the rocks. Still further
along the cliff is their convent.

A winding stair of two hundred and thirty-six steps, hewn out of the
live rock, and lighted only by the fissures, leads from the sacristy of
the church up to the ancient castle, and a scarcely less remarkable
ascent has been constructed zigzag over the cliff. This castle, half
ruined, was bought by the Père Caillau about forty years ago, and
repaired as a residence for the clergy who served the sanctuaries of Roc
Amadour under his direction. The old ramparts remain, affording a fine
view of the whole country around. Bending over them, you look straight
down on the group of churches below, and the village still further down,
while in the very depths of the horrid abyss is a faint line marking the
course of the Alzou along the bottom of the _Vallée Ténébreuse_.

A few years ago the ruined castle and crumbling churches below looked as
if they belonged to the time of King Dagobert, but they have lost in a
measure their air of charming antiquity in the necessary restorations,
by no means complete. Nothing, however, can destroy the singular
grandeur and wild beauty of the site, or the thousand delightful
associations—historic, religious, poetic, and legendary—connected with
the place.

We close this imperfect sketch by echoing the sentiments that animated
the saintly Père Caillau when he entered upon his duties as superior of
Roc Amadour: “With what joy I ascended the mysterious stairs that lead,
O Mary, to thy august sanctuary! With what fervor I celebrated the holy
mysteries at thy altar! With what love and respect I kissed the sacred
feet of thy statue! With what impatience I awaited the hour for
returning! Happy the moments passed at thy feet! The world seemed as
nothing in my eyes. What devotion, what profound silence there was in my
soul! What sweet transports of joy! My heart seemed consumed by a sacred
fire. Why, why were such moments so short? May their remembrance, at
least, abide for ever! And may I never cease to chant thy praise and
exalt thy wondrous mercy!”


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


                          A SILENT COURTSHIP.

Italian hotels of the old kind are a very pleasant remembrance to
travellers from the north; they have the romance and the forlorn beauty
which one expects to see, and few of the obtrusively modern arrangements
called comforts. The new hotels that have arisen since the age of
progress are very different, and not nearly so pleasant, even to the
traveller with the most moderate expectations of the picturesque. The
less-frequented towns inland have kept the old style of hostelry, as
travel does not increase enough in their neighborhood to warrant the
building of new-fashioned hotels; and though the palace floors and walls
may be cold and look cheerless on a damp winter day, there are a hundred
chances to one that no foreigner will be there to note down such an
experience.

But Macchio, in the Umbrian Marches, once had a hotel more singular than
almost any other. It had no name, such as even the most unmistakable
palazzo generally puts on to show its present destination; it was called
after the name of the old family whose stronghold it had once been; and
as of this stronghold only one part was whole, the hotel was called
“Torre Carpeggio.” It consisted, indeed, of a tower—that is, only the
tower was whole, furnished, and usable; among some ruins of the rest of
the building were a rude kitchen and stables, patched up with modern
masonry not half so solid as the original, and some servants slept in
the lofts above these apologies for “offices,” but the remarkable tower
only was in good repair. The owner, a native of the place, and whose
family had been for generations in the service of the Carpeggios, was an
unsophisticated countryman of the old school, not at all like the
exasperating landlord of city hotels, who has just begun to wake up to
the dignity of his position and to experiment in his behavior towards
his foreign guests. He was the real owner, having paid good money down
for the castle; but he still called the last Carpeggio his young master,
and loved him like his own son. This youth, like some of his remoter
forefathers, was fond of learning, and, seeing no other means of
securing an education and a start in life that should make something
better out of him than a starveling noble of the Marches, had sold his
inheritance to his old retainer, keeping back only one-third of the
vintage produce as a small yearly income to fall back upon, and had gone
to a German university, where even the most exacting of the professors
considered him a modern Pico della Mirandola. The selling of his old
ruined castle had brought down upon him the anger and contempt of
neighbors of his own class, but he was indifferent to local opinion and
despised the disguised meanness of too many of his neighbors. He had in
reality passed through a severe struggle with his own prejudices before
yielding to his better sense and parting with the shadow to pursue the
substance.

If learning should ever bring him money, he meant to reclaim the old
place, which in the meanwhile could not be in safer hands; but on this
he did not reckon, and while he looked down on the sordid poverty that
only prompted his neighbors to sell butter and milk, and take toll from
visitors coming to see the faded frescos or old armor in their ruinous
dwellings, he saw with very different eyes the probable future of
another kind of poverty before him: the pittance and privations of a
student’s lot, the obscure life of a professor or the uncertain one of a
discoverer; but withal the glorious counterweight of intellectual life,
the wealth of vigor and progress, and stimulated, restless thought,
doubling and trebling his interests, and making akin to himself all the
mental processes or achievements all over the world, which would come of
a few years’ study and the sacrifice of his home. Far more patriotic and
far more proud was this youth who sold his inheritance than the
indignant vegetators around him, who all felt the honor of their order
insulted by his unheard-of deed, and their country deprived of another
son unworthy of her because he could see in Germany something more than
a barbarous, hereditary tyrant and enemy!

So it came about that the good Salviani kept a hotel in Carpeggio tower,
the walls of which had always been kept in good repair, and which was
easily furnished, at no great expense, from the contents of various
lumber-rooms and a little intelligent help from the local carpenter,
who, like most Italians, had an intuitive understanding of the artistic.
Tourists who had stopped here for a night or two; artists who had
established their sketching headquarters here; Italians of some fortune
who passed here on their way to their inland _villeggiature_; anglers
and peddlers, friars, and even commercial travellers of various nations
who had begun to experiment on the rural population hereabouts; pilgrims
to the two neighboring shrines hardly known beyond twenty miles around,
and yet the boast of the neighborhood for nearly four hundred years;
wine merchants from the next cities—these and many more could witness to
the satisfactory way in which Salviani kept the only hotel in Macchio.
And of course his prices were moderate—indeed, to a foreigner they
seemed absolutely ridiculous; and he always made it a point to give an
Englishman or an American plenty of water, having found that by
experience a salve to the fault-finding spirit, and his young master
having also accustomed his old attendant to it by requiring it himself
ever since his boyhood. Foreigners with a “turn” for antique furniture
spent more time roaming the old chambers than they did eating at the
landlord’s excellent, if strictly national, table (for Salviani, knowing
that he was ignorant of foreign dishes, never attempted to drive away
his guests by bad imitations). The tower was very high and uncommonly
large in proportion; in fact, it reminded you rather of two Cecilia
Metella tombs raised one above the other than of an ordinary tower; and
it was oddly distributed within. A staircase wound in the centre of the
building, communicating with the rooms on each tier by a circular
corridor on which the doors opened; but from the third floor this
staircase ceased, and from that to the fourth there was no access except
from a winding stair within the thickness of the outer wall. The great
stairs were of stone and uncarpeted, and in the corridor on which the
doors of the rooms opened were placed at intervals pieces of furniture,
such as chairs, tables, stands, bronzes, vases, marble cornices, things
picturesque, but not always available for use, and many sadly injured
and mutilated, yet forming such a collection as sent a thrill of envy to
the heart of a few stray connoisseurs who had come across it and never
been able to bring away even a specimen. Old Salviani had his
superstitions, but, unlike his countrymen in general, he felt that these
forbade him to sell anything belonging to the old family seat,
especially to a foreigner.

One day two travellers stopped at the hotel, a mother and
daughter—“English, of course,” said the landlord with a smile, as he saw
their costume and independent air. The daughter was, equally of course,
in evident and irrepressible raptures about everything she saw in the
place, from the ruinous outhouses to the museum-like interior. Their own
rooms on the first floor, large, marble-paved, and scantily but
artistically furnished with the best preserved of the antique things,
satisfied them only for a short time; they wanted to be shown over the
whole house. The bedrooms were not quite in such good taste, they
thought; and indeed, as Salviani was not perfect, here the “cloven foot”
_did_ appear, for a peddler had once beguiled him into buying some
Nottingham lace curtains with which he disfigured one of the third-story
rooms, and some cheap chintzes which he had made into curtains for some
of the patched-up bedsteads. But as the two strangers went up through
each corridor, looking down at the tier below and at the various
beautiful things beside them, they forgot these blemishes in their
delight at a sight so unusual as this large, inhabited, well-preserved
tower. They had seen nothing like it and could never have imagined it.
It had an air of dignity, of grandeur, of repose, and yet of connection
with the present to which one is more accustomed in old English
country-houses than in Italian palaces.

One of the rooms on the fourth tier was almost unfurnished, having only
two dilapidated bedsteads, one very large and promiscuously heaped with
bed-quilts of equal dilapidation, while the other, in the form of a cot,
or child’s bed, was also much larger than such beds are made now. On
this was thrown an old-fashioned but almost new black mantle trimmed
with silk ribbon. This was the room afflicted with the Nottingham lace
curtains, which were cleaner than seemed natural in such a room. The
view hence was beautiful, and the young Englishwoman was moved to
suggest that they should change their plans a little and stay here a few
weeks, when she would endeavor to learn the language and would make a
study of this tower-nest with the fine view. It would be so out of the
way, and a few antique chairs and a table would be enough furniture to
replace the beds, which could be put into the next room. The mother
smiled; she was used to these sudden schemes growing up full-fledged out
of any pleasant and suggestive-looking circumstances, but the landlord,
seriously entering into the proposal, said he feared the other room was
too small to hold the beds—certainly the big one, which could not be got
through the door, and, in fact, did not take to pieces. This set the
young girl to examining the bed, and suddenly she called her companions
to notice a panel in the tall head-board, which reached nearly to the
ceiling. It seemed movable, she said, and might she not try to find the
spring? Did the signor know anything about it? Salviani turned rather
pale and hastily crossed himself, muttering something in Italian; then,
in bad French, attempted to explain to his guest that there was a story
of a former Carpeggio who was said to have lived alone on this top story
and to have been a wizard, but how long ago he could not tell, nor if
the bed had been there then. The young girl insisted on getting to the
bottom of the secret of the panel, which at last yielded, and revealed a
space between itself and another room of which only a corner was
visible, and a very small grated window high up in the wall. She
scrambled through the panel opening, out into a lot of rubbish which
filled the intervening space and covered the sloping floor several
inches deep. The door into the other room was gone, or else there had
never been one, and there were large hooks on either side of the gap, as
if curtains might once have hung there. The floor was sunk much lower
than this level—quite three feet—giving one the impression of a shallow
well, so that there must have once been some movable way of descent. An
old press or chest, with two drawers at the bottom, filled one corner,
and on it was a faded piece of green silk, looking unmistakably part of
a woman’s dress, and a beautiful, delicate ivory desk lying open, with
many thin plates folding together like the leaves of a portfolio. The
curious girl handled it with a sort of dread, yet eagerly and closely
inspected it, leaving it afterwards in just the position in which she
had found it. As she turned from it she gave a cry of surprise; a chair
stood in the corner, half hidden by the press, and across the back of it
hung a long lock of hair, brown and silky, now fluttering in the
unaccustomed draught from the open panel. Suddenly the intruder was
aware that the walls were covered with books but they were hidden behind
a close, thin green wire netting, which had at first looked like the
pattern of the wall. She eagerly called for a chair to stand on to
examine them; the landlord handed her one through the door, and then for
the first time, fascinated yet afraid, gazed into the room. Many were
the voluble and simple exclamations he uttered; but he was evidently
more concerned as to the risk of touching such uncanny things than
pleased at the discovery of the energetic stranger. Meanwhile, she
looked at the books, which filled up two sides of the room from floor to
ceiling—they were a treasure, as she knew: old Italian and German books
on theological and philosophical subjects; translations into Italian of
some Elizabethan authors—these, perhaps, unique of their kind, and rarer
than originals in either English or Italian; Italian translations of
more modern English books; poetry, science, illuminated manuscripts,
first editions of sixteenth-century printed books—the Italian ones, even
those in black-letter, perfectly clear and legible to a tyro, while a
few English books of a century later were not half so decipherable; a
good many Greek and Latin books, but not so many as of the Italian and
German; and a few Oriental manuscripts, chiefly Hebrew, Arabic, and
Syriac. In two places on the wall, which showed traces of a rough kind
of painting as a background, were hung unframed Chinese landscapes on
wood, and in other parts of the room old engravings, some plainly
framed, some not, but pasted on to boards, and one or two unfinished
etchings. The most interesting purported to be a head of St. Peter—not a
conventional one, but a copy from some old painting, itself copied from
a Byzantine fresco, and claiming to be—so said the quotation at the foot
of the etching—a portrait of the apostle as he really was. The pedigree
of the portrait, however, was the really interesting point, and this was
minutely traced in the foot-note, added by one signing himself Andrea
C., to the unfinished etching of the artist, who, it seems, had died
while engaged on this work.

And here ends the part the strangers took in the affair; for they
continued their journey to Ancona, and often in after-years, in their
quiet English home between lake and rocky fell, wondered what became of
the books of Torre Carpeggio. But the faithful Salviani had written to
his young master at once, and Carpeggio returned a joyous answer, full
of excitement and curiosity, promising a visit as soon as his means and
his studies combined would allow of it. It was a year before he was able
to come—a year during which he had changed and ripened, but which had
left the old tower, and, indeed, the sleepy, beautiful old city, as
unchanged as anything can be where human beings are being born, married,
and buried in due season. Even this inevitable change, however, was
neutralized by the firmly-grooved life which, as each generation grew
up, it placidly inherited from the last and religiously carried out,
undreaming of any other possibilities and ignorant even of its own
dormant energies. This was before the commotions of the last twenty
years, and there was not even a political ferment, much less an
intellectual one, to disturb the even flow of things. One or two of the
cathedral clergy had the reputation of being great scholars, and,
indeed, had the right to be so looked upon, if by scholarship we
understand the kind of knowledge which made the men of the Medici days
fully the equals of the Oxford dons of only one generation ago; but that
sort of scholarship harmonized well with the air of serene drowsiness
that covered the picturesque and half-deserted old city. The old canons
kept much to themselves, and studied in a dainty, desultory, solitary
way, not extending the daintiness to dress or furniture, but keeping up
an unconscious kind of picturesqueness which they chiefly owed to such
details as velvet skull-caps and bits of stray carving, or an old and
precious ivory crucifix or Cellini relic-case—things prized by them for
their meaning rather than for their art-value.

To this quaint, quiet city Emilio Carpeggio came back, after a two
years’ absence, a youth still—for he was only twenty—but a phenomenon,
if any one had known what was passing in his brain. He found the state
of things more deplorable than ever, now that he had had experience of a
different lot; he had thought it hopeless enough before. Practical and
far-seeing, he did not find a panacea in reckless political
disturbances, and in impossible strivings to make citizens and statesmen
out of his easy-going neighbors, so he was saved the loss of time that
clogged the efforts of so many well-meaning men of his acquaintance
abroad; individual mental activity was what he looked forward to as the
thin edge of the wedge that should break up this spell of what he could
not help looking upon as lamentable stagnation, however beautiful the
disguise it wore.

His three months’ holiday came to an end, and he disappeared again,
carrying off his treasures with him to Germany, where they became the
wonder and envy of the professors. But such luck, after all, was only
due, said the kindly old men, to one who had done so much to win
knowledge.

There was one of these men, not nearly so old as the rest, the special
teacher to whom Carpeggio had attached himself, who was the young man’s
best friend. To him only the dreams and hopes and resolves of this
concentrated young mind were made freely known; for, though young as
regards most of the professors, Schlichter was like a father to the
Italian student. He was only forty-two, and already had a European
reputation in his own line—mining engineering. A year after Carpeggio
came back from his visit to Italy his master received an invitation from
a scientific society in England to give a course of lectures in London
during the summer. He proposed to the young man to accompany him,
telling him that there was no knowing what practical advantages might
result from his visit to a country where you needed only energy to grasp
success.

“But you forget the Mammon-worship of the English,” said Emilio, “of
which you yourself have so scornfully told me, and that obscure young
foreigners without interest are not likely to have a chance of showing
off their energy. I think I had better stay and study here another year
or two, instead of deliberately exposing myself to the vertigo of
London.”

“Nonsense!” said Schlichter impatiently. “Society is not likely to
dazzle us, or, indeed, take much notice of us; they know how to keep the
streams separate, even if the fine ladies do play at a little pretty
enthusiasm for science now and then. A lecture nowadays is only another
excuse for a pretty toilette, a change from the breakfast and morning
concert or the afternoon kettle-drum; but that does not imply a real,
personal notice of the lecturer, or, indeed, of any other working-bee.
But, seriously, I know some men in London who might help you, if they
had a mind to do it. You know how many surveys and plans there
are—always some new expedition to far-away places—and young men of
brains are always useful, especially single men, who can leave home
without regret or difficulty. You speak English and other useful modern
languages, and you have every chance, I tell you, if you will only keep
your eyes open. As for study, a man need never say he can find no time
for it, however busy he is. If my evil genius had made me a merchant, I
should have found time for study, and so will you, just as well as if
you stayed at home. It is settled, is it not?”

So they went, and the lectures were given, and the little world of
learned men which is the leaven of England met the two strangers
heartily; but, as Schlichter had foretold, nothing very remarkable or
very dazzling occurred to them, though, to be sure, the elder man kept a
jealous eye on his young friend, as if he had fears or expectations of
something happening. But Emilio calmly came and went, studied and saw
sights, went to quiet family gatherings or to large parties which the
uninitiated could not have distinguished from those of the charmed
uppermost circle, and yet no one of the many girls he saw seemed to
dwell in his thoughts more than courtesy required while he was in their
presence. One day Schlichter told him that a friend of his had
recommended him to a mine-owner as general overseer and agent of his
underground property, and that he probably would have nothing to do but
to step into the place. “You would rather have been tacked on at the
tail of some South American expedition or Central African survey, I dare
say,” he said; “but you had better take this and be thankful, Carpeggio.
The country is wild and picturesque, I believe—Monmouthshire, just on
the Welsh border—and you will be pretty much your own master. It only
depends on you to go up higher; but still I would not have you forget
the practical altogether. One must live, even if one does not run after
money for its own sake, which you, at all events, are not likely to do.”

So Emilio was left alone in England, in a responsible if not very
brilliant position, and faithfully did his work so as to gain his
employer’s whole confidence and respect. The local society decidedly
flattered the grave young overseer, whose title had over women the vague
charm it always awakens in romantic or speculating Englishwomen, and was
even not obnoxious to the men, whose practical minds forgave the
“foreign bosh” for the sake of the man’s good English and modest,
hard-working life. He was popular among the miners, and altogether, in
his little sphere, supreme. But parties and picnics sadly wearied him,
and he feared he was growing misanthropic (so he wrote to Schlichter),
when his employer took a new turn and began to court the notice of
guests for one of his newest mines, of which he made a pet and a show.
Whenever he had people to see him he arranged a party for going to see
the mine and its new improvements; it was to be a model, the machinery
was carefully chosen on improved principles—in fact, the place became a
local show. Strangers came, and the country people began to take pride
in it, so that Carpeggio often had to escort fat dowagers, experienced
flirts, fast young men, and statesmen on a short holiday, down the mine.
The contrast between this and his old home among the vineyards of Umbria
often made itself felt with strange vividness as he sat by these people
in the large cage or basket, swinging up or down between the dark, damp,
unfragrant walls of the shaft, he shouting one steady word to the men
who held the ropes, and then quieting the half-sham tremors of a young
lady, or smiling at the equally assumed carelessness of another whose
part in the play was the reverse of the old-fashioned ingénue.[7]

It was the contrast between his old life in Germany, so true and still,
and this English one, so full of froth and shifting scenes, that kept
him from feeling the fascination of his new surroundings. Graver and
graver he grew, as the wonder in his mind grew also, concerning the
effect that all this whirl of unreality must have, in its different
degrees, upon its victims. Were they all willing or passive ones? Did no
one ever rebel against the mould? Did no woman’s heart and woman’s hopes
strive against those worldly calculations which seemed to hedge in every
family, from that of the half-starving village solicitor, and even that
of the hard-working vicar, to that of his employer, and no doubt also of
the squires and the marquis, whose two daughters had just been presented
at court? Report said that one of these was very beautiful; it also
added, wilful. But that probably meant only a spoilt child, not a woman
with an individuality of her own.

One day Emilio was in the mine, making a sketch by the light of a
lantern for an improvement that had just occurred to him, when he heard
a noise not far off, and knew it to be the basket coming down the shaft.
He was putting his papers together to go and see who had come, when he
was met by one of the men smiling covertly, who told him that two young
ladies had insisted on coming down with him as he returned from an
ascent with a load of ore. They were alone, he said, and wore gray
waterproof cloaks and rubber boots, which they said they had put on on
purpose, meaning to go down the mine. He had begged them to wait till he
brought the overseer to do them the honors. “As pretty as pictures,”
said the man as Carpeggio moved off, “but evidently strangers to the
place.” A solution at once darted to the young man’s mind, but he said
nothing, and, when he got to the opening, he saw before him the great,
dirty basket, and two laughing, fresh faces still inside, as the girls
clung with ungloved hands to the ropes and peered out into the darkness
beyond them.

“Allow me,” he said, as he offered one of them his hand. “I am afraid
you will be disappointed in the very little there is to see, but I shall
be happy to show you over the place.” The two girls seemed suddenly
confused and answered only by letting him help them down. He led them
on, and here and there explained something which was Greek to them.
Presently one whispered to the other: “Why, Kate! he is a gentleman.”
“Hush,” said the other in sudden alarm: “he will hear you.” And she
immediately asked a question of their guide. When she found out that
there was a lower level than the one they were on, she asked to go down
at once, but Carpeggio gravely declined, on the plea of their being
alone and his not wishing to take the responsibility if they should get
wet through.

“No one need know,” said one of them. “We ran away on purpose, and there
is just time to go down and get home for tea. Luncheon does not matter.”

“Forgive me, madam,” said the young man with a smile, “but I would
rather not, and you can easily come again, with any one authorized to
let you have your own way. I cannot in conscience allow it while you are
alone.”

“It is no fun coming with a lot of old fogies, and in a carriage, and
one’s best behavior, and so on,” said the spokeswoman; “is it, Kate?”
The other blushed and hesitated, and at last said she thought it was
best to give up the lower level and go home; yet she seemed just as full
of life and fun as her companion, and had evidently enjoyed the escapade
just as much. Carpeggio looked at her for a moment and led the way
towards the basket. He went up with them and courteously bade them
good-by at the mouth of the shaft. The younger one held out her hand and
said: “You will tell us whom we have to thank, I hope?”

“Oh!” he said confusedly, glancing at the other and only seeing the
outstretched hand just in time not to seem rude, “I am only the
overseer.”

The other girl suddenly looked up and held out her hand to him, saying:
“Thank you; I am sure you were right about going further down. And now
we must say good-by.”

Carpeggio went down again to his interrupted drawing, but the face and
name of “Kate” came between him and his work. He saw neither of the
girls again for weeks, and carefully forbore to make any inquiries; the
gossip of the men did not reach the society which might have twitted him
with the visit of those unexpected explorers, and he kept his surmises
to himself.

Yet the door had been opened, and he was no longer the same, though to
outsiders no change was visible. Two months later there was a public
ball in the county town—an occasion on which many persons meet
officially on terms that are hardly kept up all the year round, but
which yet offer opportunities of social glorification “warranted to
keep” till the same time next year. This ball was to be followed the
next night by another, given by the regiment; and though this was “by
invitation,” it was practically nearly as public as the other. These
gayeties greatly excited the small world of the mining district, and for
the first time became of interest to Emilio, though he was angry and
ashamed to acknowledge it to himself. His work was the only thing that
did not suffer; as to his studies, they were interrupted, and even his
calm gravity became absent-mindedness. He was one of the earliest guests
present at the county ball, and watched the door eagerly for an hour at
least before he was rewarded. Then came a large party, to whom the
appointed ushers paid unusual attention, though the head of it seemed
but a kindly middle-aged man, remarkable only for his geniality. Every
one, however, knew the marquis by sight; Carpeggio, who did not, felt it
was he before even the deference paid to him told him so. By his side
were the two girls he had first seen in the mine-basket, now dressed in
white ball-dresses, airy and commonplace, just the same society uniform
as the three co-heiresses, the daughters of his own employer, but to him
how different, how tender, how sacred! That is to say, Lady Katharine’s;
for her pretty sister seemed an ordinary woman beside her.

And now began all the sweet, old-fashioned, foolish tumult of which
bards and romancers weave their webs; the trembling and fear and joy and
jealousy which Carpeggio had read of, but thought impossible in this
century of sham excitements and masqueraded lives. He thought that she
looked much more beautiful in her gray cloak and drooping black hat; but
still “Kate” in any dress was a vision of heaven rather than a common
mortal. As she came into the room, she looked anxiously around and saw
him at once. She had expected to meet him here, then—both were conscious
of it in that one look, and it seemed as if this blissful understanding
between them were enough. The youth turned to do his duty by his
employer’s three daughters and all the rest of his acquaintances, to
whom, in the character of a “dancing man” as well as a good match, he
was interesting; he spun off little courteous speeches, not untrue but
commonplace, until he felt that he had satisfied natural expectations,
and then he allowed himself a respite and gazed at the marquis’ youngest
daughter. Towards supper time Carpeggio’s employer, proud of the great
man’s courteous notice of him, suddenly bethought himself that an
“Italian nobleman” in his wake might make the marquis respect his
all-powerful purse the more, so he introduced his young overseer to the
marquis with a flourish very unpleasant to the former and rather amusing
to the latter. Emilio was struck with dumbness or confusion; his new
acquaintance took compassion on him and led him up to his daughters,
whose eyes had been for some time fixed upon him with breathless
interest. As he shook hands with them the second time he was in an
awkward bewilderment whether or no to allude to their former meeting; in
fact, his usual indifference was wholly upset. Lady Katharine was
equally silent; whether she shared his embarrassment he could not tell;
but the other, Lady Anne, skilfully and with a latent, suppressed gleam
of mischief in her eye, talked so as to cover his confusion and clear
away the thorns that seemed to grow up between him and her sister. At
last he had the courage to ask each of the girls for a dance, and this,
together with a word in the cloak-room as he escorted them to their
carriage, and the certainty of meeting them again at the military ball
next night, was all that happened to feed the flame of a feeling he knew
to be already beyond the bounds of reason.

Yet he did nothing to check this feeling; are not all lovers fatalists
for the time being? Of course it was hopeless, insane, impossible—he
could see it with the eyes of the world; but he also knew that it was
true love, the ideal and pure love of Arcadia, the one thing which,
whether realized or not, lifts men above conventional life and turns
gold to dross. He also fancied that this love might be returned, and did
not care to inquire further just now, when to be blind to details was to
be happy. Besides, these were the first girls he had seen that had not
lost their naturalness, and he wanted to watch and see if they could
keep it in the atmosphere in which they lived. This was not quite an
excuse; for the young cynic had really got to be a sharp observer of
human nature, and had, like most such observers when young, hastily
concocted one or two theories which he was now becoming anxious to test.

Nothing happened at the military ball more than the most uninterested
spectator might see at any ball; and yet much happened, for Carpeggio
met Kate and danced with her, and both, as if by mutual understanding,
were very silent. Her sister, however, made up for this by chattering in
the most meaningly meaningless way, and delighting the lovers by her
tacit abetment of anything they might choose to think, say, or do. After
these balls there was for a long time no more opportunity for meetings,
and Emilio chafed against his fate, using the leisure time he had before
spent in study for long walks to the marquis’ house—that is, as near as
he dared go without danger of trespassing. Once or twice he was lucky
enough to meet the girls on the highroad outside the park, and this he
enjoyed indeed; the progress was quicker, though as silent as in the
ball-room. Then once he met them out driving with their father, and on
another occasion came upon them at a neighboring squire’s, where they
were on a state visit. But all this made little outward difference,
though he felt as if he no longer needed anything but a solemn pledge to
change the inner certainty into an acknowledged fact. Lady Anne was
evidently a thorough partisan, and her sister’s silence and looks told
him all he wanted to know; yet he refrained from saying the word, and
knew that she understood why he did so. The fact was, he trusted to
Providence and his own power of shaping any opportunity sent him. The
whole thing seemed to him wonderful and mysterious; and as it had begun,
so doubtless would it be guided to a happy end.

One day his employer told him with much importance that he was going to
bring a “very distinguished” party to see the mine, and afterwards to go
through the works and see the melted ore pouring out from the furnaces,
“as that always amused young people so.” The marquis was coming with his
daughters and his only son from Eton, and a young friend, a cousin of
his, Lord Ashley; then he would have one or two of the “best people”
from the immediate neighborhood, and his own daughters, besides the son
of a friend out in Australia, a Mr. Lawrence, whom Carpeggio had heard
rumor speak of as a not unwelcome son-in-law in the eyes of the rich
mine-owner. He wondered whether Lord Ashley might be destined by her
father as a suitor for Kate; but the elder daughter would be more likely
to be thought of first, besides being the prettier.

The day came, and with it the party, who arrived in the afternoon,
picnicked in the adjoining woods, and then sauntered over to the shaft,
where Emilio met them. Kate wore the same gray-water proof, and, as he
took her hand to help her into the basket, he gave it the slightest
pressure, with a look that spoke volumes. She was almost as grave as
himself. I cannot describe all that went on during the inspection, which
to all, save Mr. Lawrence and the marquis, was a pleasure party in
disguise; for the former knew something of the subject from Australian
experiences, and the latter was considering the question of renting, or
himself working, a mine lately found on his own property. Technical
questions, explanations, and discussions, between these two visitors and
the owner and overseer took up the time, while the young ladies, Lord
Ashley, and the jolly Eton boy, who was a counterpart of his livelier
sister, laughed and joked like a mixed school in play-time. Carpeggio,
however, kept his eye on Kate the whole time, and was comforted; for
there was no fear of that nature being spoiled, though he thought with
sorrow that it might be bruised and crushed. Suddenly, in the midst of a
discussion, his ear caught an unaccustomed sound, and he turned pale for
a moment, then bent forward composedly and whispered in his employer’s
ear. The latter, after an almost imperceptible start, said briskly to
his guests: “As it is near the hour for the furnaces to show off at
their best, I think we had better be moving,” and led the way rather
quickly to the shaft. Carpeggio contrived to get near Kate, whose
silence showed how glad she was of the companionship, but he was
preoccupied and anxious and spoke a few words absently. A loud noise was
heard, seemingly not far away, and the visitors asked, “What is that?”
while the master hurriedly said, “Oh! it is only a blast, but we must
not be late for the furnaces; come,” and tried to marshal his guests
closely together. Instinctively they obeyed and hurried forward; the
marquis looked round for his children. Anne and the boy were near him,
but Kate not to be seen. There was a corner to be turned, and she was
just behind it, when another noise overhead was heard and Carpeggio
rushed like the wind from behind the angle, carrying the girl in his
arms. It was the work of a second; for as he set her on her feet by her
father’s side, and almost against the basket, down came a huge fragment
and all but blocked up the gallery behind them, falling on the spot
where she might have been had she lingered another moment. Whether or
not she had heard his passionate whisper, “My own,” as he gathered her
suddenly in his arms and took that breathless rush, he could hardly
tell, for she was dazed and half-unconscious when he set her down again.
Her father thanked him by an emphatic shake of the hand and a look he
treasured up in his soul; but there was no time for more, as the basket
was hastily loaded with the girls and drawn up. As the signal came down
that they were safe, the owner’s tongue was loosed, and he explained
rapidly that something had happened on the second level (they were on
the third) and shaken the rock below; he trusted nothing more would
happen, but he must beg his guests to visit the works alone, as he must
stop to see to the damage.

“No,” said the overseer, “think of your daughters’ anxiety, my dear sir;
there is probably nothing very serious, and it is nearly time for the
men to come up. I shall do very well alone.”

The marquis looked at him admiringly; he could not advise him to leave
without doing his duty, yet he felt suddenly loath to have anything
happen to the preserver of his daughter. After a short altercation the
master consented to go up, provided Carpeggio would send for him, if
necessary; and the basket came down again. As they reached the next
level, where the overseer got out, they heard uncomfortable rumblings at
intervals; and when they got out at the mouth of the shaft, where they
met a good many of the men who had come up by another opening, they were
very unlike a gala party. Kate was still there; they had wanted her,
said the girls, to go in and rest in a cottage near by, but she insisted
on waiting; and when she saw all but Carpeggio she only turned away in a
hopeless, silent way that concerned her sister, who alone knew the
cause. Anne immediately put questions that brought out the facts of the
case; and as their host tried hard to put the party at their ease again
by hastening to the furnaces under the sheds, she whispered: “Kate, do
keep up, or there will be such a fuss.”

“Never fear,” said the girl; “and try and make them stay till we hear
what has happened, Anne; I do not want to go home without knowing.”

It was nervous work for the master and the men who were tending the
molten ore to conceal their anxiety. The beautiful white iron, flowing
like etherealized lava, rushing out from the dark, oven-like furnaces
and spreading into the little canals made ready for it, gave one a
better idea of pure light than anything could do. The heat was intense,
and the men opened the doors with immense long poles tipped with iron;
the gradual darkening of the evening threw shadows about the place, and
the streams of living light, that looked as the atmosphere of God’s
throne might look, settled into their moulds, hardening and darkening
into long, heavy, unlovely bars. A suppressed excitement was at work;
groups of men came up every minute with contradictory reports as to the
accident; women and children met them with wild questions or equally
wild recognition; and the master repeatedly sent messages to the mouth
of the shaft. At last, throwing by all pretence, he begged his guests to
wait for news, and with Lawrence went back to the mine. More men were
coming up—the last but five, he was told—and Mr. Carpeggio had said he
thought he and his four mates could do all that was needed and come up
before any mischief happened to them. The soil was loosening under the
action of water, and to save the ore accumulated below, and which could
not be hauled up in time, they had built a sort of wall across the
gallery as well as the circumstances and the time would allow; Mr.
Carpeggio had sent the men away as fast as he could spare them, and kept
only four with him to finish, which was the most dangerous part of the
business, as the water threatened them more and more.

“He sent all the married men up first, and asked the rest to volunteer
as to who among them should stay, as he only wanted four,” said one of
the men; “and I thought they would all have insisted upon staying, but
he grew angry and said there was no time; so they agreed to draw lots.”

Another quarter of an hour’s suspense, and then a low, muttering sound
that spread horror among the whispering multitude gathered at the mouth
of the shaft. Some men went down to the first level, and soon came up
with blank faces and whispered to the master: no sound but that of water
was to be heard below, and fears for the safety of the workers were too
confidently expressed. Nothing remained but to give orders for affording
relief; the only comfort was that there had been no sign of the air
becoming vitiated. Here the master’s experience was at fault, and he had
to rely on that of some of the older men. “If Carpeggio had been here,
he would have got the men out in two hours,” he asserted confidently;
“but he must go and get himself mewed up there, and leave me no one to
direct things—though I believe he can get himself out as quick as any of
us can dig him out,” he said, with a half-laugh; and one of the men
whispered to his neighbor:

“I do not wonder he sets such store by him; I had rather be down there
myself than have him killed.”

At last it became certain, by signs which this faithful chronicler is
not competent to explain technically, that the five men had been cut off
behind a mass of rock and ore, and that it would take two days or more
to get them out. Work was vigorously begun at once; relays of men went
down to search, by making calls and rapping on the echoing walls, in
which direction lay the least impenetrable of the obstacles between them
and the sufferers; the pumps were set going and every one worked with a
will. The news was received by the party at the works in a silence that
marked their interest well, and the young men eagerly asked their host
if they could be made of any service personally, while the marquis
offered to send down some of his men to help, if more were wanted, and
promised to send all he and his daughters could think of as useful to
the imprisoned men when they should be brought out of their dangerous
predicament. But as this accident refers only, so far as our tale is
concerned, to the links between Emilio and Kate, we must pass over the
hourly exciting work, the reports, the surmises, the visits and
inspections of newspaper men and others, the telegrams and sympathy of
people in high places, the details which accompany all such accidents,
and which it takes a skilled hand to describe in words that would only
make the expert laugh at the ambitious story-teller. Space also, and
mercy on the feelings of practised novel-readers, make us hesitate to do
more than hint at the state of mind of the girl whose dream of love and
happiness hung in the balance for nearly five days. Only her sister
guessed the whole, and skilfully managed to shield her from inconvenient
notice and inquiry; and, indeed, the excitement of the time helped her
in her work. The fifth day, towards evening, a messenger on horseback
brought word of the safety of the men—all but one, who had died of
exhaustion and hunger. Carpeggio and the rest had narrowly escaped
drowning as well as starvation, but had nevertheless managed to help on
his deliverers by working on his own side of the bed of earth and
clearing away no small part (considering his disadvantages) of the
embankment. The men had declared that but for him and his indomitable
spirit, their suspense, and even their danger, would have increased
tenfold; and, besides, he had contrived, by his efforts previous to the
final falling in of earth and rushing in of water, to save a large
portion of valuable ore which must otherwise have been either lost or
much spoilt. He had been taken to his employer’s house, where the
greatest care was bestowed on him, and the other men to their respective
homes. The marquis resolved to go over the next day and inquire after
him, and showed the greatest interest and anxiety about him; but Lady
Anne shook her head as she said to her sister:

“He will do anything, Kate, for Mr. Carpeggio” (the young man had
tacitly dropped his proper title for the time being), “except the one
thing you want; and you know that, with me, the wish is far from being
father to the thought in this matter.”

There was nothing to do but to wait, and then came the overseer’s
recovery and first visit to the house of his love as a cherished guest,
his silent look of longing and uncertainty, the gradual and still silent
knitting together of a new and happier understanding than before, and
finally the offer of the father to make him manager and part owner of
the new mine on his own estate. The ownership he at once refused; but,
as he could well manage the overseeing of the marquis’ colliery without
prejudice to his first employer’s interests, he joyfully accepted the
first part of the proposal. Then a cottage was pressed upon him, and
this also he accepted, provided it was understood to form part of his
salary. The old man was both pleased and nettled at his stiff
independence; but when Anne reminded him that the circumstances of the
case made this the only proper course, he forgot his vexation and
heartily praised the manliness of his new _employé_.

Carpeggio was often at the house, and in fact grew to be as familiar a
presence there as that of the inmates themselves, and still the silent
bond went on, seemingly no nearer an outward solution, though the
marquis’ favor visibly increased. The colliery prospered and brought in
money, and the overseer carefully put by his salary and studied hard at
night, till his name got to be first known, then respected, in the
scientific world; and one day an official intimation was made to him
that the third place on a mining survey expedition to South America was
at his disposal. He had written to Schlichter constantly, and at last
had made a clean breast of what he called his unspoken but not the less
sealed engagement. The two girls had gone through two London seasons;
Lord Ashley and Mr. Lawrence had become brothers-in-law by each marrying
one of the trio who had so long expected to make a conquest of the
overseer himself; and Carpeggio had enough to buy a large share in the
concern of either of his two employers. Such was the state of affairs
when the proposal of an American trip was made to him; if the survey was
satisfactory, and a company formed in consequence, he would be out at
least three years, with the chance of a permanent settlement as director
of the works and sharer in the company. Both pecuniarily and
scientifically a career was open to him, while at home there was success
in all but love—nearly as certain. Schlichter strongly advised him to
go; the marquis himself saw the thing as a thorough Englishman, and was
willing to lose his right-hand man, as he called him, for the sake of
this opening; Carpeggio saw the alluring chance of travel, adventure,
the prestige of his possible return in a different character, the
enlarged field which he could not help looking on as more tempting than
success—equally solid, perhaps, but more humdrum—at his very elbow, and
the glorious southern climate, like to, and yet more radiant than, the
old home one to which he had been used as a boy among the vineyards of
Umbria. He knew that Kate would follow him there gladly, as she would
had he gone to the North Pole; but there was _the_ intangible yet
terribly real barrier. In everything but the weighty affair of mating he
was held as Kate’s equal, and the equal of all whom he met at the
marquis’ house; even in London, where he had once stayed with them a
week, and gone into that society which was “their world,” he had been
received in a way unexceptionally satisfactory; he was put on more than
an equal footing with young Englishmen of good standing, but he knew
that he shared with them the cruel, tacit exclusion from competition for
first-class prizes. He was good enough to dance with, ride with, flirt
with, and escort to her carriage the daughter of a duke; so were the
many young fellows who made the bulk of the young society of the day;
but there were preserves within preserves. The second sons, the young
lawyers, the men in “marching” regiments, the naval cadets, the
government clerks, and even the sons of admirals, clergymen, and men who
had made their mark in the literary and scientific as well as the social
world—all these were tacitly, courteously, but inexorably tabooed as
regards marriage with their partners, friends, and entertainers. In
fact, society had bound these youths over to “keep the peace,” while it
encouraged every intimacy that was likely to lead to a breach of it.
Carpeggio had lived long enough in England to be quite aware of this and
to “know his own place” in the world; but he trusted to time and Kate’s
faithfulness. He at last made up his mind to go to South America, and
that without saying anything that would weigh Kate down with the
knowledge of a secret to be withheld from her father; but he had
likewise made up his mind to speak to the marquis on his return. He
would be true to his employer, but could not afford to be false to
himself; his own rights as a man were as present to his mind as the
position and prejudices which he appreciated and tolerated in the person
of a man so thoroughly gentlemanlike as his patron; and this compromise
of a three years’ absence and silence seemed to him to honorably fulfil
all the expectations that could be formed of him. He said good-by to the
girls together in their father’s library, and the old man blessed him
and bade him Godspeed in the heartiest fashion, almost with tears in his
eyes; but of more tender and definite speech there was none. Who is
there, however, but knows the delicate, intangible farewell, the firm
promise conveyed by a pressure of the hand, and one long, frank, brave
look, and all that true love knows how to say without breaking any other
allegiance and without incurring the blame of secrecy?

So Emilio Carpeggio went and prospered, while Kate remained a beauty and
a moderate heiress (she had half of her mother’s small fortune), courted
and loved, and going through the weary old treadmill of London seasons
and country “parties.” People wondered why she did not marry. Her sister
did, and made a love-match, though there was no violent obstacle in the
way, and the lover was perfectly acceptable as to station and fortune.
She was lucky, also, in loving a man who had some brains to boast of.
This unknown brother-in-law in after-times became a powerful lever in
favor of Carpeggio’s suit; but long before the young engineer came back
the kind, tender-hearted old marquis had found out his daughter’s
secret, and after some time overcame his natural prejudices, and as
generously agreed to Kate’s hopes as he had before vigorously opposed
them. And yet all this was done while hardly a word was spoken; for if
any courtship was emphatically a silent one, it was this. Everything
came to be tacitly understood, and a few hand-pressures, a kiss, a
smile, or a long look expressed the changes and chances of this simple
love-story. At the end of three years the young man came home on a
holiday, which he meant to employ in determining his fate. He had
promised the new company to go back permanently and take charge of their
interests as a resident, and many of the native members had shown
themselves willing and eager to make him a countryman and a son-in-law.
He went home, and saw the marquis the first evening of his stay, two
hours after he got off the train. To his surprise, he found his request
granted before he made it and his road made plain before him. The old
man did not even ask him not to return to America. It is of little use
to descant on his meeting with Kate and on his (literally) first spoken
words of love. They told each other the truth—that is, that the moment
they met in the mine, five years before, was the beginning of their
love. They were married with all the pretty pastoral-feudal accessories
of a country wedding in England, and spent their honeymoon in the old
tower of Carpeggio, where the bride explored the library-room with great
curiosity, and was charmed with the old-fashioned figures of the
principal people of the town, whom she entertained in what was now again
her husband’s own house.

Signor Salviani had built a pretty, villa-like hotel half a mile
further, and was as proud on the day when his young master again took
possession of the old tower as the bridegroom himself. From there
Carpeggio went to his German friends, presented the famous Schlichter to
his wife, and got his rough and fatherly congratulations on his choice,
his perseverance, and his success. In three months the young couple set
sail for their new home, where Carpeggio had sent the last orders needed
to set up quickly the nest he had half-prepared already in anticipation
of his visit to England. When they arrived, Kate found a lovely,
fragile-looking, cool house, half-southern, half-northern, covered with
vines which the natives still looked upon with distrust, but beautiful
and luxuriant beyond measure (this was the oldest part of the house, the
original lodge which the overseer had lived in when he first came), some
rooms with white tile floors, and some partially covered with fancy mats
of grass, while one or two rejoiced in small Turkey rugs, suggestive of
home, yet not oppressively hot to look at. All his wife’s tastes had
been remembered and gratified, and Carpeggio was rewarded by her telling
him that if she had built and furnished the house herself, she could not
have satisfied her own liking so thoroughly as he had done. One room was
fitted up as their _den_ (or, as the world called it, the library), and
was as much as possible the exact counterpart of the room in Torre
Carpeggio where the books and curiosities had been found. Of course the
collection had been carefully transferred here. Years afterwards this
place was the rallying-point of English and American society; travellers
came to see it and its owners; its hospitality was the most perfect,
generous, and delicate for a hundred miles around; no jealousies arose
between its household and those of the natives; the mining company
prospered, Carpeggio grew to be an authority even in German scientific
circles, and a sort of paradise was once more realized. True, this kind
of thing only happens once or twice in a century; but then it really
does, so it is pardonable for a story-teller to choose the
thousand-and-first couple for the hero and heroine of his tale.


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


                   CRIMINALS AND THEIR TREATMENT.[8]

The judicious management of the criminal classes is a question which has
long occupied the serious consideration of legislators and social
reformers throughout the civilized world; and though much of what has
been said and written on the matter is visionary and based on imperfect
data, the agitation of the question cannot but be productive of
advantageous results. In pagan times penal laws were enacted chiefly
with a view to the punishment of crime, and but little account was taken
of the criminal. The Julian law and the Justinian Code and Pandects
inherited this cruel and unchristian character, which attached itself to
them for centuries even after the birth of our Saviour. The influence of
Christianity was long powerless to mitigate the horrors of barbarous
legislation. In vain did the bishops of the church protest against the
atrocities which were everywhere practised on prisoners. So far from
listening to these humane appeals, hard-hearted rulers exhausted their
ingenuity in devising new modes of penal torture, while for the wretched
culprit not a pitiful word went forth from royal or baronial legislative
halls. Among the Romans treason was punished by crucifixion, the most
cruel of deaths. The parricide was cast into the sea enclosed in a sack,
with a cock, a viper, a dog, and a monkey as companions. The incendiary,
by a sort of poetic retribution, was cast into the flames, while the
perjurer was flung from the heights of Tarpeia’s rock. But the treatment
of prisoners for debt was still more barbarous and quite out of
proportion to the magnitude of the offence. The unfortunate being who
could not meet the demands of his creditors was compelled to languish in
a filthy dungeon for sixty days, during which time he was fed upon
twelve ounces of rice daily and had to drag a fifteen-pound chain at
every step. If, at the expiration of that time, the claim against him
was still unsatisfied, he was delivered over to his obstinate and
unrelenting creditors to be torn limb from limb as a symbol of the
partition of his goods.

The severity of these provisions was somewhat softened in later times,
but throughout the middle ages, and, indeed, down to the latter half of
the eighteenth century, the same fierce and Draconian spirit pervaded
all laws having reference to the punishment of crime. Vast numbers of
prisoners, without distinction of age, sex, rank, or character of crime,
used to be huddled together in wretched pens, where they rotted to death
amid blasphemous and despairing shrieks. Spiritual comfort and advice
were withheld from them; for it was a feature of these miserable laws to
pursue their victims beyond the grave by a clause which stipulated that
they should die “without benefit of clergy.”

Individual efforts here and there were not wanting to alleviate the
sufferings of prisoners, and many a bright page of the martyrology grows
brighter still with a recital of the noble sacrifices made by the saints
of the church to ameliorate the condition of captives. St. Vincent de
Paul, a voluntary inmate of the _bagnes_ of Paris, teaching and
encouraging his fellow-prisoners, was the prototype of Goldsmith’s
kind-hearted Dr. Primrose, with the exception that the saint outdid in
reality what the poet’s fancy merely pictured. Other saints, when
prevented from offering relief at home, sold themselves into foreign
servitude; and we read of their noble efforts to render at least
endurable the acute sufferings of captives in Barbary, Tripoli, and
Tunis.

But these spasmodic and unsystematic endeavors to better the condition
of criminals were attended with no lasting good, and not till the
serious labors of the noble Howard invited attention to the importance
of the matter was public attention fully awakened. His visits to the
prisons of the Continent of Europe, and his frequent appeals to the
governments to introduce much-needed reforms and to redress palpable
wrongs, enlisted the active sympathies of the wise and good. Then for
the first time the doctrine which Montesquieu and Beccaria had so often
admirably set forth in their writings was adopted in practice, and
legislators and governments assumed as the basis of prison reform the
principle that all punishment out of proportion to the crime is a wrong
inflicted on the criminal. Advances at first were exceedingly slow, but
the true impetus to prison reform was given and a new and higher social
lode was struck.

While John Howard was yet engaged in the effort to solve the problem he
had set before himself, a new science was springing into existence which
was to lend to his labors the full promise of success. The value of
statistics was but little understood and appreciated till the latter
portion of the last century, and so imperfect in this respect had been
the records of town, provincial, and national communities that history
has keenly felt the loss of this important adjunct to her labors, and
has been compelled to grope in darkness because the light of statistical
information could not be had. Since this century set in, however,
statistics have risen to the dignity of a science, and the truly
valuable information they afford, the floods of light they have shed on
all social matters, the service they have lent to medical science, to
hygiene, to sanitary reforms, and above all to the prevalence of crime
with its grades and surroundings, fully attest the sufficiency of its
title.

Through statistics, then, we are placed in possession of the facts
relating to crime and criminals, and facts alone can give the color of
reason and good sense to all measures of reform, to all projects looking
to the suppression of crime and the elevation of the criminal classes.
Statisticians, therefore, whatever may be their theories, whatever their
pet views about crime and criminals, deserve well of the community; for
without their close and painstaking work the most ingenious theorist and
the best-inclined philanthropist would be utterly at sea; for as Phidias
could not have chiselled his unrivalled Zeus without the marble, neither
can the most zealous reformer advance a foot without clear and
well-tabulated statistics.

For this reason we bid especial welcome to the interesting monogram of
Mr. Dugdale, which is a monument of patient and laborious exploration in
a field of limited extent. It is evident that he did not set about his
work in a _dilettante_ spirit, but spared no effort and avoided no
inconvenience—and his inconveniences must have been many—to ascertain
the utmost minutiæ bearing on his topic. He has not contented himself
with adhering to the methods of inquiry usually in vogue, but has added
to the law of averages, which ordinary statistics supply, individual
environments and histories which may be considered causative of general
results, and as such are the key to common statistics.

    “Statistics,” he says, “cumulate facts which have some prominent
    feature in common into categories that only display their static
    conditions or their relative proportions to other facts. Its
    reasoning on these is largely inferential. To be made complete
    it must be complemented by a parallel study of individual
    careers, tracing, link by link, the essential and the accidental
    elements of social movement which result in the sequence of
    social phenomena, the distribution of social growth and decay,
    and the tendency and direction of social differentiation. To
    socio-statics must be allied socio-dynamics. Among the notable
    objections to pure statistics in the present connection is the
    danger of mistaking coincidences for correlations and the
    grouping of causes which are not distributive.”

Thus, Mr. Dugdale recognizes as underlying the testimony of mere figures
a variety of factors essentially modifying the inferences which the
former, exclusively viewed, would justify us in drawing, and endeavors
to catch the ever-shifting influences of individual temperament, age,
and environment. Heredity and sex, being fixed, are covered by the
ordinary methods of statistical compilation. But as environment is the
most potent of the varying factors which determine a career of honesty
or crime, so heredity may be regarded among the fixed causes as the most
contributive of effect in the same direction. “Heredity and environment,
then, are the parallels between which the whole question of crime and
its treatment stretches, and the objective point is to determine how
much of crime results from heredity, how much from environment.” It is
to the solution of this rather complicated problem that Mr. Dugdale
addresses himself; and when we say it is complicated we do not
exaggerate, so that we may be pardoned if, at times, in the course of
the sinuous meanderings the question must necessarily take, we find
ourselves at variance with some of his conclusions. Heredity is of two
sorts: 1, that which results from cognate traits transmitted by both
parents; and, 2, that which exhibits the modification dependent on the
infusion of strange blood. This distinction is important as bearing on
the question of heredity in its tendency to perpetuate propensities. If
consanguineous unions intensify and transmit types of character with any
degree of constancy and uniformity, we are justified in conceding that
heredity is a criminal factor quite independent of environments, and
that its relation to the solution of the problem why crime is so
prevalent cannot be ignored. Now, the test furnished by the infusion of
strange blood will enable us to judge whether constancy and uniformity
of types are confined to consanguineous unions or not; for if, the
environments remaining the same, a change of type is induced by
non-consanguinity, then to the admixture of fresh blood alone can we
attribute change of type, and so we must again admit the importance of
heredity in the study of the case, but only to the extent and within the
limits we shall hereafter point out. Mr. Dugdale is of opinion that both
heredity and environment play a very important part in the career of the
criminal, and it is with the design of sustaining his opinion that he
has given us the history of the “Jukes.” Before we deal further with his
conclusions we will here present a brief summary of the facts as related
by him.

The term “Jukes” is a sort of pseudonym very considerately intended to
cloak the identity of members of the family who may now be engaged in
honest pursuits. The family had its origin in the northern part of the
State of New York, and has rendered the place notorious by the unbroken
chain of crime which, link after link, binds the jail-bird of to-day
with the jolly and easy-living “Max” of a century ago, who drank well,
hunted well, and ended his days in the quiet enjoyment of animal peace.
He certainly was more intent on hospitable cares and the gratification
of his passing desires than on the welfare of his progeny; for no man
ever left behind him a more serried array of criminal descendants whose
name has become the synonym of every iniquity the tongue can utter or
the mind conceive. This man had two sons, married to two out of six
sisters whose reputation before marriage was bad. The eldest of the
sisters is called “Ada Juke” for convenience’ sake, though in the county
where the family lived her memory is unpleasantly embalmed as “Margaret,
the mother of criminals.” Ada had given birth before her marriage to a
male child, who was the father, grandfather, and great-grandfather of
the distinctively criminal line of descendants. She afterwards married,
and thus commingled in her person two generations exhibiting
characteristics essentially peculiar to each, though they often bear
leading features of resemblance. The sisters “Delia” and “Effie” married
the two sons of Max, and in this way, though somewhat obscurely, Mr.
Dugdale connects Max with the most criminal branch of the Jukes. We say
somewhat obscurely; for the reader is first inclined to believe that Ada
was married to one of Max’s sons, till on chart No. iv., page 49, he
quite casually lights on the remark “Effie Juke married X——, brother to
the man who married Delia Juke, and son of Max.” While acknowledging the
inherent difficulty of a lucid arrangement of facts so complicated and
bearing such manifold relations, we believe that a little more fulness
of statement would lead to at least an easier understanding of Mr.
Dugdale’s work. “Effie” became, through her marriage with the second son
of Max, the ancestress of one of the distinctively pauperized branches
of the family. The progeny of Delia inclined more to crime, and Ada thus
became the parent stem whence both the criminal and pauperized army of
the “Jukes” mainly sprang; for it is a circumstance deserving notice
that, whereas the offspring of “Ada” before marriage founded the
criminal line of the family, her offspring after marriage inclined
rather to pauperism than to crime. So likewise in the case of “Effie,”
whose known offspring was the result of marriage; we find few criminals,
but nearly all paupers, among her descendants.

In the first chart Mr. Dugdale exhibits a detailed history of the
illegitimate posterity of “Ada” throughout seven generations. The first
legitimate consanguineous union in the family took place between the
illegitimate son of “Ada” and a daughter of “Bell,” from which six
children resulted. The branch is considered illegitimate, as far as
“Ada” is concerned, so that Mr. Dugdale sets down each collateral branch
as either legitimate or illegitimate, according to the legitimacy or
illegitimacy of that child of the five sisters which stands at the head
of the list. Now, glancing along the column of the third generation, or
that exhibiting the six legitimate children of the illegitimate son of
“Ada” and a legitimate daughter of “Bell,” we find their history to be
as follows: The first, a male, lived to the age of seventy-five; was a
man of bad character, though inclined at times to be industrious, and
depended on out-door relief for the last twenty years of his life. The
sisters and brothers of this man strongly resembled him in character,
being all noted for their longevity, their propensity to steal, and
their habitual licentiousness. They were, moreover, exceedingly
indolent, with one exception, and were a constant burden on the
township. It is unnecessary to trace out the history of these or of
their descendants, except to present a few typical cases which will
enable us to understand the conclusion arrived at by Mr. Dugdale.

The first son of “Ada,” just mentioned, married a non-relative of bad
repute, by whom he had nine children. This woman died of syphilis; and
it is well to note at what an early period this poisonous strain showed
itself in this the illegitimate branch of “Ada’s” descendants. These
nine children surpassed their father, their uncles, and their aunts in
criminal propensity. They were especially more violent, were frequently
imprisoned for assault and battery, and, though no more licentious than
their father, were especially addicted to licentiousness in its grosser
forms. They inherited the constitutional disease of which their mother
died, and with it the penalty of an early death, the oldest having died
at the age of fifty-one and the youngest at twenty-four. It will be
observed that they were not so constantly dependent on out-door relief
as the generation immediately preceding them; this fact being
attributable to the greater violence of their temper, which induced them
to acquire by robbery and theft the means of livelihood, while the
others preferred to beg. One aunt of these nine—viz., the second sister
of their father and fourth from him in birth—never married, but had four
children by a non-relative; and, for a purpose soon to be understood, we
will compare their career with that of their nine cousins, who, it must
be remembered, were born in wedlock. These four were illegitimate all
the way back to their grandmother, “Ada”; and if there be any force in
the statement that prolonged illegitimacy has an influence in the
formation of character, we here have an opportunity of verifying it. The
first of these, a male, was arrested at the age of ten; was arraigned
for burglary soon after, but acquitted; was indicted for murder in 1870,
and, though believed to be guilty, was again acquitted; was in the
county jail in 1870, and in 1874 was depending upon out-door relief. The
second, a female, began to lead a loose life at an early age, which
rapidly developed into a criminal one. The third, a male, was guilty of
nearly every known crime, and at last accounts was undergoing a term of
twenty years’ imprisonment in Sing Sing for burglary in the first
degree. The fourth, also a male, died at the age of nineteen, after
having spent three and a half years in Albany penitentiary. Thus, though
the record of the nine cousins is not very flattering, the vicious
proclivities of these four illegitimates are manifestly more marked and
decided.

If we now turn to the chart exhibiting the posterity of the legitimate
children of Ada Juke, we will find an order of things entirely
different. The husband of “Ada” was lazy, while her paramour, on the
contrary, was always industrious. Syphilis likewise showed itself at a
still earlier period than in the illegitimate branch; for whereas this
disease first appeared in the generation of the illegitimate line, Ada’s
first child by marriage became a victim to it at an early age, and her
two legitimate daughters are set down as harlots at an equally early
age. Ada’s first child, a son, married after the poisoned taint had got
into his blood, and transmitted the loathsome heritage to his eight
children. The immediate descendants of these eight were for the most
part blind, idiotic, and impotent, and those who were not so became the
progenitors of a line of syphilitics down to the sixth generation.
Moreover, the intermarriages between cousins were much more frequent
along this line than in the illegitimate branch. It is a noteworthy fact
that in this chart one of the “Juke” blood is, for the first and only
time, set down as being a Catholic—the only time, indeed, that reference
is made to the question of religion. Mr. Dugdale allows us to infer from
this exceptional allusion that he found but one Catholic in this
edifying family. We would recommend this fact to the consideration of
our rural friends who think that chiefly in the metropolis abound the
criminals, _quorum pars maxima_ they believe to be Catholics. The first
time these unco-pious people had the fierce light that beats upon a town
turned upon themselves, the spectacle thus revealed is not
over-pleasant. This _en passant_. Were we to examine the other
statistical exhibits of Mr. Dugdale, we would find pretty nearly the
same result made clear. Without, therefore, entering into details that
are painful in character and difficult to keep constantly in view, we
will give a summary of the conclusions which the detailment of facts
seems to justify:

1. The lines of intermarriage of the Juke blood show a minimum of crime.

2. In the main, crime begins in the progeny where the Juke blood has
married into X—— (non-Juke blood).

3. The illegitimate branches have chiefly married into X——.

4. The illegitimate branches produced a preponderance of crime.

5. The intermarried branches show a preponderance of pauperism.

6. The intermarried branches show a preponderance of females.

7. The illegitimate branches produced a preponderance of males.

8. The apparent anomaly presents itself that the illegitimate criminal
branches show collateral branches which are honest and industrious.

We here find a most curious and interesting history and an epitome of
conclusions which challenges serious consideration. That the family of
the “Jukes” was more vicious than their neighbors whose surroundings
were similar cannot be disputed, and the question arises, What was there
peculiar and exceptional in their case that made the fact to be such?
The habits of life of the immediate descendants of Max were bad in the
extreme, but partly forced upon them by environments. These people dwelt
in mud-built cabins, with but one apartment, which served all the
purpose of a tenement. Here they slept and ate, and of course privacy
was rendered entirely impossible. Decency and modesty were out of the
question, and the anomaly of whole families utterly bereft of all regard
for domestic morals began to exhibit itself. We will now lay down a
fundamental principle, by the light of which we hope to be able to solve
the knotty question of this intense perversity of a series of
blood-related generations, and Mr. Dugdale himself will furnish the
proofs.

Early impurity beyond all other causes warps the moral sense, blunts the
delicacy of womanly modesty, dims the perception of the difference
between right and wrong—in a word, is quickest to sear the conscience.
Crimes of violence, crimes of any sort, which are not traceable to this
origin are outbursts of momentary distemper; but impurity of the sort
mentioned lays the foundation of an habitual aptitude to commit the
worst crimes, as though the tendency to do so were inborn and natural.
Let us examine the facts as exhibited in the history of the Jukes
family. Throughout the six generations studied by Mr. Dugdale he found
162 marriageable women, including, as facts required him to do, some of
very tender years. Of these 84 had lapsed from virtue at some time or
other. This is an enormous percentage compared with the police returns
of our most crowded seaboard cities. Among the Jukes women 52.40 per
cent. were fallen women. In New York, London, Paris, and Liverpool the
highest calculation does not exceed 1.80. If such was the moral _status_
of the female portion of the family, it is not difficult to conceive
what a low ebb morals among the males must have reached. The more
closely we look into the facts recorded by Mr. Dugdale, the more
irresistible becomes the conclusion that these moral pariahs yielded
themselves up without restraint to every excess from the moment sexual
life dawned upon them, and blushed not to commit crimes which do not
bear mention. In the record of their lives we meet at every line
expressions which brand these people as the modern representatives of
the wicked ones who 3,700 years ago shrivelled in the fire of God’s
anger on the plains of the Dead Sea. Indeed, the fact that the infamous
practices which made the “Jukes” family notorious are the beginning of
an utter loss of conscience has been long recognized by Catholic
theologians, who, while admitting that loss of faith is a more serious
loss than that of purity, contend that the latter is more degrading,
more profoundly disturbs the moral nature of man, and speedily blinds
him to the perception of every virtue. Many more facts might be adduced
in support of this proposition, both from the pages of Mr. Dugdale and
the various reports of our reformatory and punitive institutions, but
what has been said will no doubt be deemed sufficient.

If, then, it be admitted that a corrupt life begun in early youth and
continued for a long time is the broadest highroad to crime, it is
interesting to enquire how far so-called criminal heredity is influenced
by the transmission of impure propensities. It has become the fashion of
late days to allow to hereditary influence a vast importance in the
discussion and management of crime, so that there is danger even that
the criminal will be led to look upon himself as naturally, and
consequently unavoidably, vicious, and that society ought not to visit
upon him the penalty of his misdeeds any more than it should punish the
freaks of a madman. Dr. Henry Maudsley, in his recent work entitled
_Responsibility in Mental Disease_, holds language startling enough to
make every inmate of Sing Sing to-day regard himself as one against whom
the grossest injustice had been done. He says:

    “It is certain, however, that lunatics and criminals are as much
    manufactured articles as are steam-engines and calico-printing
    machines, only the processes of the organic manufactory are so
    complete that we are not able to follow them. They are neither
    accidents nor anomalies in the world, in the universe, but come
    by law and testify to causality; and it is the business of
    science to find out what the causes are and by what laws they
    work. There is nothing accidental, nothing supernatural, in the
    impulse to do right or in the impulse to do wrong—both come by
    inheritance or by education; and science can no more rest
    content with the explanation which attributes one to the grace
    of heaven and the other to the malice of the devil than it could
    rest content with the explanation of insanity as a possession by
    the devil. The few and imperfect investigations of the personal
    and family histories of criminals which have yet been made are
    sufficient to excite some serious reflections. One fact which is
    brought strongly out by these inquiries is that crime is often
    hereditary; that just as a man may inherit the stamp of the
    bodily features and characters of his parents, so he may also
    inherit the impress of their evil passions and propensities; of
    the true thief, as of the true poet, it may indeed be said that
    he is born, not made. That is what observation of the phenomena
    of hereditary [_sic_] would lead us to expect; and although
    certain theologians, who are prone to square the order of nature
    to their notions of what it should be, may repel such doctrine
    as the heritage of an immoral in place of a moral sense, they
    will in the end find it impossible in this matter, as they have
    done in other matters, to contend against facts.”

We have quoted the words of Dr. Maudsley at some length, in order to
show to what unjustifiable lengths the recent advocates of heredity are
inclined to go.

The argument employed by Dr. Maudsley is very weak—happily so, indeed;
for were his conclusions correct man’s misdeeds would be neither
punishable nor corrigible, any more than the blast of the tempest which
strews the shore with wrecks and desolation. They would be the necessary
outcome of his constitution. The trouble is that Dr. Maudsley pushes to
excess a doctrine which has in it much that is true. We do not deny the
doctrine of hereditary impulses; we know that some are more prone to
evil than others, that the moral lineaments are often transmitted from
parent to child to no less an extent than physical traits and
resemblances; but we know that free will remains throughout, and that,
no matter how strong the impulse to do a certain act may be, the power
to resist is unquestionable. Habit and association may render the will
practically powerless, but, unless a man has lost the attributes of his
race, he never becomes absolutely irreclaimable. The allusion to grace
and diabolical temptation is, to say the least, stupid. Dr. Maudsley
knows as much about the matter, to all appearances, as the inhabitants
of Patagonia. No theologian deserving the name ever asserted that man is
swayed to good by grace alone, or equally moved to evil by the spirit of
darkness, without any will-activity. The doctrine would be just as
subversive of free-will and moral order as Dr. Maudsley’s, and
consequently as absurd. The truth is that man’s will has been weakened
by his fall (_labefactata ac debilitata_), is weaker in some than in
others, but never becomes extinct, unless where the abnormal condition
of insanity occurs. We regret that Mr. Dugdale accepts Dr. Maudsley as
an authority and quotes approvingly the following words:

    “Instead of mind being a wondrous entity, the independent source
    of power and self-sufficient cause of causes, an honest
    observation proves incontestably that it is the most dependent
    of all natural forces. It is the highest development of force,
    and to its existence all the lower natural forces are
    indispensably prerequisite.”

This is simply scientific jargon. It conveys no meaning, and in reality
substitutes new and more obscure terms for old and well-understood ones.
We are told to reject the “wondrous entity” mind, and to consider
instead all so-called mental operations as the outcome of force. In a
previous article[9] we pointed out the great diversity of meanings
annexed to the word force, and proved that none of those who so glibly
use it have a clear conception of what it signifies. Mr. Dugdale further
accepts the recent materialistic doctrine of Hammond, Vogel, and the
so-called modern school of physiologists, who make will a mere matter of
cerebral activity and cell-development.

His system of psychology is exceedingly brief and meaningless, and
invites the social reformer to deal with the criminal as the watchmaker
would deal with a chronometer out of repair, or as a ship-calker would
attend to a vessel that had felt and suffered from the hard buffets of
the ocean. Now, while we utterly repudiate the doctrine which views the
criminal as a mere machine, we do not wish to reject any doctrine or
theory which facts sustain, and we accept the doctrine of heredity in
the sense we shall shortly mention, and contend that the facts justify
its acceptance to no further extent.

In the first place, most people of good sense will admit that
environment is a far more potent criminal factor than heredity, and that
the constant similarity of environments where heredity exists
disqualifies the observer for ascertaining the exact extent to which the
latter operates. The children of the vicious for the most part grow up
amid the surroundings which made their parents bad, and no child born of
the most depraved mother will fail to respond to healthful influences
early brought into play, unless an obviously abnormal condition exists.
The advocates of heredity in the ordinary sense point to the vast army
of criminals propagated from one stock, and claim this to be an
incontestable proof of their doctrine. But right in the way of this
argument is the fact that it ignores similarity of environment, and that
it overlooks the diversity of crimes. If the law of heredity were
strictly as stated by many writers, then the burglar would beget
children with burglarious instincts, the pickpocket ditto, and so
throughout the whole range of crime. But nothing of this sort is the
case. The vicious descendant of a sneak-thief is as likely to be a
highwayman or a housebreaker as to follow the safer paternal pursuits.
No special propensities to commit crime are transmitted, but appetites
are transmitted, and appetites beget tendencies and habits. Now, the two
appetites which prove to be of most frequent transmission are the erotic
and the alcoholic. The erotic precedes the alcoholic, and, indeed,
excites it to action. Mr. Dugdale says (p. 37): “The law shadowed forth
by this scanty evidence is that licentiousness has preceded the use of
ardent spirits, and caused a physical exhaustion that made stimulants
grateful. In other words, that intemperance itself is only a secondary
cause.” And again: “If this view should prove correct, one of the great
points in the training of pauper and criminal children will be to pay
special attention to sexual training.”

It would appear, then, from this that heredity chiefly affects the
erotic appetite, and through it the entire character. The impure beget
the impure, subject to improvement through grace and will-power, and,
despite of changed environments, the diseased appetite of the progenitor
is apt to assert itself in the descendant, though it is not, of course,
so apparent in the matter of the erotic passion as in the alcoholic.
These are the facts so far as they justify the view of crime as a
neurosis. This conclusion, while harmonizing with the data of
observation, renders the solution of the question, What shall we do with
criminals? comparatively easy, and points to the best mode of treatment.
Until society holds that the virtue of purity is at the bottom of public
morality, and that the custom to look indulgently on the wicked courses
of young men is essentially pernicious, we cannot hope to begin the work
of reform on a sound basis. _Corrumpere et corrumpi sœclum vocatur_ is
as true to-day as eighteen hundred years ago, only now we call it
“sowing wild oats.” And how is this change to be wrought? By education?
Yes, by education, which develops man’s moral character—by that
education which gives to the community a Christian scholar, and not a
mere intellectual machine. Mr. Richard Vaux, ex-mayor of Philadelphia,
who is a believer in Maudsley, and consequently an unsuspected
authority, speaks in these significant terms:

    “Without attempting to discuss the value of popular
    instruction for the youth, or to criticise any system of
    public or private education, we venture to assert that there
    are crimes which arise directly out of these influences, and
    which require knowledge so obtained to perpetrate. If the
    former suggestion be true, that the compression of the social
    forces induces to crime, then those offences which come from
    education are only the more easily forced into society by the
    possessed ability to commit such crimes. _If facts warrant
    this suggestion, then education—meaning that instruction
    imparted by school-training—is an agent in developing
    crime-cause...._ It is worthy of notice that a far larger
    number of offenders are recorded as having attended ‘public
    schools’ than those who ‘never went to school.’”[10]

This is a startling exhibit, upheld, it seems, by undeniable figures. Is
it possible that the state is engaged in “developing crime-cause,” and
that it is for this purpose oppressive school-taxes are imposed? Alas!
it is too true. The majority of those who get a knowledge of the three
“Rs” in our public schools come forth with no other knowledge. God is to
them a distant echo, morality a sham, and they finish their education by
gloating over the blood-curdling adventures of pirates and cracksmen in
the pages of our weekly papers. Mr. Dugdale proposes some excellent
means for the reclamation and reformation of the criminal, but they come
tainted, and consequently much impaired, by his peculiar psychical
theories. On page 48 he says:

    “Now, this line of facts points to two main lessons: the value
    of labor as an element of reform, especially when we consider
    that the majority of the individuals of the Juke blood, when
    they work at all, are given to intermittent industries. The
    element of continuity is lacking in their character; enforced
    labor, in some cases, seems to have the effect of supplying this
    deficiency. But the fact, which is quite as important but less
    obvious, is that crime and honesty run in the lines of greatest
    vitality, and that the qualities which make contrivers of crime
    are substantially the same as will make men successful in honest
    pursuits.”

These remarks are full of significance and point unmistakably to the
necessity of supplying work to the vicious. Hard work is the panacea for
crime where healthful moral restraints are absent. The laborer expends
will-force and muscular force on his work, and has no inclination for
deeds of violence or criminal cunning. But how absurd it is to suppose
that, as an educational process, its whole effect consists in the
changed development of cerebral cells, and not, as is obviously true, in
the fatigue which it engenders! Mr. Dugdale thus sets forth the
philosophy of his educational scheme for the reformation of the criminal
(p. 49):

    “It must be clearly understood, and practically accepted, that
    the whole question of crime, vice, and pauperism rests strictly
    and fundamentally upon a physiological basis, and not upon a
    sentimental or a metaphysical one. These phenomena take place,
    not because there is any aberration in the laws of nature, but
    in consequence of the operation of these laws; because disease,
    because unsanitary conditions, because educational neglects,
    produce arrest of cerebral development at some point, so that
    the individual fails to meet the exigencies of civilization in
    which he finds himself placed, and that the cure for unbalanced
    lives is a training which will affect the cerebral tissue,
    producing a corresponding change of career.”

This is downright materialism, and is the result of Mr. Dugdale’s hasty
acceptance of certain views put forward by a school of physiologists who
imagine that their science is the measure of man in his totality. We
admit that crime is closely connected with cerebral conditions, that the
brain is the organ of manifestation which the mind employs, and that
those manifestations are modified to a considerable extent by the
condition of the organ. But this does not interfere with the character
of the mind viewed as a distinct entity; indeed, it rather harmonizes
with the facts as admitted by the universal sentiment of mankind. Mr.
Dugdale makes a fatal mistake when he supposes that a changed cerebral
state may be accompanied by a change in the moral character; for it is
possible that a chemist may one day discover some substance or
combination of substances which might supply the missing cells or
stimulate the arrested growth. Man is not a machine; neither is he a
mere physiological being. He is a rational animal, consisting of a soul
and a body, two distinct substances hypostatically united; and until
this truth is recognized no reform can be wrought in the ranks of the
criminal classes by even greater men than Mr. Dugdale. If the “whole
process of education is the building up of cerebral cells,” admonitions,
instructions, and example are thrown away on the vicious. There is
naught to do but to “build up cells” and stimulate “arrested cerebral
development.” How false is this daily experience proves; for we know
that a salutary change of prison discipline often converts brutal and
hardened criminals into comparatively good men. Take as an instance what
occurred in the _Maison de Correction de Nîmes_ in 1839. This prison was
in charge of certain political favorites who were fitter to be inmates
than officials. Mismanagement reigned supreme, and the excesses
committed by the prisoners can scarcely be believed. The most revolting
crimes were done in broad daylight, not only with the connivance but at
the instigation of the keepers. At last things had come to such a pass
that the government was compelled to interfere, and, having expelled the
unworthy men in charge, substituted for them a small band of Christian
Brothers under the control of the late venerable Brother Facile, when an
amazing change soon ensued. There was no question with the brothers of
studying the increase of cerebral cells or stimulating arrested
development. They changed the dietary for the better; they separated the
most depraved from those younger in crime; they punished with
discrimination; they encouraged good conduct by rewards; they set before
the convict the example of self-sacrificing, laborious, and mortified
lives; and in three weeks they converted this pandemonium into the model
prison of France.

Can these facts be made to accord with the statement that the whole
process of education is “building up of cerebral cells”? If Mr. Dugdale
would substitute the term “moral faculties” for “cerebral cells,” he
would theorize much more correctly and to better practical effect.
Speaking of subjecting the growing criminal to a system of instruction
resembling the _Kindergarten_, he says:

    “The advantage of the _Kindergarten_ rests in this: that it
    coherently trains the sense and awakens the spirit of
    accountability, building up cerebral tissue. It thus organizes
    new channels of activity through which vitality may spread
    itself for the advantage of the individual and the benefit of
    society, and concurrently endows each individual with a
    governing will.”

We agree with Mr. Dugdale that such a system of training is well
calculated to bring about these results, but certainly not in the manner
he indicates. Let us translate his language into that which correctly
describes the process of improvement in the criminal, and we find it to
be as follows:

Let the subject on whom we are to try the system of training in question
be a boy of fourteen rescued from the purlieus of a large city. His
education must be very elementary indeed. His intellectual faculties are
to be treated according to their natural vigor or feebleness, but his
moral faculties are especially to be moulded with care and watchfulness.
He has been accustomed to gratify his evil passions and to yield to
every propensity. The will, therefore, is the weakest of his faculties,
and constant efforts must be made to strengthen it. With this view he
should be frequently required to do things that are distasteful to him,
beginning, of course, with what is easy and what might entail no
discomfort on the ordinary boy. The will is thus gradually strengthened,
both by this direct exercise and by the reaction upon it of the
intellect, which is undergoing a concurrent training.

This is all that Mr. Dugdale means to convey when his words are
translated into ordinary language. When he dismounts from his scientific
hobby, however, he imparts counsel for the treatment of criminals which
we heartily endorse. Thus, in speaking of industrial training, he says
(p. 54): “The direct effect, therefore, of industrial training is to
curb licentiousness, the secondary effect to decrease the craving for
alcoholic stimulants and reduce the number of illegitimate children who
will grow up uncared for.” He tells us that with the disappearance of
log-huts and hovels—and, we might add, the reeking tenements of our
cities—lubricity will also disappear. This is true to a great extent,
but surely it is not all that is required. We might cultivate the
æsthetic tastes to the utmost, we might have a population dwelling in
palaces and lounging in luxurious booths, and be no better morally than
those who, while enjoying those privileges, tolerated the mysteries of
the _Bona Dea_ and assisted at the abominations which have made the city
of Paphos the synonym of every iniquity. All attempts at the reformation
of our criminal classes without the instrumentality of religion will
prove unavailing. You may “make clean the outside of the cup and of the
dish, but within you are full of rapine and uncleanliness.” These words
will for ever hold true of those who inculcate and pretend to practise
morality without religion. The attempt has often been made, and has as
often signally failed, so that we regard the presentation of proof here
superfluous. The student of the history of social philosophy is well
aware of the truth of this principle, and none but the purblind or the
unwilling fail to perceive it. Religion is the basis of morality, and
morality the pivot of reform. Let the friends of the criminals recognize
these fundamental truths, and they may then hope to make some progress
in their work. Then it will be time to defend and demonstrate the merits
of the congregate system of imprisonment; then we might with profit
insist upon the proper classification of prisoners, the necessity of
proportioning penalty to offence, and not blasting the lives of mere
boys by sending them for twenty years to Sing Sing for a first offence,
thus compelling them to consort with ruffians of the most hardened
description during the period which should be the brightest of their
lives. Then all those reforms which philanthropists are ever planning
might be wisely introduced, but not till then can we hope for the
millennium of true reform to dawn upon us.


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


                          RELIGION IN JAMAICA.

The population of Jamaica numbers about half a million, of whom nearly
four-fifths are blacks, one hundred thousand colored people, and only
thirteen thousand Europeans. In addition to these there are several
thousand Cubans and Haytians, who have been driven from their homes by
political troubles, some thousands of Indian coolies, and a few Chinese
and Madeira Portuguese.

Of this motley population only a few thousand are Catholics. The greater
part of the English belong to the Church of England, which, however, has
been disestablished in Jamaica for some years. These enjoy the full
benefit of the usual High Church and Low Church party warfare. One of
the leading clergy of this denomination has started a monthly paper in
Jamaica, called the _Truth-Seeker_. It is to be hoped that he may be
successful in his search. The last number which the writer saw contained
arguments in favor of spiritualism, homœopathy, and Extreme Unction. The
editor is a vegetarian and teetotaler, and is said to have employed in
the communion service, as a substitute for wine, the juice of a few
grapes squeezed into a tumbler of water. When the bishop was asked about
it he made a wry face and expressed a hope that he might never receive
the communion in his teetotal friend’s church again. This reminds us of
an incident related by a Church of England parson. He arrived at
Kingston by the mail steamer from England on a Sunday morning, and duly
betook himself to a church. It happened to be communion Sunday, and he
“stayed.” He noticed that most of the white people went up to receive
first, and that the few who neglected to do so, and who communicated
with the negroes, came back to their seats screwing up very wry faces.
Our friend solved the mystery when, going up nearly last, he found that
his black friends’ lips had imparted such a flavor to the cup that he
did not lose the taste of it for hours!

But the most popular sect amongst the blacks is the Baptist. The Baptist
ministers are credited with having been the cause of the insurrection a
dozen years ago, which was attended with so much bloodshed. Their great
recommendation to the people appears to consist in their teaching
virtually that the country belongs to the black man, and that the whites
endeavor to defraud them of their rights by giving them insufficient
wages and by other means. The consequence is that the negroes frequently
defraud their employers by theft, shirking work, injuring their
property, and so forth.

The Wesleyans and Presbyterians have large followings. There are also
some Moravian stations. After a certain term of years the Moravian
missionary is judged worthy to be rewarded with connubial bliss, and a
spouse is selected by the authorities in Europe and sent out to him. The
Jews are numerous and opulent, a great part of the commerce of the
country being in their hands. But they are said to be very indifferent
as to their religion, Jewish ladies often marrying people of other
religions and ending by professing none at all.

It is pleasant to turn from these conflicting sects to consider the
Catholic Church. Kingston, the capital of Jamaica, contains forty
thousand people, and of these seven thousand are Catholics. The Jamaica
mission is in the hands of the Jesuits. They do not number more than
half a score, and are consequently hardly worked. They have a convenient
house, popularly called the “French College,” though there is only one
French priest there. Attached to it is a small college for the education
of Catholic youths, but several Protestants are permitted to benefit by
the instruction there given. In the little chapel at the back of the
house the Blessed Sacrament is reserved. Among the priests is a
venerable man whose tall, ascetic figure commands universal respect. He
was formerly a Protestant clergyman, a fellow of his college at Oxford,
and one of that remarkable band of men who founded the Oxford or
Tractarian party. His quiet, instructive sermons are of a very high
order, simple, admirably expressed, and pregnant with matter. Equally
beloved is a white-headed French priest who has labored in Kingston for
thirty years, and who endeared himself to all by his indefatigable
devotion to the sick and dying during a terrible epidemic of yellow
fever which raged there some years ago. He is well acquainted with, and
sympathizes in, the joys and sorrows of all the congregation, and, in
spite of a strong French accent which renders his conversation nearly
unintelligible to a stranger, all seem to understand him perfectly.
There are several younger priests who conduct the college, and one
devotes his energies especially to work amongst the Cubans. There is
also an excellent lay brother, a convert from Protestantism, who
presides over a school for the children of poor Catholics. The church,
dedicated to the Holy Trinity, is a plain brick structure, like all the
churches and chapels in Kingston, but it is distinguished from the
others by crosses on the gable ends. There are two side altars in
addition to the high altar. The latter is handsomely adorned, and above
it is a rose-window of stained glass. There is a good attendance at the
daily Masses, which are said from five to half-past six, the
congregation consisting mainly of black or colored people.

Besides the large church there is a smaller one dedicated to St. Martin,
and commonly called the “Cuban Chapel,” because it is employed
especially for their use. Spanish sermons are preached there at the
eight o’clock Mass on Sundays. At the commencement of the month of May a
handsome new altar was built and High Mass celebrated, the church being
crowded with devout worshippers.

Near the large church is a convent with a private chapel, the nuns
devoting themselves to the education of a number of young ladies, mostly
Haytians, who reside with them.

A mile from the town is the camp of the First West India Regiment, a
corps of Black Zouaves. Some of them being Catholics, Mass is said there
on Sundays by a priest from Kingston. Another goes on alternate Sundays
to Port Royal, a few miles from Kingston, where the guard-ship, the
_Aboukir_, is stationed, and says Mass for the Catholic seamen.

The whole of the remainder of the island is served by three priests, who
lead a most arduous life, constantly riding or driving from one station
to another. Newcastle, a beautiful place in the Port Royal mountains
nearly four thousand feet above the sea, is the station of the
Thirty-fifth Regiment of the Line, and Mass is said here on alternate
Sundays by a young priest who has just arrived from England, and
replaced a stalwart father who was formerly senior captain in his
regiment. Another extensive district is served by a worthy Belgian
father with venerable beard and simple manners. This apostolic man rides
long distances, often having to ford dangerously swollen torrents, and
frequently having no lodging but the sacristy of a rural chapel, and no
food but a little yam and salt fish.

But the most experienced missionary in the island is the superior of the
Jesuits, who is vicar-apostolic. He has travelled about Jamaica on
missionary journeys for sixteen years, and boasts that he knows every
road and track in the country. He is generally beloved by Catholic,
Protestant, and Jew alike, his genial manners and cheerful conversation
making him a welcome guest everywhere, and his medical skill (for he was
a physician before he joined the Society of Jesus) having enabled him to
confer material benefits on many suffering persons. He has always led an
active life, and is especially fond of relating his reminiscences of the
siege of Sebastopol, where he was senior Catholic chaplain to the
British forces. He drives about in a buggy, with spare horses following
under the charge of his servant, or “boy,” who rides on horseback. The
Jamaica horses are small, poor-looking animals, costing little, and very
hardy and inexpensive, but they are capable of a great deal of trying
work.

To reach Kingston for the confirmation on Pentecost Sunday, the good
father had to drive for some miles over a road on which the water had
risen from a neighboring river to such an extent that it was as high as
the axles, and sometimes even came into the buggy. Fording swollen
streams on horseback in the rainy season is often very dangerous work.
This father having one day with difficulty crossed such a stream, a
negro, who had been watching him all the time, told him that he was the
first person who had succeeded in crossing there for some days, three
men who had attempted it having been drowned.

“Why didn’t you tell me, then?” asked the priest.

“My sweet minister, me want to see what you do.”

Not that the man bore him any malice, but these people seem to be
totally reckless of human life.

If he can be said to have any home, the vicar-apostolic lives in a
pretty little house on the northwest coast. It is about a mile from the
sea, but some hundreds of feet above it, and commands a magnificent view
of the well-wooded hills, the sea, and the numerous small islands
covered with mangroves. Near the house is a small oratory, built as a
coach-house. It is very plain, and yet unpaved, the congregation
kneeling on small pieces of board placed on the earth. Attached to the
house is a pen, or grazing farm, of about seven hundred acres. It is for
the most part overgrown with bush, the property having been much
neglected; but strenuous efforts are being made to set it in good order,
and not without success. It is hoped that it will eventually realize
sufficient to support four or five missionary priests, which will be a
great advantage to the church in Jamaica, as the mission there is very
poor. The property was left to the church by a Catholic gentleman who
resided on it and died some few years ago. It now supports about one
hundred head of cattle, besides which it is planted with a number of
pimento, lime, and cocoanut trees, the fruits of which are of value.

A private chapel, which stands in the grounds of a gentleman who resides
on one of the most beautiful pens in the island, is well worthy of
mention. This gentleman is a convert and has done much for the church.
His chapel is the most charming little rustic oratory imaginable, the
chancel screen and other wood-work being made of rough twisted branches
of trees, and the staircase to the gallery consisting of the trunk of a
pine tree with steps cut in it. On the Sundays when Mass is said here
the Catholics from eight or ten miles round drive or ride in, and the
chapel is sometimes nearly filled. After Mass they take their dinner,
which they have brought with them, and walk about and admire the
beautiful garden, the hospitable proprietor and the ladies of the family
saying kind words of welcome to their humbler friends. An hour after
Mass there is rosary and benediction, after which the people return to
their distant homes.

But not always can a church be had for Mass. In some places a room in a
private house is all that can be obtained, and the Catholics of the
neighborhood, having been warned by letter of the intended service,
assemble at the appointed hour. The priest will sit in one room to hear
confessions, whilst the people wait in an adjacent one, where a
sideboard or table is prepared as an altar. After Mass will often follow
baptisms, marriages, or confirmations. But the great work before the
church in Jamaica now is to form stations with churches where Mass may
be celebrated at stated times. Several such are already established, and
things are better than formerly, when the Holy Sacrifice had often to be
offered up in the houses of Protestants. But much has yet to be done,
and there is good reason to hope that the time will come when the small
Jamaica church will develop into a flourishing diocese. In spite of the
prevalent indifference as to religion, some of the Protestants are
beginning to see that truth is not to be obtained in their conflicting
sects, and they are turning their eyes Romeward in search of peace.


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


                              MARGUERITE.

“Frogs, fresh frogs! Buy a few frogs!” cried a sweet girl’s voice, which
blended strangely with the other sounds and voices round about the
little booth near Fulton Market. “Frogs, fresh frogs!”

“Ride up, gentlemen, ride up!”

“Move on quick, move on!”

“Look out, mister, or I’ll run over you!”

And on the ’buses and drays and express-wagons rumbled and rolled, and
the policeman screamed himself hoarse trying to keep the great
thoroughfare clear; the mud, which was knee-deep, flew in all
directions, the jaded horses floundered and fell in the grimy slough,
and ’twas Pandemonium indeed just here where pretty Marguerite’s
frog-stand stood. But the girl, who was used to the bustle and din, went
on quietly knitting a stocking and calling out, “Frogs, fresh frogs! Buy
a few frogs!” while her words, like a strain of sweet music, floated
away upon the muggy April air, heavy with oaths and villanous cries.

We have called our heroine pretty; yet this was not strictly true. Many
a young woman passed through the market with more beautiful features
than she had. Her nose was of no particular shape—we might term it a
neutral nose—and her mouth was decidedly broad; while the tall, white
cap she wore gave her a quaint, outlandish appearance that made not a
few people stare and smile. But Marguerite’s eyes redeemed, ay, more
than redeemed, whatever was faulty in the rest of her countenance. Oh!
what eyes she had—so large and black and lustrous. Like two precious
stones they seemed; and when she turned them wistfully upon you, you
were fascinated and rooted to the spot, and if the girl ever sold any
frogs it was thanks to those wonderful eyes.

Poor thing! at the age of seventeen to be left an orphan, alone and
friendless in the big city of New York. Poor thing! From the Battery up
to Murray Hill, and across from river to river, not a solitary being
knew or cared about her; and had she died—died even a violent,
sensational death—the coroner’s inquest would have taken up scarce three
lines in the daily papers, after which, like a drop of water falling
into the ocean, she would have passed out of sight and mind for ever.

But no, we are wrong; there was one who did care for Marguerite—one who
had known her parents when they first came over from France, and had
done everything she could to help them. But, alas! down in the whirlpool
of poverty husband and wife had disappeared and died, and many a pang
shot across Mother Catherine’s breast as she thought of the child left
now to shift for herself like so many other waifs.

The girl’s home was in a tenement-house, and the room where she slept
was shared by three other women, who would have made it a filthy,
disorderly place indeed except for Marguerite. Every morning she swept
the floor, opened the window to let in fresh air, and imparted a cosey
look to what would otherwise have been the most squalid chamber in the
building. By her mattress hung a crucifix, a gift from Mother Catherine,
and near the crucifix was a piece of old looking-glass which Marguerite
had found in a dust-barrel. Before this she would daily spend a quarter
of an hour making her toilet. Her dark hair was neatly gathered up
beneath her Norman cap—only one little tress peeping out; across her
bosom was pinned a clean white kerchief; the mud-spots were carefully
brushed off her tattered gown; then, after lingering a moment to admire
herself, she would sally forth, the envy of all the slatterns in the
neighborhood, and the boys would wink to one another and say: “What a
nice-looking gal!”

Marguerite often wished that she had a better class of admirers than
these. “But, alas!” she would sigh, “I am poor. Poverty like a mountain
presses me down. If I could sell more frogs and get a new dress, then
real gentlemen might notice me. But, alas! I must be thankful I have
this old calico thing to cover me. But even this is falling in rags, and
I may soon be without shoes to my feet.”

One day, while she was thus inwardly bemoaning her hard lot and crying
out: “Frogs, fresh frogs! Buy a few frogs!” without having anybody come
to buy even a dime’s worth, her attention was drawn to a middle-aged
man, dressed in a faded suit of black, who had paused on his way up the
street, and seemed to be listening with wonder to her cry.

He was not at all handsome, yet there was something very striking about
him, and you would have marked him out in a crowd as one who did not
follow in the beaten ways of other men.

When he first halted, his thin, wan face had assumed an air of surprise;
but presently, advancing nearer to the booth, this changed to an
expression of melancholy which caused the girl to feel pity for him.

“Are you selling frogs, miss—frogs?” he said, fixing his deep, sunken
eyes upon her.

“Yes, sir. Would you like a few?” replied Marguerite, her heart
fluttering with hope.

“Well, now, I thought I had eaten almost everything that is eatable; but
upon my word this does go a little beyond my experience,” said Abel Day,
as he bent down to examine the delicate white frogs’ legs, which were
ranged in rows, tastefully fringed with a border of parsley leaves. “But
are you sure they are what you say they are? No toads among them?”

“We don’t eat toads in France, sir,” returned Marguerite, the blood
mounting to her cheeks.

“In France! Why, are you from France?”

“I am. _O la belle France!_ And father and mother used to keep a
frog-stand in Rouen; and they had a fine mushroom garden there, too. But
folks here don’t know what is good to eat. Oh! I wish my parents had
never come to America; and so did they wish it before they died.”

“Well, what sort of a place is France?” inquired the other, who began to
feel interested in the girl.

“I was very young, sir, when I left it; therefore I cannot describe it
to you. But I know France is a beautiful country. It must be beautiful;
no country in all the world can compare with it. Father and mother used
to drink wine in France.”

“Well, people here drink wine, too, sometimes.”

“Do they? All those I know drink nasty water or else horrid whiskey,”
said Marguerite, making a wry mouth.

“Humph! you are the first I ever met who didn’t like America,” pursued
Abel Day. “However, I’ll not let this set me against you; so what is the
price of your frogs?”

“How many do you wish?” inquired Marguerite, who hardly expected him to
take over a quarter of a dollar’s worth at most.

“Let me have the whole lot.”

“Well, will four dollars be too much?” she said hesitatingly.

“Here is your money,” answered Abel, drawing forth the sum. “And now,
while you are wrapping up these funny-looking creatures—verily, I might
take ’em for little pigmies just ready for a swim—please tell me how
business is.”

“Bad, sir. It always is with me; and I sometimes think of giving it up.”

“And trying something else? Well, now, take my advice—don’t. This
business can be made to pay as well as any other. All that’s wanted is
to know how to go about it.”

“Oh! I’d be only too thankful if you’d tell me what to do,” exclaimed
Marguerite. “Too thankful; for I’m almost in despair.”

“Well, then, open your ears, and I’ll give you a ‘wrinkle’ that’ll set
you on the highroad to prosperity.” Here Abel lifted his forefinger;
then, after clearing his throat, “My young friend,” he went on, “you
must know that the world is largely composed of fools. Of course it
wouldn’t do to tell ’em so; nevertheless, it’s the truth, though they
are not to be blamed for it—not a bit. We are born what we are; we don’t
make ourselves. A pumpkin can be nothing but a pumpkin; a genius is a
genius. And this makes the world all the more interesting, at least to
me. Why, what a dull place ’twould be if we were all alike! Oh! I do
love to look down upon the broad pumpkin-field of humanity, and feel how
far, far above it some few men are elevated—some very few.”

“Like yourself,” interposed Marguerite, with an air of seriousness, only
belied by a laughing gleam in her eyes.

“Please let that pass; no digressions,” said Abel, waving his hand. “But
come back now to where we started from—namely, how to make the frog
business pay.” Here he gave another cough. “In the first place, my young
friend, this booth is altogether too small. It not only doesn’t allow
your frogs half a chance to be seen, but you yourself are almost hidden
inside of it. And, speaking of yourself, do not be offended if I observe
that you have wonderfully attractive eyes, and a charming voice, and
spirits which keep bright and cheerful no matter how cloudy the sky is.
Yes, this much I know, though I never met you before. Well, now, here is
the advice I give: Hire a small store close by; then have an immense
sign-board hung over the entrance, with Frog Emporium painted on it in
twelve-inch letters, and let every letter be of a different color, so
that people will be attracted by it when they are a good block off. Then
beneath the words Frog Emporium, and on the left-hand side, you must
paint a fat, contented old mother frog, squatting, at the edge of a
pond, watching a lot of merry tadpoles swimming about. This will
represent maternal felicity. At the other end of the sign you may paint
a hungry-looking man with mouth wide open, and Mr. Bullfrog taking a
header down his throat, and screeching out as he goes down, ‘This fellow
knows what’s good!’ You should likewise get a cooking-stove, so as to
have a dainty dish of frogs all prepared for anybody who may come in and
wish to taste them. There, now, is my plan; I submit it to your
consideration. Carry it out, and you’ll soon find it difficult to supply
all your customers.”

“Well, indeed, sir,” answered Marguerite, “I thank you from the bottom
of my heart for the interest you take in me. But, alas! I am too poor to
pay the rent of ever so small a store; why, I couldn’t even pay for such
a sign-board as you describe. In fact, if you knew how very narrow my
means are, you would wonder that I can manage to keep alive.”

“Is that so?” said Abel, in a tone of compassion. “Well, then, leave the
sign to me; I will order it this very day, and the moment it is ready it
shall be brought to you. I’ll also go security for your rent.”

At these words Marguerite’s eyes filled with tears, glad tears, and,
clasping one of his hands, she pressed it warmly; while Abel thought to
himself, “How full of sentiment she is! Poor creature!”

“Oh! what a blessed thing it is to be rich,” exclaimed the girl
presently. “But all rich people, sir, are not like you—no, indeed.”

“Never mind my wealth,” said Abel; “we’ll talk about that some other
time. Go ahead, now, and carry out my notion; put implicit trust in me.
Everything will come out right in the end.”

Again Marguerite pressed his hand—her heart was too full for words—after
which Abel Day went away, promising to return before the week was ended
to see how she was getting on. The girl followed him with her eyes until
he was lost to view, wondering who he could be. “Well, whoever he is,”
she thought to herself, “he is a real gentleman. True, his clothes are
rather worn; but we cannot judge a man by his clothes. Yes, he is a real
gentleman, and different from any other that I have ever seen. He didn’t
beat me down in my price; no, he bought all my frogs and paid me what I
asked. Anybody else would have forced me to take three dollars and a
half or three dollars. I might even have let them go for two and a half.
But no, he isn’t like other rich persons. And, oh! may God bless him and
make him happy; for I am sure from his looks there is something weighing
on his heart.”

During the next few days Marguerite’s thoughts constantly turned upon
her strange friend, who had evidently been in downright earnest and kept
his word; for the sign-board was promptly sent to her, and she could not
contain her delight when she saw it hanging above the doorway of the
little store which she hired.

True to his promise, Abel Day came soon again to visit Marguerite,
bringing money wherewith to pay her month’s rent in advance. It seemed
to do him good to talk to her, and his face brightened when she told him
how many people had already entered the Frog Emporium. “And every one,
sir, who eats a plate of my frogs declares they are better than an
oyster-stew. And they say, too, that the sign-board makes them roar with
laughter and entices them in whether they will or no. O sir! how can I
thank you enough for what you have done for me?”

“Don’t speak any thanks,” replied Abel. “No, don’t speak any; but show
your thanks by being good and virtuous. ’Tis getting down in the world
leads so many to the bad. Ay, misery is the devil’s best friend.
Therefore, my dear girl, improve your condition as fast as you can. Put
money in the savings-bank; then when you meet any poor wretch hard up,
and you have the means to help him, do it.”

“Oh! indeed I will,” said Marguerite. “But now please, kind sir, let me
know the name of my benefactor. I wish to know it, that I may tell it to
the only other friend I have on earth—Mother Catherine. She’ll be sure
to ask me who you are.”

“My name is Abel Day,” he replied.

“And you live—? Well, perhaps I shouldn’t ask that, sir. Though if I did
know your address, I’d slip into your kitchen some morning bright and
early, and cook you a nice mess of frogs for breakfast.” Then, arching
her pretty eyebrows: “You live in Fifth Avenue—beautiful Fifth Avenue?”

“I do, and yet I don’t,” answered Abel. “I often see myself there,
dwelling in a marble mansion; ’tis sure to happen—so sure that I may
consider myself already in Fifth Avenue.” Here, observing a puzzled look
upon Marguerite’s face, “Ah!” he added, “you do not understand me. Well,
nobody else does, either. But never mind. The world will wake up some
fine morning and find the name of Abel Day on every lip. And ’tis all
coming out of here—here.” At these words he tapped his forehead. “My
fortune will not be built on other men’s misfortunes; ’twill not come
through gambling in stocks, through swindling, through falsehood,
through dishonor. But out of my brain the great thing is slowly but
surely taking shape and form which ere long will astound the world.”

“Well, truly, sir, I believe you. Oh! I do,” exclaimed Marguerite, who
felt herself carried away by his own enthusiasm. “I knew from the first
moment I laid eyes on you that you were an extraordinary man.”

“’Tis often thus,” pursued Abel musingly. “Genius is not seldom
recognized by the humble ones of earth, when those who dwell in high
places, with ears and eyes stuffed and blinded by prosperity, have only
fleers and gibes to give.”

“And would it be showing too much curiosity,” inquired Marguerite, “if I
were to ask what is this wonderful thing which I doubt not will bring
you in riches and renown? And certainly no one deserves these more than
yourself; for but for you, oh! I shudder to think what might have become
of me. My future was dark—dark—dark.”

“And I have brightened it a little. Yet what is what I have done
compared with what remains to be done!” said Abel, speaking like one who
thinks aloud. “O mystery of life! Why is there so much misery around
me?” Then, addressing Marguerite: “Well, if you like, I will be here at
four o’clock this afternoon, when I shall make clear to you what now you
do not comprehend. But, remember, it must be a profound secret; no other
human being except yourself must know what I am inventing—no other human
being.”

“You will find, sir, that I can keep a secret,” said Marguerite. “So
please come at the hour you mention.”

Punctual to the minute Abel Day was at the Frog Emporium, which was so
thronged with customers that he had to wait half an hour for the girl.
But at length, the last frog being sold, off they went together; and as
they took their way along the streets Marguerite wondered whither he
would lead her. Would it be to some fashionable quarter of the city—to
some place where quiet, well-mannered people dwelt? And as her companion
did not open his lips, she was left to her own hopes and conjectures,
and kept wondering and wondering, until by and by she found herself,
with a slight pang of disappointment, in Tompkins Square. A few minutes
later the girl was following Abel Day into a third-class boarding-house,
and, observing several scrawny females making big eyes at her as she
mounted up to his room, which was on the top story, he whispered: “They
are jealous of you, my dear; but pay no attention to them, and above all
do not reveal to any of these Paul Prys what I am going to show you.”

Presently they reached the door of his chamber, which he hastily
unlocked, saying to Marguerite: “Pass in quick—pass in quick”; for Abel
fancied he heard footsteps and voices close behind him.

Marguerite obeyed and made haste into the room; then, while Abel was
stuffing paper into the keyhole, she threw her eyes about her in utter
astonishment.

The apartment was barely half the size of her own at the tenement
building; nor could it compare with it for order and neatness. Indeed,
’twas in the greatest disorder. Numberless slips of paper were strewn
over the floor, with queer pencil-marks upon them, and the wall was
covered by the same odd drawings, especially near the bed, as though
Abel did most of his brain-work after he retired for the night and
before he arose in the morning. On a shelf by the window lay a
dust-covered manuscript, and beside it a cigar-box half full of buttons,
dimly visible through a spider’s web.

But where was the wonderful machine he had told her about?

“Here it is,” spoke Abel in a semi-whisper and drawing something out
from under the bed.

“Really! Oh! do let me see,” cried Marguerite, flying towards him.

“It is almost finished,” added Abel. “But pray lower your voice, for
there are listeners outside—vile eavesdroppers.”

He now went on to explain what this curious object was, which looked
like nothing so much as a big toy; for all the girl could perceive was a
stuffed chicken sitting in a box, gaudily painted red, white, and blue.

“You must know,” said Abel, “that every time a hen lays an egg the very
first thing she does is to turn and look at it, as if to make sure it is
really laid. Well, now, this machine which you behold is the Magic Hen’s
Nest. There is a spring bottom to it, so that the instant the egg is
dropped it will disappear. Then, when the fowl turns to see if it is
there—lo! she’ll find it isn’t there. Whereupon, concluding she must
have made a mistake, like a good creature she’ll sit down again, and
presently out’ll come egg number two, which will likewise vanish through
the trap. And so on and on and on, until—well, really, I can’t tell what
may happen in the end, for of course there is a limit to all good
things: the hen may lose her wits. But if she doesn’t—if she keeps her
senses, and if I can force her to continue laying and laying—why, my
fortune is made sure, and I’d not change places with old Howe and his
sewing-machine—no, indeed I wouldn’t.”

“Well, I declare!” ejaculated Marguerite when Abel was through with the
explanation. “This is certainly a grand idea. Why, one hen will do the
work of a score of hens.”

“Of five hundred,” said Abel solemnly. “And I wrote some time ago to a
couple of my acquaintances on Long Island, advising them to sell off
every hen on their farm except one. But they are not willing to follow
my advice; and, what’s more, they both came here last week when I was
out, and asked all kinds of questions about my health. The fools! But
never mind; it’s all the worse for them, for just as soon as I get out
my patent down will go the price of hens to zero.”

“Well, upon my word, this is wonderful, wonderful!” said Marguerite,
kneeling and stroking the back of the stuffed chicken.

“Ay, and I am filled with wonder at myself for having invented such a
thing,” continued Abel. “But it only shows what the brain of man can do.
And yet what man is able to accomplish now is nothing compared with what
he will accomplish in the ages to come.”

“Well, what is needed, sir, to make this Magic Nest perfect? It seems to
me to be in good working order.”

“Nothing remains to be done but to get a live hen and put it to the
proof; though I have no more doubt of its success than I have of my own
existence.”

“Well, do let me be present when you make the trial. Will you?”

“Yes, you may come, for you do not laugh and jeer at me like the rest of
the world; and, moreover, there is something soothing in your presence.
Oh! I believe if I had had you always by my side this Magic Nest would
have been ready long ago.”

“And when I come again,” said Marguerite a little timidly, “I’ll put the
room in order—may I?”

Here Abel’s brow lowered; but quickly the dark look passed away, for she
was gazing so sweetly at him, and he said: “You perceive, then, that it
is not in order? Well, you are right. I live all by myself and have no
time to sweep and dust—no time.”

“All by yourself!” repeated Marguerite compassionately.

“Yes; and when evening comes round I light my candle and play at
solitaire, and listen to the cats caterwauling on the roof.”

“How lonely!” exclaimed the girl.

“Perhaps it may be. Yet in solitude one hears and sees strange things. I
love solitude.”

“Really?”

“I do; nevertheless, I own ’twould be better in some respects not to
dwell so much by myself. Therefore I give you leave to come here
whenever you please; yes, come and sweep and rummage and turn things
topsy-turvy, if you like.”

At this Marguerite burst into a laugh.

“Ha! probably you think my apartment is already topsy-turvy? Well, it
only seems so to you; to my eye there is perfect order in all this
chaos.”

“And the buttons, sir, in yonder cigar-box—”

Marguerite did not end the phrase; she hoped he would understand her,
and Abel did.

“Humph! you have discovered those buttons, eh? Well, they came off my
clothes. And here let me observe, my young friend, the next important
thing to invent is a suit of clothes without any buttons.”

“Well, until you invent one, please allow me to sew those buttons on
again. Will you?”

“Alas!” replied Abel, “the shirts and coats and trousers to which they
once belonged are long since worn out; and now I have no clothes left
but the clothes I have on.”

“This was a very fine suit once,” said Marguerite. “The cloth is
excellent.”

“Yes, I had it made by a fashionable tailor; for I intended to wear it
when I went to visit influential people, and try and interest them in
my—in my—”

Here Abel heaved a sigh, while a look of deeper gloom shadowed his face
than the girl had yet observed upon it.

“Pray tell me what troubles you,” said Marguerite. “Do tell me. Perhaps
I may be able to comfort you.” Then, as he made no response, she went
on: “Have those of whom you sought aid turned a cold shoulder upon you?
Have they refused to help you with this Magic Hen’s Nest? Why, I
thought, sir, ’twas a profound secret; that you had told nobody about
it.”

“No, no; I don’t allude to this, but to something else—to something
which I cannot think of without an agony of mind I hope God may spare
you from ever suffering. I had forgotten all about it; I had not thought
of it for ever so long, till our conversation brought it back to me. Oh!
do let me forget it—forget it for ever.”

“I guessed when I first saw you, poor dear man, that there was a heavy
burden on your heart,” spoke Marguerite inwardly. “Now your own lips
have confessed it to me. Oh! if I only knew you better, I might be able
to console you.”

She refrained, however, from asking again what his cross was; but little
doubting that ’twas connected in some way with another invention, she
determined on a future occasion to ask him to tell her the history of
his life. “And who knows but I may find the means of bringing back the
smiles to his mournful visage. If I do, ’twill be a slight return for
all the kindness he has shown me.”

Here Marguerite cast another glance about the forlorn-looking chamber,
and wondered how he had been able to pay the first quarter’s rent of her
store. “He must have pinched himself to do it,” she thought to herself.
“Oh! what other man in New York with only one suit of clothes would have
been so generous?”

And now, ere she withdrew, her feelings got the better of her judgment,
and she burst into a fervent expression of thanks for his great
benevolence and sympathy, and hoped that for her sake he had not
deprived himself of money which he really needed. But Abel sharply
interrupted her.

“Do not talk thus,” he said, “if you have true faith in my Magic Nest.
Poor I may seem, but I consider myself rich—ever so rich; a mountain of
gold is within my reach. You ought to be convinced of it, yet still you
doubt.”

“Oh! no, no; I don’t doubt it for one moment,” answered Marguerite, very
much confused. “Pray, sir, be not offended at my words—I forgot”; then,
looking up in his face, “But I cannot help speaking what is in my heart.
O sir! you are the dearest person to me in all the wide world.”

“Well, come here some evening and play at solitaire with me,” said Abel
in a milder tone. “But no, it won’t be solitaire with you—it will be
two-handed euchre.”

“Oh! I’ll come most willingly. True, I know nothing about cards, but you
can teach me.”

The girl now bade him adieu, and his parting words to her were:

“I will inform you when I am ready to experiment with the live hen. But,
remember, breathe not a syllable of it to any human being.”

During the week which followed this visit to Abel Day’s den—as the other
boarders called his room—Marguerite did not see her benefactor. But
daily she looked for him, and he was seldom absent from her thoughts. He
was so vastly unlike other people—the selfish, deceitful herd around
her; loving solitude, yet evidently glad to have her with him; poor, yet
calling himself rich; full of bright hopes, yet a prey to melancholy.
His very singularities possessed a charm for the girl and made her long
for his coming.

“He brings me into quite another world,” she said; and while she was
selling frogs (business at the Frog Emporium was increasing rapidly)
Marguerite would indulge in pleasing reveries about good Abel Day. She
almost hoped that his fortune might not come too soon.

“Yes, I should like him to stay awhile longer in his humble home, so
that I might have a chance to make it snug and cosey for him. We might
pass happy days there together—happy days.”

And every morning and evening she knelt before her crucifix and prayed
for Abel.

But if Marguerite often thought of Abel Day, he did not think of her;
no, not once during these seven days. Her presence had indeed flashed a
ray of light into the darkness of his soul; but it was like the coming
and going of a meteor, and the instant she left him he relapsed into his
sombre mood. The paper remained stuffed in the keyhole; ever and anon he
would utter a word to himself, but ’twas in a whisper; and thus from
morning till night, solitary and silent, he passed the time, seated on a
bench with his hollow eyes fixed upon the Magic Nest—inventing,
inventing, inventing; for, although Abel had not told Marguerite, there
was still one little thing wanting to make the invention absolutely
perfect.

Then, when dusk approached and the first cat began to caterwaul, he
would get into bed, and there rack his brain for hours longer and until
the candle went out. People wondered how he managed to live without
eating; but a few crusts of bread sufficed to keep Abel alive, and ’twas
one of his odd fancies that we might in time bring ourselves to live
without nourishment.

“Oh! he is thinner than ever, poor dear man,” exclaimed Marguerite, when
she saw Abel entering her store the next Monday afternoon; and he was
carrying a hen under his arm. Then, after the first warm greeting was
over, she made haste to prepare a nice dish of frogs, which she invited
him to partake of. But Abel shook his head, and it was not until she had
almost gone on her knees that he finally placed the hen in her
safekeeping and sat down to the savory repast.

“Oh! I’m so glad you relish my frogs; everybody declares I cook so
well,” said the girl, as she stood watching him.

“The world thinks far too much about eating,” returned Abel. “It is the
grossest act humanity can perform; and I believe if we tried we might
exist without food.”

“Well, I hope that day is far off,” said Marguerite; “for when it
arrives I’ll have to close my business.”

“Ah! true, I didn’t think of that,” said Abel, rising up from the table.
“But now are you ready to accompany me and witness the triumph of my
Magic Nest?”

“Yes, indeed I am; I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” answered
Marguerite; and so, telling a customer, who appeared just at this
moment, that the last Emporium frog was sold, not a single one left, she
closed the store and they departed.

“You are happy to-day,” observed the girl when they had gone half-way to
Tompkins Square, and hearing Abel give a laugh. “Oh! I’m so glad. Let us
always try to be happy.” But even as she spoke his countenance settled
once more into the old look, and, bending down (for Abel was rather
tall), “Learn this truth, my young friend,” he said: “Nothing lies like
a laugh.”

“Oh! no, no,” exclaimed Marguerite, making bold to disagree with him;
“people only laugh when they feel happy. Laughter always tells the
truth. And since I have known you, sir, I laugh ever so much; for I have
now a good thick pair of shoes, and the water cannot soak in and wet my
feet. And don’t you see, too, I have a new dress? And I am already
laying by money in the savings-bank; and it all comes from your
brilliant idea of setting up a Frog Emporium. Oh! yes, yes, I laugh a
great deal now—a very great deal.”

Then, as he made no response, she went on: “You are a genius, sir, a
genius!”

“Ah! you recognize in me the divine spark?” murmured Abel, his visage
faintly brightening. “Well, you are the first who has done so—the very
first—and you shall share in my triumph; ay, half the gold-mine shall be
yours.” Then, after a pause, “Do you know,” he added, “you may ere long
be dwelling in Fifth Avenue and wearing diamonds and silks; though, if
you follow my advice, you will always dress plainly and never change
your pretty French cap for a fashionable hat full of feathers and
ribbons.”

“Really!” cried Marguerite, whose faith in Abel Day was unbounded.
“Living in Fifth Avenue, beautiful Fifth Avenue!” And she clapped her
hands and skipped merrily along in front of him.

But presently from Abel’s lips burst another laugh, and this time there
was something strange and wild about it which caused Marguerite to pause
and look around; then, taking his hand, they walked on side by side in
silence, and oh! how much she wished that he might not appear so
unhappy.

At length they reached Abel’s home; and if Abel’s fellow-boarders had
stared with astonishment the first time they saw him mounting to his
room accompanied by a strange young woman, they made bigger eyes now as
he ascended the stairway with a hen under his arm; nor was it easy for
Marguerite to keep a grave countenance when presently the chicken began
to cackle; and the cackling of the chicken and the giggling of the
inquisitive females, who were following at a proper distance, made a
very queer chorus.

“Let ’em laugh,” growled Abel after he had entered his chamber and
fastened the door—“let ’em laugh; my day of triumph is nigh, and then
they’ll be the veriest sycophants at my feet. But I’ll spurn them all;
let ’em laugh.”

And now began the trial of the Magic Nest; Abel first cautioning
Marguerite to speak in an undertone, if she had anything to say. Gently,
as tenderly as a mother might handle her baby, the fowl was placed in
the box; and forthwith she ceased to cackle, while the others ceased
even to whisper. Then, motioning the girl to sit down on the bench, Abel
stood beside her, awaiting with intense excitement the laying of the
first egg. In a couple of minutes his brow was wet with perspiration,
then his whole face became moistened; and when, by and by, after what
seemed an age—’twas only a quarter of an hour—the hen did lay an egg,
then rose up to look at it, Abel trembled so violently that Marguerite
inquired if he were ill. But without heeding her question he went on
trembling and saying, “The egg has vanished, vanished! and she can’t
believe her eyes—she can’t believe her eyes!” And now for about a minute
and a half it did really seem as if the hen, concluding she had made a
mistake, was going to proceed and lay another egg, when, lo! she coolly
stepped out of the box, and, after shaking her feathers, commenced
pecking the bits of paper scattered over the floor.

When Abel Day perceived this his head swam a moment; then clenching his
fists, and his cavernous eyes flashing fire, he sprang towards the
chicken, and, forgetting all about eavesdroppers, he screamed loud
enough to be heard from cellar to garret: “I’ll force you to do your
duty! I will, I will!”

But, as ill-luck would have it, the window was open, and out of it flew
the hen, so hotly pursued by Abel that he came within an ace of passing
through it too; which had he done, his neck would certainly have been
broken, for Abel had no wings.

Then, as if to make sport of him, the perverse creature perched herself
on a neighboring chimney, where she set up a loud cackling.

“Hark, they are mocking me again! Hear them, hear them!” groaned Abel
Day, clapping his hands to his head. “And the horror, too, is coming
over me again: it always comes with those jeering voices.”

“I hear nobody. Oh! I beg you to be calm,” said Marguerite, now
thoroughly alarmed on Abel’s account. Then, leading him to the bench,
“What agitates you so, dear friend? Oh! do, do calm yourself and tell me
what you fear.”

Abel sank down on the bench, and, after groaning once more, “Hark! hark!
They are mocking me,” did not utter another word, hard though she urged
him to speak; but, with eyes glued to the Magic Nest, he remained dumb
and motionless.

Then by and by evening came, and the twilight deepened into night, yet
still Abel moved not, nor opened his lips, unless occasionally to heave
a sigh. Then the moon rose, and as its pale rays streamed into the room
and fell upon the sufferer’s face, it assumed an expression so unearthly
that Marguerite was filled with awe.

And now a dreadful, startling thought occurred to her: her dear friend
might be mad! What a pang this gave her tender heart! What bright,
new-born hopes became suddenly blasted. How many fair castles in the air
crumbled away into ghostly ruins at the thought that Abel Day was mad!

“Is it possible,” she asked herself, “that this good man—he who has been
so kind to me, whom I looked up to as one far, far above the cold,
heartless world—is it possible that he is bereft of reason?” And even as
Marguerite breathed these words she for the first time grew conscious of
something glowing in her bosom more ardent than friendship for Abel Day.

“I love him,” she murmured—“I love him. And no matter what people may
think of me, I’ll stay by him and nurse him; I’ll be his servant and
truest friend as long as he lives.”

Trying indeed was this night for Marguerite—oh! very, very. It seemed as
if it never would end. Nor did day bring any relief to her anxiety. The
blessed, life-giving sunshine shimmered in; the chimney-swallows
twittered by the window; a stray bee, blown away by the morning breeze
from his far-off hive, flew in and buzzed about the chamber; still Abel
remained like one turned into stone, except for the deep-drawn sighs
which ever and anon escaped his lips.

And so this day passed, and so day followed day, without bringing any
change in his mysterious condition.

Of course Marguerite was not with him the whole time. But she took care
whenever she quitted the room to lock the door; then she would hasten
with winged feet to the Frog Emporium, where she would spend four or
five hours; then back Marguerite hurried, hoping and praying that no ill
had befallen Abel during her absence. But while she was with the poor
man she did more than simply watch him. The ugly pencil-marks were
rubbed off the wall; the floor was thoroughly swept; the cobwebs were
brushed out of the corners; and many another thing which only woman’s
hand can do Marguerite did. On a little table, too (the only piece of
furniture besides the bench and bed), was spread a good, substantial
meal for Abel to eat the moment he felt hungry; and it amazed her to see
him fasting so long.

We need not say that everybody in the house had his curiosity now raised
to the highest pitch; and the gossiping, prying females shook their
virtuous heads and muttered no complimentary things of Abel’s faithful
nurse.

“Well, they may say of me whatever they like,” said the brave girl. “My
conscience doesn’t reproach me; it tells me I am doing right. When I was
down Abel Day helped me, and now, when he is down, I’ll help him.”

At length, one afternoon, weary of the long, unbroken silence of the
chamber, Marguerite began to sing. The song was one she had learnt from
her mother, and was called “Normandie, chère Normandie.” She had a rich
contralto voice, and the effect which the melody wrought upon Abel was
something perfectly marvellous; and as her face happened to be turned
towards his, she noticed the change at once, and her eyes filled with
glad tears.

“Glory! glory! I am escaping from the infernal regions; the darkness and
the voices are leaving me. Thank God! thank God!” he cried. And
Marguerite, only too happy to rouse him out of his lethargy, continued
singing for well-nigh half an hour. Then, placing herself beside him on
the bench, she gave way to her joy in laughter and merry talk, while
Abel’s countenance wore an expression almost radiant, and, resting one
of his hands on her head as a father might have done, “All is blue sky
at last,” he said. “I feel as I have not felt in many a day. Oh! had I
had you always with me, the demons would never have shrieked in my ears;
your angelic songs would have driven them away.”

“Well, you can’t imagine,” returned Marguerite, “how happy it makes me
to make you happy.” Then, after a pause: “But now, dear friend, I have a
favor to ask: I wish you to tell me the history of your life; for there
is a mystery in it—I am sure there is. Do tell it to me. Not that I am
curious, but I firmly believe ’twill do you good to let me carry a part
of the burden which has almost crushed you down.”

“Fool, fool that I was to live all by myself so many years!” spoke Abel
in a musing tone, and paying no heed to her request. “The mocking voices
cannot abide cheerful company; it frightens them off.” Then, turning to
Marguerite: “You’ll not let them come back, will you?”

“You are dreaming,” answered the girl, patting his hand. “Why, this room
was still as the tomb until I began to sing.”

“No, no, it wasn’t; I heard them all the while.”

“Well, don’t fear them any more. I’ll stay with you; I’ll be your
canary, your nightingale, your musical box,” she said with a merry
laugh. “So pray begin and give me a little of your past history; for the
sooner you begin the sooner you’ll end, and then I’ll sing another
song.”

“Well, well, to please you I’ll do anything. Therefore learn that I was
born in Massachusetts. But of my early years I need say very little. My
father died when I was a child; at the age of fourteen I had to shift
for myself, and from that time on it was a hard struggle against
poverty. Somehow I didn’t succeed in anything I put my hand to. I tried
this thing and that; I tried everything almost, but was always
unfortunate. And, do you know, I believe in luck. Oh! I do. Some are
born with it, others are not; and these last will turn out failures, be
they ever so honest and hard-working. Well, undoubtedly I belong to the
unlucky ones; and, what’s more, I verily believe there is such a thing
as having too much brains. Why, many a pumpkin-headed fellow I used to
know is to-day a millionaire—can’t explain it, but there’s the fact;
while I am—well, you see what I am, and I have reached middle life; and
my miserable home”—here he threw a glance around the room; then,
clasping his hands: “But dear me, what has happened? Is this my den?
Why, how changed it looks!”

“I have been turning things topsy-turvy,” answered Marguerite, with a
twinkle in her eye. “But pray don’t stop to admire the change. Please go
on; I am so interested.”

“Well, finally, after trying everything,” continued Abel, “and, as I
have observed, failing in everything I tried, I one day bethought myself
of turning inventor. And the more I thought about it the more confident
I felt that I should succeed; indeed, I passed a whole week in a
delightful reverie, wherein I saw myself wealthy and famous, and all
from one single invention. Then, when this dreamy, happy week was gone
by, I set about inventing a Patent Log—a thing very much needed by
mariners; for the present method of determining the speed of a vessel is
both clumsy and unreliable. ’Twas here in this chamber, on this bench, I
began my brain labor, and for a while I made excellent progress. But
after a couple of months I got tired of sitting up and took to my bed,
where I used to lie inventing—inventing all day long, and even all night
too. I seemed to be able to do without sleep; until one evening—oh! I’ll
never forget it”—here he paused and shuddered—“one evening the room
became suddenly full of voices. From under the bed, through the keyhole
and window, down the chimney, on every side of me these horrible voices
were yelling and screeching, ‘He’ll never succeed—never succeed’; ‘Born
to ill-luck’; ‘All time wasted’; ‘He’ll go to the dogs and hang
himself!’ What happened after this terrible moment I can’t say; I must
have gone off into a fever. I remember nothing. All I know is that one
day—but how long afterwards I cannot tell—I became, as it were, alive
again, and found myself inventing quite a different thing—namely, the
Magic Nest, which, as you know, has once more proved that I am born to
fail in whatever I undertake. And now, alas! I don’t see how I’ll be
able to earn a living; to confess the truth, I have not one dollar left
in the world.”

“Bah! Don’t be down-hearted on that account,” said Marguerite. “My Frog
Emporium is a little gold-mine, and you shall need for nothing. Why, as
I have already remarked more than once, I’d have been ere now in a
wretched plight but for you. You stretched out a helping hand; and
whatever the world may think of you, and whatever you think of
yourself—I—I call you a genius.”

When Marguerite had delivered this speech, so full of balm to poor
heart-broken Abel, she rose from the bench and flew to the old,
neglected manuscript. A bright idea had flashed upon her—’twas an
inspiration. She had already turned over its pages and found them
covered with drawings as unintelligible to her as Egyptian
hieroglyphics; but she remembered that in one place, written in pencil,
were the words, “This is Abel Day’s Patent Log.”

In a moment she was back at Abel’s side, and, holding up the manuscript
before him, “I do believe,” she said, “had I been with you when you were
laboring on this invention, that you would not have fallen ill, for I
should not have let you overtask your brain; and by this time ’twould
have been quite finished, and you’d have been in the eyes of the whole
world what I know you to be—a great, great, great man.”

But Abel, instead of replying, put his hands to his ears and shivered as
if he were stricken with cold.

“O dear friend! what is the matter now?” exclaimed Marguerite.

“The very sight of that manuscript makes me dread the voices—the horrid
voices. Hark! one is beginning to yell again. It says I must hang myself
in the end. Hark! Don’t you hear it?”

“Listen to me, and not to the voice,” said Marguerite, still holding
before his eyes the page whereon was written, “This is Abel Day’s Patent
Log.” “Take courage and look bolder at this manuscript, while I sing for
you.”

It was a cheery, jovial song she sang. She threw her whole soul into it,
and it wrought upon Abel the happy effect she hoped it would. When the
song was ended, he bowed his head and murmured: “O my blessing! my good
angel! How much sunshine you bring to me! Already the voice is gone. You
have indeed power to drive the fiend away.”

“Well, now, Abel,” answered Marguerite, “you whom—whom I—I—” Here her
tongue faltered.

But as mother earth cannot restrain the crystal waters murmuring within
her bosom, so it was impossible for the girl to hold back the words
which were bubbling up from the pure fountain of her heart; and
presently, with a blushing rose on each cheek, she spoke out and said:
“You whom I love, let me ask you to kneel with me and offer thanks to
Almighty God that I am able to drive away your melancholy. Yes, let us
say a prayer of thanksgiving.”

Abel did as she wished, and they knelt and prayed together.

Then, when they had risen from their knees, “And now,” added Marguerite,
“I hope you will set courageously to work at this Patent Log, and while
you are thus engaged I’ll play the nightingale and sing my very best;
will you?”

Abel’s eyes were swimming with tears, and, taking her hand in his, “You
love me?” he said in tremulous accents. “Oh! how kind, how good it is in
you to love me. I have been alone since my boyhood—all alone. Nobody
since the far-off day when I parted from my mother ever spoke to me as
you do. The world appeared like a desert to me. I cared very little for
life. All was a barren waste on every side of me until this hour. But
now I would not die for anything. I wish to live because you live; and,
O Marguerite! my heart would stop beating if you were to leave me.”

“But I never will leave you.”

“No, don’t. Let us live together, Marguerite, always together; be my
wife.”

“Well, now,” answered Marguerite, her heart overflowing, yet at the same
time speaking with firmness and decision, “you must set immediately to
work; a quarter of an hour will be enough for to-day. To-morrow you may
labor half an hour, and perhaps next day an hour, until this invention
is completed; and, remember, all the while you are inventing I’ll play
the lark, the canary, or whatever you choose to call me.”

Abel listened to her words, and, albeit weak and hardly in a state to
use his brain, he actually made a little progress with his invention
during the brief space she allowed him to work. What unspeakable joy it
gave Marguerite to think that she might be able to restore him to full
mental health! “And when he does become entirely himself—oh! then—then—”
Here her song waxed louder and more melodious; for her heart was
thrilling with a rapture which only the voice of music can express.

Yes, Marguerite, ’twas verily an inspiration that caused you to direct
Abel’s mind anew to the Patent Log; for this is a sane and wholesome
object whereupon to exert his faculties, and not a madman’s dream like
the Magic Hen’s Nest.

Day by day Abel gained in health; his appetite and sleep returned; he
laughed as merrily as Marguerite; and people could scarcely believe he
was the same man. But the girl never relaxed her vigilance. So passed
away the spring and summer; and when autumn came round not the fairest
castle in the air which Marguerite had built for herself did surpass the
bright reality which opened before her vision. For, lo! the Patent Log
was patented, and its success went beyond Abel’s most extravagant hopes.
A mass-meeting of ship-owners and merchants was held at the Cooper
Institute to do him honor; the press lauded him to the skies; the tongue
of Fame was chiming his name far and wide. But, better than all, a
cataract of gold was rolling into his pocket.

Of course before long our friend changed his quarters; and, in his new
and elegant home, right above the bed Marguerite hung the crucifix which
Mother Catherine had given her; then she and her betrothed went to the
Convent of Mercy to visit the good nun, who wept glad tears when she
heard their story.

“Well, I lean upon her as much as she leans upon me; we love and help
each other in all things,” spoke Abel.

“And always, always will,” continued Marguerite.

“God bless you, my children!” said Mother Catherine.

A fortnight later the happy couple were married; after which they sailed
on their wedding tour across the sea to Normandy. And one day, as they
were leaving the beautiful church of Saint-Ouen, whither they had gone
to give thanks to God for their great happiness, Marguerite spoke and
said: “I once thought there was no country in all the world like France;
but now, my dear husband, I love America more.”

“And I,” returned Abel, “love France as much as I do America; for,
although I believe good wives may be found everywhere, it was this sunny
land which gave me my pretty Marguerite.”


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


                               THE BELLS.


             I stand by Giotto’s gleaming tower,
               In gloom of the cathedral’s wing,
             And hear, in the soft sunset hour,
               The bells to benediction ring.
             That Duomo boasts: “Stone upon stone,
               Eternally I rise and rise;
             So, pace by pace, zone over zone,
               I am uprounded to the skies.”
             But simpler effort, as direct
               As that of palm or pine, impels
             This wonder of the architect
               To strike heaven’s blue with clash of bells.

             Etrurian Athens! long ago
               Thy sister of the Violet Crown,
             In colonnades like carven snow—
               All crumbled now, and bare, and brown
             With ashes of dead sunshine—sate
               Among her gods, and had no voice
             Potential as their high estate
               To summon to the sacrifice.
             Worth even the Phidian Jove sublime,
               Chryselephantine, and all else
             Of the lost forms of olden time,
               Fair Florence! are thy living bells.

             O bells! O bells! when angels sang,
               Surely—though no Evangelist
             Has told—a silvery peal first rang,
               And Christian chimes came in with Christ.
             For bells! O bells! not brazen horn,
               Nor sistrum, sackbut, cymbals, gong,
             Harsh dissonance of creeds forlorn,
               But your sweet tongues to Him belong.
             Crowning with music as ye swing
               This lily in stone, this lamp of grace,
             Wherever Christ the Lord is King,
               Ye have commission and a place.

             This tower stands square to winds that smite,
               Nor fears the thunders to impale.
             Prince of the Powers of Air! by rite
               Of baptism shall the bells prevail.
             Shine, _Stella Maris_! and O song
               Of _Ave Mary_, and Vesper bells,
             Be drowned not in the city’s throng!
               For—sad and sweet as Dante tells—
             Comes, strangely here, the sense to me
               Of parting for some unknown clime,
             A sense of silence and the sea,
               Charmed by the tryst of star and chime.

             O bells! O bells! the worlds are buoyed,
               Like beacon-bells, on waves profound,
             In all no silence as no void—
               The very flowers are cups of sound.
             We dream—and dreaming we rejoice—
               That we, when great Death draws us nigh,
             Hearing, may understand the Voice
               Which rocks a bluebell or the sky;
             And, with new senses finely strung
               In grander Eden’s blossoming,
             May see a golden planet swung,
               Yet hear the silver lilies ring!


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


              OUR NEW INDIAN POLICY AND RELIGIOUS LIBERTY.

    “While it cannot be denied that the government of the United
    States, in the general terms and temper of its legislation, has
    evinced a desire to deal generously with the Indians, it must be
    admitted that the actual treatment they have received has been
    _unjust and iniquitous beyond the power of words to express_.
    Taught by the government that they had rights entitled to
    respect, when these rights have been assailed by the rapacity of
    the white man the arm which should have been raised to protect
    them has been ever ready to sustain the aggressor. The history
    of the government connections with the Indians is _a shameful
    record of broken treaties and unfulfilled promises_.”

We take the above sentences from the first report of the Board of Indian
Commissioners appointed by President Grant under the act of Congress of
April 10, 1869. The commissioners, nine in number, were gentlemen
selected for their presumed piety, philanthropy, and practical business
qualities. None of them was a Catholic; in taking their testimony not
only with respect to the general treatment of the Indians, but in regard
to the religious interests of some of the tribes, we shall not be
suspected of summoning witnesses who are prejudiced in favor of the
Catholic Church. One of the commissioners, indeed, Mr. Felix R. Brunot,
of Pittsburgh, the chairman of the board, appears to have been inspired
at times with a lively fear and hatred of the church; his
colleagues—Messrs. Robert Campbell, of St. Louis; Nathan Bishop, of New
York; William E. Dodge, of New York; John V. Farwell, of Chicago; George
H. Stuart, of Philadelphia; Edward S. Tobey, of Boston; John D. Lang, of
Maine; and Vincent Colyer, of New York—are gentlemen quite free from any
predilection in favor of Catholicity. The passage we have taken from
their first report relates only to the worldly affairs of the Indians.
But a perusal of the various annual reports of this board, of the
Commissioners of Indian Affairs, and of the Indian agents, from 1869
until 1876, has convinced us that the injuries inflicted upon the
Indians have been by no means confined to those caused by the avarice
and rapacity of the whites. Sectarian fanaticism, Protestant bigotry,
and anti-Christian hatred have been called into play, and the arm of the
government has been made the instrument for the restriction, and even
the abolition, of religious freedom among many of the Indian tribes.

We are confident that such treatment is not in consonance with the
wishes of the American people. Have we not been taught, from our youth
up, that the two chief glories of our country were the equality of all
its citizens before the law and their absolute freedom in all religious
matters? True, the Indians are not citizens, but we have undertaken the
task of acting as their guardians, with the hope of ultimately fitting
them, or as many of them as may be tough enough to endure the process,
for the duties of citizenship. To begin this task by teaching our pupils
that religion is not a matter of conscience—that the government has a
right to force upon a people a form of Christianity against which their
consciences revolt—and to punish them for attempting to adhere to the
church whose priests first taught them to know and to fear God, is not
merely a moral wrong; it is a crime.

The whole number of Indians in the United States and Territories,
according to the very careful and systematic census contained in the
report of the Commissioner of Indian Affairs for 1875, was 279,333,
exclusive of those in Alaska. It is not a very large number; the
population of the city of New York exceeds it nearly fourfold. The
Indian Bureau classifies these people under four heads:

I. 98,108 Indians who “are wild and scarcely tractable to any extent
beyond that of coming near enough to the government agent to receive
rations and blankets.”

II. 52,113 Indians “who are thoroughly convinced of the necessity of
labor, and are actually undertaking it, and with more or less readiness
accept the direction and assistance of government agents to this end.”

III. 115,385 Indians “who have come into possession of allotted lands
and other property in stock and implements belonging to a landed
estate.”

IV. 13,727 Indians who are described as “roamers and vagrants,” and of
whom the commissioner, the Hon. Edward P. Smith, speaks in the following
Christian and statesman-like language:

    “They are generally as harmless as vagrants and vagabonds can be
    in a civilized country. They are found in all stages of
    degradation produced by licentiousness, intemperance, idleness,
    and poverty. Without land, unwilling to leave their haunts for a
    homestead upon a reservation, and scarcely in any way related
    to, or recognized by, the government, they drag out a miserable
    life. Themselves corrupted and the source of corruption, they
    seem to serve by their continued existence but a single useful
    purpose—that of affording a living illustration of the tendency
    and effect of barbarism allowed to expand itself uncured,”

—or, perhaps, of “affording a living illustration” of the wisdom and
mercy of a policy which, neglecting these poor wretches “without land,”
comes down upon other tribes, living peaceably and thrivingly upon
reservations “solemnly secured to them for ever,” takes from them their
homes and farms, and drives them forth to a new and desolate land; or,
if they resist, exasperates them into a war that ends by adding them to
the number of “roamers and vagabonds.” The sanguinary conflict which, as
we write, is still being waged between a portion of the Nez-Percés
Indians and the troops under command of that eminent “Christian
soldier,” General Howard, is a flagrant instance of the manner in which
Indians of the first and second classes enumerated by the commissioner
are driven into the category of “roamers and vagabonds.” We cannot pause
to trace the history of this our last and most needless Indian war; we
pass it by with the remark that one of the indirect causes of it,
according to the report of the Commissioner of Indian Affairs for 1874,
appears to have been the action of the “American Board of Commissioners
for Foreign Missions,” a Presbyterian organization, in selling to a
speculator certain lands within the reservation which did not belong to
the board, but to the Indians themselves.

The report of the commissioner for 1876—the Hon. J. Q. Smith—contains a
number of statistical tables, an analysis of which will aid us in
forming a correct conception of the present condition of the Indians
embraced in the commissioner’s third class, as well as a portion of
those in his second class. According to these tables—which contain the
latest _official_ returns from all the agencies—the whole number of
Indians, exclusive of those in Alaska, and of the “roamers and
vagrants,” is put down at 266,151, of whom 40,639 are of mixed blood.
The latter are for the most part the children of Indian mothers and of
French, Spanish, and American fathers. No less than 153,000 of the whole
number “come directly under the civilizing influences of the government
agencies,” and of these 104,818 “wear citizen’s dress.” The abandonment
of the picturesque blanket for the civilizing coat, the embroidered
buckskin leggings for the plain pantaloons, and the gay plume of
gorgeous feathers for the hideous hat, is certainly a mark of progress.
But when the wigwam is torn down, and the log, frame, or stone house is
erected in its stead, a still more decided step towards civilization has
been taken; and it may be with surprise that some of our readers will
learn that our “savages” have built for themselves, or have had built
for them, 55,717 houses, of which 1,702 were erected during last year.

The progress of education is a still further test of the condition of
these people. There are 367 school buildings upon the reservations; and
in these are conducted 63 boarding-schools and 281 day-schools, 23 of
the school buildings, apparently, being unoccupied. The number of
teachers is 437, and of pupils 11,328, of which number 6,028 are males.
The amount of money expended for education during the year was $362,496,
an average of $32 per pupil. The number of Indians who can read is
25,622, of whom 980 acquired that useful accomplishment during the year.
The number of births (exclusive of those in the five civilized tribes in
the Indian Territory) was 2,401, and of deaths 2,215. The religious
statistics in this table are evidently incorrect in at least one
particular. The number of church buildings on the Indian reservations is
177; the number of missionaries “not included under teachers” is 122;
and “the amount contributed by religious societies during the year for
education and other purposes” was $62,076.

These figures we do not call in question, but the “number of Indians who
are church members” is put down at only 27,215. It is to be desired that
the compiler of the statistics had furnished us with a definition of
what he understands by the words “church members.” He sets down for the
Pueblo agency, in New Mexico, for example: “Number of Indians, 8,400;
number of church buildings, 19; number of church members, _none_!” The
truth is that all, or nearly all, of these Pueblo Indians are Roman
Catholics, as their fathers were before them for more than three
centuries; and that the 19 “church buildings” on their reservation are
Catholic churches, in which the Indians are baptized, shriven, married,
and receive the Holy Communion; but in the opinion of the honorable
commissioner none of the Pueblos are “church members.” So with the
Papago Indians in Arizona, who are 5,900 in number, who have a Catholic
school, four Catholic teachers, and a Catholic church, but none of whom,
in the eyes of the commissioner, are “church members.” In the seven
reservations of which the religious control has been assigned to the
Catholic Church there is a population of 24,094 souls and 32 churches,
but the commissioner’s tables admit only 7,010 “church members” among
this population. The truth is, as we shall show, the number of Catholic
Indians alone is more than thrice as large as the whole number of
“church members” accounted for by the commissioner’s tables. When a
human being has received the Catholic rite of baptism he becomes a
member of the Catholic Church; and from that moment it is the duty and
the privilege of the church to watch over and protect the soul thus
regenerated. It is because the church has wished to discharge this duty
to her Indian children that certain of the sects have cried out against
her, and even the commissioner (Hon. E. P. Smith), in his report for
1875, has not been ashamed to reproach her.

    “At the seven agencies assigned to the care of the Catholics,”
    he remarks, “no restriction has been placed upon their system
    and methods of education, and no other religious body, so far as
    I am aware, has in any way attempted to interfere. I regret to
    say that this is not true, so far as the Catholics are
    concerned, of some of the agencies assigned to other religious
    bodies, and in some instances the interference has been a
    material hindrance to the efforts of this office to bring
    Indians under control and to enforce rules looking toward
    civilization.”

_We_ regret to say that while, on the one hand, the Catholic Church has
sought only to continue her ministrations to those of her children who
were dwelling upon reservations “assigned to other religious bodies”—a
duty which she could not neglect nor permit to remain unfulfilled—on the
other hand, the most cruel, persistent, and petty persecution has been
waged against Catholic Indians under the charge of Protestant agents,
for the reason that they were Catholics, and the most unwarrantable
interference, opposition, and maltreatment have been in many instances
manifested in cases where Catholic priests were merely exercising the
rights they possessed as American citizens, and discharging the duties
imposed on them as Christian teachers.

But before we enter upon the proof of these unpleasant facts let us
return to the statistics of the commissioner’s report, for the purpose
of completing our review of the condition of the semi-civilized and
civilized tribes. The whole number of acres of land comprised in the
Indian reservations as they now exist is 159,287,778, of which, however,
only a very small portion (9,107,244 acres, or 14,230 square miles) is
“tillable”—that is, land fitted for agricultural pursuits, and on which
crops can be raised. Now, from these figures, which are official, a very
important truth may be deduced. The policy of the government, as
explained by the commissioners in successive reports, is to gather all
the Indians upon these reservations (or upon a few of them), to wean
them from their life of hunting and fishing, and to teach them to
support themselves and their families by purely agricultural pursuits.
The idea may perhaps be a good one; but care should have been taken to
provide ample means for its execution. There are, as we have seen,
266,151 Indians, exclusive of those in Alaska and of the “roamers and
vagrants.” All these, if the present policy of the government be
successful, will be finally planted upon this region of 14,230 square
miles of tillable land, and bidden to live there, they and their
children, for ever, earning their bread by the sweat of their brow in
cultivating the soil. Now, 14,230 square miles of land is equal only to
28,460 farms of 320 acres each, or to 56,920 farms of 160 acres each.
The tradition established by the government, by its original surveys of
the public lands, by its Homestead Law, and by its Land Bounty Acts, is
that 160 acres of land is the normal quantity for an ordinary farm;
general experience has shown that this is none too much. But if the
attempt were made to arrange the 266,151 Indians into families of 4
persons each, and to allot to each family a farm of 160 acres, there
would not be tillable land enough “to go round”; 9,617 families would be
left out of the distribution. We do not mean to say that a farm of
something less than 160 acres may not be found sufficient for the
maintenance of a family of four persons; but we do wish to call
attention to the fact that the Indian reservations have been now reduced
so far that only 56,920 farms, of 160 acres each, of “tillable land”
remain in them. There is the more necessity for accentuating this fact
since even in the last report of the commissioner is repeated the
suggestion that the reservations are still too large, and that a few
more treaties might be broken and a few more sanguinary wars provoked
with advantage, in order to reduce further the area set apart for Indian
occupation. This suggestion is made plausible by the device of calling
attention to the whole area of the reservations—159,287,778 acres, or
248,886 square miles—while hiding away in very small type, and at the
end of an intricate table of figures, the fact that 150,180,534 acres,
or 234,656 square miles, of these lands are wholly unfitted for tillage,
and can never be made available for agricultural purposes.

The number of acres of land cultivated by the Indians during the year
covered by the last report of the commissioner was 318,194, and 28,253
other acres were broken by them during the year. No less than 26,873
full-blood male Indians were laboring in civilized pursuits, exclusive
of those belonging to the five civilized tribes in the Indian Territory.
These people are not savages; they worship God—many of them enjoying the
light of Catholic truth; they educate themselves and their children;
they live in houses and wear decent clothes; they toil and are producers
of valuable articles. Let us see, now, what is said about these and the
other Indians less advanced in civilization, by their rulers, the
successive Commissioners of Indian Affairs and their subordinates, the
agents. When we remark that we select our quotations from nine volumes
of official reports, the reader will understand that we lay before him
only a very few out of the numberless proofs of two facts:

1. That the commissioners, while repeatedly confessing that the Indians
have been most cruelly and unwisely wronged in the past, are of the
opinion that it would be a kind and wise thing to wrong them a little
more in the future.

2. That the Indians are perfectly well aware of their wrongs; are quite
able to formulate them; are often hopeless, from long and painful
experience, of any effectual redress for them; and very frequently
display a remarkable degree of Christian forbearance and forgiveness in
resisting the wanton provocations to revolt offered to them.

    “The traditionary belief which largely prevails,” writes the
    Hon. J. Q. Smith, in his report for 1876, “that the Indian
    service throughout its whole history has been tainted with
    fraud, arises not only from the fact that frauds have been
    committed, but also because, from the nature of the service
    itself, peculiar opportunities for fraud may be found.”

After an exposition of the duties of an Indian agent he thus proceeds:

    “The great want of the Indian service has always been thoroughly
    competent agents. The President has sought to secure proper
    persons for these important offices by inviting the several
    religious organizations, through their constituted authorities,
    to nominate to him men for whose ability, character, and conduct
    they are willing to vouch. I believe the churches have
    endeavored to perform this duty faithfully, and to a fair degree
    have succeeded; but they experience great difficulty in inducing
    persons possessed of the requisite qualifications to accept
    these positions. When it is considered that these men must take
    their families far into the wilderness, cut themselves off from
    civilization with its comforts and attractions, deprive their
    children of the advantages of education, live lives of anxiety
    and toil, give bonds for great sums of money, be held
    responsible in some instances for the expenditure of hundreds of
    thousands of dollars a year, and subject themselves to
    ever-ready suspicion, detraction, and calumny, for a
    compensation less than that paid to a third-class clerk in
    Washington or to a village postmaster, it is not strange that
    able, upright, thoroughly competent men hesitate, and decline to
    accept the position of an Indian agent, or, if they accept,
    resign the position after a short trial. In my judgment the
    welfare of the public service imperatively requires that the
    compensation offered an Indian agent should be somewhat in
    proportion to the capacity required in the office, and to the
    responsibility and labor of the duties to be performed.”

It is impossible to avoid making the remark, in this place, that there
is a class of men who have no “families”; who are ever ready to renounce
the “comforts and attractions of civilization”; who are accustomed to
“live lives of anxiety and toil”; and who are impervious to “suspicion,
detraction, and calumny,” while at the same time they are “able,
upright, and thoroughly competent.” If the government, when it
inaugurated its plan of filling the Indian agencies with men nominated
by “the churches,” had allowed our bishops to nominate agents in
proportion to the number of Catholic Indians, the chances are that the
right men would have been forthcoming, and the commissioner would not
now be complaining that, in order to keep an Indian agent from stealing,
he must be paid $3,000 a year.

    “Relief had been so long delayed,” says the same officer in the
    same report, “that supplies failed to reach the agencies until
    the Indians were in almost a starving condition, and until the
    apparent intention of the government to abandon them to
    starvation had induced large numbers to join the hostile bands
    under Sitting Bull.”

Two other instances of the same kind are mentioned; and a third is
recorded, in which, owing to the failure of Congress to provide money
promised by a treaty, “hundreds of Pawnees had been compelled to abandon
their agency, to live by begging and stealing in southern Kansas.” “In
numerous other instances,” adds the commissioner pathetically, “the
funds at the disposal of this office have been so limited as to make it
a matter of the utmost difficulty to keep the Indians from starving”—and
this, too, when the same Indians had large sums of money standing to
their credit held “in trust” for them in the treasury of the United
States. A long discussion advocating the removal of all the Indians to a
few reservations—although this could not be done without violations of
the most solemn treaties—is clinched with the cynical remark that “there
is a very general and growing opinion that observance of the strict
letter of treaties with Indians is in many cases at variance both with
their own best interests and with sound public policy.”

And these words are from the official report of the chief of a great
bureau in the most important department of our government! Did we know
what we were about when we made these treaties? If “no,” we were fools;
if “yes,” then we are knaves now to violate them without the consent of
the other, the helpless party. “The Indians claim,” says the
commissioner, “that they hold their lands by sanctions so solemn that it
would be a gross breach of faith on the part of the government to take
away any portion of it without their consent, and that consent they
propose to withhold.” Still, let us do it, cries the commissioner;
“public necessity must ultimately become supreme law.” “Public
necessity”—which in this case means private rapacity—“public necessity,”
and not truth, good faith, and justice, must rule. Many tribes are
living peaceably and doing well, on lands solemnly promised to them for
ever, in various parts of the West; the civilized and semi-civilized
tribes in the Indian Territory are living peaceably and doing well on
lands solemnly promised to them for their own exclusive use for ever,
and in some cases bought with their own money. But it would be more
convenient for us to have them all together; so let us tear up the
treaties, and drive all the Indians into the one territory.

From the same report we take this paragraph, which is only one of very
many like it:

    “The Alsea agency, in Oregon, has been abolished, but inadequate
    appropriations have worked hardship and injustice to the
    Indians. They are required to leave their homes and cultivated
    fields” (for no other reason than that white men covet them)
    “and remove to Siletz, but no means are furnished to defray
    expense of such removal or to assist in their establishment in
    their new home.”

The Board of Indian Commissioners, in their third annual report (1871),
in view of the continued violation of treaties by the government in
compelling tribes to remove from the reservations assigned to them,
found themselves constrained to say:

    “The removal of partially civilized tribes already making fair
    progress and attached to their homes on existing reservations is
    earnestly deprecated. Where such reservations are thought to be
    unreasonably large, their owners will themselves see the
    propriety of selling off the surplus for educational purposes.
    The government meanwhile owes them the protection of their
    rights to which it is solemnly pledged by treaty, and which it
    cannot fail to give without dishonor.”

But it _has_ failed to give this protection in numberless instances, and
it seems to rest very easily under the stigma of dishonor thus
incurred—as, for instance, in the case of the Osages, of whom their
agent, in a report dated Oct. 1, 1870, thus speaks:

    “This tribe of Indians are richly endowed by nature, physically
    and morally. A finer-looking body of men, with more grace and
    dignity, or better intellectual development, could hardly be
    found on this globe. They were once the most numerous and
    warlike nation on this continent, with a domain extending from
    the Gulf to the Missouri River and from the Mississippi to the
    Rocky Mountains; but they have been shorn of their territory
    piece by piece, until at last they have not a settled and
    undisputed claim to a single foot of earth. It is strictly true
    that one great cause of their decline has been fidelity to their
    pledges. More than sixty years ago they pledged themselves by
    treaty to perpetuate peace with the white man. That promise has
    been nobly kept—kept in spite of great and continual
    provocation. White men have committed upon them almost every
    form of outrage and wrong, unchecked by the government and
    unpunished. Every aggressive movement of the whites tending to
    the absorption of their territory has ultimately been
    legalized.”

These Osages are nearly all Catholics, and the agent who thus writes of
them is Mr. Isaac T. Gibson, a Quaker, or an “Orthodox Friend.” Would it
be believed that three years afterwards the kind and sympathizing Friend
Gibson was busily engaged in inflicting upon the people for whose wrongs
he was so indignant an injury greater than any they had yet suffered?
“Enterprising scoundrels” of whom he wrote in his report had robbed the
Osages of everything save their faith; and good Friend Gibson tried to
rob them of that. How he set about the task, and how he fared in it,
will be told later.

If this be not enough, look at the picture of a model Indian reservation
drawn by a lawyer of California, and addressed to J. V. Farwell, one of
the members of the Board of Indian Commissioners. He is describing the
Hoopa Valley reservation:

    “I found the Indians thoughtful, docile, and apparently eager to
    enter into any project for their good, if they could only
    believe it would be carried out in good faith, but utterly
    wanting in confidence in the agent, the government, or the white
    man. Lethargy, starvation, and disease were leading them to the
    grave. I found, in fact, that the reservation was a rehash of a
    negro plantation; the agent an absolute dictator, restrained by
    no law and no compact known to the Indians. During my stay the
    superintendent visited the valley. He stayed but a few days. We
    had drinking and feasting during this time, but no grave
    attention to Indian affairs; no extended investigation of what
    had been done or should be done. The _status quo_ was accepted
    as the _ne plus ultra_ of Indian policy. He, too, appears to
    think that annihilation is the consummation of Indian
    management. If the reservation was a plantation, the Indians
    were the most degraded of slaves. I found them poor, miserable,
    vicious, degraded, dirty, naked, diseased, and ill-fed. They had
    no motive to action. Man, woman, and child, without reference to
    age, sex, or condition, received the same five pounds of flour
    per week, and almost nothing more. They attended every Monday to
    get this, making a day’s work of it for most of them. The oldest
    men, or stout, middle-aged fathers of families, were spoken to
    just as children or slaves. They know no law but the will of the
    agent; no effort has been made to teach them any, and, where it
    does not conflict with this dictation, they follow the old forms
    of life—polygamy, buying and selling of women, and compounding
    crime with money _ad libitum_. The tribal system, with all its
    absurd domination and duty, is still retained. The Indian woman
    has no charge of her own person or virtue, but her father,
    brother, chief, or nearest male relative may sell her for a
    moment or for life. I was impressed that really nothing had been
    done by any agent, or even attempted, to wean these people from
    savage life to civilization, but only to subject them to
    plantation slavery.”

The official volumes from which we are taking our information contain
the successive annual reports of the various Indian agents and
superintendents, who are 88 in number, and the reports of many councils
held between the Indians and the Board of Indian Commissioners, agents,
army officers, and special commissioners. The Hon. Felix R. Brunot,
chairman of the Board of Indian Commissioners, is the Mercurius in many
of these councils. He does nearly all the talking on the side of the
government, and before he talks he always prays. Thus: “Gen. Smith
announced that Mr. Brunot would speak to the Great Spirit before the
council began. Mr. Brunot offered a prayer.” In the interests of
religion it is to be regretted that councils thus begun sometimes
appeared to have been designed for the purpose of inflicting new wrongs
upon the Indians. But we mention the councils here only for the purpose
of taking from the reports of their proceedings, as well as from the
annual reports of the agents, a very few of the remarks made by the
Indian chiefs concerning themselves, the government, the agents, and the
whites generally. The limits of our space compel us to string these
together without further introduction:

    RED CLOUD: God raised us Indians. I am trying to live peaceably.
    All I ask for is my land—the little spot I have left. My people
    have done nothing wrong. I have consulted the Great Spirit, and
    he told me to keep my little spot of land. My friends, have pity
    on me, if you would have me live long. My people have been
    cheated so often they will not believe.

    BUFFALO GOOD.: If you are going to do anything for us, do it
    quick. I saw the Commissioner of Indian Affairs at Washington,
    and he told me he was going to fix it up, but I have heard that
    so often I am afraid it is not true. I have been disappointed,
    and I think Washington is not so much of a chief after all.
    Because we do not fight, he takes away our lands and gives them
    to the tribes who are fighting the whites all the time.

    HOWLISH-WAMPO (“the Cayuse chief, a Catholic Indian, in dress,
    personal appearance, and bearing superior to the average
    American farmer”): When you told me you believed in God, I
    thought that was good. But you came to ask us for our land. We
    will not let you have it. This reservation is marked out for us.
    We see it with our eyes and our hearts; we all hold it with our
    bodies and our souls. Here are my father and mother, and
    brothers and sisters and children, all buried; I am guarding
    their graves. This small piece of land we all look upon as our
    mother, as if she were raising us. On the outside of the
    reservation I see your houses; they have windows, they are good.
    Why do you wish my land? My friend, you must not talk too strong
    about getting my land; I will not let it go.

    HOMLI (chief of the Walla-Wallas): My cattle and stock are
    running on this reservation, and they need it all. It is not the
    white man who has helped me: I have made all the improvements on
    my own land myself.

    WENAP-SNOOT (chief of the Umatillas): When my father and mother
    died, they gave me rules and gave me their land to live on. They
    left me to take care of them after they were buried. I was to
    watch over their graves. I will not part from them. I cultivate
    my land and I love it.

    PIERRE (a young chief): I do not wish money for my land; I am
    here, and I will stay here. I will not part with lands, and if
    you come again I will say the same thing.

    WAL-CHE-TE-MA-NE (another Catholic chief, as, indeed, were the
    three last named): You white chiefs listen to me: you, Father
    Vermeerch, are the one who rules my heart. I am old now, and I
    want to die where my father and mother and children have died. I
    see the church there; I am glad to see it; I will stay beside it
    and die by the teachings of the father. I love my church, my
    mills, my farm, the graves of my parents and children. I do not
    wish to leave them. (Happily, the firmness of these Catholic
    Indians, the Umatilla, Cayuse, and Walla-Walla tribes, carried
    the day, and they were permitted to remain on their little
    reservation).

    TENALE TEMANE (another Catholic Indian): We cannot cheat our own
    bodies and our own souls. If we deceive ourselves we shall be
    miserable; _only from the truth can we grow ourselves, and make
    our children grow_. Of all that was promised to me by Gov.
    Stevens I have seen nothing; _it must have been lost_.

    THE YOUNG CHIEF: What you promised was not done; it was as if
    you had taken the treaty as soon as it was made, and torn it up.
    The treaties made with the Indians on all the reservations have
    never been kept; _they have all been broken_. I do not want to
    teach you anything about God; you are wise and know all about
    him. (The irony of this is exquisite.)

    TASENICK (a Wascoe chief): The people who are put over me teach
    me worse things than I knew before. You can see what we were
    promised by the treaty: we have never got anything; all we have
    we bought with our own money. Our Great Father may have sent the
    things promised, but they never got here.

    CHINOOK: When we made the treaty they promised us schoolmasters
    and a great many other things, but they forget them. We never
    had any of them. They told us we were to have $8,000 a year; we
    never saw a cent of it.

    MACK (a Deschutes chief): It is not right to starve us; it is
    better to kill us.

    JANCUST: I cannot look you in the face; I am ashamed: white men
    have carried away our women. What do you think? White men do
    these things and say it is right.

    NAPOLEON (a Catholic chief of the Tulalip reservation, who “came
    forward with much dignity and laid before Mr. Brunot a bunch of
    split sticks”): These represent the number of my people killed
    by the whites during the year, and yet nothing has been done to
    punish them. The whites now scare all the Indians, and we look
    now wondering when all the Indians will be killed.

    JOHNNY ENGLISH: We like Father Chirouse very well, because he
    tries to do what is right; when he begins to work he does one
    thing at a time.

    HENRY (a Catholic on the Lumni reservation): I have been a
    Christian for many years. We have some children at school with
    Father Chirouse; we want our lands for them to live on when we
    are dead.

    DAVID CROCKETT (a Catholic chief): I ought to have a better
    house in which to receive my friends. But we want most an altar
    built in our church and a belfry on it; this work we cannot do
    ourselves.

    SPAR (a young chief): All the agents think of is to steal; that
    is all every agent has done. When they get the money, where does
    it go to? When I ask about it they say they will punish me. I
    thought the President did not send them for that.

    PETER CONNOYER (of the Grande Rondes): About religion—I am a
    Catholic; so are all of my family. All the children are
    Catholics. We want the sisters to come and teach the girls. The
    priest lives here; he does not get any pay. He teaches us to
    pray night and morning. We must teach the little girls. I am
    getting old. I may go to a race and bet a little, but I don’t
    want my children to learn it; it is bad.

    TOM CURL: We want to get good blankets, not paper blankets. I
    don’t know what our boots are made of; if we hit anything they
    break in pieces.

When, in 1870, President Grant announced the inauguration of his new
Indian policy, the sects saw in it an opportunity of carrying on their
propaganda among the Indians with little or no cost to themselves, and
of interfering with, and probably compelling the total cessation of, the
work of the Catholic Church among many of the tribes. To begin with,
here were 72 places in which they could install the same number of their
ministers, or laymen devoted to their interests, with salaries paid by
the general government. Once installed as Indian agents, these men would
have autocratic power over the affairs of the tribes entrusted to them;
and they could make life so uncomfortable for the Catholic missionaries
already at work there that they would probably retire. If they
disregarded petty persecutions, the agent could compel them to depart,
since it is held by the Indian Bureau that an agent has power to exclude
from a reservation any white man whose presence he chooses to consider
as inconvenient, as well as to prevent the Indians from leaving the
reservation for any purpose whatever. There were, it was known, many
Indian agencies at which the Catholic Church had had missions for many
years, and where all, or nearly all, the Indians were Catholics. If
these agencies could be assigned to the care of the sects, how easily
could the work of converting the Indian Catholics into Methodists,
Baptists, Presbyterians, Quakers, or Unitarians be accomplished! The
priests could be driven away and forbidden to return; the sectarian
preachers would have full play; and the Indian appetite for Protestant
truth could be sharpened by judicious bribery and intimidation. On the
borders of the reservation there might be—as there are—Catholic churches
and Catholic priests; but the Catholic Indians on the reservation might
be—as they have been—forbidden to cross the line in order to visit their
priests and to receive the sacraments.

The new Indian policy which furnished this opportunity was probably not
original with President Grant, and we are not disposed to call in
question the purity and kindness of his motives in adopting it. At the
time of its inauguration, however, he was surrounded by influences
decidedly hostile to the Catholic Church; and it is probable that from
the beginning the men “behind the throne” had a clear conception of the
manner in which the new policy could be worked for the benefit of the
sects. It was based upon an idea plausible to non-Catholics, but which
no Catholic can ever accept—the idea that one religion is as good as
another, and that, for example, it does not make much difference whether
a man believes that Jesus Christ is God, or that he was simply a
tolerably good but rather weak and vain man. This idea has been carried
out in practice-for even to the “Unitarians” have been given two Indian
agencies: those of the Los Pinos and White River in Colorado, whose
entire religious education for 1876, as reported by the agents,
consisted in “a sort of Shaker service of singing and dancing held for
two or three days.” The chairman of the Board of Indian Commissioners,
Mr. Brunot, appears to have been anxious to spread abroad the doctrine
of indifferentism among the Catholic Indians. Whenever, in his numerous
“councils,” he found himself in company with such Indians, he undertook
to enlighten them after this fashion:

    “A chief said yesterday: ‘I don’t know about religion, because
    they tell so many different things.’ Religion is like the roads;
    they all go one way; all to the one good place; so take any one
    good road and keep in it, and it will bring you out right at
    last.” ... “I heard an Indian say that the white man has two
    religions. In one way it looks so; but if you will understand
    you will see it is only one.” ... “It is not two kinds of
    religion, but it is as two roads that both go the same way.”

We scarcely think it is within the province of the federal government to
pay a gentleman for preaching this kind of doctrine to Catholic Indians.
But what was the new Indian policy? It was explained by President Grant,
in his message of December 5, 1870, in these words:

    “Indian agents being civil officers, I determined to give all
    the agencies to such religious denominations as had heretofore
    established missionaries among the Indians, and perhaps to some
    other denominations who would undertake the work on the same
    terms—that is, as missionary work.”

There is an undesirable lack of exactness in these words—for, as they
stand, they might be understood as promising the agency of a tribe to a
sect which had established on its territory a missionary station years
ago, and had subsequently abandoned it. This, however, was certainly not
the intention of the President; if he intended to act in good faith in
the matter, he proposed, doubtless, to assign the agencies to churches
that had established _successful_ missions—missions actually existing,
having churches, schools, and converts. It is impossible to believe that
it was the intention of the executive to transfer tribes of Catholic
Indians to Protestant sects, under the pretence that the sects, at some
remote period, had made feeble and fruitless attempts to establish
missions among them. This, however, has been the construction placed
upon the President’s policy by the sects; and, strange to say, they have
experienced no difficulty in persuading successive Commissioners of
Indian Affairs to agree with them in this interpretation, and to carry
it out in a manner productive of the most wanton cruelty and injustice.

There are seventy-two Indian agencies: three in Arizona, three in
California, two in Colorado, fifteen in Dakota, eight in the Indian
Territory, one in Iowa, two in Kansas, one in Michigan, three in
Minnesota, four in Montana, five in Nebraska, five in New Mexico, one in
New York, two in Nevada, six in Oregon, one in Utah, seven in Washington
Territory, two in Wisconsin, and one in Wyoming. According to any fair
construction of the new policy, no less than forty of these agencies
should have been assigned to the Catholic Church. In all of them the
church had had missions for many years; in many of them all of the
Christian Indians, or the great majority of them, were Catholics; in
some of them the Indians had been Catholics for centuries, and their
civilization was wholly due to the instruction they had received from
Catholic priests. The following is a list of these agencies, with their
location and the number of Indians embraced in each:


               Name of Agency.                    No. of
                               Location.        Indians.

               Yakima          Washington          3,000

               Fort Hall       Idaho               1,500

               Tulalip         Washington          3,950

               Puyallup        Washington            577

               Skokomish       Washington            875

               Chehalis        Washington            600

               Neah Bay        Washington            604

               Colville        Washington          3,349

               La Point        Wisconsin             646

               Pottawattomie   Indian              1,336
                               Territory

               Flatheads       Montana             1,821

               Blackfeet       Montana            14,630

               Papagoes        Arizona             6,000

               Round Valley    California          1,112

               North           California             ——
                 California

               Mission Indians California          5,000

               Pueblos         New Mexico          7,879

               Osages          Indian              2,823
                               Territory

               Cœur d’Alenes   Idaho                 700

               Quapams         Indian                235
                               Territory

               Was, Peorias,   Indian                217
                 etc.          Territory

               Hoopa Valley    California            725

               Pimas and       Arizona             4,326
                 Mariscopas

               Moquis          Arizona             1,700

               Warm Spring     Oregon                626

               Grande Ronde    Oregon                924

               Siletz          Oregon              1,058

               Umatilla        Oregon                837

               Alsea           Oregon                343

               Malheur         Oregon              1,200

               Nez-Percés      Idaho               2,807

               Navajoes        New Mexico          9,114

               Mescaleros      New Mexico          1,895

               Milk River      Montana            10,625

               Crows           Montana             4,200

               Green Bay       Wisconsin           1,480

               Chippewas       Minnesota           1,322

               Mackinac        Michigan           10,260

               Grand River     Dakota              6,269

               Devil’s Lake    Dakota              1,020

                                                     ———

                                         Total   117,585

Within the jurisdiction of these agencies there are 52 Catholic
churches, 18 Catholic day-schools, and 10 Catholic boarding industrial
schools. The Catholic priests and teachers employed among the Indians
during the year 1875 numbered 117; while for the same year the
Protestant sects had only 64 missionaries employed in all the agencies
under their control. Would it not have been supposed that a fair
interpretation of the new policy of President Grant—nay, that the only
fair interpretation of it—would have awarded these 40 agencies to the
Catholic Church? The missions of the church, in 1870, were in almost
uncontested possession of these fields of labor. Her priests had borne
the labor and the heat of the day; asking and expecting no aid from the
state, and receiving very little from any other source, they had given
themselves to the work of Christianizing these Indians; and while the
sects had from time to time made spasmodic and desultory attempts at
Indian missions, our priests and their coadjutors, the sisters of the
teaching orders, had remained steadfast in their self-denying and
arduous labor. But the sects were now inspired with a new and sudden
zeal for the salvation of the Indians. They were not content with the 32
agencies in which, although there were many Catholic Indians, the church
had not been able to establish permanent missions. They set up claims to
the agencies we have enumerated, and it was observed that the fervor
with which these demands were pressed was in exact proportion to the
richness of the reservation and its desirableness as a future home for a
missionary with a large family and with a numerous corps of needy
relations. So fierce was their onslaught, and so rapidly were their
demands conceded by the then commissioner, that, almost before the
authorities of the church had been informed of what was going on, no
less than 32 of the 40 agencies which, by any fair interpretation of the
President’s policy, should have been assigned to Catholic care, were
divided among the sects. Fourteen of the agencies, with 54,253 Indians,
fell to the Methodists, the sect then, and perhaps now, most in favor
with the administration; five, with 21,321 Indians, went to the
Presbyterians; the same number, with 5,311 Indians, were awarded to the
Quakers; the Congregationalists received three, with 2,056 Indians; the
Reformed Dutch Church were given two, with 6,026 Indians; the “American
Missionary Association” (a Congregational society) obtained two, with
2,126 Indians; and the Protestant Episcopal Church was gratified with
one agency, the Chippewas of Missouri, 1,322 in number, who had been
Catholics all their lives. There remained eight of the agencies to which
the Catholic Church possessed a claim, and these were left in her
possession, not, however, without a threat that they also would be taken
from her—a threat already carried into execution in one case, the
Papagoes, a tribe of 6,000, residing in Arizona, having been kindly
transferred to the care of a sect called the “Reformed Church.” The
agent of this tribe, in his last report, says:

    “There is no school at present taught among these Indians. The
    intellectual and moral training of the young has been, for a
    long time, in the hands of the Roman Catholics, and the school
    hitherto kept by the sisters of the Order of St. Joseph.”

The school is now closed, it appears; and the “Reformed Church”
seemingly does not intend to open another, as their agent remarks that
“there is, perhaps, but little use to establish schools, or look for any
considerable advance in education among them.”

The seven agencies still left to the care of the church are those of
Tulalip and Colville, in Washington Territory; Grande Ronde and
Umatilla, in Oregon; Flathead, in Montana; and Standing Rock (or Grand
River) and Devil’s Lake, in Dakota. These agencies, according to the
last report of the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, have a population of
12,819 Indians. No less than 7,034 of these wear “citizen’s dress”; they
have 825 frame or log houses; they have six boarding-schools and three
day-schools, taught by 19 teachers; 382 of the adults can read; they
have 12 churches, and 7,510, or more than half the whole number, are
“church members.” Nothing like this can be shown at any of the agencies
under Protestant control, save the five civilized tribes in the Indian
Territory. The whole of the Indians on the Grande Ronde reservation—755
in number—are so far civilized that all of them wear citizen’s dress.
They have 375 houses, and 690 of them are “church members.” Their agent
speaks of them in glowing terms; last year, without receiving a penny of
the sums due them by the government, they not only supported themselves
in comfort, but were able “of their charity” to relieve the necessities
of two neighboring tribes, the Salmon River and Nestucca Indians, who
were starving to death “in consequence of the failure of the government
to fulfil the promises made by the honorable Commissioner Simpson.” The
parsimony of the government compelled them to dispense with the services
of their regular physician; but, writes the agent, “we have been
fortunate in securing the services of a sister, who has, in addition to
her duties as a teacher, kindly dispensed medicines with the most
gratifying success.” “The school,” he adds, “is in a very prosperous
condition under the efficient management of Sister Mary, superior, and
three assistants.”

The Indians on the Tulalip reservation, 3,250 in number, are equally
well advanced; the whole of them wear citizen’s dress; they have 2
boarding-schools, with 6 teachers, and 2,260 of them are “church
members.” We look in vain for statistics like these among the agencies
under Protestant control; when there is anything like it, it is found in
the reports from the tribes which have been civilized and Christianized
by the Catholic Church and then stolen away by the sects.

In addition to the 33 agencies which belonged by right to the church,
but were distributed among the sects, 30 others were portioned out among
them, so that, according to the last report of the commissioner, while
the church, entitled to 40 agencies, has but 7, the Quakers have 16; the
Methodists 14; the Baptists 2; the Presbyterianscc 7; the
Congregationalists 6; the “Reformed” 4; the Protestant Episcopalians 9;
the Unitarians 2; the “Free-will Baptists” 1; the “United
Presbyterians,” who seem to be disunited from the other Presbyterians,
1; and the “Christian Union,” which is not in union with any of the
other sects, 1. If our space permitted, we should point out the
miserable results after a seven years’ possession of these agencies. The
four agencies under the care of the “Reformed” body, for example,
embrace 14 tribes, numbering 17,049 souls. Among these are the Papagoes,
5,900 in number, already tolerably well-civilized by Catholic
instruction, and all of whom wear citizen’s dress. With the exception of
these, the “Reformers,” after seven years’ labor, have 50 Indians who
wear citizen’s dress, 2 schools, 1 church building, and 4 church
members! As they have not thought it worth while to send out any
missionaries, one wonders what they do with their church building, but
it is probably used as a store-house by the “Reformed” agent.

The Hicksite Quakers have 5 agencies in Nebraska, with 4,098 Indians.
They have 392 “church members,” but 348 of these belong to a civilized
tribe—the Santee Sioux, who are 793 strong. After seven years of labor
the Quakers have got only 44 out of the other 3,300 Indians under their
care to call themselves “church members.” In the Hoopa Valley
reservation, given to the Methodists, there is a “school building,” but
no school, no teacher, and no pupils; there is a “church building,” but
no missionary and no “church members.” The poor mission Indians in
California, the children of Catholic parents for many generations, also
under the tender care of the Methodists, have neither houses, nor
school, nor church, nor missionary. The 6,000 Indians on the Red Cloud
agency in Dakota, under the charge of the Protestant Episcopalians, have
a “school building,” but no teacher, no scholars, no church, no
missionary, and no “church members.” The 3,992 Cheyennes and Arapahoes
in the Indian Territory, in charge of the Quakers, have a school-house,
but no church, no missionary, and no “church members,” and so with the
rest.

In selecting a few typical illustrations of the injustice perpetrated by
the assignment of tribes of Catholic Indians to non-Catholic sects, we
are embarrassed by the richness and plenitude of our facts. We mention
only two—the Chippewas of Lake Superior, and the Osages.

The agency of the Chippewas of Lake Superior became vacant early in
1873, and General Ewing, on the 19th of March of that year, addressed a
letter to the Secretary of the Interior, submitting “that, under the
Indian policy of President Grant, this agency should be assigned to the
Catholic Church.” He accompanied his letter with a brief of the facts on
which he thus claimed the agency for the church. The Chippewas number
4,551, and 3,696 of them wear citizen’s dress; they have six schools and
three churches. More than 200 years ago the Catholic fathers Dablon and
Marquette established the mission of St. Mary among the Chippewas, and
the church has ever since looked upon them as her children. The Catholic
missions, first permanently established among them in 1668, continued in
a flourishing manner until the year 1800; they were revived after a
lapse of 30 years; and for the past 47 years they have been continuously
attended by Catholic priests—one being assigned exclusively and
continuously to the religious instruction, education, and care of the
Indians. The Indians at their own expense have built three Catholic
churches, at Bayfield, La Pointe, and Bad River. The successive reports
of the Commissioners of Indian Affairs from 1868 to 1872 set forth these
facts. Praise is given in 1868 to Father Chebal for the good result of
his labors; the agent, writing in 1870, says: “The religious instruction
has been almost entirely under Catholic missionaries; 99 out of 100 of
them are Catholics, and Father Chebal has labored industriously and
successfully among them.” The agent, writing in 1871, again says: “Most
of these people are members of the Roman Catholic Church. Their pastor
has been a missionary among them for many years, and has labored with
the zeal for which his church is proverbial to secure converts. He has
accomplished much good.” The report of the agent for 1868 likewise
mentions that the “Rev. L. H. Wheeler and his most estimable lady” had
been conducting a Protestant mission there “under the control of the A.
B. C. F. M. Society,” but that “_this society having almost withdrawn
their support, and further for the purpose of educating their own
children, Rev. Mr. Wheeler has abandoned his mission_.” The agent in
1869, Lt.-Col. Knight, of the army, thus writes:

    “The Chippewas of Lake Superior generally have abandoned the
    heathen faith of their fathers. If they have not all been made
    intelligent Christians, they have abandoned heathenism. The
    Catholic missionaries are the most assiduous workers among them,
    and the largest portion of them have espoused that religious
    faith; yet the Protestant religion has its adherents among them.
    Father Chebal, of the Catholic faith, is untiring and devoted in
    his labors with them. The Protestant religion is without a
    missionary representative, which is unfortunate,” etc.

The case, it will be seen, was plain. The Catholic missions were shown
to be the oldest and the _only successful_ missions among the Chippewas,
and “the right of the Catholic Church, under the policy of the
administration, to the agency” was incontestable. But the agency had
already been given to the Congregationalists, who had never before
attempted to establish a mission among the Chippewas, and whose minister
knew nothing about the tribe. Pressed hard by General Ewing, the
secretary referred the matter to our pious friend Mr. Brunot, who, in an
elaborate and most disingenuous opinion, decided that, although the
assignment of the agency to the Congregationalists might have been
erroneous, now that it was made it ought not to be changed—and this,
too, although the department had made similar changes in other
instances, taking, for example, the Nez-Percés agency from the
Catholics, to whom it had been assigned, and giving it to the Methodists
in 1870. General Ewing, unwilling to submit to this palpable injustice,
again addressed the Secretary of the Interior, reviewing the whole
question and incontestably proving the justice of his claim. But all was
in vain; the agency remains in the hands of the Congregationalists, and
the Catholic Chippewas and their priests are at the mercy of men who
have no sympathy or bond of common feeling with either.

The Osages, now in the Indian Territory, are and long have been almost
wholly Catholic. But they were assigned to the Quakers, and good Friend
Gibson, whose pathetic lament over the worldly sufferings of his
_protegés_ we have already given, had not been long in charge of them
ere he issued an edict forbidding Catholic priests or teachers to remain
on the reservation. Accustomed to oppression and maltreatment of every
kind, the Indians felt that this last blow was too hard to bear without
remonstrance, and in June, 1873, they drew up and signed a memorial to
the President, asking that “their former Catholic missionaries and
school-teachers be restored to them and allowed to again locate in the
Osage nation.” No response was given to this petition, and on the 31st
of March in the next year a delegation of the tribe, with the governor
of the nation at their head, arrived at Washington, and, without
assistance or suggestions, drew up and presented to the Assistant
Secretary of the Interior a memorial which it is impossible to read
without emotion. After setting forth that the signers of the memorial
are “the governor, chiefs, and councillors of the Great and Little Osage
nation of Indians, and all duly-constituted delegates of said nations,”
they recount the story of their former petition, and say:

    “... In the name of our people, therefore, we beg leave to renew
    our said petition, and to ask that our former Catholic
    missionary, Father Shoemaker, and those connected with him in
    his missionary and educational labors among our people previous
    to the late war, be permitted to again locate among us. We think
    that this request is reasonable and just. Catholic missionaries
    have been among our people for several generations. Our people
    are familiar with their religion. The great majority of them are
    of the Catholic faith, and believe it is right. Our children
    have grown up in this faith. Many of our people have been
    educated by the Catholic missionaries, and our people are
    indebted to them for all the blessings of Christianity and
    civilization that they now enjoy, and have for them a grateful
    remembrance. Since the missionaries have been taken away from
    us, we have done but little good and have made poor advancement
    in civilization and education. Our whole nation has grieved ever
    since these missionaries have been taken away from us, and we
    have prayed continuously that the Great Spirit might move upon
    the heart of our great father, the President, and cause him to
    return these missionaries to us. We trust he will do so, because
    in 1865, when we signed the treaty of that date, the
    commissioners who made it promised _that if we signed it we
    should again have our missionaries_.”

The assistant secretary received the memorial, promising to present it
to the President at once and to obtain for the delegation a reply: but
on the next day Mr. Gibson, who had followed them to Washington in a
state of great alarm, hurried them away from the capital to
Philadelphia, and thence homewards, not permitting them to return.
Immediately after their departure the petition they had filed in the
department was missing, and its loss was only supplied by General Ewing,
who had a printed copy with the certificate of the secretary placed on
file. Simultaneously with the mysterious disappearance of this petition
the Commissioner of Indian Affairs received a paper purporting to come
from the Osages at home. We dislike to use the phrase, but the proof is
clear that this document was a forgery. It purported to be signed by
twenty-eight chiefs and braves, with their “mark”; but, as General Ewing
says, “it was evidently got up by interested white men and the names of
the Indians signed without their knowledge.” The substance of it was
that the delegation which had gone to Washington was not to be regarded.
Upon their return home the delegation met their people in council, and
the result of this conference is related in a letter to General Ewing,
signed by Joseph Paw-ne-no-posh, governor of the nation; Alexander
Bezett, president of the council; T. L. Rogers, secretary; and the
eighteen councillors. The letter is too long to be given here. In
presenting it to the Secretary of the Interior, with a full account of
the whole transaction, General Ewing used some very strong, but not too
strong, language. “Their petitions,” said he, “have not been heard, and
now, through me as the representative of the Catholic Indian missions,
they make a final appeal. The petition of a defenceless people for
simple justice at the hands of a great government is the strongest
appeal that my head or heart can conceive; and it is of course
unnecessary for me to urge it upon you. It is as plain and open as the
day; and if you can decline (which I cannot believe) to comply with the
repeated petitions of this people, it is useless for me to urge you to
it. You must give this agency to the Catholic Church, or you publish the
announcement that President Grant has changed his policy, and that he
now intends to _force_ that form of Christianity on each Indian tribe
that _he_ may think is best for each.”

But it was all in vain. Friend Gibson carried his point, and, although
he has since been compelled to retire from the agency, it is still in
the hands of the Quaker organization. The population of the reservation,
according to the last report, was 2,679; very nearly the whole of these
are good and faithful Catholic Christians; but the agent reports:
“Church members, none; churches, none; missionaries, none!” The Quakers
have driven away the Catholic priests, and have not even taken the
trouble to send a missionary of their own to fill their place.

But we must make an end, although we have only, as it were, touched the
skirt of our subject. Time and space would fail us to tell of the priest
in California who was thrown into prison, brutally beaten, and expelled
from his flock, for the offence of coming to his old mission after the
agency had been assigned to a Protestant sect; of the bishops who have
been denied permission to build churches and schools on reservations for
the use of Catholic Indians; of the frauds committed by Protestant
agents on Catholic tribes; of the mingled tyranny and temptation with
which the Protestant agents have repeatedly assailed our poor Indian
brethren, making their apostasy the condition of their rescue from
starvation. Are not all these things written in the reports of the
Indian Bureau, in the annals of the Catholic Indian missions, and in the
letters of our bishops and priests published from time to time?

The duty of the Catholic laity throughout the United States in this
business is clear. Happily, the way for the discharge of this duty has
been made easy. It is simply to provide generously for the support and
increase of the work of the Bureau of Catholic Missions at Washington.
This bureau was established in January, 1873; it is composed of a
commissioner, appointed by the Archbishop of Baltimore, with the
concurrence in council of the archbishops of the United States; a
treasurer and director; and a Board of Control, of five members,
appointed in like manner. The commissioner is a layman; he is recognized
by the government as the representative of the church in all matters
among the Indians. The treasurer and director must be a priest; the
president of the Board of Control must be a priest; the other four
members are laymen. The salaries of the commissioner and of the Board of
Control are—nothing. Their work, like that of the directors in the
councils of the Propaganda, is given in charity. “General Charles Ewing,
the commissioner,” says Father Brouillet, “has for over four years
generously given to the work of the bureau his legal services and a
large portion of his valuable time gratuitously. He never made any
charge nor received any pay for his services, and on more than one
occasion he has advanced his own money to keep up the work.” The
director and treasurer and two clerks are the only persons connected
with the bureau who are paid, and their united salaries are only $1,000
a year. The whole expenditures of the bureau, for salaries, printing,
stationery, postage, rent, and travelling, have not exceeded $1,600 a
year during the four years of its existence—all the balance of its funds
going directly to the benefit of the missions. The business of the
bureau is to defend Catholic Indian missions against the organized
assault which has been made upon them. For those desirous of aiding so
good a work we add the information that “all remittances to the
treasurer of the Catholic Indian mission fund should be by draft on New
York or by post-office order, and should be addressed to lock-box 60,
Washington, D. C.”


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                            ST. HEDWIGE.[11]

The bulwark of Christendom is the title which Poland long claimed and
well deserved, even when the country now known as that of Sobieski and
Kosciusko was itself half-barbarous, and, instead of being a brilliant,
many-provinced kingdom, was a disunited confederation of sovereigns.
Among the many mediæval heroes who fought the invading Tartars on the
east, and the aggressive heathen Prussians on the west, and looked upon
their victories as triumphs of the cross and their death as a kind of
martyrdom, were two Henrys, “the Bearded” and “the Pious,” the husband
and the son of the holy Princess Hedwige, Duchess of Silesia and Poland
during the first half of the thirteenth century. Her life, chiefly
through her connection with other princely houses, was an eventful and
sorrowful one, and, towards the last years of it, personally a checkered
one. If God chastises those whom he loves, the mark of grace was surely
set upon St. Hedwige of Andechs, the aunt of St. Elizabeth of Hungary,
and second daughter of a Bavarian sovereign whose titles and possessions
included parts of Istria, Croatia and Dalmatia, Swabia, and the Tyrol.
The life and customs of the thirteenth century, the magnificence on
state occasions, and the simplicity, not to say rudeness, of domestic
life at ordinary times; the difficulty of communication, and
consequently the long separations between friends and kindred; the
prominent part of religion in all the good works and public improvements
of the day; the tales and legends that grew up among the people; the
traditions which there was no one to investigate or contradict, and
which did duty then for newspaper and magazine gossip; the personal
connection between the sovereign and his people, and the primitive ideal
of charity unclouded by doubts and theories, experiments and
“commissions”; the summary processes of justice, tempered only by the
pleadings of generous and tender women; government in a chaotic state,
the profession of arms the dominant one, private wars at every turn, and
individual acts of heroism, barbarity, and charity all alike received as
a matter of course—all this is well known, and is equally true of all
Christian and civilized lands of that day.

But as you went eastward through Europe confusion increased and manners
grew rougher; primitive standards of right and wrong existed under the
name of the law of the strongest; and whatever generosity human nature
displayed was an untutored impulse, a half-heathen quality guided by a
natural sense of honor rather than by fixed rules of morality. The
Slavs, the Czechs, and the Magyars were magnificent barbarians, as the
Franks and Teutons of four centuries earlier had been—Christians,
indeed, and as fiercely so as Clovis when he drew his sword at the first
recital of the Passion and exclaimed, “Would to God I and my Franks had
been there”; but unrestrained and wild, more generous than obedient
towards the church, which they would rather endow and defend than curb
their passions in accordance with its teachings—splendid material, but
an unwrought mine. Bishops and priests had fallen into loose ways among
them and lost the respect of the people; vassals of the great lords,
they stood on much the same level as the secular clergy at present do in
Russia, and the popes had long striven in vain to make them give up
marriage when they took Holy Orders. The parish clergy were mostly
ignorant men, often employed in common labor to support their families,
while of teaching monasteries or any places where learning was imparted
and respected there were very few.

Hedwige came from a well-regulated country, where church dignitaries
were the equals of civil ones, where the Roman standard was paramount,
and churchmen were looked upon as powerful and learned men. Monasteries
for both sexes abounded; Hedwige herself had been brought up by the
Benedictines at Kitzingen, where her special friend and teacher,
Petrussa, many years afterwards, followed her into Silesia and became
the first abbess of the monastery of Trebnitz, near Breslau. Hedwige,
whose mind was from her earliest years in advance of her time, and who
mastered all the accomplishments of a woman of high station at that day
before she was twelve years old, set herself the task of bettering her
adopted country as soon as she had entered it. The men of that time knew
less than the women; for their education, unless they were destined for
the church, was purely military. Ecclesiastics were lawyers, doctors,
authors, travellers, _savants_, poets, and schoolmasters; while the
majority of laymen were only soldiers. But the women of corresponding
birth were taught Latin and a good deal of medicine, besides household
knowledge, embroidery, the national literature, music, and painting. For
the times this was no unworthy curriculum. They had a practical
knowledge of surgery and of the healing herbs of the field—which, in
days when the chances of life and death often hung on the possibility of
reaching or finding a physician within the radius of forty or fifty
miles, was a very valuable gift—and an equally practical and useful
acquaintance with all the details of housekeeping. Nothing in those days
was “made easy”; mechanical contrivances for saving time and trouble
were not thought of; and even the highest people worked slowly with
their hands and did cheerfully without the luxuries which a cottage
would scarcely lack in these days. Hedwige in her later years—for she
never gave up her habits of industry—often reminded her attendants of
the maxim, “He that worketh not, neither let him eat,” and would never
allow that the rule did not apply to sovereigns as well as to private
individuals. Her own life was laborious; she rose with the dawn, winter
and summer, and, though her devotions took up many hours, she yet had
enough to give to the education of her children, the making of vestments
for poor churches, and of clothes for her pensioners. Her virtues, which
were great and generous, flowed naturally into the mould of her time;
she built and endowed monasteries, interceded for prisoners and
criminals, made daily distributions of alms to the poor, nursed the sick
and leprous in the hospitals—which she was the first in her adopted
country to found and secure—and she brought up a number of orphan
children. Of these she was so fond that when she travelled she took them
with her in several covered wagons. Later on she kept in the palace at
Breslau, at her own expense, thirteen poor men, whom she served every
day at dinner, just before her own meal, and otherwise ministered to
their wants in memory of our Lord and his apostles. In fact, her life is
a kind of transcript of that of St. Elizabeth of Hungary, and even the
poetical legends of miracles wrought to turn away her husband’s
displeasure, familiar to us all through the pictures of St. Elizabeth
and the bread turned to roses, have a counterpart in Hedwige’s life.

There is a prevalent idea that holiness and the present time are
incompatible, or rather that the holiness of which the biographers of
mediæval saints admiringly tell us is out of place in this century. The
mistake lies in the frame of the picture presented to us. Holiness is of
all times, and is the same in substance as it ever was. If, instead of
reproducing the beautiful legends of old, and restoring a sort of
literary Preraphaelitism in the history of the strong and wise women of
by-gone times, the modern biographer were to go to the root of the
matter and bring out in strong relief the commonsense virtues, the
simplicity and faithfulness to natural duties, the reliance upon God,
and the single-minded purpose which distinguished the women who are
known as saints, they would succeed in winning the interest of modern
readers. These saints were wives, mothers, and mistresses, lived and
loved, sorrowed, rejoiced, and suffered, as women have done from the
wives of the patriarchs down to the good women of our own century,
perhaps of our own acquaintance. They were models whom it is
praiseworthy to copy—not pictures held up to our gaze as beautiful
inaccessibilities. The very rudeness of life then should make them more
human in our eyes; they made mistakes with good intentions; they had
predilections which savored of weakness; they struggled through
temptations to final perfection—for saintship implies, not the
glorification of every act they ever did, but the general state of their
life and soul after they had suffered and conquered in the fight that we
all have to wage with the world, the flesh, and the devil. Of the
striking incidents of a saint’s life it is best to judge as one would of
those in the life of any other personage of by-gone ages—that is,
according to the standard of the age in which he or she lived; of the
root-virtues which won the saint’s canonization: by the everlasting
standard of the Ten Commandments. There is no more mischievous error,
nor one more likely to blind us to the good we can draw from the lives
of men and women who have gone before us, than the view which sets a
barrier between historic holiness and every-day life at the present day.

Hedwige lived in times which had their share of wars, invasions,
pestilences, and other such stirring events: Poland and Germany were in
a stormy state, and the fate of many of her own family was peculiarly
stormy; indeed, hardly a sensational drama of our day could deal in more
violent incidents than did the half century through which she lived. Her
sister Agnes became the wife of Philip, King of France, in place of his
lawful but divorced wife, Ingeburga, and incurred not only personal
excommunication as an adulteress, but was the cause of the French
kingdom being laid under an interdict for more than a year. Her elder
sister Gertrude, Queen of Hungary, was assassinated by a political
faction in the absence of her husband, who had left her regent. Her two
brothers, Henry and Egbert (the latter Bishop of Bamberg), were the
accomplices of Otho of Wittelsbach, the suitor of Hedwige’s only
daughter, in the murder of Philip, the Emperor of Germany, whom he slew
to revenge himself for the warning the emperor had given the Duke of
Silesia against the would-be suitor of the young princess; for Otho was
as cruel as he was brave. For this deed the Electors at Frankfort
degraded the brothers from their dignities, titles, and possessions,
after which Henry exiled himself to the Holy Land, where he fought the
Saracens for twenty years, and Egbert fled to Hungary, where the queen,
his sister, gave him a home and shelter for the rest of his life. Otho
was beheaded, his head thrown into the Danube and his body exposed to
the birds and beasts of the forest.

But the punishment of treason did not end here; Hedwige’s home was
destroyed by the indignant avengers of the emperor, and her father’s
heart was broken at the news of his son’s crime; so that of the old
cradle-land of the family nothing but smoking ruins and sad memories
remained, while a few years later she saw her two sons, Henry and
Conrad, meet in deadly conflict as the heads of two rival parties in the
duchy, the latter defeated and pursued by his brother, and only saved by
his father to die a few days later from a fall when out hunting. Her
husband and her remaining son died within three years of each other, the
latter in battle against the invading Tartars; and, what no doubt
pierced her heart still more, her husband was excommunicated for
retaining church property in provinces which he claimed as his by right
of the testament of the Duke of Gnesen and Posen. The early death of
three other children must have been but a slight sorrow compared with
these trials, and the peaceful life of her sister Matilda, Abbess of
Kitzingen, and of her daughter Gertrude, second abbess of Trebnitz—the
same who escaped becoming the bride of “Wild Otho,” as he was
called—could not but have made her envy it at times. She had had in her
youth an inclination towards the monastic life, but gave it up at her
parents’ desire, and married, according to the customs of her time and
class, at the childish age of twelve. But she had seemed from her
infancy marked out for no common lot; she was grave, sedate, and
womanly; she felt her marriage to be a mission and the beginning of
duties; she saw at a glance the state of neglect and uncivilization and
the need of betterment in which her adopted country stood, and set about
imbuing her husband with her ideas concerning improvement. He was only
eighteen, and loved her truly, so he proved to be her first disciple.
She began by learning Polish, which her husband’s sister Adelaide taught
her, and then gathered all the inmates of the palace, to teach them
prayers and the chief doctrines of the faith, in which they were very
imperfectly instructed, although full of readiness, even eagerness, to
believe. Her father-in-law, the reigning duke, fully appreciated her
worth and respected her enthusiasm. Her husband joined her in plans for
founding monasteries and building churches when it should come to his
turn to reign over Silesia; and in the meanwhile she strove to teach the
nobles and the people a greater respect for the priesthood by herself
setting the example of outward deference towards priests, whether native
or foreign, ignorant or learned. The strangers she always asked to the
palace, gave them clothes and money for their journey, attended their
Masses, and sometimes served them at table.

In order to introduce clerical learning and morals into Silesia and
Poland, it was necessary to rely upon Germans, as has often been the
case in other countries, where a foreign element has been, for some
time at least, synonymous with civilization. In England Italians
chiefly, in a less degree Normans, and in one signal instance a
Greek,[12] brought with them the knowledge of church architecture and
chant, besides secular learning; Irish missionaries had before that
helped on the Britons, and Saxons, later on, carried the same
influence across the sea to heathen Germany, who in her turn became
the evangelizer of the Slav nations. Still later, when Poland was as
fervent a Catholic country as Germany, another Hedwige (the name had
then grown to be a national one) converted the Lithuanians and became
the mother of the Jagellon dynasty. Here, on the confines of Russia,
the Latin Church stood face to face with the Greek, and the tide of
progress and conversion was stayed. Then came the perpetual turmoils
with the warlike Turks, till religion became rather an affair of the
knight than of the missionary, until that wave of circumstances having
passed away, and the Turks having sunk from the height of their
military renown to the insignificance of a mongrel and undisciplined
crowd, the battle between faith and scepticism—the modern form of
heathenism—has shifted to a great degree to the arena of the mind. The
Lepanto of our day is being fought out as obstinately on paper as that
of three hundred years ago was on sea; of its nature it cannot be as
short or as decisive, but it is nevertheless the counterpart—and the
only worthy one—of that romantic and daring feat of arms. The struggle
in the days of Hedwige was in some sense much narrower; but though her
husband and son engaged in it rather as blind instruments than
far-seeing directors, she, with the instincts of her sex and her
habitual union with God, helped in it as a teacher and missionary. She
proved her gift for it first upon her household, then, in the years of
her retirement, upon her special charge—some young heathen girls,
natives of Prussia, whom she taught herself and provided for in life.
One of these, Catherine, to whom she was godmother, she married to her
trusty chamberlain, Schavoine, and left them the estate of that name
after her death. But notwithstanding her thirst for doing good and her
high idea of her duty to her subjects, she thoroughly enjoyed the
quiet of home-life, away from the court, and, whenever it was
practicable, would spend some weeks at a time with her young husband
and her children at Lähnhaus. It is here that her memory lives
freshest at present; here that she tended her dovecot, which is
brought to mind by the yearly market of doves, unique of its kind,
still held at Lähn on Ash-Wednesday; here that she and her favorite
doe crossed the Hedwigsteig, a rough, rocky pathway, to the Chapel of
the Hermit and the image of the Blessed Virgin, which afterwards
became a pilgrimage-shrine, where the neighboring peasants came to see
her and unite in her prayers, so that the present village dates back
to the huts of branches hastily put up around the spreading tree that
formerly protected the image; here that she rested on the Hedwigstein,
or moss-grown boulder, yet remaining, with her name attached to it;
here that she built a chapel dedicated to St. Nicholas, and
established some Benedictine monks; and here that in her later years
she received the confidence of her friend, Baroness Jutta of
Liebenthal, a pious widow, who founded the monastery of that name for
Benedictine nuns and the education of young girls, and herself became
its first abbess.

Duke Henry, when he came to be sovereign, did not forget his plans and
promises, but helped her generously in the endowment of her hospitals,
churches, and monasteries. Himself the son of a German princess, he had
great faith in the influence for good, in morals, in agriculture, in
learning, of his mother’s and his wife’s countrymen; and, according to
the custom of the time, Hedwige was accompanied on her journey to
Silesia, as a bride, by an escort of German knights, who were not to
compose a separate court or household for her, but to settle in the
country and make it their home. Such immigration, of course, had its sad
as well as its good side; it led to jealousies that were neither
unnatural nor inexcusable, although it also leavened the country with
some useful and healthy habits. It was on this delicate question that
her two sons quarrelled so violently as to make it the pretext of a
civil war; Conrad, the youngest, being passionately attached to the old
Polish customs and not discriminating between these and crying abuses,
while Henry, the eldest, inherited his father’s love for the Germans.
The old nobility formed a powerful party and rallied round Conrad,
hailing him as their future national sovereign, although his father was
still alive and his elder brother the acknowledged heir. Henry the
Bearded had by that time retired from public life, and divided his
possessions between his two sons, giving the eldest the city of Breslau
and all Middle and Lower Silesia, while the youngest received the
provinces of Leubus and Lausitz. The latter were less cultivated than
the former, but this was chiefly due to that want of, or remoteness
from, German influence and immigration; so that the father, knowing his
sons’ opposite views on this subject, hoped to satisfy each by his
partition. Conrad, however, resented the gift of a less civilized and
extended territory, and took this pretext to make war on his brother,
with the result already noted.

The retirement of Henry, the husband of Hedwige, which lasted for twenty
years or more, was the result of a strange form of piety and
self-renunciation not uncommon in the middle ages. The Duke and Duchess
of Silesia had been married twenty-three years, and had had six
children, three of whom died in infancy. A little after the birth of the
youngest, in 1209, Hedwige, still in the bloom of her years (she was
only thirty-five and her husband forty-one), and after many prayers and
struggles, felt herself impelled to dedicate the rest of her life to God
only, and, with her husband’s consent, to live separate from him. They
had always loved each other tenderly, and Henry’s conduct, unlike that
of many sovereigns of his and of later times, had been irreproachable;
he looked upon his wife as a saint, and upon her wishes as commands; he
had allowed her to guide his charities and public improvements, had
followed her advice, had trusted to her to bring up his children exactly
as she thought fit, which was more rigorously and less luxuriously than
is often the case with royal children—in a word, had leant wholly upon
her. To signify his full acquiescence in this half-monastic vow, he
received the tonsure, and, contrary to the custom of his class at that
time, let his beard grow, whence came his surname, the Bearded.

Hedwige retired to Trebnitz, where she lived in a separate house with
her own women and the chamberlain Schavoine, who took his name from the
estate which Henry gave her on their separation. Other grants of money
were also made her, and her husband promised his countenance and help in
any good work she should wish to do there or elsewhere throughout his
possessions. They often met in after years, generally at festive
ceremonies for the building or opening of churches, and once at the
grave of their unhappy son Conrad; and Henry himself, though keeping up
a court and moving from place to place, betook himself to prayers,
study, and good works, having given over the government to his sons. In
his old age he came forth again in the character of a sovereign and a
leader, and, indeed, led a stormy, stirring life for a few years before
his death.

Hedwige, in this proceeding of her retirement, had another object in
view—that is, the example which she hoped her voluntary giving up of
married life would be to the married priesthood of Poland and Silesia.
Such was, to a great extent, the case, and the celibacy of the clergy,
so long preached in vain, became in a few years the rule instead of the
exception.

The Cistercian abbey of Trebnitz, now Hedwige’s home, was the first
institution of its kind for women. It was begun in 1200 and finished
eighteen years later, but was ready to be inhabited in 1202. It stood in
a wooded region, three miles from Breslau. The legend of its foundation,
as commemorated in an old rhyme or _Volkslied_ (people’s song), refers
it to a vow made by Henry, who, while out hunting, got entangled in a
morass and could see no human means of rescue; but what is certain is
that the royal couple had long planned and looked forward to a monastery
for women, and the date of the laying of the first stone of Trebnitz
corresponds with that of Henry’s accession to the throne. The building
was intended to accommodate a thousand persons, and was built by the
hands of convicts and prisoners, even those who were condemned to death,
whose work on it was to be equivalent to the rest of their sentence.
Hedwige’s pity for, and kindness to, captives, whether innocent or
guilty, was a conspicuous trait of her character; and the undeserved
physical hardships of prisoners in those times were enough to turn the
sympathies of every kind-hearted person from justice towards the
criminal. In the same way did the neglected sick, and especially the
lepers, touch her heart; indeed, all the oldest hospitals in Silesia are
due to her.

The neighboring Cistercian monks of Leubus cast the leaden plates for
the roof and the smaller bells of the new monastery, in return for which
Henry gave them two estates; and the duke himself with his foremost
nobles inspected the progress of the work, and solemnly made the round
of the land deeded to the institution, marking his own name on the
boundary stones. Bishop Egbert of Bamberg, Hedwige’s brother (this was
before his disgrace), procured a body of Cistercian nuns of his diocese
as a beginning, and accompanied them himself on their journey to their
new home. Hedwige’s great-uncle, Provost Popo of Bamberg, came too, and
the meeting of these strangers with the high clergy of Silesia and
Poland was, as the old chroniclers would have said, “a brave and
pleasant sight.” The buildings were decorated with evergreens, and the
pomp of jewelled garments, clerical and national costumes, armor, horses
richly caparisoned, embroidered robes and canopies, was dazzling. It was
the Sunday within the octave of the feast of the Epiphany—a sharp,
bright winter’s day; the cavalcade from the court of Breslau, consisting
of the duke and duchess and their retinue, escorted the nuns and the
foreign ecclesiastics, while the bishops of Breslau and Posen, each with
his chapter, and the Cistercian abbot under whose jurisdiction Trebnitz
was placed, received the latter at the gate of the finished portion of
the new church. Here the duke handed the Abbess Petrussa, Hedwige’s old
friend and teacher, a deed of the property henceforth belonging to the
order—a document which, like all following ones of the same kind, ended
with a forcible denunciation of any future injury to the rights of the
abbey. “Whoever injures this foundation, without giving full
satisfaction therefor, shall be cut off from the church; and let his
everlasting portion be with Judas, the Lord’s betrayer, who hanged
himself, and with Dathan and Abiron whom the earth swallowed up alive.”

When the deed had been read, and the dedication of the building “to the
honor of God and of the holy apostle Bartholomew” declared, the clergy,
who held torches in their hands, threw them on the ground, as a sign of
all secular claims on the possessions of the abbey being extinguished;
and during this ceremony the solemn excommunication against all who
should injure the monastery was read aloud once more. The men who had
worked at the building, or in any way contributed to it, were freed from
all feudal claims, from the obligation to fight, to furnish huntsmen,
falcons, or horses for the ducal household, to work at the fields or at
the public works, and received the immunities and protection usual to
the vassals of a monastery.

Although Trebnitz was undoubtedly named after the neighboring village so
called, a story grew up of the humorous mispronunciation of a Polish
word, _trzebanic_, by the German abbess, when asked by Henry if “there
was anything else she needed?” The word signifies “We need nothing
more,” and has some likeness to the name of Trebnitz; but popular tales
such as this abound everywhere. Among the later gifts to the monastery
were three villages, bound to supply the nuns with honey, wax, and
mead—the first for their “vesper-meal,” the second for their candles and
torches, and the third for their “drink on holidays.” The object of the
institution, which the original deed set forth as being the securing of
“a place of refuge wherein the weaker sex may atone for its sins through
the mercy of God,” was at once obtained, and other advantages also grew
up around the women’s republic of Trebnitz. It was soon filled with
young girls sent there to be educated; widows came either to enter the
order or to live under its rule and protection as out-door members;
women fled there to repent, and others to avoid temptation; and lastly
came Gertrude, the duke’s daughter, to become a nun within its walls.
Seven years after its festive opening Hedwige herself retired there and
began the second half of her long life by caring for and educating the
heathen maidens from Prussia. Trebnitz was her favorite home until her
death, and the institution which was most identified with the holy
Duchess of Silesia; but the list of great works she and her husband set
on foot, each of them a starting-point of much hidden good, is a long
one. The parish church of Bunzlau having, with most of the town itself,
been burnt, she built a new one, dedicated to Our Lady. At Goldberg, a
village near one of the royal summer palaces, she founded a Franciscan
convent, intended to serve the purpose of a school for the neighborhood.
Nimptsch, her place of refuge during the civil war between her two sons,
was not forgotten; for while there she laid the first stone of a church,
and almost at the same time began one dedicated to St. Andrew for the
town of Herrnstadt. Her friends often remarked on her lavishness in
building, and asked her whence she could expect to draw the means. She
used to answer confidently: “I trust that the heavenly Architect who
made the world, and my dear and faithful husband Henry, will not let me
be shamed, so that I should be unable to finish what I have begun with
good motives and to their honor. Do not be too anxious about my doings;
all will end well with God’s help.” In Breslau, the capital, she built
three hospitals—that of the Holy Ghost, that of St. Lazarus (this was
for lepers), and that of St. Barbara. For many years Hedwige’s charity
towards the sick had produced a rivalry among all good men, both nobles
and burghers, to tend and care for some sick persons in their own houses
or in rooms hired or built for the purpose; but her wish always was to
found a public hospital. The duke gave her a suitable piece of land for
the building and garden; the abbot of the Augustinians, Witoslaus, gave
his lay brothers as sick-nurses and his choir-monks as overseers and
confessors. Contributions flowed in from the rich members of the
population, and the first hospital was finished in a very short time.
The third contained what was an immense luxury in those days—a number of
bath-rooms, open gratis to the poor on certain days, and rooms where
they could be bled, as was the custom on the slightest illness. All
those who came in contact with Hedwige caught her spirit of generosity,
and rich men, lay and ecclesiastic, vied with her in founding churches
and monasteries. Canon Nicholas of Breslau, the duke’s chancellor,
obtained Henry’s leave to endow a Cistercian monastery with the estates
which the duke had given him for his lifetime, and others followed his
example.

These ceremonies were always solemn and the deed of gift publicly read,
signed, witnessed, and sworn to. As much pomp hedged them in as was
usual in a treaty of peace or the betrothal of sovereign princes; and,
indeed, the foundation of churches, though a common occurrence, was
looked upon as quite as important as any civil contract. In 1234 a
terrible famine, fever, and pestilence decimated the land, and, among
many other Silesian towns that possessed as yet no hospital, Neumarkt
was in special distress. Hedwige hurried there and set on foot a
temporary system of relief and nursing, but also entreated her husband
to build a permanent hospital for incurables, where they might be cared
for till their death. This he did, and attached to it a provostship, the
church dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, and Pope Innocent IV. sent
special blessings to the Bohemian Benedictine monks who were entrusted
with the care of the sick. Four years later Henry built a church in
Löwenberg and gave it to the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem; this was
a month or two before his death. But these are only a few of the works
of this generous couple. Many villages and remote places obtained
benefits from them, travelling priests were cared for, young girls
helped in their need and protected or dowered, many poor families housed
and fed; and the famine of 1234 especially gave Hedwige an opportunity
of justifying her title of “Mother of the poor.” She distributed
unheard-of quantities of grain, bread, meat, and dried fruits to the
people, who came for relief from long distances. She gave lavishly, with
that apparent recklessness that marks the charities of saints, smilingly
saying, “We must help the poor, that the Lord may have pity on our own
needs and appease our own hunger.” She forgave all feudal dues for years
on her own possessions, and looked after her employés so diligently that
they complained that the “duchess left them nothing but the leavings of
the peasants.” When she did not distribute her alms in person, the poor
groaned and wept, and cared less for the charity than if it had been
seasoned by her gracious presence. When Breslau was wholly burnt down in
1218, and three years’ distress fell upon the land, she did the same and
relieved thousands. That year was marked by the death of the Abbess of
Trebnitz, Petrussa, and the choice of Princess Gertrude as her
successor, which coincided with the festival held to celebrate the
entire finishing of the monastery and the dedication of the church. The
religious ceremonies were followed by a banquet in the refectory and by
games for the people in the courtyard. Henry was present and rejoiced
with her; her son’s wife, Anna, daughter of King Ottokar of Bohemia, was
there with her children, one of whom was to fill, but unworthily, the
throne of Silesia. It was a family gathering as well as a religious
feast; but if, as tradition says, Hedwige was then gifted with a more
than ordinary insight into the future, she must have felt sad to think
of the turmoil that was coming and that would part her more and more in
spirit from her husband.

After the death of his second son, Conrad, Henry turned his arms against
a relation of his own, Duke Ladislaus of Gnesen and Posen, and came off
victorious. His old warrior-blood once again stirred in him, it was
impossible to keep him from the excitement of war, and Hedwige’s
entreaties and messages were of no avail. She feared the excommunication
which Pope Innocent had more than once threatened to launch against the
restless Polish sovereigns, and was relieved when he undertook a war
against the Prussians, who at least were heathens, and whose cruelties
really needed strong repression. Still, it was rather the thirst for
fighting that led the Duke of Silesia against them than any exalted
motive of justice or desire to open the way for their conversion.

The pretext for the expedition was the cruelties they committed on their
inroads into Poland, and especially the duchy of Masovia. To attack them
among their own forests and morasses was so hopelessly difficult that
the bishops, whom the pope had admonished to preach a “crusade” against
them, had hitherto refrained from doing so. The event proved the wisdom
of this inaction; for after marching a large army over the border, under
the command of Henry of Silesia and Duke Conrad of Masovia, with whom
the bishops with their men-at-arms joined forces, the assailers found
themselves in a network of marshes, behind which the assailed quietly
waited. The wearied troops had at last to be ingloriously marched back
again, while the enemy came out in their rear, made a raid into Masovia,
carried off five thousand Christian captives, burnt a thousand villages
and hamlets as well as almost every church in the province, and drove
Duke Conrad into Germany for refuge. Henry then advised the fugitive
duke to call upon the German Knights of Venice, a military order who
afterwards under their grand master, Hermann Balk, settled in Kulmerland
and effectually routed and conquered the Prussians. The conversion of
the latter was, therefore, a feat of arms rather than a triumph of
missionary zeal; and perhaps it was less to be wondered at that, after
only three hundred years’ Christianity, they should have accepted
another change in the shape of the Lutheran Reformation. The order
itself, however, was more blamable, in that it departed, in the person
of its head, the famous Albert of Brandenburg, from its old chivalric
standard of honor, and went over to the “new doctrine,” as it was
called, because this defection promised political independence. And,
again, it strikes one, in reading of these thirteenth-century feuds,
that history repeats itself; for a new religious war has sprung up
between Prussia and Posen, and the two civilized races are in much the
same relative positions, speaking broadly, as the two barbarous ones
were then, although Posen can point to a short and dazzling career
between the two eras of persecution.

It is impossible here to recount the various and sad events that led up
to the death of Henry. He died in 1238, at the age of seventy, under the
ban of excommunication, which was only partially removed, and deprived
to the last of the presence of his saintly wife. The scene of the return
of his body to the abbey church at Trebnitz was heartrending. The nuns
and vassals, no less than his widow and children, looked upon him as
their stay and their protector; they bewailed him with genuine grief as
their benefactor, and buried him with all imaginable respect and pomp as
their founder. Hedwige’s life as a widow became more penitential than
before.

After her death a hair-shirt and a belt with small, sharp points turned
inwards were found on her body; but these she had worn for many years
before her widowhood. Her cloister-life, however, was not her only one,
for she watched with intelligent interest the politics of the time, the
great events, and even the less obtrusive details, whose consequences to
the cause of good might afterwards be manifold; and above all she lived
in her son, Henry the Pious, a worthy and able sovereign, whose reign
was to be short, stormy, and glorious.

In January, 1241, the Tartars, under their chiefs Batu and Peta, having
previously desolated Russia, fell with nearly three hundred thousand
fighting men upon Bohemia, Hungary, Silesia, and Poland. The King of
Hungary, Bela, was beaten by Batu, while Peta besieged, took, and burnt
Cracow on his way to Silesia. The King of Bohemia, Wenzel, brought as
large an army as he could to defend his frontiers, while Henry gathered
thirty thousand men in his father’s city of refuge, Liegnitz, waiting to
attack Peta on his road to Breslau. Trebnitz was in dire confusion;
monasteries always fell the first prey to the heathen invaders, and the
nuns judged it prudent to scatter themselves and claim each the
protection of her own family, while Hedwige, with her daughter, the
Abbess Gertrude, and her daughter-in-law, Anna, shut themselves up in
the strong castle of Crossen on the Oder. Before she left she gave her
son a scarf, or rather sword-belt, embroidered with her own hands, which
he received as an omen of good-fortune, cheering her with hopes of his
speedy and victorious return, while the stricken, heroic mother feared
but too surely that she should never see his face again. All Breslau
retired within the citadel to await the attack, and Henry tried to
intercept the foe on his way. He drew up his army on some high ground
just outside the walls—Wahlstatt, a good battle-ground, as he judged—and
himself gave the signal to attack the oncoming foe. He commanded the
main body, while lesser brother-sovereigns directed the wings; but the
irresistible might of numbers, which was the chief reliance of the
Tartars, bore down all opposition, as a whirlwind does the densest
forest. The Poles and Silesians fell like heroes, defending themselves
and asking no quarter, until a cry arose in German, “Strike dead! strike
dead!” which, whether raised by accident or by treachery, produced a
panic by its likeness to the Polish word for “Fly! fly!” The army seemed
literally to melt away; squadrons broke and ran, and a cloud of small,
sharp Tartar arrows clove the air after them; the Asiatic cavalry hunted
and trampled down the fugitives. One of the Polish leaders at last
succeeded in rallying part of the troops, and the fight began again with
some hopes of victory, when the enemy had resort to a kind of infernal
machine used in ancient Indian warfare, the likeness of a gigantic head,
which was so made as to give out a dense smoke and unbearable stench,
besides being in some degree explosive. The contrivance was held by the
Christians to be magical and devilish, and the Tartars themselves, so
dangerous was it to those of their own men who had the handling of it,
only resorted to it in the utmost extremity, which shows how
hard-pressed they were on this occasion by the Silesian soldiery. But
the terrible device stood them in good stead this time. The panic was
renewed, and once more a wild flight and wilder pursuit took place; the
leaders, the knights, and Henry himself, regardless of the flight of
their followers, fought on long after they knew their fate to be
hopeless and death certain. One by one the brave fellows were cut down,
the little band decreased at every stroke of sword or flight of arrows,
and the duke, with four knights, found himself almost alone on the lost
field of battle. They urged him to try to save his life by flight; he
scouted the proposal, and told them that since God had not willed that
he should conquer, he would at least die. “For the faith,” he said; “at
least, it will be a martyr’s death.” His charger was killed under him,
and he fought on foot for some time, hewing a lane for himself through
his enemies. One of his knights managed at last to bring him a fresh
horse, which he had no sooner mounted than his person was recognized by
hundreds of his foes and he was hemmed in on all sides. While in the act
of lifting his sword to cut down a Tartar in his front, he was wounded
from behind by a long lance thrust in precisely where a joint in his
armor exposed the shoulder; the spear went right through and pierced the
lung, and the son of Duchess Hedwige sank dying from his horse. The
enemy cut off his head, and, hoisting it on a spear, paraded it before
the walls of Liegnitz, summoning the defenders to surrender; but they,
guarding Henry’s young sons, answered back from the battlements: “If we
have lost one duke to-day, we have four yet with us in the castle, and
these we will defend to the last drop of our hearts’ blood.” The next
day they were relieved by King Wenzel of Bohemia, who, however, came too
late to do anything but hasten the departure of the Tartar horde, which
had suffered severely in the encounter, but rallied soon enough to
maraud, burn, and sack churches, abbeys, villages, etc., throughout
Hungary and Silesia, Bohemia and Mähren, until, one year later,
Jaroslaus von Sternberg finally routed their diminished army under the
walls of Olmütz. This roused Germany and France, and the Christian
sovereigns combined sent a mighty army, under the command of Wenzel of
Bohemia, to defend the Austro-Hungarian frontiers, whence the Tartars
retreated, by the same road by which they had come, to their steppes on
the high table-lands of Asia. Their traces in Europe, however, were not
blotted out for half a century; the ruined churches, blackened villages,
and ravaged fields long showed their awful track; and the outward work
of Hedwige’s life would have been well-nigh destroyed had not the spirit
she had brought with it remained alive as the germ of a future exterior
restoration.

The night of the lost battle, when Henry’s headless body lay on the
field, Hedwige, after a prayer of unusual length, woke her nearest
friend and favorite attendant, and said to her:

    “Demundis, this night I have lost my only son. He has left me as
    swiftly as a bird flies upwards, and I shall never look upon his
    face again.” She forbade her to say anything of this to the dead
    man’s wife and sister until some messenger from the army should
    bring news of the battle; and it was not till the third day that
    Jaroslaus von Janowitz came with the terrible tidings. Anna,
    Henry’s young widow, hastened to the field to seek and recover
    her husband’s body, which was so mutilated that she only
    recognized it by the six toes of the left foot. The corpse was
    brought to Trebnitz and buried with his father, brother, and
    infant sons in the abbey church. Hedwige prayed thus aloud over
    his grave: “O Lord! I thank thee that thou hast given me such a
    son, who, as long as he lived, loved and honored me truly, and
    never gave me an hour’s sorrow. However gladly I would have kept
    him by my side on earth, I hold him blessed in that, by the
    shedding of his blood, he is now united in heaven with thee, his
    Creator. With supplication, O Lord! do I commend his soul unto
    thee.”

Hedwige’s life and work were drawing to an end. Her last public act was
one of charity to the dead and comfort to the bereaved living. The
bodies of many heroic defenders of their country had been left to rot
upon the field of battle. She had these gathered together and buried in
consecrated ground, and ordered solemn requiems to be sung for the
repose of their souls, while she made herself accessible to every
sorrowing widow, mother, sister, or orphan of the dead soldiers,
listened to their complaints and laments, comforted and helped them, and
brought God’s peace once more into their hearts. After this she prepared
herself to die. Her first care was a practical one: she set her affairs
in order—a moral duty too often foolishly confounded with worldliness.
Then she redoubled her devotions, and, sending for her chaplain, asked
to receive Extreme Unction. He demurred, seeing no sign of death about
her; but her holiness was so well known that he asked her the reason of
her request.

“It is a sacrament,” she answered reverently, “which should be received
in full consciousness, that we may treat it with due reverence and
thankfulness; and I fear that sickness would make me receive it with
little or no preparation, and would prevent me from being, as far as
possible, worthy of this dying grace. I shall belong to the sick before
many days are over, and I would fain be strengthened for the passage
through death to the joy of meeting my God.”

Her agony was not long, but she seemed to struggle with a fear of death
and of the devil’s temptations. When her daughter wished to send for
Anna, she said: “No; I shall not die before she comes home” (she was
then absent on a visit to her brother, King Wenzel of Bohemia). Her
biographers tell us that angels and saints visited her on her death-bed.
She died with the veil of her holy niece, Elizabeth of Hungary, wound
round her head, and held in her hand, and often to her lips, a little
ivory image of the Blessed Virgin. At the very last she was calm and
peaceful, blessed her daughter and daughter-in-law, and every nun in the
monastery of Trebnitz, her chosen home, and died at evening twilight, on
the 15th of October, 1243. Twenty years later the clergy of Silesia,
Poland, and Bohemia sent deputies to Rome to beg for her canonization,
which Pope Clement IV. proclaimed almost immediately. Many miracles
through her intercession were sworn to by credible witnesses, and the
neighborhood blossomed with gracious and beautiful legends of the
sainted duchess, the mother of the poor and the guardian angel of
Silesia. The ceremony of transferring her body to a shrine in the abbey
church at Trebnitz in 1268 was the occasion for a national festival;
pilgrims flocked in from the remotest districts, and many foreigners
came too. Sovereigns and knights, in costly robes and armor, walked in
procession to her altar; lay and ecclesiastical pomp was showered upon
and around her remains; but nothing of all this was so great a tribute
as the memory she left, deep in the heart of the people, of a model
wife, mother, mistress, and sovereign, a woman strong in principle,
truthful in every word and deed, charitable yet not weak, merciful yet
not sentimental, a wise, far-seeing, but tender, brave, and thoroughly
womanly woman.


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


            THE CHARACTER OF THE PRESENT INDUSTRIAL CRISIS.

                        FROM THE REVUE GENERALE.


Every one agrees that “business is bad”; but how many give themselves
the trouble to look for the causes of this persistent stagnation? Some
are distressed, others astonished, by it. The calmer observers—those who
are not dismayed beyond measure by a deceptive view from the bank of the
river of fortune—seek for comparisons in the crises of 1837, 1848, and
1866.

A gifted writer, who conducts with deserved success a technical magazine
of our country, the “Monitor of Material Interests” (_Le Moniteur des
Intérêts Matériels_), has examined this interesting subject in a series
of remarkable articles. M. George de Laveleye—who must not be confounded
with his relative, the professor at Liege—maintains that the present
crisis is not transient. He attributes to it a permanent character. If
the reader will follow attentively the summary that we are about to give
of the argument of M. De Laveleye, he will not be too alarmed at his
conclusion.

Generally, these crises have had the effect of rarefying the capital by
which the great industrial enterprises were fed; these, then, deprived
of the food which enabled them to live, seemed to hesitate; then they
shook and fell. But to-day what do we see? Entirely the reverse. Money,
floating capital, unused funds, are more abundant than ever; the
cash-boxes overflow; the large banks literally sweat with gold; and this
excess, this plethora of unemployed capital causes the public funds to
advance and the price of money to decrease. It is business that is
wanting; it is the employment of capital that is in default.

Whence comes this accumulation of savings and this inertia of capital,
and how does it happen that new and tempting enterprises do not attract
it, notwithstanding its apparently low price? M. De Laveleye thus
instructs us:

    “All these tempests,” says he, speaking of the crises of 1837,
    1848, 1857, and 1866, “which reproduced themselves at almost
    equal intervals, were periods of settlement which marked the
    impatience of the industrial speculation over-excited during a
    period of forty years; each time that it had abused credit, each
    time that there was a disproportion between the engagements
    entered upon and the available resources, industrial,
    commercial, and financial Europe received a warning; credit
    vanished suddenly; there was a series of commercial or
    industrial failures; there was a violent contraction in the
    stock exchanges and in business; there was a slackening of new
    enterprises or of those already in hand; there were more losses
    than one could reckon. But at each of these momentary and
    transitory crises a remedy was very quickly found. Thus we had
    free trade and the upward movement of commercial relations; we
    had the play of free joint-stock companies; we had the war of
    secession, which, from a European point of view, was a powerful
    derivative; finally, during this long period we had the
    discovery of gold and silver mines, coming annually to swell the
    stock of metal at the disposal of business and of speculation.
    Thus these crises were not of long duration. It sufficed to let
    the overworked market have time to assimilate the stocks of
    paper or of merchandise from which it suffered, to re-establish
    the equilibrium between the current debts, circulating capital
    and credit, and immediately industrial and commercial Europe
    resumed her progressive march; the new enterprises which
    presented themselves obtained public favor; the warning was
    forgotten; the play of credit renewed itself; and after a period
    of enforced quiet, which never exceeded three years, we felt
    vibrating anew that febrile activity which, in forty years, has
    caused a veritable transformation of the world.”

This was always the course of these crises in the past. To-day there is
nothing like this; on the contrary, “if there be a disproportion between
undertakings and resources, it is absolutely the reverse of that which
marked the preceding crises: the undertakings are almost null, and the
resources are exaggerated.”

Why? Because the present crisis is not merely a transitional crisis: it
is a permanent, final one; the origin of the evil from which the
industry and the commerce of Europe suffer is to be traced to other
causes than those commonly attributed to it. The true origin of the
crisis, says M. De Laveleye, is the withdrawal of capital from the
operations in which it had been employed, and the inactivity and
unproductiveness to which it has been since doomed. At the beginning of
the crisis of 1873 a general panic was produced among the lenders, whose
confidence was profoundly shaken, and they exerted themselves all at
once to realize their money. The bankers and the money-lenders of Europe
were seized, by a unanimous accord, with a desire to have their capital,
or that which remained of it, in their hands—“to see their money again,”
as M. De Laveleye says. They realized their foreign securities; they
retired _en masse_ from the industrial enterprises in which they were
engaged abroad; and, above all, they cut off credit. The countries and
the establishments which lived on credit and on outside capital saw
their resources cut off and suspended their activity, believing,
however, that the crisis would be only temporary. The three principal
lending countries—England, France, and Holland—realized their money, at
the price of heavy losses on more than one occasion; and, under the
influence of the panic, they contented themselves with keeping it under
lock and key in their cash-boxes. From this resulted a great and rapid
decline in the rate of interest. Bank paper fell to one per cent., and
the lenders upon short bills, with incontestable securities, got but a
half per cent. This was the result of the return of the capital drawn
back from the foreign countries to which it had been lent; the
capitalists had but one ambition: they wished to be certain that their
money was running no risk whatever.

The result of all this was that, in every instance where they lived on
borrowed capital, industrial works were stopped and all sorts of
enterprises were cut short. On the other hand, a plethora of capital was
produced among those who had realized, and who could no longer find
means to employ their funds with profit. This is the explanation and the
first characteristic of the present crisis—the accumulation of capital
and the low price for the use of money.

The accumulation is general; but it is principally in the rich
countries, like England and France, that this excess was produced. The
same phenomenon, however, also showed itself in Austria, Italy, Sweden,
etc.—countries which live in part upon foreign capital. On the other
hand, the countries which depended entirely upon this capital—Turkey,
Egypt, Peru, etc.—were crippled, as they were deprived of the resources
which credit had previously placed at their disposal.

Thus, then, nothing happened as in the preceding crises, and from 1873
to 1877 all has been new, the phenomena themselves and their causes.
There would be reason for surprise and bewilderment at this if one did
not admit, with M. De Laveleye, that only now has ceased the industrial
and speculative movement which has led Europe for forty years to send
her money abroad. New employments for capital are very nearly exhausted;
new sources of riches have been exploited as much as they can be. The
movement of the last forty years, especially active since 1851, is not
merely arrested for a moment to resume its march once more, as in the
previous crises; it is definitely terminated.

The design of the past movement was the economical furnishing of Europe
and of the world: and this equipment is completed, or nearly so. But in
giving proof of this assertion and seeking for its justification, M. De
Laveleye supplies a very clear account of the direct and specific causes
of the crisis through which we are passing.

    “Western Europe,” he says—“and by this generic expression we
    mean Europe rich in capital and feeding great foreign
    enterprises—Western Europe has made a rude return upon herself.
    She has retaken her money; she has made an inventory of what she
    possessed abroad, and she shows herself solicitous to preserve,
    to keep by her, this scattered wealth. The first element of the
    force of progress, then, is in default; the money is wanting; it
    is hidden; it is refused. Concurrently, what have the borrowing
    countries done since 1873? They have abandoned the game and
    ceased an impossible struggle, which consisted in paying to
    Western Europe a revenue which was not produced by the soil or
    by practicable enterprises. They have become bankrupt, and the
    crisis in their government funds has opened the eyes of the two
    champions. Each perceived that he was ruined: the borrower by
    becoming indebted without sufficient motive; the lender not only
    by lending his capital upon illusory guarantees, but by
    receiving finally only a part of it, under the form of
    arrearages.”

This is the second cause. As for the third:

    “It is the depreciation of silver, due to the incapacity and the
    improvidence of the Western states, which imagined they could
    make a good stroke of political economy by allowing one of the
    agents of circulation to debase itself.

    “Principal possessors of the stock of gold these states have
    obeyed an egoistic thought in seconding the movement for a
    single metal as currency—gold; a movement which had for its
    first effect an increase in the relative value of their metallic
    circulation. But they took no note of another very grave
    consequence of this disturbance of equilibrium.

    “When a nominal money submits to variations in value as great as
    those which have been noted in silver, it becomes provisionally
    inapt for its functions. Commercial enterprises, based upon this
    metal, become extremely dangerous, and are no longer attempted
    by those who wish to operate only with the security attached to
    studied and matured plans. But all the commerce with the East is
    based upon silver, which, for these countries, is the nominal
    money. When the value of silver, and, following it, the course
    of exchange, became subject to oscillations of ten and fifteen
    per cent., there was no longer any security for international
    commerce. The cost of despatching and of selling raw material or
    manufactured goods could no longer be precisely fixed; and the
    most careful merchant became a speculator in spite of himself.
    He then stopped, and by that very act he added to the difficulty
    of the situation. The fall in the value of silver broke the
    charm exercised by the constant augmentation of the stock of
    metals put at the disposal of international enterprises.

    “This is the third element in the advance of progress which has
    disappeared in its turn; and we may thus sum up:

    “1. The lenders are not willing, provisionally, to enter upon
    new schemes.

    “2. The borrowers, weary or feeble, are incapable of giving
    birth to new illusions.

    “3. The monetary crisis has added its action to these two
    negative elements.

    “So that to-day, after proper deliberation, people decide to do
    nothing; or, at least, to do nothing under the former conditions
    of international enterprises.”

But is it admissible that we shall do nothing henceforth, and that the
present situation will prolong itself indefinitely? No, assuredly; and,
so far as this goes, M. De Laveleye recognizes with every one that the
stagnation of business cannot endure, that a reaction is inevitable, and
that it will come in its time.

    “But,” he hastens to add, “this return to activity will not be
    produced at all in the form known and hoped for by those who
    have seen the revivals of speculation after the crises of 1837,
    1857, and 1866; and this for the logical reason that the
    industrial, commercial, financial, and speculative activity of
    the middle of this century has had for its base and aim the
    economical furnishing of the world (_l’outillage économique du
    monde_), and that this furnishing is very nearly completed.

    “The base and the object of the former activity will no longer
    exist, or scarcely so. We must, then, wait for a profound
    modification in the form and conditions of this activity.

    “This is why we have called the present crisis a permanent, a
    final crisis”—_une crise définitive_.

He goes on to give his reasons for this idea, that the economical
furnishing of the world is finished, or so far advanced that henceforth
we can expect no such development as we have seen in the past:

    “In Holland the great works are done: the drains are
    continued; Amsterdam is connected with the sea; international
    communications are established.

    “In Italy, in Spain, the great arteries are provided with iron
    roads, and the products of their working are notoriously below
    what one could reckon as remuneration upon the capital. The
    seaports, the mines, are sufficiently provided for in these
    countries; the towns, there as elsewhere, have their markets,
    their water and gas works, their new quarters, their tramways.

    “As for the Pyrenees, they are crossed; the Alps also; and after
    the tunnel already made by Mont Cenis toward France, the road in
    construction through Saint-Gothard toward Germany, and the very
    sufficient pass through the Brenner toward Austria, industrial
    activity will no longer find any occupation in this quarter.

    “In Russia the principal railroad lines are completed.

    “The railway system of Prussia is finished, and in that country
    industry is so well furnished that she is murdered with her own
    tools; the means of production and of transportation are too
    vast, and in evident disproportion to the possible business of
    the country.

    “Austria is supplied, and there it would be rash to go further.

    “Turkey has railroads. It has been difficult enough to construct
    them; one does not speak of them willingly.

    “The United States have borrowed enough from us to establish
    their system; it is compact and well provided with lines, even
    opposition lines. That country has regained its lost time; it is
    necessary to watch its steps now that it is furnished
    sufficiently to put itself in competition with the industry of
    Western Europe.

    “The Isthmus of Suez is opened.

    “The transatlantic cables are laid.

    “The transformation in the merchant marine is three-fourths
    completed; the sailing ship has disappeared, or at least is
    relegated to the second place; the steamers have the principal
    trade.

    “On whatever side we turn our eyes we see these accomplished
    results of the work of the last forty years. These results may
    not be always excellent from the financial point of view; many
    errors have been brought out, and by the side of some brilliant
    exceptions we must count a number of deceptions for the
    capitalists engaged, and for the governments which have become
    needy and insolvent. But, whatever may be the financial result,
    these lands have been stirred up and dug out; the blocks and the
    rails have been laid; the towns have been transformed; the
    distances have been shortened; the new apparatus has been given
    in profusion to the rich countries, in more reasonable limits to
    countries less open; everywhere what was strictly necessary has
    been done; often too much has been done.”

Here, very clearly expressed, is the result of the forty years of
activity which we have had, and this result is really the end toward
which tended the great industrial movement that, for so long a time, has
held minds awake, has kept the dockyards, the workshops, the factories,
the forges at work. This end is attained; we see it; and among the
serious consequences of this fact is one which M. De Laveleye exposes
with his usual lucidity:

    “Thanks to the facilities of communication, to the new routes
    opened, to steam and to electricity, the conditions of commerce
    and industry are changed. There is no longer any place, as there
    was at the beginning of this century, for the boldness of the
    manufacturer or the trader, counting upon his skill as well as
    on his risk to obtain a large remuneration due to his audacity,
    to his special knowledge, and to his capital.

    “Between the new and the old commerce and industry there exists
    the same difference as between the wars of the empire and the
    last campaigns of France and of Austria.

    “The same causes have produced the same results. In war the
    cannon and guns of perfection, the railways and the telegraphs,
    the vast masses of men, have produced rapid campaigns, in which
    personal valor and the chances of war, going almost for nothing,
    contributed very little to the final result. In industry the
    same perfection of apparatus has changed the conditions of
    trade; and the masses of men are replaced by the abundance of
    circulating capital and the facility of the means of credit—two
    other products of this active period of forty years.

    “Only, in war the final result places the vanquished at the
    mercy of his foe, who can, as it appears, dictate his laws; in
    industry and in commerce the final gain is not left arbitrarily
    to the swiftest or to the best equipped. He must content himself
    with little; he is forbidden to abuse the victory which, without
    this moderation, will not be long in escaping him.”

    This is what we have come to; and from a purely economic point
    of view we can recognize, with the judicious writer who has
    furnished us with the process of the struggle, that the most
    certain consequences of all this will be the following:

     .pm letter-start “There will be an excess of circulating
    capital, free from employment.

    “Now, as long as this has not been the case the product of
    capital has been as follows:

    “From three to four and a half per cent. on unquestionable
    securities of the first class.

    “From four and a half to six per cent. on real estate security
    of the second class.

    “From six to eight per cent. on loans and limited liabilities.

    “From eight to ten per cent. and upwards on industrial,
    financial, and speculative ventures.

    “In the future and during a still indefinite period, which
    cannot fail to be long, very long, this scale must be modified
    by the excess of unemployed capital.

    “Unquestionable securities will descend to three per cent., or
    below that; those of the second class will bring four and a
    half; men will be happy to make six per cent. in manufactures or
    production; finally, one can obtain eight per cent. only by
    running wild risks. There will be a general change in the rate
    of capitalization, in the sense of lessening the interest while
    increasing the amount of capital. Some exceptions—that is to
    say, some happy chances, some skilful personal strokes—may occur
    to confirm this rule. The general movement, however, will, we
    believe, be that which we have indicated.”

But what remains, then, to be done? Little of anything, if we wish to
attribute to the revival of activity, which will come in its own time,
only the sense and the direction which the movement has had until now.
On the other hand, forced to admit that the human spirit has not at all
gone to sleep, and that the inventive genius which the Master of all
things in his goodness has bestowed upon his humble creatures has not in
the least diminished, it is necessary also to confess that in the future
it is the unknown which opens before us; and just as, before this
century, people had not even thought of all the beautiful applications
of heat, electricity, steam, and light which have made the material
glory of our age and of an illustrious galaxy of _savants_, even so
to-day we cannot say toward what end the efforts of humanity might tend
to-morrow. One Being only knows it—he who knows all and sees all, he for
whom the past, the present, and the future are but one, he who does not
depend at all on time—God, in fact, the creator of all that has been,
that is, and that shall be, the great dispenser of all good and of all
progress; he who disposes of man at his will in one way or the other,
often while the latter, in his folly, refuses to abase his blind
presumption sufficiently to recognize him.

Let us, then, leave to the future that which belongs to the future, and
let us hold ourselves, each one for his own account, ready to obey the
impulse which it may please God to give us.


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


               THE LAST PILGRIMAGE TO MONT SAINT-MICHEL.

When the traveller who is visiting the beautiful localities of the
Channel Peninsula quits the southern faubourg of Avranches—a picturesque
little town built of sparkling granite—a road, marked by a succession of
rapid declivities, brings him to the shore of a large bay formed by the
sinking of the coasts of Normandy and Brittany. Before him reaches, far
away and out of sight, the flat extent of sands, furrowed by the rivers
Sée, Sélunce, and Coësnon, whose silvery windings the eye can follow to
a considerable distance. On the higher parts of these sands grows a fine
kind of grass, the _poa_ of the salt-meadows, and which, mingled with
marine plants and sand-weeds, furnishes a favorite pasture for sheep.
The lower and barren portion of the sands disappears twice a day beneath
the tide, which at times spreads gently and caressingly over them, while
at others it rolls foaming in with precipitate fury, as if eager to pass
its appointed boundary. At high tide nothing is visible but an immense
lake, partially engirdled with hills; and in the distance, like a
pyramid of granite, sometimes from the bosom of the waves, sometimes
from the expanse of sand, rises a nearly circular rock, laden with
constructions of various kinds intermingled with vigorous vegetation,
and crowned by large and lofty buildings.

This is the famous Mont Saint-Michel: _au péril de la mer—in periculo
mortis_, as our fathers were wont to say in their strong and simple
language, which, like nature, speaks in images.

The first time we saw St. Michael’s Mount was in sailing from
Southampton to St. Malo, towards four o’clock one bright morning in
June. The early sunshine lighted up the higher part of the rock, with
all its wealth of natural and architectural inequalities, in one blaze
of gold, while its base lay still in shadow. The only illuminated
object, rising from a purplish haze, its brightness heightened by the
blue of sea and sky, above, beneath, and around, it appeared rather like
an ethereal vision than anything of earth.

Mount St. Michael! What memories are awakened only by the name, which is
in itself a magical evocation of bygone centuries! Here, too, present
realities still rival the memories of the past. With respect to its
natural situation, as well as the share which human hands have had in
its formation, there is about it much that defies comparison. It is at
once a nest of legends, the home of religious thought, of prayer and
meditation, as well as of learning and the arts. Mount St. Michael,
being a monastery, a cathedral, and a fortress, is, in its triple unity,
a summary of the three great elements of the life of France during all
the poetic, heroic, and religious though stormy period of the middle
ages.

Beaten into ruggedness by the storms of heaven, and discrowned of the
golden statue of its patron archangel, the summit of the mount no longer
springs upward into space with the same loftiness and lightness that
used to strike so forcibly those who beheld it for the first time. The
great human work thus seems as if arrested in its heavenward climbing;
but, like other and grander majesties, St. Michael’s Mount has been
uncrowned without undergoing any diminution of its glory, and it still
presents its singular threefold aspect to the eye. On the western side
the rock, stern and bare, seems to bid defiance to the hand of man; on
the north a strong wall rises to the height of two hundred feet from
base to battlements, strengthened with buttresses and flanked by
bastions, pierced irregularly with pointed windows, and surmounted by a
series of elegant arcades. To the south we find a rich display of
architectural art, the exuberance of which is almost equalled by its
caprice. Above all, and larger than all the rest, rises the church, with
its forest of granite pinnacles and turrets overlooking the distant
horizons of Normandy and Brittany, and, to use the language of the
ancient chroniclers, imposing the fear of the archangel on the vast
expanse of ocean—_immensi tremor oceani_.

In ages long anterior to any of its architectural constructions, and
before the Christian era, this rock, much loftier then than now, rose
from the midst of a vast forest which extended from Coutances to the
rocks of Cesembre beyond St. Malo. This forest of Scissey, or Chesey
(Sissiacum), took its name from the goddess Sessia, who was invoked at
the time of sowing, and worshipped as the protectress of the corn while
in the ground. The rock itself was called Tomba, and also Belenus, the
name given by the Gauls and Druids to their sun-god,[13] and which was
identical with Baal of the Phœnicians, Bel of the Assyrians, and the
Apollo of the Greeks.

On Mount Belenus was a college of nine Druidesses, the eldest of whom,
like the pythoness of Delphi, uttered oracles.[14] The Romans, in the
course of their conquests in Gaul, made Bel give place to Jove: Tomba
Belenus became _Mons Jovis_ and was sacred to Jupiter.

In the year 708 Mount Belenus, which until that period had formed a part
of the mainland of Armorica, was suddenly detached from it by a terrible
catastrophe which spread desolation over the country. The sea, flowing
in with tempestuous fury, overpassed its limits, submerged the ancient
forest, as well as the inhabited parts of the coast, and, except when
the tide is out, made an island of the Mount.[15] It was in this same
year of 708, in the reign of Childebert II., that St. Aubert, the first
Bishop of Avranches, in obedience to a vision built there a church
dedicated to the Archangel St. Michael, and at the same time founded a
monastery of clerks regular, who replaced the two or three hermits who
had formerly lived in seclusion on the Mount.

This monastery acquired, later on, a fresh importance under the Dukes of
Normandy. Duke Richard I. enlarged and made of it an abbey of the Order
of St. Benedict. In 1002 or 1003, great part of the church and
surrounding buildings being consumed by a fire which broke out, Duke
Richard II. considerably enlarged as well as strengthened the foundation
by the construction of the crypt, upon which the new edifice was raised.
This crypt appears to be cut out of the solid rock, and is divided in
two parts by a wall. Its low and vaulted roof is supported by massive
pillars, round or square. A larger or grander subterranean vault does
not perhaps exist, with its space of seventy metres in length by twelve
in breadth, and its three aisles formed by about twenty pillars. The
roof sustains the weight of two stories of building, the dormitory over
the refectory, and the magnificent cloister over the Hall of the
Knights.[16]

The original church soon becoming too small to contain the numerous
pilgrims who flocked thither, the construction of a new one was begun by
the Abbot Raoul, who, in 1048, raised the four pillars and the arch of
the great tower. The nave, and that part of the monastery called _La
Merveille_, were built by his successor, Renaud.

It was in 1091 that Henry, the youngest son of the Conqueror, was
besieged in the fortress of Mont Saint-Michel by his brothers Robert and
William. After the expulsion of the wretched John from Normandy, Abbot
Jourdain wishing to preserve the Mount to the kings of England, Philip
Augustus sent against him Guy de Thouars, who, after a lengthened siege,
being unable to take it, set in on fire. It suffered severely from
another conflagration in 1350, when struck by lightning during a
terrible storm. The liberality of Philip de Valois restored the church
and monastery to more than their former splendor.

Early in the fifteenth century Abbot Jolivet surrounded the town with
fortifications. The English, at this time invading France, besieged Mont
Saint-Michel, but were repulsed by the brave d’Estouteville and his
companions-in-arms, one hundred and twenty-nine in all, who successfully
defended the post entrusted to them when the greater part of France had
submitted to the conquerors.

During the religious wars Mont St. Michel was several times attacked by
the Protestants. On the Feast of St. Mary Magdalen, July 22, 1577, a
number of them, habited as pilgrims and concealing their weapons, were
admitted without suspicion into the church, where, after hearing several
Masses with great show of devotion, they divided into small groups, and,
with an air of calm indifference, occupied different parts of the
buildings, until, secure of their position, they murdered such of the
guards as did not escape by flight or concealment, and then fell not
only upon the garrison but on the monks, even massacring the priests who
had been saying Mass for them.

This noble abbey had for more than a thousand years an existence worthy
of its origin. Mingling in the religious and warlike history of France,
it was simultaneously or by turns occupied by knights and monks; the
abode of faith and courage; an advanced sentinel in the direction of
England, and thus affording protection against the foes of this world
and of the next, defending alike with the cross and with the sword, and
held in veneration by the whole of Christendom.

During the ages of faith pilgrims came hither by thousands, from all
lands, braving the danger of these treacherous sands, to invoke in this
his sanctuary the prince and leader of the armies of heaven.

The sacrilegious impiety of modern times could no more spare St.
Michael’s Mount than so many other holy and beautiful relics of the past
which it has seen fit to mutilate or destroy. The First Republic
suppressed the monastery, drove out the monks, demolished a portion of
their church, changed the name of Mont Saint-Michel to that of _le Mont
Libre_, or the Free Mount, and turned it into a prison!—doubtless in
order to prove the suitability of its new appellation.

The first prisoners there were the priests of Brittany and Normandy.
Prayer was thus at least not yet banished from its ancient abode. In
1811 Napoleon made of it a _Maison de Réclusion_, which, in 1818, became
a _Maison de Détention_, and it was at the same time also a state
prison. Rarely has any place seen more sad and strange vicissitudes. The
chosen dwelling-place of those called to serve God in a religious life
became the sink of every crime pursued and punished by society, and the
population of Mount St. Michael was now recruited not from men who had
received a holy vocation, but from courts of assize.

A decree of 1863, however, relieved it from this unworthy fate, alike
saddening to Christians, archæologists, and poets, and Mont
Saint-Michel, which now belongs to the see of Coutances, has been
confided by the ecclesiastical administration to the charge of twelve
priests of the Congregation of Pontigny in the diocese of Sens, who
carry on the services in its church, receive the visitors drawn thither
by the sanctity or historical interest of the place, and fulfil the
office of preachers and missionaries to all the parishes of the Channel
Islands. An orphanage for boys is now flourishing in the old barracks,
and by its side are _ateliers_ where painting on glass is carried on—a
kind of painting (or staining, rather) which, more than any other, has a
religious object. All this is, so far, a return to a better state of
things, but the solicitude of its diocesan does not find it enough,
feeling that, though much has been done, still the present is too unlike
the past, and earnestly desiring to restore the abbey to its former
splendor. And he will do it yet. Already the pilgrimages thither are
renewed with a fervor worthy of ancient days.

Few things can be more beautiful and edifying than the holy festivities
of which the most recent of these pilgrimages has just been the
occasion, and which have left so deep an impression on those who took
part in them, and who followed the imposing order of the successive
religious ceremonies, stamped as they were with the character of dignity
and grandeur which the Catholic Church has impressed upon her liturgy
and worship.

From earliest dawn long bands of pilgrims, conducted by the priests of
their respective parishes and preceded by their banners, began to enamel
with picturesque groups the white monotony of the sands. On arriving at
the Mount they formed into regular columns and slowly ascended the steep
acclivity to the church. Towards nine in the morning the Mount presented
a singular aspect, not unlike a gigantic ant-hill: the flights of steps
disappeared under the long processions mounting them, while the ramparts
were as if crenellated with the heads of the crowds watching for the
arrival of the Bishop of Coutances and Avranches and the Bishop of
Bayeux and Lisieux. An involuntary delay on the part of the bishops was
for a time the cause of extreme anxiety. Anything may be feared from
this dangerous bay, whose shifting sands change their direction after
every tide, and engulf the late or unwary traveller in an abyss of mud.
The first carriage had passed safely on to _terra firma_, but the wheels
of the second were perceived to be sinking, and the horses, terrified at
no longer finding any footing, were becoming so unmanageable that a
fatal catastrophe would have been almost inevitable, had not the men of
the place hastened to the rescue and succeeded by their prompt energy in
dragging the carriage out of danger.

The two prelates presented themselves at the entrance gate as the clock
of the great tower began to strike eleven, and were saluted by
acclamations so enthusiastic that it seemed as if the whole Mount were
bidding them welcome. They proceeded up the steep lane that winds upward
between houses that look as if piled almost one upon another, and which
date from three or four centuries back, low, square, and solid, and
having for the most part only one story, plunging their foundations into
the rock, and wedged, as it were, against each other, the better to
resist the force of hurricanes and tempests. Here and there trees of
thick foliage overshadow the narrow, winding ascent, which at intervals
through some unexpected opening shows a vast horizon over the waters of
the Channel, with its lovely islands, and the coast of France.

The procession reached in due time the threshold of the ancient abbey,
and, after a few words of warm and respectful welcome spoken to the
bishops by the reverend father prior, entered the church.

There is something unique in the beauty of this basilica which so nobly
crowns the summit of Mont Saint-Michel, and of which the four
extremities rest on four enormous arched vaults founded in the rock. It
possesses all the essential parts of a great cathedral—nave, aisles,
transepts, choir, and apse. The nave is Roman, the choir Gothic, and the
aisles _Moresque_ or Byzantine. Boldly cut in granite, the architecture
is as remarkable as the site.

The nave was formerly two hundred and forty feet in length, but
underwent an irreparable mutilation under the First Republic, when it
was shortened by the cutting away of four of its eight transverse
vaultings. It nevertheless remains singularly imposing—simple even to
severity, but relieved by its triforium and a gallery with deep arcades.
The collateral arches, which are somewhat narrow, have the horseshoe
form usual in Arabian architecture; the transepts, like the nave, are
Roman, but of more recent date; the choir, which is of the best period
of flamboyant Gothic, very delicately sculptured, has in the clerestory
a square window of remarkable richness; and in the apse, which is of
granite, delicate lines of tracery spring upwards with exquisite
lightness. On the keystone of its vaulted roof is the escutcheon of the
abbey. The choir is surrounded by bas-reliefs representing the four
evangelists, and a ship, symbolical of the church militant, tossing on
an angry sea which cannot overwhelm her, guided as she is by an unerring
pilot—_Fluctuat, non mergitur_.

The noble edifice had on this day received an additional decoration from
the number and beauty of the banners there displayed, the principal of
which was a large standard in the nave representing the archangel St.
Michael victorious over the dragon. On the balustrade in front of the
altar were hung the sword and banner of General Lamoricière, with his
motto, _In Deo spes mea_. Within the balustrade were erected the two
episcopal thrones. The chapel of St. Michael, which occupies the left
arm of the cross, and in which is the statue of the archangel, was
thickly hung with the banners of the different parishes represented in
the pilgrimage. Among their mottoes were such as these: _Quis ut Deus?_
_Defende nos in periculo_; _Deo soli semper Honor_; _Deo et Patriæ_,
etc. Above these floated the banner of the Sovereign Pontiff. There is
in the same chapel some rich tapestry, the work and offering of the
ladies of Avranches—_les Avranchines_, as they are prettily called in
the country.

In the chapel facing this one, and in the left arm of the cross, are the
two crowns offered to the glorious archangel, the one by the Holy
Father, the other by the faithful of France. The latter, resplendent
with diamonds and other precious stones of great value, is to be used
next year for crowning the statue of St. Michael.

High Mass having been sung by the Bishop of Bayeux, his right reverend
colleague addressed the assembled multitude. Mgr. Germain, although one
of the youngest members of the French episcopate, is also one of the
most eloquent, and owes simply to his merit the rapidity with which he
has risen to be chief pastor of one of the most religious dioceses of
France. As chaplain of the _Lycée_ of Caen, he quickly gained the hearts
of the youth placed under his spiritual care; as _curé_ of the Cathedral
of Bayeux, he made his influence felt in the whole city; and now, as
Bishop of Coutances and Avranches, the influence for good which has
marked each step of his career finds a wider field of action, of which
he does not fail to profit. With a few words from his discourse, which
are a summary of the whole, we conclude:

“The days in which we live find the church still engaged in a warfare
similar to that which St. Michael, the champion of God, sustained
against the rebel angels. Still the same revolt continues, and man has
learnt from Satan to declare, ‘_Non serviam!_’ As children of God and of
his church, let it be our happiness, as it is our privilege, to _obey_.
God and his church having an authoritative claim on our obedience, let
us see that ours shall resemble that of the blessed angels, which is
loving, intelligent, thorough, and prompt.”


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


                           NEW PUBLICATIONS.


THE LIFE OF MARIE LATASTE, Lay Sister of the Congregation of the Sacred
   Heart. With a brief notice of her sister Quitterie. London: Burns &
   Oates. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society Co.)

The history of the church is marked at intervals by the appearance of
favored souls whose wonderful gifts of the supernatural order fully
attest the holiness which our divine Lord has willed should be the
pre-eminent attribute of his blessed spouse. These manifestations of
sanctity in individual souls have, besides, a special reference to the
wants of those times in which they appear. When rapacity and luxurious
wastefulness characterized the upper classes of French society, Almighty
God raised up St. Vincent de Paul, the grand apostle of charity, to
rebuke men’s hardness of heart towards their poor and suffering
fellow-creatures. So likewise, in an era of spiritual torpor and
cowardice, he gave to the world that prince of spiritual warriors,
Ignatius of Loyola, and his devoted band of spiritual heroes to awaken
men from their lethargy. Our own times are a period of intellectual
pride, of contempt for spiritual things, and a corresponding exaltation
of the material order; and divine Providence has seen fit to confound
this dangerous spirit by working great things through weak instruments,
and by proposing new devotions which demand an increased exercise of
faith. As there is nothing more opposed to the peculiar spirit of the
world of to-day than devotion to the Real Presence, the Sacred Heart,
and the Blessed Virgin Mary, so the church directs the attention of her
faithful children to these objects of pious veneration with renewed
fervor, and God himself attests her wisdom by many wonderful signs
having reference to these three goals of spiritual life. No doubt it was
with such intent that he bestowed those extraordinary favors on the
simple peasant girl of Mimbaste, Marie Lataste, which, studied in the
light of worldly philosophy, confound and bewilder, but which, viewed as
part of God’s supernatural economy, cannot fail to edify and encourage
the devout Christian.

Marie Lataste was born in the department of the Landes in 1822, and died
a lay sister of the Congregation of the Sacred Heart in the year 1847;
so of her it may be said that she compressed a long career of virtue
into a brief compass of time, and earned by intensity of work the crown
which is most frequently won by many years of laborious effort. No
sooner had she made her First Communion than our divine Lord began to
attract her most powerfully to himself as he exists in the sacrament of
the altar. As a little girl she had been wilful and rebellious, and with
difficulty was brought to study her catechism and the merest rudiments
of learning. Indeed, her schooling never went beyond the art of reading
and writing, so that the wonderful theological and ascetic knowledge
which her letters disclose cannot be otherwise regarded than as revealed
to her by God. After her First Communion a wonderful change was made
manifest in her. Thenceforth her sole delight was to commune for long
hours at a time with our divine Lord in the tabernacle, to converse
familiarly with him, and to hold him for ever in her thoughts. She was
never easy when other occupations kept her aloof from him, and when
released from these she sped to him again with all the ardor which could
impel a loving heart. Nor did our Lord fail to reward in a signal manner
this intensity of devotion to the sacrament of his love. One day,
towards the close of the year 1839, as Marie was repairing to the
village church to perform her usual acts of adoration, a mysterious but
irresistible force hurried her along; earthly objects faded from her
view, the Spirit of God filled her soul, and when she entered the sacred
edifice she beheld our Lord himself upon the altar, surrounded by his
angels. “She did not,” the recital states, “see him at first with
perfect distinctness. A thin cloud, like an almost imperceptible veil,
appeared partially to conceal him from her sight.... At last Jesus
descended from the altar and approached, calling her benignantly by name
and raising his hand to bless her. Then she beheld him with perfect
clearness in the brilliant light with which he was invested.” “From that
moment,” she said, “the society of mankind has never ceased to be
displeasing to me; I should wish to fly from them for ever and shut
myself up in the tabernacle with him.” Thus did her interior life at
once ascend to the highest plane of sanctity, and she, the poor, almost
illiterate peasant girl, began to experience those intimate dealings and
relations with our divine Lord which are usually deemed to be the
prerogative of the greatest saints—of those in whom supreme holiness
goes hand in hand with profound knowledge.

But it is a well-known characteristic of the divine economy to select
feeble instruments for its higher operations and manifestations, and in
this manner to confound human presumption and to put our pride of
intellect to the blush. “Thou hast hidden these things from the wise and
prudent, and hast revealed them to little ones.” And if ever it pleased
Almighty God to show forth his power through the humblest of his
creatures, he seems to delight in doing so at the present time. He
permits our philosophers to split hairs over the subtleties of
evolution, to wander in perplexity through the mazy intricacies in which
they have enveloped themselves, whilst he reveals the undreamt wonders
of his wisdom to the lowly and simple-minded. Father Faber has happily
designated a too common class of Christians as “viewy”—_i.e._, holding
opinions which are but the reflection and expression of their petty
egotism. Such was not the case with Marie Lataste; she was simplicity
itself, and our Lord favored her accordingly. She sat at his feet as
meek and docile a pupil as ever listened to the words of an instructor,
and he poured into her heart the treasures of his wisdom. It is truly
wonderful to read the profound sentiments with which her letters abound,
and to reflect that she, a girl barely able to read and write, has given
expression to the most abstruse and difficult points of dogmatic
theology with correctness, clearness, and force, and has left behind her
precepts for our spiritual guidance which savor of the wisdom and
prudence of the most consummate masters of the spiritual life. Many
things in her letters may appear strained because of the minuteness with
which she describes her visions of spiritual things, unless they are
scanned with the eye of faith. But both internal and external evidences
of the genuineness of the apparitions with which she was favored, and of
the absolute reliability of her statements, are so numerous that in the
face of them to doubt is to question the validity of all human
testimony. There can be no doubt that God has vouchsafed to our
generation this beautiful picture of a soul thoroughly united to himself
in order that our pride may be abashed, our faith strengthened, and our
love for him, because of his manifold mercies towards us, increased. The
style of the book is attractive, and whoever reads it cannot fail to
reap a large share of edifying knowledge.


A POPULAR LIFE OF POPE PIUS THE NINTH. By Rev. Richard Brennan, A.M. New
   York: Benziger Brothers. 1877.

THE LIFE OF POPE PIUS IX. By John Gilmary Shea. New York: Thomas Kelly.
   1877.

A LIFE OF PIUS IX., DOWN TO THE EPISCOPAL JUBILEE. By Rev. Bernard
   O’Reilly. New York: P. F. Collier. 1877.

The appearance within the space of a few months of three extended and
elaborate biographies of His Holiness Pius IX., some of which have
already run into two or three editions, is a fact most significant of
the deep interest which is taken by the reading public of America in
everything connected with the venerable head of the church on earth. The
length of years vouchsafed the present successor of St. Peter, his own
illustrious character, and the preternatural malice of his enemies have
naturally heightened the curiosity regarding him of the non-Catholic
portion of the community, while his piety, benevolence, and
long-suffering have endeared him to the hearts of all true children of
the church. The magnificent displays of Catholic sympathy and loyalty to
the Holy See which everywhere characterized the celebration of his late
episcopal Jubilee have also increased the popular demand for information
concerning the life of a man who, morally and officially, is
acknowledged to be the foremost in Christendom. Judging by the volumes
before us, it will not be the fault of our Catholic writers if this
laudable desire remain long unsatisfied. Each of these valuable works,
written by gentlemen of varied accomplishments and qualifications for
the task, is, in style, mode of treatment, and selection of matter,
different from the others; yet all present the same leading facts and
reproduce the same vivid scenes which have rendered so instructive and
dramatic the long and eventful life of the Holy Father.

Father Brennan’s book, justly called a popular life of the great Pope,
is written in a simple, concise, yet comprehensive manner, with little
attempt at ornamentation or philosophic deduction. The author evidently
intended that his work should be read and understood by persons of
average intelligence as well as by those of higher mental gifts. He has
therefore aimed at telling the story of Pius IX.’s life plainly and
consecutively, without departing to the right or left, except when
absolutely compelled to do so in order to elucidate what is yet but
imperfectly understood in the policy of the Catholic powers of Europe.
While stating conscientiously the details of a career so full of changes
and reverses of fortune, he succeeds in placing before us the true
lineaments of his august subject in all their simplicity and beauty of
expression. This is more particularly observable in the chapter on “The
Supernatural Life of the Pope,” which will doubtless be read with great
satisfaction by those who consider the Sovereign Pontiff a providential
man; and by such as do not, with respect and admiration. It is to be
regretted that Father Brennan had not given at length an account of
proceedings in Rome and the Catholic world generally for the past few
years, thus completing an otherwise very full and instructive biography.

Mr. Shea has also succeeded in producing a very readable life of the
Holy Father, though we do not think he has done full justice to his own
merits as an accomplished and painstaking writer. There are evident
marks of haste throughout his pages which, though they do not seriously
interfere with the continuity or authority of the work, are apt to
produce an unsatisfactory impression on the minds of critical readers.
His _Life of Pope Pius IX._ will, however, have its admirers; for,
excepting these slight defects, it is a book that will interest the
general reader, no matter what may be his opinions or prepossessions,
written as it is by an intelligent layman whose reputation as an author
has long since been established in this country and in Europe.

The Rev. Father O’Reilly’s biography is, however, not only more
voluminous and more ample in its details than either of the preceding,
but it is enriched by copious extracts from encyclical letters and other
important documents, the proper understanding of which necessarily
belongs to the elucidation of the history of Pius IX.’s pontificate.
Apart from its completeness and elegance of style, its chief
distinguishing feature is the insight it gives us into the policy and
designs of contemporary rulers and conspirators in France, Italy, and
Germany in their attempts on the integrity of the church, and their
underhand alliances with the secret societies to effect their evil
purposes. Only a man who has had personal knowledge of the actors who
figured in the bloody drama of “United Italy,” and an intimate
acquaintance with their present and prospective strategy, could unfold
to the public gaze, in all its base enormity, the culpable indifference
of the men who professed the greatest regard for the sovereign of the
states of the church, and the insidious schemes of the modern champions
of liberty, whose sole and whole object is the disruption of all forms
of government under which civil and religious freedom would be possible.
This it is that makes Father O’Reilly’s book not only interesting but
highly instructive; for, to a certain extent at least, it furnishes us
with a key to the enigma of European Continental politics which we
Americans, happily removed from kingcraft and secret terrorism, so much
require. The venerable and venerated Chief Pastor of the church has been
fortunate in his American biographers, and we have little doubt that he
will find some solace in his afflictions in the thought that three among
our writers have almost simultaneously devoted their pens to recording
the incidents of his life and defending his rights as a spiritual and
temporal sovereign.


REPORT OF THE SPECIAL COMMITTEE OF THE MEDICO-LEGAL SOCIETY UPON SCHOOL
   HYGIENE. New York: Terwilliger. 1876.

Few subjects are of more engrossing importance than the conditions
requisite for the physical well-being of the rising generation; and as
our embryo men and women spend a very large portion of their lives in
school-rooms, it becomes a serious matter to determine whether these
nurseries of learning are constructed in such a manner as to consist
with the highest possible health standard. The investigations undertaken
by Dr. R. I. O’Sullivan and his fellow-committeemen at the instance of
the Medico-Legal Society reveal a condition which is truly startling.
Oxygen is the life of our life-blood, and, if it is not supplied in the
requisite quantity, the human system becomes predisposed to every
disease and the foundation of a lifetime of misery is laid. Yet it is
notorious that the arrangements of our much-vaunted school buildings go
far short of ensuring a sufficient supply of this life-sustaining gas.
Much of this deplorable lack of suitable arrangements is the result of
ignorance. Many self-constituted sanitarians deem loftiness of ceiling
to be the main and, indeed, the only condition required to ensure proper
ventilation and a sufficient supply of air. They accordingly build
without referenced horizontal breathing-space, in the absurd belief that
all foul air ascends and is got rid of, some way or other. Now, the
truth, says the report, is “that a lofty ceiling only makes that portion
of space above the tops of the windows a receptacle for foul air, which
accumulates and remains to vitiate the stratum below.” This is of itself
a proof that a scientific supervision of our school buildings is the
only guarantee we can have that the health of the children will be
properly considered. The quantity of carbonic acid gas given off at each
expiratory effort is far in excess of what our amateur sanitarians
imagine; and when school buildings are erected without due regard for
the diffusion of this deadly emanation, we must not be surprised to see
our schools filled with pale and stunted children. In addition to the
carbonic acid gas other deleterious exhalations of the human body poison
crowded rooms, and are especially the cause of the peculiarly offensive
and stuffy odor at which healthy olfactories revolt. Who that has
entered one of our city public school class-rooms, between the hours of
two and three in the afternoon, has failed to experience this
disagreeable sensation? Yet physiology, as well as common sense, tells
us that this effete organic matter which is constantly escaping from the
lungs and from every pore of the skin is eminently injurious to health.
Not only this, but in certain crowded portions of the city the adjoining
streets and buildings lend their quota of noxious effluvia to the
poisonous agents mentioned. The committee visited “one of the newest,
best-arranged, and best-appointed schools in the city, and found it
overcrowded and unventilated, tainted throughout the halls, and at
times, by way of the fan-lights over the doors in the class rooms, odors
arising from the latrines in the basement, which are emptied only once
or twice a week.” In this model school-house only from thirty-three to
forty-one cubic feet of air are allowed to each child, while nature
vigorously clamors for at least eight hundred feet in the twenty-four
hours.

In the second report read by Dr. R. I. O’Sullivan we are invited to
contemplate a picture which but faintly reveals the evil effects that
the early overcrowding exercises in after-days over the adult
population: “Look around us in public assemblies, and see in those
scarcely entering middle life the evidence of physical decline, the
prematurely bald and gray, the facial muscles photographing the wearied
brain and overtaxed nervous system.” Few can fail to realize, on due
reflection, how much of the terrible truth of this picture is
attributable to the bad condition of our school-houses. The conclusion
is plain that the judgment of the trained sanitarian is of vital
importance in the erection of school buildings, and that, until the
necessity of his sage interposition is recognized by the Department of
Public Instruction, diseases, the result of early confinement in close
and crowded schools, which are quite preventible, will continue to
prevail among us.


GOD THE TEACHER OF MANKIND: A plain, comprehensive explanation of
   Christian Doctrine. By Michael Müller, C.SS.R. New York, Cincinnati,
   and St. Louis: Benziger Bros. 1877.

CATECHISM OF CHRISTIAN DOCTRINE, for Academies and High Schools. With
   the approbation of the Most Rev. J. Roosevelt Bayley, D.D.,
   Archbishop of Baltimore. Intermediate No. III. Benziger Bros. 1877.

This is a most useful and comprehensive book, clear and definite in its
plan, popular and interesting in its style. It is divided into two
parts. Part I. deals with “The Enemies of the Church” from the beginning
down to our own times. These enemies Father Müller sets down in the
order of time as “Heathenism,” “Heresy,” and “Freemasonry.” Part II. is
occupied with showing what in these days of vague beliefs and religious
indifferentism it is most important to show—namely, that God himself is
the teacher of mankind, and therefore that his voice must be listened to
and obeyed. The church is the voice of God on earth; consequently, the
everlasting object of the enemies of God is to silence and destroy the
church. These avowed enemies were in the old days the heathen; later on
the heretics. A deadlier foe than either, and combining the evil
elements of both, the author points out to-day as Freemasons, the term
covering, of course, all forms of secret oath-bound societies.

Father Müller’s sketch of Freemasonry is very extensive. For his charges
against the societies comprehended under that head he relies mainly on
Masonic documents and publications. Amid a vast amount of rubbish and
jargon in the official rites and ceremonies of Masonry is plainly
discernible a distinct purpose and plan, which can be considered none
other than the destruction of all fixed belief in God and his
revelation, in his church, and in the order of society and government
founded on that belief. To expose this conspiracy against God and
man—for such it is, and nothing less—is as much a service to any
civilized state as it is to the direct cause of religion. On this
account we do not think that in a book intended as much for ordinary
readers as for those who are better instructed Father Müller has been at
all wasteful in the large amount of space devoted to this portion of his
subject. There is a tendency sometimes to pooh-pooh Masonry as a
convenient scarecrow. Yet those who have noted the march of events in
Europe within the century, and particularly within the latter half of
it, will discover a startling resemblance between events as they have
occurred, and as it was desired they should occur according to the
programmes laid down beforehand by the leaders of the secret societies.

The church does not waste her excommunications, and the fact that these
societies have been again and again solemnly condemned by her ought to
be sufficient warning against any Catholic joining, not simply societies
which are avowedly Masonic, but secret societies of any kind whatever. A
good and lawful society has no need of secrecy.

The second and more important portion of the book is taken up with what
is really a most lucid and careful explanation of that portion of the
catechism which refers more especially to God and the church. The
questions and answers in the catechism are necessarily brief, and the
explanation of the answers is left to the teacher. The teacher,
unfortunately, is not always as instructed as he or she might be,
without at all being a paragon of learning. For such, as indeed for all,
this portion of Father Müller’s book will be of the greatest assistance.
Here, for instance, is a question in the catechism: “How do we know that
Jesus Christ is the promised Redeemer and the Son of God?” Now, upon a
right answer to this and a thorough comprehension of the answer depends
a Christian’s faith. The answer in the catechism is: “We learn it, 1,
from the mouths of the prophets; 2, from the declarations of the angels;
3, from the testimony of his heavenly Father; and 4, from his own
testimony.” A correct reply, doubtless; but simply to give such an
answer to the ordinary student of whatever age is to speak to him almost
in an unknown tongue, while to saddle the average Sunday-school teacher
with a clear and comprehensive explanation of the answer is quite to
overweight him.

Father Müller’s explanations attached to such questions are excellent.
They are full without being tedious, and condensed without being
obscure. About half the second part is very wisely devoted to an
exposition of the Ninth Article of the Apostles’ Creed—“The Holy
Catholic Church”—which is to be commended, as, indeed, may be the whole
book, just as highly to the attention of earnest and inquiring
non-Catholics as of Catholics. As a whole, the book serves two great
ends: it is a solemn warning against the prevalent evils of the day,
unbelief and hatred of the truth; also, a judicious and able exposition
of the two great facts in the Christian belief, God and the church. The
work has this advantage over more learned treatises on the same
subjects: that while it commands the attention of the highest, it is
within the comprehension of any person of ordinary intelligence. We know
of no work in English better adapted to afford Catholics whose
opportunities of study have not been very great a clear and intelligent
reason for the faith that is in them. The catechism, noticed at the
head, in addition to the usual instruction, contains a short form of
morning and evening prayers, instructions for confession, prayers at
Mass and before and after communion, as well as a brief but useful
summary of sacred history.


THE GRAMMAR-SCHOOL SPELLER AND DEFINER: Embracing graded lessons in
   spelling, definitions, pronunciation, and synonymes; proper names and
   geographical terms; a choice selection of sentences for dictation;
   and a condensed study of English etymology; also ecclesiastical
   terms, etc. By E. D. Farrell. New York: The Catholic Publication
   Society Co. 1877.

With the exception of Swinton’s, there is scarcely a speller in general
circulation through the schools of this country which is worthy of the
name. Whatever is valuable in many of them has been unscrupulously
pilfered, directly or indirectly, from Sullivan’s _Spelling-Book
Superseded_, the text-book used in the Irish national schools; and
doubtless it is all the better for the pupils that it has been so. The
present work possesses at least one merit: it is a brave departure from
the well-beaten path of the plagiarist. Not that it is completely
original; that is impossible; but it is as nearly so as is compatible
with utility. It has strong marks of individuality in every page and
lesson, and is evidently the production, not of a mere book-maker, but
of an experienced instructor of youth, who has felt, in common with
other teachers, the necessity of more thought in the conception, and
system in the arrangement, of lessons in orthography.

We find, after a careful inspection, that the work contains information,
not to be found in similar works, on Anglo-Saxon roots, ecclesiastical
terms, noted names of fiction and of distinguished persons; words
relating to various occupations and sciences, etc., all of which are
strict essentials to a useful education. Miscellaneous words and
definitions, Latin roots and English derivatives, and miscellaneous
sentences for dictation occupy nearly half the volume, the remainder
being distributed between twenty-six other subdivisions of the subject;
and well-informed and competent teachers will say that such an
apportionment of the space is right.

We have noticed what we consider a few imperfections, unimportant,
doubtless, but needing emendation—viz., on page 33 this definition:
“Assassinate, to attack and murder a person of importance.”
Assassination is not necessarily restricted to persons of importance.
The author also takes the trouble to correct such pronunciations as _pī
an´ o_ for pĭ ä´ no, _thrissle_ for thistle, _akrawst_ for across. Of
what use is the teacher, if the book must attend to such matters? He
also orders us, on page 114, not to pronounce ge-og _jog_ in the words
geography and geometry. There are pupils who pronounce these words
joggraphy and jommetry, we know, and such is evidently the error against
which he wishes to guard. These oversights, so prevalent in other
spellers, are, fortunately, of rare occurrence in this, and a little
careful revision will render the book still more worthy of the title, to
which it has already such strong claims, of the model speller of the
present day.


MISSA DE BEATA MARIA ET MISSA IN FESTIS DUPLICIBUS, ITEM IN DOMINICIS
   ADVENTUS ET QUADRAGESIMÆ: uti in Graduali Romano et Ordinario Missæ,
   ab illustri Domino Frederico Pustet, S. Sedis Apost. typographo, “sub
   auspiciis SS. D. N. Pii IX., curante Sacr. Rit. Cong.” Cum permissu
   superiorum. Opus II. Published by the author, P. Ignatius Trueg,
   O.S.B., St. Vincent’s Abbey, Beatty P.O., Pa.

We heartily congratulate all who may be interested in the study or
execution of Gregorian chant upon the production of this work. Within a
very few years the study of the holy chant of St. Gregory has occupied
the attention of church musicians both in Europe and America, and many
notable efforts have been made to restore it to its rightful place in
the sanctuary. In fact, there is a true revival and reformation of
church music in progress.

One of the chief difficulties which presents itself to the ordinary
modern musician who acts as choir-master or organist is the simple
melodic form of the chant with its musical notation as it is printed in
all authorized office-books. Unaccustomed to its tonality, he makes
wretched work of the phrasing and accentuation, and his execution is
like that of a schoolboy spelling his words before pronouncing them.
Ignorant also of its modality, his attempts at harmony are more wretched
still. Under the hands of such performers the chant becomes poor
_music_, without expression, in the minor key.

Translations of the chant into modern notation harmonized with a view to
giving some notion of the distinctive character of the various modes,
are therefore a necessity for all who have not made such a thorough
study of the chant as to enable them to read from the original notation
and harmonize it at sight.

The present work of Rev. F. Trueg has been composed to supply this want,
and will be found in many respects to be superior to the greater number
of such translations hitherto published. It comprises the three masses
of the _Graduale Romanum_ as given in the Ratisbon edition—viz., for
feasts of the Blessed Virgin, for double feasts, and for the Sundays in
Advent and Lent, together with the responses at Mass. The harmonization
is arranged in such a manner that it serves not only as an instrumental
(organ or string quartette) accompaniment, but also, if so preferred,
for a vocal execution in four parts without instrumental accompaniment.
Some excellent remarks also accompany it by way of preface, explaining
the notation employed, and giving some valuable hints as to the proper
_tempo_ to be observed.

We commend its careful study to organists and chanters, and trust that
it may receive such patronage as to warrant the composer in completing
his design of publishing the entire _Graduale_ and _Antiphonarium_ in
the same form.


BLANCHE CAREY; OR, SCENES IN MANY LANDS. By Patricia. New York: P.
   O’Shea. 1877.

“Blanche Carey was a charming girl of twenty-two summers, beautiful and
accomplished. She had just completed her education at a fashionable
boarding-school, and was gifted with those graces which constitute the
true characteristics of woman. She was the admired of all who knew her,
the pride of the family circle, the delight of society, unrivalled in
intellectual attainments. If we add to these beauty and grace of form,
the picture is complete.”

_Phew!_ And we are only at the first page. What is one to say of so
oppressively perfect a heroine? But “the picture” is _not_ “complete”
yet; for in the second page the inventory of her qualities and
accomplishments is continued in this thrilling style: “The harp she
fingered with unrivalled skill; the piano keys she swept like a
whirlwind” (good gracious!), “while she executed on the guitar with no
less grace and finish.” We are slightly at a loss to understand whether
or not this highly-accomplished young lady performed all these startling
feats at once, as the author would seem to imply. The picture of a girl
“fingering” the harp with unrivalled skill, “sweeping” the piano-keys
“like a whirlwind,” while she “executes” on the guitar “with no less
grace and finish” than a whirlwind presumably, is something that
certainly possesses the merit of novelty. “Finding that she was already
proficient in music, she did not wish to devote further time to
painting”—why, we do not know. However, “it’s of no consequence,” as Mr.
Toots would say.

Blanche goes to Rome and sees the Holy Father, who “was quite affable”
to her, she assures us. Here is one of the “Scenes in Many Lands”:

“Our Irish tourists” (Blanche and her grandfather, a Mr. O’Rourke) “had
already made quite a sojourn in Italy, and to the old gentleman’s
astonishment, as he entered the coffee-room with his granddaughter
leaning on his arm, both apparently fatigued after a long drive in the
suburbs” (we are at a loss to understand whether the writer means by
“suburbs” the suburbs of Italy or the suburbs of the coffee-room), “they
observed a young man of prepossessing appearance seated at an opposite
table, gazing at them very earnestly. His travelling companions were two
ladies. One of them, though by no means elderly, might be taken for his
mother; the other young and somewhat coquettish in manner—evidently his
sister from the striking resemblance she bore him. _All denoted the air
of the Parisian._

“‘That gentleman must be going to make our acquaintance,’ said Blanche.
‘He must, I imagine, be dying to know us. All three are looking at us. I
know they are French _by the way they drink wine_.’

“The party in question rose to adjourn to their apartments. As they left
the room, Frank Mortimer—for such was his name—glanced several times at
Blanche. _She, of course, not condescending to notice the supposed
curiosity, evaded it._”

Artful yet discreet Blanche! Of course she makes his acquaintance in the
next page—we have only reached page 6 yet, so that it will be seen
events move rapidly—and here is how she makes it:

“Having waited for some moments in the pretty boudoir, looking out on a
veranda of orange-trees not yet in blossom” (we copy _verbatim_),
“Blanche was humming one of her favorite airs, ‘Beautiful Isle of the
Sea,’ which she imperceptibly changed to ‘Let each man learn to know
himself.’ Frank entered _on the words_, and seemed slightly confused for
an instant, but, quickly recovering his composure, he addressed his
visitors _with the ease and grace of a debonair_.”

“May we not hope to meet _ye_ in Paris?” is one of the questions put by
the easy and graceful “debonair” to his visitors. He falls in love with
Blanche, of course, though he confesses that he “almost fell in love
once with a lady from South America,” and no wonder. “She was a most
perfect creature in face and form; that delicate cast of countenance
with an exquisite profile; hair that might be called golden, coiled _on
the tip of her head_.”

The parting at the end of the first chapter, between Blanche and Frank,
is not altogether as poetical as it might have been made. The train
whistle interferes with it considerably. “A whistle, and all was
confusion; everybody astir to get on board. A second one, and Frank
started to take leave. He tried to speak, but it was impossible. His
face quivered with emotion. He pressed the hand of Blanche in silence,
and, darting out of the carriage, he encountered Mr. O’Rourke at the
door. Bidding him a hasty farewell, he was soon lost in the crowd. ‘What
a fool I am!’ he thought, ‘but _I am human nature_. Yet is it not a
weakness to bow to its dictates? Should I ever meet that gifted creature
again, I will tell her all....’ He wiped the cold perspiration from his
forehead, and, with a sigh, tried to forget his misery.”

What a fool he was indeed! Yet he said one sensible thing: “‘Oh!’ said
Blanche, laughing, ‘am I not a favored child of fortune? When I go home
I shall write a novel or some work of fiction.’

“Frank Mortimer smiled as the words fell from her lips. ‘Heaven save
you,’ he said, ‘from such a fate!’”

Frank’s prayer was not heard, seemingly, and the result, we suppose, is
_Blanche Carey_. We have not got beyond the first chapter of this
fascinating “work of fiction,” and we are not likely to get beyond it.
The reader may easily judge of its attractions by the extracts given,
which were positively too tempting to pass by.


THE LETTERS OF REV. JAMES MAHER, D.D., LATE P.P. OF CARLOW-GRAIGUE, ON
   RELIGIOUS SUBJECTS. With a memoir. Edited by the Rt. Rev. Patrick
   Francis Moran, D.D., Bishop of Ossory. Dublin: Browne & Nolan. 1877.

Seldom do we have an opportunity to welcome the appearance of so
valuable a book as this, which is the embodiment of those sentiments,
views, and convictions that distinguish the modern Irish priest. Few men
loved his religion and his native land with a more intense fervor than
Father Maher. This double love nourished his frame, increased his
strength, stimulated his thoughts, nerved his heart, and underlay every
thought and action of his life. He was a man who simply delighted in
every opportunity of saying a word or doing a deed in behalf of his
creed or his country. As a controversialist his enthusiasm made him
almost bitter, but with that bitterness which is born of zeal for the
truth. A man of stalwart frame and magnificent proportions, he exercised
a magnetic influence over his listeners by his presence alone.
Throughout the entire range of controversial literature it would be hard
to find anything equal to his scathing arraignment of Archbishop Whately
_apropos_ of the Nunnery Inspection bill: “I have myself,” he writes,
“two sisters and eighteen nieces who, following the call of Heaven, have
selected the religious life. Some of them are in convents in England,
some in Ireland, some in America; all engaged in the noble service of
forming the tender minds of the children of the poor to virtue, for
whose sake and the sake of their Father in heaven they most willingly
surrendered in the morning of life all earthly prospects. I well
remember what they were under the paternal roof. I know what they are in
the cloister. I have never lost sight of them; and as to their
happiness, to which I could not be indifferent, I have only to affirm,
which I do most solemnly, that I have never known people more happy,
more joyous, more light-hearted, or with such buoyant hopes as good
_religieuses_. Their character, my lord, is unknown and will remain a
mystery to that world for which Christ refused to pray.” These are the
brave words of one of the most conspicuous champions of religious
freedom, and one of the most determined antagonists of the smelling
committee who strove to insult the purest and noblest of women. His
spirit is not dead among his _confrères_ in the Irish vineyard, for
Cardinal Cullen, the nephew of Father Maher, and the distinguished
prelate who has given these inestimable letters to the world—a near
relative of the great priest—lives to represent every feeling and pulse
of his heart.


SPECIALISTS AND SPECIALTIES IN MEDICINE. Address delivered before the
   Alumni Association of the Medical Department of the University of
   Vermont. Burlington. 1876.

This address of Dr. Henry, though unpretending in form, is exceedingly
well timed and full of suggestiveness. The doctor evidently belongs to
the conservative class of his profession, who long for the day when
eminent respectability, which is the escutcheon of the medical man in
European countries, will be fairly won and worn by every one who
subscribes M.D. to his name. As a consequence, he is the bitter enemy of
every form of quackery and undue pretentiousness. He certainly handles
_soi-disant_ specialists without gloves, and gives the best of reasons
why the community should rebel against their assumption of skill. Too
many so-called specialists are men who have devoted their time and
attention to a special branch of the profession while entirely
neglecting the others. This is illogical and cannot be done. Medicine is
a science whose parts are bound together as indissolubly as the stages
of a reasoning process, and whoever imagines that he can master one
department without a knowledge of the others simply follows the advice
of Dogberry. We have oculists and aurists and gynœcologists without
number who have no knowledge of general pathology. This is altogether
wrong. The true _raison d’être_ of a specialist is that, having
profoundly studied the science of medicine, he finds that his natural
aptitude or taste draws him to one branch of the profession rather than
to others. In this manner only have the prominent and highly-reputed
specialists in Europe and among ourselves won their fame and fortune.
Dr. Henry, in a clear and trenchant style, demonstrates the absurdity of
specialties, as such.


MONGRELISM. By Watson F. Quinby M.D. Wilmington, Del.: James & Webb.

This curious monogram is worth perusing, if for no other reason than the
fanciful and novel views which it presents. The author attributes many
of our present social evils to mongrelism, or the admixture of distinct
types of men. He finds in the Book of Revelation the foreshadowing of
the natural distribution of men into white, red, and black, deeming the
three similarly colored horses to be typical of those three branches of
the human family, while the fourth horse, on which sat Death, he
considers to be the emblem of mongrelia. He opposes J. J. Rousseau’s
idea that man’s primitive condition was one of barbarism, and contends
that historical and archæological discoveries prove rather a
retrogression than an improvement. The Chinaman is Dr. Quinby’s ideal of
a mongrel. In the land of flowers every art once flourished, learning
was cultivated, the harpist filled the air with sweetest strains, and
the poet sang delicious lays in the beautiful vale of Cashmere, till the
bane of mongrelism fell on it and all progress ceased. Mexico and South
America are other evidences of the pernicious influence of hybridism.
The conclusions of the author are in many instances sound, but his
reasoning is too fanciful to satisfy a sober-minded reader. His
statement that the rapid influx of Chinese into our midst is fraught
with mighty perils is well worth pondering over, and no true statesman
will shun the serious consideration of this knotty problem.


JACK. From the French of Alphonse Daudet. By Mary Neal Sherwood,
   translator of _Sidonie_. Boston: Estes & Lauriat. 1877.

Another painful story by this gifted author. It is cleverly told and the
treatment is highly artistic, showing all that careful finish that
French writers bestow even on their smallest characters. The characters
in this story are most of them wretched enough. Lovers of the real in
fiction will find them realistic enough. There is a tone of hopelessness
and helplessness in _Jack_, as in _Sidonie_, that is very disheartening.
According to M. Daudet, a relentless Fate would seem to clutch some
miserable mortals, and hold them till death came as a happy release.
“The mother cried in a tone of horror, ‘Dead’?” “No,” said old Rivals;
“no—_delivered_,” are the last lines of _Jack_.

There is much truth and also much untruth in the lesson of the book.
Social surroundings, of course, influence very materially the growth,
physical and moral, of lives. But they are not everything; over and
above them all is a man’s own will, and that is the true lever of his
life. “Jack” only needed a little more resolution and nerve to have made
him a very useful member of society instead of a nincompoop. As in
_Sidonie_, so here, the minor characters are to us the most interesting.
The humor in _Jack_ is unfortunately less in quantity and more sardonic
in quality than in _Sidonie_. We suppose it is hopeless to expect M.
Daudet to look for once at the brighter side of life and find his heroes
and heroines among respectable people. Meanwhile, we give him all praise
as a very powerful artist, though a very unpleasing one. He is fortunate
in his American translator.


MCGEE’S ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY: Devoted to Catholic Art, Literature, and
   Education. Vol. I. New York: J. A. McGee, Publisher. 1877.

An illustrated Catholic weekly journal, which should successfully
compete in point of illustration and literary workmanship with the
numerous non-Catholic and anti-Catholic—we had almost said
diabolic—journals that are so abundant to-day, was something greatly
needed in this country. Various attempts have been made in the past to
establish such a journal. They were so many failures. The volume which
forms the subject of the present notice is certainly the most successful
we have yet seen here, and we have great hopes that, with an increased
patronage, which it certainly deserves, it may be all we could wish it
to be. It has advanced very much, both in style of illustration, in
selection of subjects, and above all in editorial character and ability
on its own earlier numbers.

The publisher has had the good fortune as well as the good sense to
secure a really able editor in Col. James E. McGee, who, in addition to
being an excellent writer, possesses that sound journalistic sense and
judgment without which the very best matter is simply wasted in a
publication of this kind. Most of the illustrated journals of the day
are so much mental and moral poison, and the deadliest are those that
are most generally liked and enjoy the widest circulation. To furnish an
antidote to this bane is a good as well as a bold work, which deserves
well of Catholics everywhere. We most heartily wish continued success to
the new venture.


THE BIBLE OF HUMANITY. By Jules Michelet. Translated from the French by
   Vincenzo Calfa. With a new and complete index. New York: J. W.
   Bouton. 1877.

This is a translation of what may be called a sensational romance by
Jules Michelet, founded on the earliest records of various races of the
human family, including the Old and the New Testament. The author runs
riot amidst these ancient documents; and his disordered imagination
misinterprets them unscrupulously, denies boldly what does not answer
his purpose, and invents at pleasure, until in the end nothing is left
on the mind of the reader except the impression of a defying, scoffing,
and voluptuous disciple of M. Voltaire—Jules Michelet.

The translation is in good English; we have no reason to think it is not
faithfully done.


THE POETICAL AND PROSE WRITINGS OF CHARLES SPRAGUE. New edition. With a
   portrait and a biographical sketch. Boston: A. Williams & Co. 1876.

Mr. Sprague’s writings, whether in prose or poetry, are of that kind, we
fear, that are not destined to live long in men’s memories, however much
immediate interest and attention they may excite at the time of their
publication. His verse was smooth enough and sweet enough as a rule,
with little or nothing in it to jar on sensitive feelings, and little or
nothing in it also to rouse feeling of any kind. The present edition is
handsomely brought out.


ANNALS OF OUR LADY OF THE SACRED HEART. Monthly bulletin of the
   Archconfraternity of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, published with the
   approbation of Rt. Rev. Edgar P. Wadhams, Bishop of Ogdensburg.
   Printed for the Missionaries of the Sacred Heart, by Chas. E.
   Holbrook, Watertown, N. Y.

We have received the first number of this little publication, the object
of which is best set forth in the words of the dedication “to the
clergy, religious communities, colleges, institutions of learning, and
Catholic societies of America.” “The Missionaries of the Sacred Heart of
Jesus established at Watertown earnestly recommend to the zeal of
Catholics the monthly publication entitled _Annals of Our Lady of the
Sacred Heart_. Its object is to make known and to propagate in America,
and in the English possessions, the admirable devotion to Our Lady of
the Sacred Heart, and, through Mary, to lead souls to the Sacred Heart
of Jesus.” The publication begins with the June number.


THE CATHOLIC PARENTS’ FRIEND. Devoted to the cause of Catholic
   education. Edited monthly by M. Wallrath, pastor of the Church of the
   Immaculate Conception, Colusa, California. Numbers for May, June, and
   July, 1877.

We think this little publication may do great good to the cause of
Catholic education. We trust it may have an extensive patronage. A
little more timeliness and brevity in the articles, and a more pointed
and direct application of them to matters moving around us here at home,
would add greatly to the value and interest of so excellently conceived
a work.

                  *       *       *       *       *

We have received from the Catholic Publication Society Co. advance
sheets of Cardinal Manning’s latest volume, reprinted from the English
plates, which were specially furnished to this house by the English
publishers. It is impossible at so short a notice to deal fitly with a
work by so eminent an author, and touching on a variety of subjects,
each one of which is timely and important. Some indication of the value
of the volume may be gathered from the titles of the various papers:
“The Work and Wants of the Catholic Church in England”; “Cardinal
Wiseman”; “French Infidelity”; “Ireland”; “On Progress”; “The Dignity
and Rights of Labor”; “The Church of Rome”; “Cæsarism and
Ultramontanism”; “Ultramontanism and Christianity”; “The Pope and Magna
Charta”; “Philosophy without Assumptions,” etc., etc.


                     BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS RECEIVED.


SAINT ELIZABETH, QUEEN OF HUNGARY. By the author of _Life in a
   Cloister_, etc.

HORTENSE: an Historical Romance. Translated from the French. By R. J.
   Halm. Kelly, Piet & Co., Baltimore.

THE CROWN OF HEAVEN, THE SUPREME OBJECT OF CHRISTIAN HOPE. From the
   German of Rev. John N. Stöger, S.J. By Rev. M. Nash, S.J. P. O’Shea,
   New York.

SELECTIONS from the _Imitation of Christ_. SELECTIONS from the _Thoughts
   of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus_. Roberts Bros., Boston.

STRENGTH AND CALCULATION OF DIMENSIONS OF IRON AND STEEL CONSTRUCTIONS,
   WITH REFERENCE TO THE LATEST EXPERIMENTS. Translated from the German
   of J. J. Weyrauch, Ph.D., Prof. Polytechnic School of Stuttgart. D.
   Van Nostrand, New York.

TEN YEARS OF MY LIFE. By the Princess Felix Salm-Salm. R. Worthington,
   New York.

_The Forty-seventh Annual Report of the Inspectors of the State
   Penitentiary for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania, for the year
   1876_. Sherman & Co., Philadelphia.

SIXTH ANNUAL REPORT OF THE WOMAN’S BAPTIST MISSIONARY SOCIETIES. With
   the Proceedings of the Annual Meetings. Rand, Avery & Co., Boston.

NINTH ANNUAL REPORT OF THE CLARKE INSTITUTION FOR DEAF MUTES AT
   NORTHAMPTON, MASS., FOR THE YEAR ENDING SEPTEMBER 1, 1876.

ON THE VALUE AND CULTURE OF ROOTS FOR STOCK FEEDING. By David Landreth &
   Sons. McCalla & Stavely, Philadelphia.

FINAL ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE WOODRUFF SCIENTIFIC EXPEDITION AROUND THE
   WORLD. Indianapolis _Journal_ Co., Indianapolis.

ANNALS OF THE CATHOLIC INDIAN MISSIONS OF AMERICA. Bureau of Catholic
   Indian Missions, Washington, D. C.

INDULGENCES APOSTOLIQUES, OU INDULGENCES APPLICABLES AUX VIVANTS ET AUX
   DEFUNTS. Que le Saint Père Pie IX. attache aux Rosaires, Chapelets,
   Croix, etc., qui en ont obtenu le pouvoir approuvé par l’autorité
   compétente. Rome: Libreria di Roma.


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



                                  THE

                            CATHOLIC WORLD.

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

                  VOL. XXVI., No. 152.—NOVEMBER, 1877.

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


                         THE FREE-RELIGIONISTS.


                         I.—THE NEW-ENGLANDER.

This pamphlet[17] of ninety-five pages gives an account of the last
annual meeting in Boston of the “Free-Religious Association, its object
being to promote the practical interests of pure religion, to increase
fellowship in spirit, and to encourage the scientific study of man’s
religious nature and history.” Associations of this kind seem to be
necessary as safety-valves to a certain class of men and women, chiefly
found in New England, who, especially in matters of religion, are in a
state of effervescence, and feel the pressing need at times of publicly
delivering themselves of such thoughts as come uppermost in their minds
on this and kindred subjects. The phenomenon is a peculiar one, and
perhaps in no other country could such a variety of odd spirits as are
usually found in these assemblies be convoked. Their proceedings are
full of interest to the student of religion and the mental philosopher,
no less than to the observer of the phases of religious development of
some of the most active thinkers of this section of our country.

The American mind at bottom is serious, clings with deathless tenacity
to a religion of some sort; and of none is this more characteristic than
of the descendants of the Puritan Fathers. The children of the Puritans
may be eccentric, at times fanatical, and inclined to thrust their
religious, social, political, and even dietetical notions upon others;
but they are men and women who think; they are restless until they have
gained a religious belief, and are marked with earnestness of some sort,
energy, and practical skill. The Puritan race is a thinking, religious,
and an aggressive race of men and women. Whatever he may be, there is
always in a genuine Puritan a great deal of positive human nature. Let
him be under error, and his teeming brain will breed countless
crotchets, any one of which he will maintain with the bitterest
fanaticism, and, if placed in power, will impose it upon others with a
ruthless intolerance.

Give him truth, and you have an enlightened faith, indomitable zeal, and
not a few of the elements which go to make up an apostle. The main
qualities which distinguish the typical New-Englander, though not
altogether the most attractive, are nevertheless not the meanest in
human nature, and we candidly confess, though not a drop of Puritan
blood runs in our veins, that we have but few dislikes, while we
entertain many feelings of sincere respect, for the New England type of
man. It is, therefore, with special interest that we read whatever
offers an insight into the workings of the minds of so large,
influential, and important a class of the American people.

                  Copyright: Rev. I. T. HECKER. 1877.


               II.—WHAT IS THE FREE-RELIGIONIST MOVEMENT.

The Unitarian Association did not go far enough and fast enough to suit
the temper of a class of its more radical and ardent members; hence the
existence of the separate organization of “The Free-Religious
Association.” The movement of the free-religionists may be said to
spring from a laudable desire to get rid in the speediest way possible
of the spurious Christianity which was imposed upon them by their
forefathers as genuine Christianity and pure religion.

Suppose they have accomplished this laborious task of purification, what
then? Have they found wherewith “to yield the religious sentiment
reasonable satisfaction,” which Mr. Tyndall says “is the problem of
problems at this hour”? By no means; this discovery is quite another
affair.


                             “Hic labor,
                             Hoc opus est.”


They have only reached its starting-point. Let them begin their search,
and investigate every form or scheme of religion that has existed among
men from the beginning of the human race; let them speculate on these to
their hearts’ content, and indulge in the fancy that they have a mission
to invent or construct a new religion—and what then? Why, they will
find, at the end of all their earnest efforts, that there are, and
especially for those who have been under the light and quickening
influences of Christianity, but two possible movements, one a continuous
curve and the other a tangent. One or the other of these lines they will
be inevitably forced to take. If they pursue the first and push their
premises to their logical consequences, they will, if intelligent and
consistent, be led at some point into the circle of the Catholic Church;
if they follow the latter, and have the courage of their opinions, they
will declare themselves first infidels and then atheists. The fact is
becoming daily more and more plain to intelligent and fearlessly honest
men that there is no logical standing ground, we do not say between
Catholicity and atheism—for atheism has no logical standing position
whatever—but that there is no logical standing ground at all outside of
Catholicity. For Catholicity professes to be, and has ever maintained
that it is, the most perfect manifestation to men of the supreme divine
Reason, and to reject the truths which it sets before human reason with
the convincing evidence of their divine origin necessarily involves the
denial of human reason itself; consequently, human reason inevitably
falls, in the end, with the rejection of Catholicity. A man may reject
Protestantism and claim human reason; nay, he is bound to repudiate
Protestantism, if he holds to human reason, for the doctrine of “total
depravity” taught by orthodox Protestant sects undermines altogether the
value of human reason.[18] But Catholicity appeals confidently to human
reason for its firm support, since its entire structure is based upon
the infallibility of human reason in its sphere, and the irrefragable
certitude of its great primary truths. The interdependent relations,
therefore, existing between reason and Catholicity are essential, and
they stand or fall together. The way that Dr. Holmes has put this
question is not, we beg his pardon, the right way; he says: “Rome or
Reason?” He should have said: Rome and Reason.

There can be no rational belief in God, in the immortality of the soul,
in human responsibility as against Christianity, as there can be no
rational belief in Christianity as against Catholicity. Outside of the
Catholic Church there is only nihilism.


                  III.—THE DRIFTS OF FREE-RELIGIONISM.

It would be difficult to predict the precise course of these
“come-outers” of the latest date, called free-religionists. Some will
probably stop after having repudiated Protestantism, rest upon the
truths of reason, and, without inquiring further, vainly try to satisfy,
with a species of theism, the great aspirations and deep needs of their
souls; eventually they may fall back on old Unitarianism. Others will
venture to examine, as some before them have done, the claims of the
Catholic Church, and finding that these are founded on human reason,
that her doctrines perfect the truths of human reason, and that she
alone is adequate to satisfy all the wants of the human heart, will
become in the course of time Catholics, and save their souls—that is,
reach their high destiny. Another section will, during, perhaps, their
whole lives, seriously amuse themselves with the study of Brahminism,
Buddhism, and every other kind of outlandish religion—not a vain
intellectual amusement, except when associated with the absurd idea of
concocting a new religion. While the larger section, we fear, will
follow the tangent and end in nihilism. For although the main drift of
the religious world outside of the Catholic Church, especially in the
United States, is towards naturalism; although the face of each
free-religionist looks in a somewhat different way, yet the actual
movement of the greatest number of these Unitarian dissenters is
apparently in the direction of zero.

Precisely where the president of the Free-Religious Association stands,
to what definite truths he assents as undeniable, and what convictions
he holds as settled, is not to be gathered from any of his sermons,
tracts, speeches, and several published books. He seems to be laboring
under the impression that he has a mission to bring forth a new
religion, but thus far he or his associates in this illusive idea have
given to the world no new word in religion, or in morals, or in
philosophy, or in politics, or in social life, or in art, or in science,
or in method, or in anything else _scibile_. Mr. William R. Alger has
ventured to predict to his free-religionist brethren in their last
annual gathering a new incarnation and its gospel, in which we fail to
see anything new or important, if true. “The spirit of science,” such
are the words of his prophecy, “enriched with the spirit of piety, is
the avatar of the new Messiah.”

Francis Ellswood Abbot, a conspicuous member of the Free-Religious
Association, as well as one of its active directors and the editor of
the _Index_, a weekly journal which is in some sort the organ of the
free-religious movement, has, among other notable things, come to the
front and publicly impeached Christianity. His indictment contains five
counts against the Christian religion: “human intelligence, human
virtue, the human heart, human freedom, and humanitarian religion.”[19]
Here are his charges: “Christianity,” he says, “no longer proclaims the
highest truths, inculcates the purest ethics, breathes the noblest
spirit, stimulates to the grandest life, holds up to the soul and to
society the loftiest ideal of that which ought to be.”[20] But this is
neither new nor original; for what is the Christianity which Mr. Abbot
so boldly impeaches? Why, in all its main features it is that
disfigurement of Christianity which he has inherited from his
Calvinistic progenitors, and which the Council of Trent impeached, and
for the most part on the very same grounds as he does, more than three
centuries ago; so that in each of his articles of impeachment every
Catholic to-day will heartily join, and to each of his charges say:
Amen; _Anathema sit!_

What is surprising to Catholics is that there should be intelligent and
educated men living in this enlightened nineteenth century who have
found out that Calvinism is false, and have not yet discovered in the
intellectual environment of Boston that Calvinism is not Christianity.
“They do not attack the Catholic Church,” said Daniel O’Connell, in
speaking of a similar class of men, “but a monster which they have
created and called the Catholic Church.”

But Mr. Abbot is not of the men who are content to rest in mere
negation. In a lecture delivered by him in a course under the auspices
of the Free-Religious Association, entitled _A Study of Religion_, after
much preliminary discourse, he gives with the heading, “The New
Conception of Religion,” the following definition of religion:
“Religion,” he says, “is the effort of man to perfect himself.”[21] Now,
what is the origin of “man’s effort to perfect himself”? “Religion,” he
affirms, “appears in its universal aspect as the _decree of Nature_ that
her own end shall be achieved. Religion is the inward impulsion of
Nature, seconded by the conscious effort of the individual to conform to
it,” etc.[22]

What Mr. Abbot calls “nature” and “ideal excellence in all directions”
is what the common sense of mankind has named God. Mr. Abbot has no
objection to the same name; only he insists that the idea of God, which
is very proper, should be submitted “to the educated intelligence of the
human race.”[23] “It is,” he says, “because I do believe in God that I
am willing to submit my belief in him to the sharpest and most searching
scrutiny of science.”[24]

Now, Mr. Abbot admits that if you once concede the Messianic claim of
Christ, “then it is true that Catholicism is itself Christianity in its
most perfect form.”[25] He therefore stops virtually in his analysis of
religion at the idea of God, and, if he believed in the Divinity of
Christ and did not eschew logic, he would have to embrace Catholicity.
Mr. Abbot, like many Unitarians, agrees on this point with P. J.
Proudhon, but with this difference: the Frenchman recedes a step, and
maintains that “outside of Christianity there is no God, no religion, no
faith, no theology.... The church believes in God, and believes in God
more faithfully and more perfectly than any sect. The church is the
purest, most perfect, and most enlightened revelation of the divine
Being, and none other understands what is worship. From a religious
stand-point the Catholicism of the Latin peoples is the best, the most
rational, and the most perfect. Rome, in spite of her repeated and
frightful falls, remains the only legitimate church.” Hence Proudhon and
those of his school lay it down as a _sine qua non_ that the elimination
of the idea of God, and of all obligation to any divine law, is the
condition of all true progress. From this we may draw the conclusion
that Francis E. Abbot is on the curve line, and, if he follows out his
definition of religion to its logical consequences, he will surely land,
whatever may be the sweep of his continuous curve, in the bosom of the
Catholic Church. There is no escape from this ultimate result, if reason
is to rule, except by hastily taking the back track, and starting on the
tangent, and eventually plunging with Proudhon into the dark abyss of
nihilism. Hence every sagacious straight-line radical cannot but look
upon the platform of the editor of the _Index_ as the jumping-off place
into popery for all consistent theists. That this is not meant as
pleasantry, but is written in downright earnestness, we quote the
conclusion of his lecture on _A Study of Religion_, and preface it by
saying that the language with which he urges his definition of religion
on his hearers finds in every word an echo in the hearts of all sincere
and instructed Catholics, and receives their full endorsement.

    “I speak now,” he says, “as one who _believes_ in religion, thus
    conceived, from the sole of the foot to the crown of the head,
    without apology either for the name or the thing, and without
    the smallest concession to the prejudice that assails either the
    one or the other. To-day I speak only to the large in heart and
    broad in mind—to those who must accept science and would fain
    accept religion too. To these I say that science itself would
    lose its fearless love of truth, were it not that religion fed
    its secret springs; that social reform would lose its motive and
    inspiration, literature and art their beauty, and all human life
    its sweetest and tenderest grace, did not religion evermore
    create the insatiable hunger after perfection in the soul of
    man. Bright, cheerful, ennobling, stimulating, emancipating,
    religion is the greatest friend of humanity, ever guiding it
    upward and onward to the right and the true; ay, and to all we
    yearn for, if, as we believe, the right and the true are indeed
    the pathway to God.”

But not all free-religionists are gifted with so deep, intelligent, and
healthy an appreciation of the essence of religion as Francis E. Abbot,
who leaves nothing at present to be desired but the courage of his
convictions—_proficiat!_

There is, however, in the _Christian Inquirer_ a revelation made by
William Ellery Channing, a distinguished nephew of the celebrated Dr.
Channing, which tells quite another story. It appears by this article
that the president of the Free Religious Association, O. B. Frothingham,
had attributed to Mr. Channing, one of the speakers in the tenth annual
assembly, a “poetic Christianity,” a “religion in the air,” an
“up-in-a-balloon” religion, and in reply to this accusation he draws
from nature the following unattractive personal portraits:

    “Let me,” says Mr. Channing, “make a clean breast of it to you
    before all onlookers. What you mean by the ‘rumors’ that I had
    become ‘ecclesiastical in tastes and opinions’ I can but
    conjecture. But the simple facts are in brief these: You
    remember how seven years ago, on the public platform, and in the
    reunions of the Free-Religionists in dear John Sargent’s
    hospitable rooms, and in private ‘confabs’ with yourself, and W.
    J. Potter, and S. Longfellow, and S. Johnson, and J. Weiss, and
    T. W. Higginson, and D. A. Wasson, and F. E. Abbot, etc., I
    tried to preach my gospel, that the _vital centre_ of free
    religious union is the _life of God in man_ as made gloriously
    manifest in Jesus the Christ. And you remember, too, how around
    that centre I illustrated the historic fact that the great
    religions of our race arranged themselves in orderly groups.
    For nearly a year I opened my heart and mind to the
    free-religionists and liberal Christians, without a veil to hide
    my inmost holy of holies. But shall I tell you, my friend, that
    when I bade you all farewell, in the summer of 1870, it was with
    sad forebodings? And why? The story, too long to tell in full,
    ran thus: One, in his wish to be bathed in the sense of
    ever-present Deity, had ceased to commune with the Spirit of
    spirits in prayer. Another, in his repulsion from imprisoning
    anthropomorphism, had abandoned all conceptions of a personal
    God, and so lost the Father. A third, in his historic purpose to
    lead a heavenly-human life, here and now, gave up the hope of
    immortal existence, as a sailor might turn from contemplating
    the cloud-palaces of sunset to pull the tarry cordage and spread
    the coarse canvas of his ship. And, saddest of all, a fourth, in
    his bold purpose to be spontaneous in every impulse and emotion,
    spurned the motherly monitions of duty so sternly that
    conscience even seemed driven to return to heaven, like ‘Astræa
    Redux.’ In brief, one felt as if the liberal college of all
    religions in council with pantheism, agnosticism, and atheistic
    materialism was destined to fall flat to dust in a confused
    chaos of most commonplace _spiritual ‘know-nothingism.’_ Such
    was my disheartening vision of the near future for dearly-loved
    compeers. And a darker valley of ‘devastation,’ as our
    Swedenborgian friends say, than I was driven into I have never
    traversed.”

But Mr. Channing goes further; he shows that he has studied the
religious philosophers of antiquity to some purpose, seized their true
meaning and real drift, and in touching language takes his readers into
his confidence, offering to them an insight into his present relations
to Christianity.

The following remarkable paragraph possesses a thrilling interest for
Catholics; and if it affects others as it has the present writer on
reading it, they will not fail to offer up an aspiration to Him who has
given such graces to the soul of the man who penned it—and doubtless to
others among the free-religionists—that he will render their faith
explicit and perfect it.

    “Once again,” he says, “I sought comfort with the blessed
    company of sages and saints of the Orient and Hellas—with
    Lao-Tsee and Kung Fu-Tsee; with the writers of the Bhagava-Geeta
    and the Dhamma-Bada; of the hymns of ancient Avesta and the
    modern sayings and songs of the Sufis; with radiant Plato and
    heroic Epictetus, etc., etc. Once more they refreshed and
    reinspirited me as of old. But they did something better: hand
    in hand they brought me up to the white marble steps, and the
    crystal baptismal font, and the bread and wine-crowned
    communion-table—ay, to the cross in the chancel of the Christian
    temple—and, as they laid their hands in benediction on my head,
    they whispered: ‘Here is your real _home_. We have been but your
    guides in the desert to lead you to fellowship with the Father
    and his Son in the spirit of holy humanity. Peace be with you.’
    And so, my brother, once again, and with a purer, profounder,
    tenderer love than ever, like a little child, I kissed the
    blood-stained feet and hands and side of the Hero of Calvary,
    and laid my hand on the knees of the gentlest of martyrs, and
    was uplifted by the embracing arms of the gracious elder
    Brother, and in his kiss of mingled pity and pardon found the
    peace I sought, and became a Christian in _experience_, as
    through a long life I had hoped and prayed to be. Depend upon
    it, dear Frothingham, there is on this small earth-ball no
    _reality_ more _real_ than this central communion with God in
    Christ, of which the saints of all ages in the church universal
    bear witness.”


                            IV.—THE MEETING.

But we have wandered off somewhat from our present point, which is the
proceedings of “the tenth annual meeting” of the free-religionists in
Boston. What is singularly remarkable among so intellectual and
cultivated a class of men as assemble at these gatherings, and
especially among its select speakers and essayists, is that they should
display so great a lack of true knowledge of the Catholic Church. If the
Catholic Church is not worthy of serious study, then why make it a
subject for speeches and essays in so important an assembly? But if it
be worthy of so much attention, why not give it that investigation which
its significance demands? We dare not say that the leaders among the
free-religionists are not intelligent men, that they have not read
considerably. But when they charge the Catholic Church with heresies
which she has condemned; when they attribute to her doctrine which she
always has detested and does detest; and when they blacken her with
stale and oft-refuted calumnies, and recklessly traduce her dearest and
best, her holiest children, we dare not trust ourselves to give
expression to what comes uppermost in our thoughts. Shakspeare gives
good advice in this matter:


                     “Though honesty be no Puritan,
                      Yet it will do no hurt.”


We recommend this to the consideration of our free-religionists. It will
do them “no hurt” to show more of this virtue when speaking of the
Catholic Church. It becomes those who talk so much about science to talk
a little less about it, and, when the Catholic religion is concerned, to
give more evidence of scientific study. Especially does this course
become men who claim to be public teachers belonging to a body whose
object is “to encourage the scientific study of man’s religious nature
and history.”

The first essay, delivered by William R. Alger, entitled _Steps towards
Religious Emancipation in Christendom_, and published in their tenth
annual report, will serve to illustrate our meaning. Mr. Alger is a
scholar of repute, a man who has travelled abroad, written and published
several books displaying extensive reading, refined tastes, and high
literary culture. He is, moreover, a distinguished minister of the
Unitarian denomination. His essay, we have reason to believe, was
prepared with the usual care bestowed upon such papers; for the
president of the association, in introducing the author, said: “The
discussion will be opened by an essay by Mr. William R. Alger, of New
York, who has made this matter in its historical aspects the study of
years, and is carefully prepared to present the result of his deepest
thought and investigation.”[26]

In its fourth paragraph the essay proposes to give a rough sketch of the
“doctrinal thought” on which in mediæval times the “intellectual unity”
of the church rested. Our limits will not allow us to quote it entire,
but it is enough for our purpose to say—and we weigh our words before
putting them on paper—that scarcely any one sentence of this paragraph
contains a correct statement of the “doctrinal thought” of the Catholic
Church either in the middle ages or in any other age.

Here are some of the statements: “The whole human race, descended from
Adam, who lived _five thousand years before_,” etc. Mr. Alger would
convey new information to the readers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD, if he would
give his authorities for this assertion. Thus far, if our authorities do
not deceive us, the Catholic Church has, in her wisdom, left the
question of the date of man’s appearance upon this earth to the
discussion of chronologists and to the disputes among scientists.

Again: “The Bible, a mysterious book dictated by the Spirit of God,
containing an infallible record of what is most important in this scheme
of salvation, _is withheld from the laity_.” It would also increase the
knowledge of our readers if the author had given his authorities to
prove the above charge. The testimony of Catholics, if we be a judge, is
precisely the contrary to this accusation. They entertain the conviction
that it was the most earnest desire of the church in the period of which
Mr. Alger is speaking to render the Bible accessible to all classes of
men. Her monks devoted themselves to the severe manual labor of copying
the Bible, and engaged in the noble toil of translating it into the
vulgar tongues of various nations, that the people might become readers
of the Bible. She exposed the Bible publicly in her libraries, and
chained it to their walls by the windows, and to desks in her churches,
in order that it might be read by everybody and not stolen. The charge
is simply an old and oft-repeated calumny quite unworthy a man of
reputed intelligence.

“The actual power or seal of salvation is made available to believers
only through the sacraments of the church—confession, baptism, Mass, and
penance—legally administered by her accredited representatives.” There
is such an inextricable confusion pervading this statement that it is
difficult to discern its meaning. No one, we venture to say, who had
mastered the “doctrinal thought” of the church would have ever penned so
distracted a sentence on so important a point. One would suppose that,
according to Mr. Alger, there were two sacraments, one “confession” and
the other “penance”; whereas every Catholic who has learned the little
catechism knows that “confession,” the popular term, means, in the
language of the church, the Sacrament of Penance. Then what is meant by
“baptism legally administered by her accredited representatives”? This
is not clear; but the whole statement is so confused in thought and
tangled in expression that the only hope of understanding the author’s
meaning is to give him an opportunity of trying again. It would be,
among ourselves, interesting to read from non-Catholic authors the
“doctrinal thought” of the church on what is essential to salvation and
what is ordinarily necessary to salvation. It would also, we are
inclined to think, clear up many of their misconceptions and do them no
little good to have correct ideas on so important a matter.

“Those,” says Mr. Alger, “who humbly believe and observe these doctrines
shall be saved; _all others lost for ever_.”

This sentence follows the preceding one, and the same confusion and
error underlie both. When the ingenuous author of this essay has
corrected the former sentence by reading up on the point involved, he
will, as a matter of course, correct the error contained in the latter.

Passing now over several paragraphs containing many charges, we regret
to say, in unusually bitter words, we come to the following: “The
revival of the Greek learning, the study of the works of Plato,
Aristotle, the classic poets, orators, and historians, with their
beautiful and surprising revelations of genius, virtue, and piety,
_entirely independent and outside of the church and Bible_, exerted an
immense force in liberalizing and refining the narrow, dogmatic mind of
the Christian world, refuting its _arrogant pretensions to an exclusive
communion with God and heritage in Providence_.” If the cultivated
writer of this essay had qualified the phrase “outside of the church”
_as I understand it_, “exclusive communion” _as I view it_, this
sentence might pass; but, as it stands, the position in which the
Catholic Church is placed is entirely false, and we refer our readers to
what is said on these points under the heading of “The Mission of the
Latin Race,” commencing on page 5, in the last number of this magazine.

“Now the Pope,” says Mr. Alger, “excommunicates the emperor, sets up a
rival, foments a rebellion among his subjects, or launches the terrible
interdict on a whole nation, shutting the churches, muffling the bells,
forbidding confession to the penitent, unction to the dying, burial to
the dead.”[27] Either the author has been imposed upon by his
authorities, or perhaps he has not weighed sufficiently his words. The
effect of an interdict of the Pope is inaccurately stated. These are
“terrible” matters, and one who is reciting history should be careful
and exact in his specifications. Here, as before, he is bound to give
his authorities, and learned and credible ones, or change his language.

“The repeated gross contradictions of bishops, councils, and popes,
their inconsistent decrees reversing or neutralizing each other,
_infallibility clashing with infallibility_, begat irrepressible
doubts.”[28] This sentence may pass for a rhetorical flourish, but it
involves a grave, a very grave, a most grave charge, and is backed up by
no example, or proof, or relation of authorities! These cutting and
slashing assertions where conscientious accuracy is required and sound
scholarship ought to be displayed, place the intelligence and education
of his Boston audience in no enviable light. Let us have some specimens
of “infallibility clashing with infallibility” by all means:

“Luther sprang forth with one-third of Christendom in revolt at his
back.... But _the fundamental doctrines_ of the church scheme otherwise
remained _essentially_ as they had been, unchallenged.”[29] What a pity
that the theologians of the sixteenth century had not known that “the
fundamental doctrines of the church scheme remained essentially” the
same! The Council of Trent, if it had only understood this, might have
saved its anathemas.

“After Luther, then, we see Christendom, with _fundamental agreement of
belief_, differing, for the most part, only in affairs of polity and
ritual, split into two bodies—those who rest their belief on the
_inspired_ authority of the church, and those who rest it on the
inspired authority of the Bible.”[30] Here again we have another
_fundamental_ erroneous idea of the church. “Inspired” authority is not
what Catholics believe. This language shows poor theological training or
a loose way of handling delicate and important points. But on this point
we shall have more to say.

    “Third,” says Mr. Alger, “a revolt of common sense against
    _errors with which the teachings of church and Scripture were
    identified_, but which, by the simple lapse of time, had been
    demonstrated to be false. For example, in the twentieth chapter
    of the Book of Revelations it is recorded: ‘And he laid hold of
    the dragon, that old serpent, which is the devil, and cast him
    into the bottomless pit, and shut him up, and set a seal on him
    that he should deceive the nations no more, till the thousand
    years should be fulfilled; after that he must be loosed a little
    season.’ This passage was thought to fix the date of the Day of
    Judgment. And as the time drew near the terror was profound.
    Throughout the generation preceding the year one thousand _the
    pulpits of the Christian world rang with this frightful text and
    with awful descriptions of what it implied. The fear was as
    intense as the belief was general._”

Has not the author of this essay taken some romancer of history or some
idle tale for his authority in the above charge? When and where did the
church identify her teachings with this error? We grow uneasy in asking
for authorities and examples; and when we are given an example of things
which are said to have taken place eight hundred years or more ago, no
authority is cited to authenticate the fact. The author may have given
his hearers “the result of his deepest thought,” but he is too chary of
the authorities for his “historical study of years.”

“The priests,” he tells us, “from the first hour scented this enemy from
afar, and declared war against it [physical science], as the meaner
portion of them still do everywhere. In the twelfth century the Council
of Tours, in the thirteenth century the Council of Paris, interdicted to
monks the reading of works on physical science _as sinful_.”[31] We
retract having said that Mr. Alger cites no authorities; he does in the
above accusation, but fails to quote the decrees or give their language,
or tell what kind of councils these were and what their weight. We feel
suspicious, and have grounds for this feeling, and we demand more
definite proofs. The charge is precise; let the proofs be equally so.
Let us have the authentic decrees and _ipsissima verba_. This is asking
only fair play. It would not be pleasant to find this accusation, on
serious investigation, a misconception, or a misinterpretation, or
perhaps an invented calumny, but not by our author. We take real
pleasure in finding a point in which we agree with him. Here is one:
they are the “meaner portion,” if there be such “priests,” who “war
against” the study of “the physical sciences.” We know of priests who
are devoted to the study of the physical sciences, and some who are
distinguished in these studies; but we have no acquaintance with the
“meaner portion” who have “declared war against physical science.”
Perhaps Mr. Alger has, and, if so, he will inform us who they are.

“Ethnology,” he asserts, “multiplies the actors in its drama [that of
history], and takes _the keystone from the arch of the church theology
by disproving the inheritance of total depravity from one progenitor of
all men_.”[32] Here the author shares the error in common with almost
all, if not all, Unitarians and free-religionists. They seem not to be
able to grasp the idea that the Catholic Church, in the œcumenical
Council of Trent, condemned the doctrines of Protestantism concerning
original sin; and, whatever may be said to the contrary, the Catholic
Church never goes back on her authoritative decisions. Mr. Alger well
says that the doctrine of original sin is “the keystone of the arch of
theology”; so much the more reason, therefore, that there should be no
mistake on a point which shapes theology almost entirely. And if he and
his brethren, free-religionists and Unitarians, could be got to
understand and acknowledge that the Catholic Church has condemned the
doctrines of Protestantism on original sin, as well as “the five points
of Calvinism”—for they go together—then there would be some hope that
the gross error of identifying Catholicity and Protestantism as
“fundamentally and essentially the same” on this most important subject
would be corrected. The error is an egregious one, which is constantly
appearing in their addresses, sermons, tracts, essays, books, weekly
papers, and journals, and with that error a thousand dependent errors
would disappear. But, alas! we fear that we shall have to regard this as
hopeless, and resign ourselves, for the present generation at least, to
placing this, with other radical errors, among the points of “invincible
ignorance”! May we just here be allowed, without being stigmatized as
one of the “meaner portion” of the priesthood, to put in a humble
demurrer to the unsustained assertion that “ethnology” has “disproven”
“one progenitor of all men”?

If the reader is weary of following up with us this labyrinth of error
in this not very long essay, he will pity the present writer; for he has
not touched upon one-tenth of the errors which the same short essay
holds. We have been careful, too, to be silent on language which might
have come from Exeter Hall ranters or from the late Dr. Brownlee, a
notorious anti-popery lecturer of former days. Indeed, we can scarcely
allow ourselves the freedom of expressing our feelings of indignation at
reading such language coming from men who have a reputation for polite
culture. “Men,” we say; for at the close of its delivery Mr. Alger’s
essay was endorsed by the president of the association as “the admirable
essay by Mr. Alger, at once a history and an argument, a summary of
facts and also a summary of apprehensions and suggestions, etc.”[33]
Another speaker pronounced it a “most magnificent and masterly
essay.”[34] We are not over-sensitive in matters of this kind, and
before concluding our remarks we give a specimen of the language and
spirit of the “most magnificent and masterly essay.”


                  V. FREE-RELIGIONISTS AND THE MONKS.

    “Few men,” says our estimable writer, “duly feel what a debt the
    nineteenth century owes to the illustrious founders and
    cultivators of science, Aristotle, Archimedes, Kepler, Newton,
    and the hundreds of lesser lights in many departments. What a
    beneficent and herculean task they have accomplished in breaking
    the chains of _false_ authority, opening the dungeons of
    _superstition_, removing the _incubus_ of religious terror!
    Their sunlit and open-air minds, in harmonious working
    connection with nature and their race, have done much to dispel
    the _baneful_ power of a _celibate_ church, the cloistered and
    _mephitic minds of monks and hermits, introspective dreamers,
    tyrannical theorizers_, who, set apart from the living interests
    of men, had woven over Christianity _a horrid web of diseased
    logic spun out of the entrails of their own morbid brains_.”

Let free-religionists honor Aristotle, Archimedes, Kepler, Newton, and
other great masters in natural science; they are worthy, and we also pay
them honor. Let them be grateful to those “cultivators of science” for
all the hidden truths which, by their genius and toil, they have brought
to light, and in this we also sympathize. Let them join with this class
the men of our own day distinguished in this line of studies: the
Herschels, the Faradays, the Agassiz, the Quatrefages, the Darwins, the
Secchis, the Huxleys, the Tyndalls, the Drapers, etc.; they are all
worthy of honor and gratitude for every new truth which they have
discovered and made known to the world. Not to love all truth
unreservedly is to renounce the light of reason and to repudiate God;
for he was God who said, “I am the truth.” But this grateful
acknowledgment for the labors of cultivators of the sciences by no
manner of means implies the acceptance of every hypothesis or theory,
put forth by some of them, which for the most part are based upon
insufficient data or spun out of misconceptions of religion with secret
hostility to Christianity. For there are men who pass for scientists who
seem to be actuated more by a spirit of opposition to religion than a
sincere desire for the discovery of the secrets of nature. Hence genuine
science has to suffer no less than true religion from bigots and
hypocrites, who erect their untenable opinions into final decisions of
scientific investigation, and cloak themselves with the honorable livery
of science to put forth the ignoble doctrines of materialism.
Speculations, however brilliant, ought not to pass for science, and one
must be on his guard in our days, lest he allow the authority of great
names to impose upon his credulity the romance of science for real
science.

But could not the author of this essay honor the really great men of
science and be content, without dishonoring another class of men who
devoted their gifts and gave their toil as enthusiastically at least,
and with an equal self-sacrificing spirit, to the contemplation and
discovery of another, and even, in degree, a higher, class of truths?
Could he not pay Paul without robbing Peter?

Then, again, why this bitterness of expression towards the monks? Have
these monks no aspirations that are holy? no convictions that are
sacred? no rights worthy of respect? Why could not the monks with equal
liberty lead such lives as the highest feelings in their souls called
them to do as well as a Bronson Alcott, a Ralph Waldo Emerson, a Henry
Thoreau, or William R. Alger? What or who has given to these Americans
the liberty to lead such lives as they chose, and deprived men of other
climes of this same personal privilege? Is it a commendable thing for a
Sir Isaac Newton to lead a celibate life out of devotion to mathematics,
and a sin for a St. Benedict to lead a single life out of as pure a
devotion, at least, to the religion of Christ? If Reverend Ralph Waldo
Emerson throws up his pastorate over a respectable Unitarian
congregation, and retires to a remote country village to devote himself
to the cultivation of literature and whatever he may please to think a
more useful calling, in fidelity to his best aspirations, why may not a
Bernadotti of Assisi retire from the business of a silk merchant,
renounce his gay companions, and, in obedience to the voice of God in
his soul, practise poverty and turn a religious reformer under the name
of Francis? If Henry Thoreau repudiates the calling to be a clergyman
not to be false to his highest convictions, devotes his leisure hours to
the study of nature and the Greek poets, and, living for the most part
on bread and water, takes up the manual labor of making lead-pencils to
meet the cost of his scanty support, and in so doing not lose cast among
the literary brahmins of Boston, why not let, with equal freedom,
Anthony retire to the deserts of Egypt and give himself to divine
contemplation and the making of baskets and mats for his innocent way of
life, without being loaded with a heap of most abusive epithets? Was it
heroic in Mr. Bronson Alcott to make an attempt to realize his ideal of
a pure and holy life with a few choice spirits at Fruitlands, in the
State of Massachusetts, while it was only the “mephitic” action of a
“morbid brain” in a saintly Bernard actually to realize the ideal at
Clairvaux, in the province of Burgundy in France? Are we to praise and
never be weary of praising the Pilgrim Fathers for abandoning their
country, their homes, their friends, and their relations to come to the
wilds of inhospitable New England, in order that they might worship God
according to the dictates of their consciences, and must we condemn the
first pioneers in the wilderness who plunged into the solitudes of Egypt
for precisely the same reason, in order to fulfil the great aspiration
of their souls to God—the pilgrim saints of the desert? Who can read the
riddle why the aspiration or effort of the soul to perfect itself is the
result of “mephitic minds” in a Hebrew, or an Egyptian, or a Latin, or a
Celt, and the same aspiration is religious, sacred, holy, when found in
the soul of a New-Englander?

Did it not suggest itself to the mind of the author of this essay, when
he perused the passage quoted against the monks, that he exposed himself
to a flank movement? For where could you find better specimens and more
plentifully of “introspective dreamers” and “tyrannical theorizers” than
in the State, in the very city, nay, in the actual audience which
assembled at the time to listen to Mr. Alger’s essay?


                 “O wad some power the giftie gie us,
                 To see oursels as others see us!
                 It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
                                   And foolish notion.”


Why is it that a certain number of New England authors, whenever they
can find an occasion or make an opportunity, are sure to cast a fling at
monks and nuns and a celibate priesthood? Even the genial author, Dr.
Oliver Wendell Holmes, not to mention Whittier and others, from some yet
unexplained cause, will turn bitter and his temper grow ruffled when he
encounters in his literary excursions a monk or speaks of the celibate
clergy of the church. There is no difficulty in acquitting such authors
of intentional malice, but men so well bred and of such broad experience
ought and do know better, and should not blot their otherwise pleasant
pages with foul abuse.

But whence does this acrimony spring? Does it spring from the bully who
strikes a victim, knowing himself safe from a return blow? or is it that
the intellectual faculty of insight is lacking in these highly-gifted
authors? Is this rancor to be attributed to their environment? or,
finally, is it to be classified by some future clerical Darwin as an
instance of Puritanical “inherited habit”? Be that as it may, Catholics
ask no favors from the opponents of the church, but they have good
reason to look for, and the right to demand, fair play, sound
scholarship where scholarship is needed and claimed, and at least an
average amount of intelligence.

These monks—and let us add also nuns, for their aim is identical—who
have as a distinctive principle of life the resolve always to tend
towards perfection, are not perfect and make no pretension to being
saints, for although human nature is immanently good, there is
notwithstanding much evil in the world, and no class of men or women,
whoever they may be, is wholly free from the possibility of deviating
from the path which leads to their true destiny. That there have been
among monks and nuns hypocrites, fanatics, and those who have forgotten
the sacredness of their calling and given public scandal everybody
knows: “Canker vice the sweetest buds doth love.” Had these incurred the
severe animadversion of the author of this essay, his abusive language
might have passed unnoticed; but no qualification is made between
innocent and guilty—the exemplary and scandalous, one and all, are
passed upon as the same by a most unsparing and unjust sentence.

But not all free-religionists have read the history of the church and of
the influence of monks upon civilization in the light of the author of
this essay. We cannot forego the gratification of quoting a passage
written many years ago by one, a speaker in this tenth annual meeting
too, in which he gives a different estimate of the church and the monks
in the precise period of which Mr. Alger has attempted to draw a rough
sketch, it is true, but still his intention must have been to give a
correct picture.

    “Truly,” says the Rev. William Ellery Channing, “the church has
    been a quickening centre of modern civilization, a fountain of
    law and art, of manners and policy. It would not be easy to
    estimate how much of our actual freedom and humanity, of our
    cultivation and prosperity, we owe to her foresight and just
    acknowledgment of rights and duties. It is easy to ascribe to
    the cunning and love of power of priests the wonderful
    sovereignty which this spiritual dictator has exerted; but it is
    proof of surprising superficiality that these critics do not
    recognize that only sincere enthusiasm and truth, however
    adulterated by errors, can give such a hold upon human will. The
    Christian Church has been unquestionably the most dignified
    institution which the earth has seen.... Beautiful have been its
    abbeys in lonely solitudes, clearing the forests, smoothing the
    mountains, nurseries of agricultural skill amidst the desolating
    wars of barbarous ages, sanctuaries for the suffering. Beautiful
    its learned cloisters, with students’ lamps shining late in the
    dark night as a beacon to wandering pilgrims, to merchants with
    loaded trains, to homeless exiles—their silent bands of
    high-browed, pallid scholars watching the form of Science in the
    tomb of Ignorance, where she lay entranced. Beautiful its
    peaceful armies of charity, subduing evil with works of love in
    the crowded alleys and dens of cities, amid the pestilences of
    disease and the fouler pestilence of crime, and carrying the
    sign of sacrifice through nations more barren of virtues than
    the deserts which have bordered them.”


               VI.—THE FREE-RELIGIONISTS AND THE MYSTICS.

Mr. Alger must have seen that his canvas up to this moment was
overcharged with sombre colors, and to give it a _vraisemblance_ he put
in the following words:

    “There has been another marked class of persons, in the extreme
    opposite sphere of life to those just described—a class
    nourished in the inmost bosom of the church itself—whose very
    important influence has acted in harmony with that of science,
    which seems so wholly contrary to it—acted to melt away
    dogmatism, free men from hatred and force and fraud, and join
    them in a heavenly enthusiasm of accord. I allude to the
    mystics, who cultivated the sinless peace and raptures of the
    inner life of devotion, absorption in divine contemplation,
    ecstatic union with God. Boundless is the charm exerted,
    incalculable the good done, in impregnating the finest strata of
    humanity with paradisal germs by _Victor_, Bonaventura, Suso,
    Tauler, Teresa, Behmen, Fénelon, Guyon, John of the Cross, and
    the rest of these breathing minds, hearts of seraphic passion,
    souls of immortal flame. This class of believers, devoted to the
    nurture of exalted virtue and piety, were the choicest
    depositaries of the grace of religion.”

The general reader would suppose that this “marked class of persons, in
the extreme opposite sphere of life to those just described,” were not,
of course, “monks.” But such is the fact, with the exception of two he
mentions. Let us examine this list. Here is the first mystic, Victor.
Victor! Who is he? Whom does the essayist mean? There was St. Victor of
Marseilles, who suffered martyrdom under Diocletian, July 21, A.D. 303.
He surely does not mean this Victor? Then there was the celebrated Abbey
of St. Victor, near Paris, named after St. Victor of Marseilles, founded
in the first year of the twelfth century; he cannot mean that? There is
no telling, though. Then there was Hugh, born in Flanders, and Richard,
a Scotchman, the latter a disciple of the former, both inmates of the
monastery of St. Victor, both illustrious by their writings on mystical
theology, and saintly men. Perhaps he means one of these, or both?
Perhaps that is not his meaning. If it be, then his sentence should have
run thus: Hugh of St. Victor, or Richard of St. Victor. Let us proceed;
both of these were “monks.” St. Bonaventure, disciple of St. Francis,
was a “monk.” John Tauler, a disciple of St. Dominic, another monk. St.
Teresa, a nun, a “cloistered” nun, consequently as bad, at least, as a
“monk.” Behmen? Behmen? _Jacob Boehme_. Oh! yes; a German, a
shoemaker—not to his discredit—a Protestant, and mystical writer. O
blessed saints in Paradise! do not, we beg, lay it to our charge of
making you “acquainted with so strange a bed-fellow!” Then comes Fénelon
the saintly archbishop, the friend, be it known, of monks and nuns. Now
Mme. Guyon; it is singular that there is always a strange hankering
among a class of Protestants after Catholic writers of suspected
orthodoxy. St. John of the Cross is next, and the last, though not
least, the Aquinas of mystical theology, a Carmelite, a “monk.” Now let
us count up. But we have forgotten our beloved Swabian, Henry Suso, the
Minnesinger of divine love; and he too was a Dominican, a “monk.” In
sum—excluding, of course, the Protestant; for of him it cannot be said
that he was “nourished in the inmost bosom of the church”—we have six
“monks,” if you include both Hugh and Richard of St. Victor in the
number, and one “cloistered” nun, all, without exception, “celibates,”
of the eight examples selected by our author as “devoted to the nurture
of exalted virtue and piety,” and “the choicest depositaries of the
graces of religion!” Six out of eight—not a bad showing for monks and
nuns “as the choicest depositaries of the graces of religion,” where a
learned author has his pick, running over many centuries.


    VII.—THE FREE-RELIGIONISTS AND CHRISTIANITY, OR THE FINAL ISSUE.

It is time to draw these remarks to a close, and that, too, without even
casting a glance at the speeches that followed the essay which has been
under review.

We did not offer, as our readers will have remarked, a refutation of the
misconceptions, misinterpretations, and errors which have been pointed
out in the essay of Mr. Alger. We intentionally abstained from doing so
until its author brings forth his authorities and proves his assertions,
in obedience to a commonly-received maxim rightly followed in
discussion, which says, _Quod gratis affirmatur, gratis negatur_.
Besides, the Catholic Church is in possession, and therefore the burden
of proof rests not on her defenders, but on the part of her assailants.
Our refutations will come soon enough when we have learned that there is
something to refute. But, that our purpose might not be ambiguous, we
have italicized, in most instances, the words which contain the special
errors to which we wished to call attention.

The opponents of the church have not changed their mode of attack, but
only their weapons. They no longer charge her with atheism, as the early
pagans did, or of worshipping the head of an ass, or drinking the blood
of an infant, but absurdities and idle tales of the “dark ages” are
trumped up and laid at her door.

Just now, as if by a general conspiracy, an attempt is made to place the
church in a false position, as hostile to reason, science, education,
civilization, liberty, and the state. These are the popular charges of
the day, and these show at least that the “gall” of her enemies is
active and “coins slanders as a mint.” Counterfeits, however, may pass
current for a limited period, but in the long run they are detected and
bring upon their authors’ heads grief and shame. Only truth and justice
are enduring and immortal.

The true position of the Catholic Church is now, as it ever has been,
not against but for reason and God, science and revelation, for
education and Christianity, for civilization and progress, for liberty
and law, for the state and the church; as against atheism, naturalism,
infidelity, barbarism, license, and anarchy.

Let us have in this free country, where all religions to an uncommon
degree are placed on an equal footing, a fair and honest discussion,
avoiding unsupported assertions, refuted charges, and all bigotry.
Whichever religion is worsted in such an encounter by fair and honest
blows, why, let it die. If the free-religionists can clear the whole
field from Christianity, as they appear to think, and invent instead a
better religion, as some fancy, let them do so and come on with their
new religion. Give it a fair chance, and, if their new religion proves
to be a better one, let it have a joyful greeting.

Until then the Catholic Church is in possession of the field, and in the
congress of intelligent men holds its high place; for all
thoroughly-instructed minds see clearly the impossibility of
entertaining honorable ideas of God without being Christians, and of
being Christians and not becoming Catholics. The real issue, if the
free-religionists can be induced to look at it, is between Catholicity
and nihilism.


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

                              SMOKE-BOUND.


               O cool east wind! so moist of breath,
                 With strength blow from the sea,
               Loosen the smoky chains that curb
                 Our proud hills’ sovereignty;

               Wake in the silent mountain glens,
                 Where streams grow dumb with drought,
               The clamor of your lowland home—
                 The sea-waves’ battle-shout.

               Sweep onward with your pennon clouds,
                 Marshal your spears of rain,
               Sound in the pines your bugle-call—
                 Set free our hills again!

               Hide them for days, if so you will,
                 In cloudy depths of storm;
               Wrestle, as human soul should win
                 Its strong, immortal form.

               We shall not grieve in such dark veil
                 To lose our valley’s crown,
               That gaineth so from your pure breath
                 But mightier renown.

               Our hearts shall greet the slanting rain,
                 Like blessèd water flung;
               Your voice shall the _Asperges_ sing
                 The cross-boughed firs among.

               Like sin unshriven these earth-fires
                 Hold heart and mountain fast,
               Each day a stronger link is forged,
                 A drearier light is cast.

               All day the smoky shadow flings
                 Its dream of heaven’s blue,
               Its mockery of summer’s smile,
                 Its vision all untrue,—

               Winning, at eve, the sun to spin
                 Dull shadow into gold—
               Bright meshes of enchanter’s web
                 O’er hill and valley rolled;

               Hiding our far-off sunset peaks
                 That longest keep day’s light—
               The temple’s porch called Beautiful,
                 Steps to a holier height.

               Broad steps whose strength our valley lacks
                 To lift our thoughts on high.
               Blow, eastern wind! give our dim eyes
                 Our peaks that mount the sky.

               O moist of breath! with cloudy lips,
                 Quench these dread earthly fires
               That turn our mountain altars all
                 To beauty’s funeral pyres.

               Upon this stifling chain drop dew,
                 Its glamour exorcise,
               That, pure as pardoned soul, our hills
                 In Heaven-sent strength may rise.

               Give us anew their morning grace,
                 Their midday depths of blue;
               Open the sunset gates where light
                 Of Paradise shines through.


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


                       ST. JAMES OF COMPOSTELLA.

Although most have heard the name of Santiago in Galicia, yet it is now
a place that is scarcely known. In the days of our infancy there were
still such beings heard of as the pilgrims of Compostella, but the
silence of the present day is well-nigh oblivion: and of this famous
sanctuary, which still exists, there only remains an almost forgotten
and far-distant renown. France has unlearnt the very roads which led to
the apostle’s tomb; and the Spaniards themselves, who will speak to you
freely of _Nuestra Señora del Pilar_, scarcely guess that the Madonna of
Saragossa placed her origin under the patronage of St. James, whose
shrine all Christendom in former days bestirred itself to go and visit.

The apostle venerated at Compostella is St. James the Great, whose
vocation to the apostolate is related in the fourth chapter of St.
Matthew, immediately after that of Peter and Andrew, and where we are
told that at the call of Jesus the brothers forthwith “left the ship and
their father and followed him.” According to the most probable opinion,
Zebedee and his family dwelt at the little town of Saffa, now called by
the Arabs Deir, about three miles distant from Nazareth. Andrichomius,
in his _Theatrum Terræ Sanctæ_, mentions a church there, which some
years later no longer existed. Their prompt obedience indicates the
generous character which rendered the brothers particularly dear to
their divine Master, and caused them to be, with St. Peter, the chosen
witnesses of scenes and miracles at which the other disciples were not
present. The last mention made of St. James in the Gospel is in the
narrative of the miraculous draught of fishes after the Resurrection.
The next is in the Acts of the Apostles, which briefly recounts his
martyrdom: “Herod ... killed James, the brother of John, with the
sword.”

This took place in the year 42. Of the nine years which intervened
between the Ascension of our Lord and this event the Holy Scriptures say
nothing, and tradition is our only source of information. According to
this, St. James departed early from Jerusalem, and, directing his course
towards the western countries of Europe, arrived in Spain, where he
preached the Gospel and appointed some of the first bishops. Here also,
according to an ancient and constant tradition, he caused to be built at
Saragossa a church dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, known as “Our Lady
of the Pillar,” and, on the termination of his sojourn in the west,
returned to Jerusalem, where, a few days after his arrival, about the
time of the Jewish Passover, Herod caused him to be seized and
slain.[35]

It is certain that the apostles delayed not in obeying the divine
command to “go and teach the nations”; neither can one explain in any
other manner how the light emanating from Syria so rapidly illumined (as
even the infidel critic, Renan, confesses) the three great peninsulas of
Asia Minor, Greece, and Italy, and soon afterwards the whole coast of
the Mediterranean, so that in a short space of time the Christian world
was co-extensive with the Roman—_Orbis Romanus, orbis Christianus_. St.
Jerome and Theodoret both affirm that Spain was evangelized by some of
the apostles. The Gothic liturgy, which is considerably anterior to the
Mozarabic, and which dates from the fifth century, is the most ancient
interpreter of this tradition. “The illustrious Sons of Thunder,” it
says, “have both obtained that which their mother requested for them.
John rules Asia, and, on the left, his brother possesses Spain.” The
great doctor St. Isidore, who lived in the first half of the seventh
century, writes: “James the son of Zebedee ... preached the Gospel to
the peoples of Spain and the countries of the west.” The Bollandists
furnish a number of additional witnesses.[36] The breviary of St. Pius
V. and the enactments of Urban VIII. corroborate their testimony, the
Roman Breviary saying also that St. Braulio not only compared St.
Isidore to St. Gregory the Great, but declared that he had been given by
Heaven to Spain as her teacher in the place of St. James.[37]

Whatever opinion may be adopted with regard to the mission of St. James,
it does not affect the facts relating to the translation of his body to
the Iberian peninsula. The following account of this event is given in
the curious _History of Compostella_, written previous to the twelfth
century by two canons of that church, and confirmed by a letter of Leo
III. which is quoted in the Breviary of Evreux. The facts as there given
appear to be free from the legendary embellishments, more or less
probable, with which, in certain other manuscripts, they have been
adorned.

At the time when the apostle was put to death at Jerusalem the
persecution was so bitter, and the hatred against the Christians so
extreme, that the Jews would not suffer his body to be buried, but cast
it ignominiously outside the walls of the city, that it might be
devoured by dogs and birds of prey. The disciples of the saint watched
for the moment when they might carry away his remains, and, having
secured them, they could not venture to re-enter Jerusalem with their
precious burden, but turned their steps toward the sea, and, on arriving
at Joppa, found a ship on the point of sailing for Spain. They embarked,
and in due time reached the northwest coast of that country, and landed
at the port of Iria, whence they proceeded some distance inland, and
buried the body of the apostle at a place called _Liberum Donum_,
afterwards Compostella. His sepulchre was made in a marble grotto which
already existed, and which in all probability had been formerly
dedicated to Bacchus, as its name seemed to indicate. Thus the spot
received the highest Christian consecration, and the people of Galicia,
among whom were numerous converts, held in great veneration the tomb of
their apostle. The pagan persecution became, however, so violent in this
province that Christianity entirely disappeared from it, and was not
planted there again until after the first victory of the Goths.

The invasion of these barbarians, instead of being a misfortune, was of
the greatest benefit to the country, and resulted in prosperity which
continued through several centuries. The favor shown to Arianism by some
of the earlier kings for a time imperilled the truth, but it was not
long before Spain saw the faith of her first apostle flourishing in all
its purity; and her sons would doubtless have flocked to the tomb of him
who was declared in the Gothic liturgy to be the patron of Spain, if the
same thing had not happened with regard to the tomb of the second martyr
of our Lord as had before happened to that of the first. When the faith
had disappeared from Galicia the place of the apostle’s tomb was
forgotten; it is, moreover, possible that the last Christians had buried
the grotto which contained it, that it might be hidden from pagan
profanation. The spot was overgrown with underwood and brambles. Tall
forest trees rose around it, and there was no trace left of anything
which could indicate the sanctity of the spot. Thus, in the early and
bright days of the faith in Spain, the night of oblivion rested on the
remains of her great patron; but when evil times came upon the land
God’s hour was come for pointing out the tomb of his apostle. The Gothic
kings were about to disappear, and their sceptres to be wielded by the
followers of Mahomet.

Invited to fight against King Roderic, by a competitor to the throne of
the country to which he thus proved himself so great a traitor, the
Arabs thronged into Spain, which in less than ten years they entirely
conquered. Their domination was not always violent and persecuting; a
certain toleration was at times accorded to the Christians; but, thanks
to the proud courage of Pelayo and a handful of brave men who would not
despair of their country, and who could not be driven from the mountains
of the Asturias, war had set her foot on the soil of Spain, to quit it
no more until the utter expulsion of the Moors had been effected.
Galicia, with Leon and the Asturias, had the honor of being the centre
of the national resistance, and consequently suffered from frequent and
sanguinary devastation while the long struggle lasted.

It was in these troubled times that the apostle’s tomb was brought to
light.

Already several kings had established themselves in the northern and
western parts of Spain. Miron, King of the Suevi, had regulated the
limits of each diocese; Alfonso the Chaste was then king of Leon and
Galicia; and Theodomir, a holy and faithful prelate, was Bishop of Iria.

Certain trustworthy persons one day came to inform Theodomir that every
night lights of great brilliancy were seen shining above a wood on the
summit of a hill at a little distance from the town, and that all the
neighborhood was illuminated by them. The bishop, fearing lest there
might be some deception or illusion, resolved to see for himself, and
repaired to the place indicated. The prodigy was evident to all, the
lights throwing a marvellous splendor; and as this continued night after
night, the bishop caused the trees to be cut down on that spot and the
brushwood cleared away, after which an excavation was commenced on the
top of the hill. The workers had not dug far before they came to a
marble grotto, within which was found the apostle’s tomb.

Theodomir lost no time in repairing to the court of Alfonso to announce
the discovery, which caused great joy to the pious monarch, who saw in
it a sign of God’s protection and a presage of the triumph of the
Christian arms. He hastened to the spot and assured himself by personal
observation of the reality of the facts related to him by the bishop.
Mariana, the Spanish historian, says: “After having examined all that
has been written by learned authors for and against the matter, I am
convinced that there are not in all Europe any relics more certain and
authentic than those of St. James at Compostella.”

The first care of King Alfonso was to raise a sanctuary on the spot
where the tomb had just been miraculously discovered. Built in haste,
and at a time when, owing to the unsettled state of the kingdom, the
royal resources were very limited, the edifice was of a very humble
character as regarded both size and materials: “Petra et luto opus
parvum” is the description given of it in the Act of Erection of the
second church, built later by Alfonso III. The king was nevertheless
able to endow it with a certain revenue, and to secure a permanent
provision to its ministers. The archives of Compostella long preserved a
privilege granted by Alfonso the Chaste, in virtue of which all the
lands with their villages, for three miles round, were made over to the
church.

Spain was speedily made aware of the discovery; the neighboring nations,
and in particular the Gauls, heard of it also, and the faithful from
both countries flocked in great numbers to the tomb, drawn by the fame
of the miracles which immediately began to be wrought there, and of
which Valafrid Strabo, who died in the year 849, makes mention: _Plurima
hic præsul patravit signa stupenda_.

The relations of Gaul with Christian Spain were at that time very
frequent. The infidels were the common enemy. Charles Martel had driven
them from Gaul, but the struggle that still went on south of the Gallic
frontiers had an intense interest for all Christendom. Charlemagne was
allied in friendship with Alfonso the Chaste, though it is doubtful
whether he ever made the pilgrimage of Compostella, as some have said.
It is, however, certain that he joined his entreaties to those of the
king of Leon to obtain from Pope Leo III. the transfer of the bishopric
of Iria to Compostella. This was the name already borne by the town
which had rapidly risen round the apostle’s tomb, and which was given in
remembrance of the starlike lights which had revealed its
locality—_Campus Stellæ_.

The pope granted the request of the two monarchs. Compostella replaced
the bishopric of Iria and remained suffragan to the archbishop of Braga
until the town of St. James should be raised to the metropolitan
dignity. King Alfonso, who had no children, offered to bequeath his
throne to Charlemagne, on condition that that monarch would drive the
Moors out of Spain. Charlemagne accepted the terms and crossed the
Pyrenees; but the Spanish princes, disapproving of Alfonso’s proposal,
leagued together against the emperor, and some of them, later on, allied
themselves with the Moorish king of Saragossa, and destroyed at
Roncesvaux the rearguard of Charlemagne’s army, in which perished
Roland, the hero _par excellence_ of the lays and chronicles of the
time.

Some time afterwards, when Ramira had succeeded Alfonso the Chaste, and
Abderahman II. was King of Cordova, the latter, inflated by his
successes, sent to demand of the Spanish king an annual tribute of a
hundred young maidens. Ramira indignantly drove away the ambassadors,
assembled his troops, and declared war. He was defeated in the battle of
Alaveda, and forced to withdraw with the remnant of his army to a
neighboring elevation, where the Moor could not fail to attack him. The
Christian monarchy in Spain seemed on the very brink of ruin. That night
the king had a dream, in which the apostle St. James appeared to him,
grand and majestic, bidding him be of good courage, for that on the
morrow he should be victorious. The king related his vision to the
prelates and leaders of his army, and made it known to the soldiers
also. Immediately every heart kindled with fresh enthusiasm; the little
band threw itself upon the infidel host, while on all sides arose the
shout, Sant’ Iago! Sant’ Iago! which has ever since been the war-cry of
Spain.

The Moors were thrown into confusion and completely routed, leaving
60,000 of their number on the field of battle. It was averred that
during the whole engagement the apostle St. James, mounted on a white
charger, and bearing in his hand a white banner with a red cross, was
seen at the head of the Christian battalions, scattering terror and
death among the ranks of the enemy. Thus was fought, in 846, the famous
battle of Clavijo, all the glory of which is due to the patron of Spain.

After a solemn act of thanksgiving to God the army made a public vow,
obligatory on all the kingdom, to pay yearly to the church at
Compostella one measure of corn and one of wine from every acre of land.
Immense riches were found in the Moorish camp, and these were
consecrated to the erection of two magnificent churches—one at Oviedo,
in honor of the Blessed Virgin, and another under the invocation of St.
Michael.

From this time the devotion to the apostle who had shown himself the
protector and deliverer of the country spread far and wide. Pilgrims
thronged from every quarter to his tomb, which became the great
pilgrimage of the west, the pendant to Jerusalem, with Rome between the
two.

The humble church erected by Alfonso the Chaste was by no means suitable
to the dignity of the deliverer of Spain, nor sufficient for the
ever-increasing number of pilgrims. In the year 868 Alfonso III.,
together with Sisenand, then Bishop of Compostella, undertook to replace
it by a cathedral. “We, Alfonso,” it is written in the Act of Erection,
“have resolved, together with the bishop aforesaid, to build the house
of the Lord and to restore the temple and tomb of the apostle which
aforetime had been raised to his august memory by the Lord Alfonso, and
which was only a small construction of stone and clay. Urged by the
inspiration of God, we are come with our subjects, our family, into this
holy place. Traversing Spain through the battalions of the Moors, we
have brought from the city of Ebeca blocks of marble which we have
selected, and which our forefathers had carried thither by sea, and with
which they built superb habitations, which the enemy has destroyed.”

All the materials for the new building were thus gathered together, the
slabs and columns of marble being of great beauty, but we have little
information as to its architectural style or merit. The arts were at
that time in a state of temporary decay. The edifices of the Roman
period had for the most part perished in the invasions of the Goths, the
Suevi, and the Alani. These nations, after having embraced the faith,
were speedily civilized, and under its inspiration had raised numerous
religious buildings which were not without a certain grandeur, when the
Moorish conquest of Spain brought again an almost universal ruin over
the land. The influence of the climate, the beauty of the Andalusian
skies, softened the fierce character of the victors, and their minds
speedily received a wonderful intellectual development. Never did any
people make so much progress in so short a time, in art, in science, in
culture of ideas, and also in a certain elevation of sentiment.
Architecture of great magnificence and originality made rapid advances
among them, of which the richness always bore the stamp of a peculiar
tastefulness and delicacy.

The vanquished were unable to make the same progress, nor were they to
attain to great results until after having received the contact of the
works of their conquerors. These results were arrived at later on,
thanks to a certain courtesy which, outside the war as it were, and in
times of truce, established between the two peoples mutual relations and
currents of influence which left their impress on all the creations of
genius.

When King Alfonso commenced the cathedral of Compostella, the conquest
was still too recent and the animosity too great between the Spaniards
and their subduers to allow of any amicable intercourse or interchange
of ideas on matters connected with the arts of peace. The architecture
of the close of the ninth century was heavy and the forms massive; not
without grandeur, though for the most part devoid of grace. Such,
doubtless, in its general features, was the ancient cathedral of
Compostella, which was completed about the year 874. Mariana, following
the statement of Sandoval, says that there was held there in 876 a
council of fourteen bishops, who consecrated the new edifice. The high
altar was dedicated to our Lord under the title of St. Saviour, that on
the right to St. Peter, and that on the left to St. Paul, while the
ancient altar over the apostle’s tomb, which reached back to a remote
antiquity, received no consecration, it being regarded as certain that
this had received it from the first disciples of St. James.

The erection of the cathedral gave a new impetus to the pilgrimage, to
facilitate which roads were made in the south of France and the north of
Spain. Monasteries and houses of refuge were built along the wild and
lonely defiles of the Pyrenees, and bridges thrown across the streams
and rivers. The roads were thronged by the multitudes, who came, some
from simple devotion, others to do penance and seek pardon of their
sins, and many also to obtain some particular favor—the cure of a
sickness or the success of an undertaking. Great was the renown of
Monsignor St. James, the power of whose intercession and the splendor of
whose miracles were held in high esteem at Rome. Pope John X., at the
commencement of the tenth century, sent to his tomb a priest named
Zanelus to obtain correct information respecting the number of pilgrims
and the authenticity of the numerous miracles; he was also charged to
examine the liturgical books of the Goths, respecting which it had been
stated that they were full of errors. The bishop, Sisenand, received him
with all honor, supplied him with every means of faithfully acquitting
himself of his mission, and convinced him of the purity of the ancient
liturgy of Spain. All the books which Zanelus took from thence received
the Supreme Pontiff’s approval, the only alteration he required being
that in the words of consecration the Spanish rite should conform itself
exactly to that of Rome.

Compostella, daily enriched by travellers too numerous for her to
entertain, became a town of ever-increasing importance. The church
especially, to which very costly offerings were continually being made,
which had immense revenues and possessed superb domains, was in richness
and magnificence one of the first in the world. Her prelates, however,
did not always make good use of their riches. The church was then
passing through deplorable times, and corruption, which was invading all
besides, made inroads also in the sanctuary. The bishops of Compostella
were usually chosen from among the noble and illustrious families of the
kingdom, brought up amid luxury, pleasure, and the tumult of arms, and,
carrying their worldly predilections with them to the episcopal throne,
they might be seen constantly in the chase or at the war, sometimes
driven from their see, and, attempting to return by force, dying a
violent death. One of these, Sisenand, unlike his worthy predecessor of
the same name, was in 979 killed at the head of a squadron while
charging the Normans, who had invaded Galicia. He would have been a good
captain; why was he made a bishop? Compostella owed to him the solid
walls and strong towers with which he fortified the town. His successor,
Pelayo, being equally unfitted for his office, was deposed, and replaced
by a pious priest named Pedro Mansorio, upon whom the misdoings of his
predecessors were visited. He had the grief of seeing the city taken by
the Moors, who profaned and devastated the cathedral. His immediate
successors failed to profit by this chastisement, and, after three
unworthy prelates had occupied the see, the enemy advanced from the
direction of Portugal (which they had invaded and ravaged) in greater
numbers than before; again they besieged and took the city, which they
set on fire and razed the walls. Alman-Zour fed his horse from the
porphyry urn in the cathedral which was used for the baptismal font, and
which still exists; gave up the sanctuary to pillage and destruction,
throwing down many of the pillars, as well as a portion of the walls;
and, taking down the bells, caused them to be dragged by Christian
captives to the great mosque at Toledo, where they were turned upside
down and made to serve as lamps. He was proceeding to make havoc also of
the apostle’s tomb, when a bright light, suddenly emanating from and
enveloping it, so terrified the infidels that they stopped short in
their sacrilege, fearing lest they should be stricken by the “apostle of
_Isa_” (Jesus). An aged monk sat by the tomb, alone, and doubtless
hoping for martyrdom in that spot at the hand of the spoilers.
Alman-Zour asked why he stayed there, and, on his answering that he was
“the friend of Santiago,” commanded that no one should lay hands upon
him, and the Mussulmans respected the fakir. It is the Moorish annals
nearly contemporary with the events we are noticing which mention this
incident, and which appreciate in a very curious manner the pilgrimage
of St. James, describing as follows _Shant Jakoh_, the sacred city of
_Kalikija_ (Galicia): “Their Kabah is a colossal idol in the centre of
the church; they swear by it, and come on pilgrimage to it from the most
distant lands, from Rome as well as from other countries, pretending
that the tomb which may there be seen is that of Jakoh, one of the best
beloved of the twelve apostles of Isa. May happiness and the benediction
of Allah be upon him and upon our Prophet!”

The army of Alman-Zour did not reap any benefit from its sacrilegious
plunder: a contagious malady made such terrible ravages in its ranks
that there were scarcely any soldiers left; he therefore hastened his
departure from Galicia, but was himself also stricken by death upon the
way.

It was not possible immediately to raise the cathedral from its ruins,
but the confluence of pilgrims never ceased, and the offerings of
Christendom were such as to render the hope almost a certainty that it
would at no distant period be worthily rebuilt.

Towards the year 1038 Ferdinand, having been made king of Castile and
Leon, fought the Moors in several engagements, defeated them in
Portugal, and, having dispossessed them of numerous strongholds and
fortified places, desired to testify his gratitude to the God of armies
by repairing to Compostella. There he prayed long at the apostle’s tomb,
and took the resolution never to lay down his arms until he had broken
the power of the enemy.

After taking the powerful city of Coimbra, the capture of which he
attributed to the protection of St. James, the king returned to
Compostella laden with booty, which, in gratitude for his victory, he
presented to the church.

Compostella had now bishops worthy of their sacred dignity. In 1056
Cresconius, who then ruled the diocese, presided, at a council held
there, in his quality of bishop of the Apostolic See. Rome thus
exercised her influence, and this influence was so salutary that Pelago,
a near successor of Cresconius, desired to give it a larger place in his
church. He laid aside the Mozarabic Rite and adopted the Roman in the
celebration of Mass and the recitation of the Canonical Hours, accepting
at the same time all the Roman rules on important matters of sacerdotal
discipline. And Compostella had not long to wait before receiving the
recompense of her submission and good-will. In 1075, the same year in
which Ferdinand took Toledo, the see of Santiago (for this had become
the name of the town), which had hitherto been suffragan to Merida, was
raised to the metropolitan dignity.

We have now reached the period in which, thanks to the liberality of the
faithful, the cathedral of Compostella was not only raised from its
ruins, but entirely rebuilt on a larger scale and with much greater
splendor. Gemirez, the first archbishop of Santiago, was one of its
greatest prelates.

The work of reconstruction, which had been commenced about the year
1082, he not only actively continued, but also proposed to the chapter
to build cloisters and offices, as well as commodious lodgings for those
who came on pilgrimage from distant lands, engaging for his part to pay
a hundred marks of pure silver towards the expense.

The sole aim of this prelate was the glory of God and the honor of St.
James, never his own worldly advantage; the people knew this, and that
the use made of their offerings was always in conformity with their
intentions. The times, however, were troubled, and the archbishop had
his share of their disquiet.

Queen Urraca, the sister of Alfonso VI. of Castile and Leon, and widow
of Raymond of Burgundy, claimed as her right, until her son should be
old enough to reign, the government of Castile and the countries
dependent on it, while her second husband, Alfonso of Aragon, repudiated
these pretensions. Gemirez, whose influence was so great that he might
be regarded as the real sovereign of the country, took the part of
Urraca, and her cause prospered for a time, owing to the weight of his
support; but she ruined her own case by her haughtiness and ambition; a
rebellion broke out, and the prelate narrowly escaped falling a victim
to the fury of the populace, who set fire to the cathedral. Happily, the
solidity of its structure was such as to resist the flames, the interior
wood-work and fittings, etc., only being destroyed, so that not many
years afterwards, in 1117, we find the archbishop, in an address to his
canons, able to speak of it as one of the richest and most beautiful as
well as one of the most illustrious churches in the world.

In 1130 Gemirez ended his career, but not until he had lived to see the
work far advanced towards its completion. We hear no more of its
progress for forty years afterwards. The crosses of the consecration,
which are still to be seen, are floriated at their extremities, and
between the arms are the sun and moon above, and the letters [Greek: A
Ô] below, some of them bearing also a date which appears to be that of
1154.

The pilgrims, who came in continuous multitudes, had innumerable perils
to encounter on their way. The roads were bad; the countries through
which they passed often so barren and thinly peopled that they were in
danger of dying of hunger; the highways so infested with brigands that
in those days they were avoided as those in the East had been in the
time of Deborah, every one seeking rather the by-ways, which were also
beset with obstacles of all kinds. St. Dominic of Calzada had done well
to make roads and build bridges, but something was still wanting to his
work, and that was the safety of those who travelled by them, and who
were constantly liable to be attacked and despoiled by the infidels, to
be taken captive, and condemned to slavery or death.

This state of things could not be allowed to continue. The Moors had
their _rabitos_, or armed fakirs—a sort of warrior-monk—to protect their
pilgrims and defend their frontiers; the religious and military orders
of the Templars and Knights of St. John were covering themselves with
glory in the East, and Spain could not fail to profit by these examples.
The canons of St. Eloi had recently founded a chain of hospices,
reaching from the frontiers of France to Compostella, specially destined
for the reception of pilgrims, the most considerable being that of St.
Mark, on the borders of Leon. These places of refuge, which were
productive of the greatest good, were richly endowed by various princes;
but even this was not enough: some brave noblemen of Castile resolved to
devote their whole life to the defence and protection of the pilgrims.
They placed their possessions in one common stock, and, joining the
canons of St. Eloi, dwelt with them in a convent not far from
Compostella. Being advised by Cardinal Jacinthus to go to Rome and
obtain from the Pope the confirmation of their institute according to
the rule of St. Augustine, they charged Don Pedro Fernandez de la Puente
with this embassy, and obtained a bull, dated July 5, 1175, which
regulated their manner of life, their duties, and their privileges, and
created, under the title of Knights of St. James, a military order, of
which Don Pedro was the first grand master. They wore a white tunic,
with a red cross in the form of a sword on the breast. Their principal
house was at first the hospice of St. Mark; but the castles and domains
which were made over to them from time to time were so numerous that
their riches became almost incalculable, and their influence and
importance increased in proportion. They established themselves at
Uclès, the better to carry on the warfare against the infidel, whose
terror they had become. We soon find them a power in the state, the
grand master taking rank with kings, and at times appearing to rule
them. Even the simple knights had great privileges. It was not until the
reign of Ferdinand that, owing to the skilful management of Isabella,
the power and influence of the order began to decrease.

Our notice would be incomplete without a few words on the subject of the
miracles which took place at the tomb or by the intercession of the
apostle. The countless favors which have rendered many a chosen
sanctuary justly illustrious will never be known; indeed, their absence
would make the continual faith of the people—always asking and never
receiving; always believing, and yet to be ever disappointed and
deceived—not only inexplicable but impossible, whereas it was absolute
and complete; but exaggeration, which, even in the world of ordinary
facts, so frequently goes hand in hand with truth, plays still more
freely with facts which are beyond and above the events of daily life,
and, not being satisfied with the simple beauty of miraculous
deliverances, it must fain make marvels still more marvellous—quit the
domain of faith for that of myths and chimera. A MS. of the monastery of
La Marcha is full of the recital of prodigies which a faith the most
robust would nowadays find it difficult to accept; and Cæsar of
Heisterbach tells us that a young man of Maestricht having been
condemned and hung on a false accusation, commending himself to St.
James, was preserved alive a whole month hanging from the gibbet, where
his father found him safe and sound at the end of that time. Whereupon
the people of Toulouse, jealous of the glory which the renown of this
announcement gave to St. James of Compostella, attributed to _their_ St.
James a miracle exactly similar.

In numerous instances the accounts of the dead restored to life have
nothing impossible or exaggerated about them, and often in their pathos
and simplicity remind one of those mentioned in the Gospel narrative;
for instance, a poor woman, by the intercession of St. James, obtained a
son, who became not only her greatest comfort, but in time her only
support. He fell ill and died. With a breaking heart the mother hastens
to the apostle’s tomb, and in her agony of desolation mingles reproaches
with her prayers and tears, asking the saint why he had won for her the
blessing she had desired, only to let her lose it when her need was
greatest, and herself a thousand times more sorrowful than before; and
then, full of faith, entreated him to obtain from God the life of her
son. Her prayer was granted, and, returning home, she found the youth
restored. But of a very different character is the extraordinary legend
related by Guibert, Abbot of Nogent, and which we quote as a curiosity.
A certain pilgrim was on his way to Compostella to perform penance and
obtain the pardon of a crime he had committed. On the road the enemy of
mankind appeared to him under the form of St. James, and, telling him
that his sin was far too great to be remitted by a simple pilgrimage,
insisted that there was only one means of obtaining mercy, and that was
by the sacrifice of his life; he must kill himself, and then all would
be forgiven him. The pilgrim, who believed that he was listening to St.
James in person and was bound to obey him, stabbed himself and died, a
victim to the fraud of the demon. He appears before the tribunal of God,
and there Satan claims him as his prey by a double title: first, because
of the old crime, which had not been remitted; and, secondly, because of
the new one of which he had been guilty in committing suicide. In vain
the poor man pleads that he had acted in good faith and in the
simplicity of his heart; he was in great danger of being condemned. But
St. James hears what is going on and hastens to the scene. He does not
intend that the evil one should take his form and name to deceive his
pilgrims and then have all the profits, and pleads that the only way to
do perfect justice in the affair is to put everything exactly as it was
before Satan had so odiously meddled in the matter, and to send back the
soul of the unfortunate man into his body again. This representation,
being just, was acceded to, and the resuscitated pilgrim continued on
his way to Compostella, where he confessed with great contrition and was
absolved of all the sins of his past life.

We must, however, leave the realm of legend and return to historical
facts. The anchoretic life was at an early period introduced into Europe
from the East, and Spain appears to have been a land where hermits
especially abounded. We often find them mentioned as coming on
pilgrimage to Compostella, as St. Simeon and St. Theobald in the twelfth
century, St. William somewhat later, and St. John the Hermit, who built
near the cathedral a place of shelter for pilgrims, where he himself
received them, rendering them all the offices of Christian hospitality.

Another William also came hither on pilgrimage, who was an illustrious
personage, though not a hermit; this was the Count of Poitou and Duke of
Aquitaine, whose past life had been anything but exemplary. In Normandy
and elsewhere he had been guilty of grievous misdemeanors, for which he
desired to do penance before his death; and, more than this, he did his
utmost, by good and upright administration, to repair the evil he had
done before. For this reason Hildebert, Bishop of Mans, was not well
pleased at his setting out for Spain, and wrote to him as follows: “We
are told, most noble count, that you have undertaken a pilgrimage in
honor of Blessed James. We do not desire to deny the excellence of this,
but whosoever is at the head of an administration is bound to obedience,
nor can he free himself therefrom without deserting his post, unless, at
least, he be called to one of greater usefulness. Wherefore, very dear
son, it is an inexcusable fault in you to have preferred that which is
not necessary before that which is—repose rather than labor, and,
instead of duty, your own will.” But the great prelate would probably
have been less severe could he have foreseen the holy death of Count
William, who, on Good Friday, after having received the Blessed
Sacrament, peacefully rendered up his soul to God before the altar of
St. James.

About the same time a young maiden of Pisa, afterwards St. Bona, came to
Compostella, and there received singular favors and graces. Sophia,
Countess of Holland,[38] journeying thither also, fell into the hands of
robbers, and through one whole night found that she had nothing to
expect but spoliation and death. In the morning their resolution was
changed; they threw themselves at her feet and entreated her pardon,
allowing her to proceed unharmed on her way. After visiting the tomb of
St. James the princess went to Jerusalem, there to spend the remainder
of her life.

At the beginning of the thirteenth century pilgrims from all lands had
become so numerous that it was frequently impossible, especially on the
feast of the patron saint, for all to find even standing-room in the
cathedral. The tumult was indescribable, and did not always end outside
the doors. On some occasions there were not only blows but bloodshed, so
that Pope Innocent III. wrote to the archbishop, saying that his church
had need of reconciliation, and the ceremony was performed with water,
wine, and blessed ashes.[39]

Alman-Zour, as we have previously mentioned, had caused the bells of
Compostella to be carried to Cordova on the backs of Christian captives.
In 1229 Ferdinand, who had united under his sway the kingdoms of Castile
and Leon, made the conquest of Cordova, and, finding the bells in the
great mosque, he inflicted retaliation on the infidels by compelling
them to carry them, on their shoulders, back to the place whence they
had been taken two hundred and sixty years before.

After Louis VII. of France had been on pilgrimage to Compostella, we
hear of several other sovereigns from time to time who did the same,
among whom was St. Elizabeth, Queen of Portugal. The Frieslanders, who
had a great devotion to St. James, and attributed to his aid a victory
they had gained over the Saracens, visited his tomb in immense numbers;
the English did the same, and from the time of Edward I.’s marriage with
Eleanor of Castile, having stipulated for the safe-conduct of their
pilgrims, they arrived in such multitudes that the kings of France
became uneasy at so great a concourse, and made an agreement with the
king of England that his subjects should obtain permission of them
before proceeding to Compostella. In 1434 this leave was granted to
about two thousand five hundred persons.

These were the palmy days of pilgrims, who were not only well received
at Santiago, whither they brought activity, riches, and life, but they
were everywhere sheltered and protected. No cottager was too poor to
offer them a resting-place or to share his loaf of hospitality with
them. A pilgrim was not only a brother come from perhaps some far
distant land to do honor to Monseigneur St. James, but he was also, in
those days when postage was unknown, the walking gazette, who brought
the news of other countries, and enlivened with his narratives and
conversation the hearth of the poor as of the rich.

From the time of the Reformation pilgrimages began to decrease. England
and Germany were the first to discontinue them. France showed herself
less fervent as soon as the spirit of rationalistic philosophy had
infected the upper classes of her people, after which the Revolution
carried down the lower ranks into the gulf of irreligion. The wars of
the empire, the spoliations of which Napoleon’s generals were guilty,
and consequently the deadly hatred which they evoked against their
nation in the heart of every Spaniard, struck the last blow at these
pious journeyings. Only the inhabitants of the country continued to
visit the shrine of their apostle, and even they by degrees lost the
habit. Pilgrims are nowadays but few, excepting only on the feast of the
patron, and they have ceased to be popular at Santiago. If they chance
to be poor, the townspeople turn a deaf ear when they ask an alms “for
the love of St. James”; or, should they be rich, seek only to turn them
to account and to lighten their purses.

Although greatly fallen from its ancient splendor, Santiago, formerly
the capital of Galicia, and now the simple chief town of a judicial
circuit, still has importance in the ecclesiastical order. Her
archbishop is, by right, the first chaplain of the crown, and her
cathedral still subsists in its integrity. She has two collegiate and
fifteen parochial churches, though her numerous convents, pillaged in
1807, and subsequently despoiled and suppressed, are at the present time
inhabited dwelling-houses, destined to inevitable ruin, and throwing an
additional shadow into the general air of melancholy which now hangs
over this old city.

There are but few public buildings of antiquity or interest. The
streets, with their dark and narrow archways, all start, like the
threads of a spider’s web, from the one centre occupied by the
cathedral. Everything wears an aspect that is sombre, damp, and cold,
augmented by the hue that the granite, of which most of the edifices are
built, takes under a climate of such humidity that it has given rise to
the disrespectful saying that this city is the sink of Spain. And yet
the site is picturesque. Seen from the neighboring heights, Santiago,
itself also built upon an elevation, with its ancient buildings, walls,
and towers, presents a very striking appearance, and to any one who
mounts the towers of the cathedral the grand girdle of mountains
encircling the horizon affords a spectacle that well repays the trouble
of the ascent.

We are in the great square, and facing the western front, containing the
principal entrance of the building, which occupies the middle of a long
architectural line, having at its left the episcopal palace, melancholy
enough and not in any way remarkable, and at its right the cloister,
with its turrets and pyramidal roofs, and its long row of arched
windows. This is not the cloister of Gemirez, of which nothing remains,
but was built in the sixteenth century by Archbishop Fonseca, who
furnished it with a fine library, and also added the chapter-house and
other dependencies of the cathedral. The cloister is one of the largest
in Spain, half Gothic in style, and half Renaissance.

This western entrance, between the cloister and the palace, is called
_El Mayor_ or _El Real_—the great or royal entrance; not that it merits
the title from any particular artistic beauty, but rather from a certain
effective arrangement. The four flights of steps, two large and two
small, ascend very picturesquely from the square to the doors of the
cathedral, allowing a procession to spread into four lines, while above
rise the lofty towers, curiously adorned with columns, vases,
balustrades, and little cupolas. You see at once that you are not
beholding a work which dates from the construction of the building,
although the towers are ancient up to the height of the church walls,
but the upper portion is much more recent, and the same is evident of
the façade, which occupies the space between the towers.

Proceeding onwards to the left, we follow a vaulted passage of the
twelfth century, bearing the stamp of ancient simplicity, until we reach
the Plaza San Martino, the north side of which is formed by the vast
convent of St. Martin, where, on the centre of the front, are placed,
mounted on their chargers, the two warrior saints of France and Spain.
Here is the market-place, whither those should come who wish to study
favorably the picturesque costumes of the peasants of Galicia, and, it
might be added, to hear cries more shrill and louder vociferations than
it would be supposed possible for ordinary human lungs to send forth.
Before appearing at market the sellers of fruit and vegetables make an
elaborate toilette, which must be not only neat but effective, those who
are unable to comply with its requirements remaining at home. Side by
side with the splendid fruits of Galicia, and fish from river and sea,
rosaries, medals, and the scallop-shells of St. James are offered for
sale.

The building forms a beautiful cross, of which the arms are nearly equal
to the upright, the transepts having a great development. The
arrangement follows that of most of the churches in Spain, the choir
being in the nave and ending where the transept begins. The aspect of
the latter is particularly grand, being less interrupted than the view
along the nave, as the eye easily penetrates the light trellis-work
which makes a passage across it from the choir to the _Capilla Mayor_.
The rounded arches of the three roofs are evidently of the close of the
eleventh or the commencement of the twelfth century. The pillars of the
aisles, with their capitals sculptured in foliage, are light and
graceful, contrasting pleasingly with the heavy mass of the edifice. The
triforium, which runs round the nave, is composed of semi-circular
arches, each containing two smaller ones which spring from a slender
column in the centre. The east end remains as it was, with the chapels
radiating from it, but the pillars and arches of the choir have
undergone great alterations. The _Silleria_, or enclosure of the choir,
is ornamented by a series of religious subjects carved by Gregorio
Español in 1606. Many of the windows of the cathedral are very fine.

Beneath the Capilla Mayor is situated the great object of the
pilgrimage—the subterranean chapel containing the tomb of St. James and
those of two of his first disciples. The famous statue of the apostle is
in the Capilla itself, above the great altar, which remains as it was in
the time of Alman-Zour. This is a monumental altar of richly-wrought
marble, ornamented with incrustations of silver, the working of which
occupied no less than twenty years. It is surrounded by an enclosure of
open metal-work, gilt, adorned with vine-branches and surmounted by an
immense _hojarasco_, or canopy, which has little to recommend it in an
artistic point of view, being carved and gilt in the height of the style
_churrigueresque_. This serves as a dais to the statue, and is supported
by four angels, about whose ponderous forms no remnant of celestial
lightness lingers. Even the statue itself, before which kings and
princes have knelt, is not free from the faults of style inevitable to
the period. The apostle is seated, and holds in his right-hand the
pilgrim’s staff, with a gilded gourd and wallet (_cum baculo perâque_),
and in his left a scroll inscribed with the words, _Hic est corpus Divi
Jacobi Apostoli et Hispaniarum Patroni_. He wears on his shoulders the
_pelerine_, or pilgrim’s mantle, embroidered with gold and precious
stones. This cape has the form of those worn by cardinals, and has
replaced the ancient one of gold, which was carried off by Marshal Ney.

It is a high honor to be allowed to say Mass at the altar of the great
patron. Bishops and canons only have the right. On grand occasions it is
splendidly adorned; the four statues of kings which stand behind that of
St. James then support another small image of the apostle of exceeding
richness, having a nimbus of emeralds and rubies, and which is placed in
a shrine of wrought gold and silver of wonderful delicacy. This
beautiful _custodia_, which is nearly six feet high, was finished in
1544 by Antonio d’Arphe, and is in the style designated by the Spaniards
_Plateresque_.

Pilgrims are admitted to pay their homage to St. James by mounting some
steps behind the altar to kiss the cape or mantle of the apostle, as at
Rome one kisses the foot of St. Peter. There is another resemblance also
to St. Peter’s at Rome in the long range of confessionals, dedicated to
different saints, and served by priests speaking different languages;
for it is not until after confession and communion that the pilgrim can
be allowed any right to the title, or receive his brevet or
_Compostella_, which is a declaration written in Latin, and signed by
the canon-administrator of the cathedral, that he has fulfilled all his
duties. These documents are frequently found among family papers, and in
certain cases constitute a title without which such or such possessions
could not be claimed.

The treasures of St. James of Compostella were formerly renowned
throughout the world; but there seems to have been some exaggeration
respecting their immensity, as, from all the objects of which the French
plundered the cathedral in 1809, they obtained no more than 300,000
francs. There still remain various rare and curious things—reliquaries,
statues, sacred vessels, etc.—some of which are of great value and
antiquity; amongst others a crucifix containing a fragment of the true
cross, and which is of exquisite workmanship, being also one of the most
ancient specimens of chasing known. The cross is wrought in gold
filagree, enriched with jewels, and resembles that of Oviedo, which is
said to be the work of angels. It bears the inscription: “Hoc opus
perfectum est erâ LXOO. et duodecimâ. Hoc signo vincitur inimicus. Hoc
signo tuetur pius. Hoc offerunt famuli Dei Adefonsus princeps et
conjux.”

Among the chapels must be noticed the _Capilla del Pilar_, dedicated to
Our Lady in memory of her apparition to St. James. This, which is behind
the high altar, and rich in precious marbles and jasper, was founded by
Arthur Monroy, a rich Mexican prelate, whose kneeling statue on his tomb
has a fine and attractive expression. Many of the other chapels are also
remarkable; that of the kings of France, of the Conception, of the
Relics, etc.

Let us add to these riches of the old cathedral a large concourse of
worshippers at all the services, a people profoundly religious, a
magnificent ceremonial, the officiating archbishop surrounded by his
clergy, grand and solemn music swelled by the multitudinous voices of
the faithful; let us imagine a vast procession beneath these vaulted
roofs, and the trembling light of the tapers illuminating the sombre
walls as the seemingly interminable train of choristers, clergy, and
people pass along, and we shall have evoked a scene which, though its
like may be witnessed in other lands, still bears in Spain a peculiar
stamp of gravity and fervor, and possesses the earnest features and the
vigorous relief of which the Spanish artists knew the secret, and which
they have reproduced on their canvas in warm shadows and golden lights.


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

                            A SWEET REVENGE.

                                   I.

Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte is a dull little town, situated in Cotentin,
that long eastern strip of the coast of Normandy which extends directly
in front of the lovely isles of Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney, and Sark.
Cherbourg lies to the north of it, but we only mention that fact _en
passant_; for the incident related in these pages occurred long before
the Second Empire, long before Cherbourg attracted visitors to admire
its naval displays, long before railways had shortened distances and
brought the Cotentinians within daily hearing of their “ne plus ultra”
of cities—inimitable Paris. The little towns then slumbered peaceably
amidst their corn-fields and apple-orchards; and none slept sounder than
Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte, whose very existence was scarcely known beyond
the limits of its native district. It was remarkable, indeed, for
nothing; its church was old and fine, as most French provincial churches
are; the open space around it formed the market-place, deserted and
silent except on market-days; and the Grande Rue contained the one
hostelry of the town—the Hôtel Royale—and various stores.

But there were also a few cross-streets, interspersed with flowery,
bowery gardens, and it is in a house situated in one of these that our
scene is laid. It was a plain, unpretending dwelling, but large and
exquisitely neat. It had the widest local reputation of being the
snuggest in winter, the coolest in summer, and the most hospitable at
all seasons of any in Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte—nay, in the whole stretch
of Cotentin! The garden behind it, too, was famous; the owners, M. and
Mme. Dupuis, cultivated it themselves with rare enthusiasm and taste.
Alphonse Karr’s world-celebrated flowers would have been considered pale
and scentless beside Mme. Dupuis’—at least, by the Cotentinians. And the
fruits—the peaches and green-gages, the pears and grapes—it was not
believed possible that the like could be found even in Paris. Let us add
that, when in their first flush of ripeness and bloom, the greater
portion of these carefully-tended flowers and fruits were culled by Mme.
Dupuis’ own hands, and sent forth to carry light and beauty, perfume and
freshness, into every sick-room of the little town.

The Dupuis were a thoroughly worthy couple; they had married young, for
love, and had been blessed with an only child, a daughter, good and
pretty as her mother, and, like her mother, wedded early and happily.

When the episode in their lives which is the subject of this little
story took place, they had passed together thirty years of tranquil,
uneventful felicity. M. Dupuis had shortly before sold his business—he
was a notary—and was now enjoying a well-earned rest. He was a man of
sixty, well-educated, intelligent, and still strong, active, and
enthusiastic. His plump little wife had just completed her fifty-fifth
year—she did not appear to be forty-five. She was of a deeper, more
thoughtful nature than her husband, but nevertheless her sympathy with
him was unbounded—she loved all he loved, the same people and the same
things. She was the type of a true wife and of a true Christian.

Too modest and timid to have any personal pretensions, Mme. Dupuis’
great pride lay in her well-ordered home, her exquisitely clean house,
her nicely-arranged kitchen, and, though last, certainly not least, in
her cook and housemaid, whom she considered absolutely unparalleled in
their several vocations. And it must be allowed that Jeannette and
Marianne had, during twenty years, fully justified their mistress’ good
opinion of them. During all this time the two women had constantly
studied her every wish, and the result was the perfection of domestic
economy.

The family party was completed by a large white Angora cat, promoted
since the marriage of Mlle. Dupuis to the enviable position of “pet of
the household,” and universally considered in Cotentin to be the most
remarkable animal of its species.


                                  II.

One winter’s evening, when the snow lay deep in the streets and the
north wind whistled fiercely around the eaves, M. Dupuis’ dining-room
looked particularly cheerful. The heavy tapestry curtains were drawn
close before the windows, and a flaming wood fire showered sparkles of
reflected light on the crystal and silver placed on the round
dining-table, and lighted up the portraits of some sober-looking
personages in powdered wigs which adorned the walls. The handsome
tortoise-shell and copper clock, a masterpiece of the style Louis
Quinze, standing on a hanging shelf above the sofa, was, perhaps, the
best article of furniture in the room; the chimney-piece was too
encumbered with porcelain shepherds and shepherdesses, and china jars
filled with artificial flowers and covered with great glass globes,
for the taste of the present day. Fashion had slumbered in
Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte for many a long year. But there was light and
warmth, and a pervading feeling of comfort, worth all the gilded,
satin-covered chairs and lounges that Parisian taste can devise, all
the Venetian mirrors and Sevres vases that luxury can afford. Mme.
Dupuis’ dining-room was certainly rococo and provincial, incongruous
in some respects, deficient in harmony, but what sincere, cordial
hospitality those four walls had witnessed! what pleasant repasts!
what real good, wholesome eating! what merry toasts had been drunk
there in claret, in sherry, and champagne—wines as bright as Mme.
Dupuis’ eyes, and as pure and unadulterated as her heart!

A second clock, a very ugly one it must be confessed, a representative
of the bad taste of the First Empire, which stood in the centre of the
already too encumbered mantel-shelf, marked five minutes past six, and
Mme. Dupuis was seated at the head of her dining-table. She was neatly
dressed in black silk; her dark brown hair, streaked here and there with
silver threads, was arranged in simple bandeaux on each side of her
temples, and a small lace cap trimmed with a few knots of pink ribbon
concealed the paucity of the “back hair”; for Mme. Dupuis was behind her
time. She had not “marched with her age,” and had not yet learned to
wear a “switch.”

M. Dupuis, somewhat old-fashioned in his attire, but scrupulously neat,
sat opposite to her. At an equal distance from each was placed a
gentleman as old apparently as the ex-notary, but infinitely more
pretentious in his style both of dress and manner. His coat and trowsers
were of Parisian cut; his beard in the latest mode; his voice
dictatorial—a man of the world evidently, and evidently also accustomed
to think more of himself than of any one else. The little party was
busily engaged in the agreeable duty of eating sundry “plats” which
diffused a most appetizing odor. Marianne, madame’s right hand and
faithful aid during many long years, waited at table, while the
beautiful Angora sought its fortune around and under.

“Well, it happened just as I tell you,” said Mme. Dupuis, as she handed
her guest a delicious-looking chop—“it happened just as I tell you, M.
Rouvière. I believed that he had gone crazy—completely crazy; get down,
puss! He came rushing up-stairs, four steps at a time, crying at the top
of his voice, ‘It’s Tom! it’s Tom Rouvière, that fellow Tom!’ Excuse me,
M. Rouvière, but that’s his word, you know. As for me, I followed,
stumbling as I went along, killing myself trying to make him hear that
it was much more likely to be M. du Luc in his new carriage; for I knew
through Mme. le Rendu that M. du Luc was to dine to-day at Semonville,
and, as he never passes through Saint-Sauveur without stopping to wish
us good-day, I had every reason to believe....”

“O my dear Reine!” interrupted M. Dupuis, “what necessity is there for
telling all that to Rouvière? He knows nothing about M. du Luc and Mme.
le Rendu; how can all that interest him? Besides, you know that M. du
Luc never has post-horses to his carriage, so it could not be he.”

“But I believed it was,” replied madame.

“Allons! never mind now, dear,” returned her husband, “but do keep your
cat off; she is teasing Rouvière.”

“Puss! puss!” cried Mme. Dupuis, “come here and behave yourself, do.
Now, George,” she continued, “you must acknowledge that it was much more
natural that I should expect to see M. du Luc, our country neighbor,
than M. Rouvière, whom I did not know, and from whom you had never heard
for more than thirty years—really, now. What do _you_ say, M. Rouvière?
You shall be judge.”

M. Rouvière, who during this dialogue had been silently eating and
drinking with evident appetite, looked up from his plate with an
expression of impatience anything but flattering to the lady.

“Of course you are right, madame,” replied he sharply; “of course you
are right. But, God bless me, madame, I really believe that your chops
are fried with crumbs!”

Poor Mme. Dupuis started at this abrupt interpellation; her
good-tempered smile vanished; one might have fancied there was a tear in
her eye as she answered gently: “I am so sorry! It was I who made
Jeannette crumb them. I thought they would be more delicate.”

“What heresy!” exclaimed Rouvière. “My dear lady, nobody now fries chops
in crumbs, just as nobody now wears leg-of-mutton sleeves! Gracious
heavens! Providence has granted you one of the very best articles of
food that the culinary art is acquainted with—real, genuine, _pré-salé_
mutton, pure Miels mutton—and you fry it in crumbs—you actually _dare_
to fry it in crumbs! _Parbleu!_ I have sailed round the world, but I had
to come to Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte to see Miels mutton fried in
crumbs.”

“How sorry I am!” cried poor Mme. Dupuis humbly. “Let me help you to
some sole, M. Rouvière. We have a market for fish only once a week, but,
as M. Dupuis is very fond of fish, I have made an arrangement with a
fisherman from Porthail, so that we have a little extra ‘plat’ every
Wednesday, and as, most fortunately, to-day happens to be Wednesday....”

“Oh! come, Reine,” interrupted M. Dupuis, who had been listening with a
very vexed expression of countenance to what was passing between his
wife and his friend, “don’t go on with all these details; what interest
can they have for Rouvière? Well, Tom, tell me, now, where were you
eight days ago at this very hour?”

“Eight days’ ago, George,” said Rouvière, and he stopped eating to
reflect—“eight days ago I was in Dublin.”

“In Dublin!” exclaimed Dupuis admiringly. “What a fellow!”

“From Dublin,” continued M. Rouvière, “I went to London, and from London
to Jersey, and from Jersey—here!”

“And was it when you got to Jersey that the happy thought occurred to
you to come and stir up your old friend?” asked Dupuis; and his bright,
soft eyes rested affectionately on Rouvière’s face.

“Yesterday morning, my dear boy,” replied Rouvière. “There was a map of
Normandy hanging up in the hall of the hotel where I was staying, and I
was looking at it almost mechanically, when suddenly I came across the
name of Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte. ‘Saint Sauveur-le-Vicomte!’ I repeated
two or three times to myself. ‘Isn’t that the name of the little town
where George Dupuis used to live—my friend George? I’ve a mind to go and
dine with him, if he be still alive.’”

M. Rouvière seemed to be looking for something on the table as he
finished these words. Mme. Dupuis, watching every feature, anxiously
inquired what he wanted.

“Some lemon, madame, for this sole,” replied he. “Marianne—I think I
heard you call her Marianne,” he added, turning towards his
hostess—“Marianne, haven’t you a lemon?”

“Here is one,” exclaimed Mme. Dupuis, rising hastily and running to the
sideboard. “Now tell me, M. Rouvière,” she said with her pleasant smile,
as she laid the lemon by his plate, “have you really been going up and
down the highways and by-ways of the world during thirty long years,
just like the Wandering Jew?”

“I have indeed, madame,” replied her guest, squeezing the lemon-juice
out over his sole.

“You must have eaten some strange things in your travels,” continued the
lady.

“I rather think so,” replied Rouvière, with his mouth full of fish;
“things _you_ never heard of! Marianne, my good girl, I smell coffee
roasting in your kitchen. Now, nearly every one, especially here in the
provinces, roasts it too much—all the aroma is driven off; run quick,
that’s a good lass, and tell the cook—Jeannette, isn’t it?—that the
coffee must only be toasted—just scorched. Do you understand, eh?”

“Yes, yes, I understand well enough,” muttered Marianne as she went out;
“that fellow seems to like nothing!”

“My dear lady,” went on Rouvière, turning to Mme. Dupuis, “the very
accident I feared for your coffee has happened to your chicken—it is
cooked too much, or rather it has been cooked too fast. It is a great
pity, for it was an excellent fowl!”

“Oh! dear, oh! dear,” exclaimed Mme. Dupuis, who was beginning to feel a
kind of despair thus far unknown to her. All her dinners hitherto had
been subjects of compliment; _this_ was quite a new experience. “Oh!
dear, oh! dear, how many misfortunes at one time. Pray excuse me, M.
Rouvière; you came so unexpectedly, you know. We had no time to do
things well. But do, pray, stay a few days with us, and you shall see. I
promise you that everything shall be better.”

“Impossible, madame,” replied the guest, as he accepted a fine snipe
done to a turn; “you are very kind, but at nine o’clock this evening I
must be on the road again. Yes, madame, you may well say that I have
eaten strange things,” he continued, raising his voice. “I’ve eaten
kouskoussou under the Arab’s tent; curry—that incendiary curry—on the
shores of the Ganges; I’ve dined off the frightful tripang in Java; and
in China on swallows’ nests stewed in castor-oil!”

“Good gracious!” ejaculated Mme. Dupuis.

“What a wonderful fellow!” exclaimed M. Dupuis enthusiastically.

M. Dupuis was unwontedly silent; he was evidently exceedingly annoyed,
and it was pitiful to see the deprecating glances his little wife
directed towards him from time to time. He, however, kept his eyes fixed
steadily on his plate.

“In Panama,” went on Rouvière, “I’ve eaten roasted monkey. But what need
to enumerate? There’s nothing edible in creation that I have not
swallowed. So that I believe I may say,” here he bowed thanks for a
second snipe, “there does not exist a man under the firmament of heaven
easier to satisfy than myself. The Rocky Mountain Indians—those Indians
are most extraordinarily sagacious—the Rocky Mountain Indians, I say,
gave me a surname while I was among them—‘Choc-ugh-tou-saw,’ which
signifies good-humored stomach, because I was always satisfied with my
dinner!”

“What a wonderful fellow!” reiterated Dupuis. “Come, Tom, try this
Burgundy; your throat must be dry. What a wonderful fellow, to be sure!”

“Do let me prevail on you to take another snipe,” said Mme. Dupuis,
holding up to the guest’s acceptance a third fine, fat bird; “I’m so
glad to find that you like them!”

“No, madame, no, a thousand thanks. Yes, I don’t deny that I am fond of
snipes, but, I’m sorry—I can’t deceive you—these are not just what they
ought to be. In the first place, they have not been killed long enough;
and, secondly, you have forgotten to pepper them—a process absolutely
necessary with game. But, excuse me, for the last half-hour I’ve been
looking at that covered dish, wondering what there is in it. I really
don’t believe that I have ever felt more curiosity in the whole course
of my life; excuse me, I must look into it.”

He raised the cover as he spoke, peering in with eyes and nose.

“In the name of all the saints, what is it?” he exclaimed, as he
contemplated the contents and sniffed up the steam.

“My dear friend,” answered Dupuis, a little nervously, “it is something
I had concocted on purpose for you—it is macaroni.”

“Macaroni! _That_ macaroni!” shouted Rouvière, as if never more
surprised in his life.

“Yes, M. Rouvière,” explained Mme. Dupuis, no longer smiling, poor
little woman! “This dish was inspired by George’s friendship. He
remembered that you were very fond of Italy, so I sent in haste to the
grocer’s; he fortunately had still a small quantity of macaroni on hand,
and then, with the help of my cookery-book—for Jeannette couldn’t manage
it—I made you a _plat à l’italienne_.”

“_A l’italienne!_” repeated George’s old friend with a sneering laugh.
“My dear, good lady, that’s not macaroni _à l’italienne_! Oh! no, no.
However, who knows?—it may be good to eat all the same. Let us try!” So
saying, M. Rouvière helped himself to a spoonful, while his hosts looked
on anxiously.

“Well, how do you like it?” asked George, when the taster, after many
grimaces, had got down a mouthful.

“Like it!” replied Rouvière, “why, not at all; you might as well try to
masticate organ-pipes! It really is something remarkable; it’s fossil
macaroni, petrified macaroni! The grocer who sold it to you deserves the
jail; _I_ shouldn’t wonder if he belonged to some secret society!”

“Marianne, quick! change M. Rouvière’s plate,” said Dupuis sharply—for
the old servant was gazing at her master’s friend with a very
unmistakable expression of disgust on her honest face. “My dear Tom,” he
continued, “what a bad dinner you have made!”

“You are jesting,” replied Rouvière carelessly; “at all events, your
wine is capital.”

“I don’t know what to say,” sighed poor Mme. Dupuis. “I feel ready to
die with vexation. But, dear M. Rouvière,” with a pretty supplicatory
gesture, “do, I beg and pray of you, do taste my rice-pudding.”

“Very willingly, my dear lady,” answered the terrible guest—“very
willingly; only let me first finish eating these green peas, which have
been very well preserved, and would be really perfect had the cook
spared her butter a little!”

At this moment the church bells began to ring the _Angelus_, and Mme.
Dupuis rose precipitately from the table.

“You will pardon my leaving you to finish dinner with George,” said she
to Rouvière; “I shall be back long before you go.”

“Surely you are not going out such an evening as this!” exclaimed
Rouvière. “Why, there’s a foot deep of snow in the streets!”

“My wife goes to church every evening, winter and summer, at the
_Angelus_, no matter what the weather,” remarked George. “She has done
so for nearly fifty years, and nothing will break her of the habit now.”

“Ah! very well,” returned Rouvière. “I hope you like your pastor, Mme.
Dupuis?”

“Oh! yes, indeed I do,” replied the good little woman enthusiastically;
“he is a most worthy man. Do stay twenty-four hours longer with us, M.
Rouvière, and I will ask him to dine with us; you will be glad to know
him, I am quite sure.”

“So am I,” returned her husband’s old chum, with the little sneering
laugh which seemed to be natural to him; “but I must wait for another
opportunity.”

“Now, George,” said Mme. Dupuis, as she tied her wadded hood and slipped
on the cloak and india-rubber shoes which had been placed ready for her
on a chair, “do beg your friend to taste the rice-pudding; and, M.
Rouvière, do try my preserves. I make them myself, and I really believe
that they are excellent. Good-by for the present!”

“Good-by, madame.”

“Hem! hem!” ejaculated Rouvière as the door closed behind the lady, “so!
so! Now let us look at this rice. Your wife’s given to piety, eh,
George?”

“Yes, she is a religious woman,” replied George slowly; then added, with
some slight eagerness in his manner, “but she never imposes her opinions
upon any one. She never teases me, I can assure you, although I do
happen to be somewhat lukewarm about church matters. But tell me,
Tom”—here M. Dupuis hesitated and appeared embarrassed—“don’t you find
her very provincial, very rustic?”

“Oh! no, not at all,” answered Rouvière in a tone which seemed to imply
the contrary of his words.

“Yes, you do—I know you do!” cried George passionately. “But what _can_
you expect? It’s not her fault! She has lived in this hole all her life.
And your unexpected visit has excited her—upset her. She really talked
as if she did not know what she was saying—such nonsense, such silly
gossip!”

“Oh! no, not at all,” repeated Rouvière, as he steadily devoured the
rice-pudding.

“_Parbleu!_ yes; don’t deny it!” cried Dupuis peevishly. “It made you
nervous—I saw it did. It irritated me, I know: it really seemed as if
she was trying to show you her defects. It vexed me more, too, because
she really has many good qualities—admirable qualities, poor little
woman!”

“My dear George,” returned Rouvière, pushing away his plate and coolly
wiping his mouth with his napkin, “I don’t doubt it in the least; her
rice-pudding is certainly delicious.”

Dupuis at this moment caught sight of the pretty Angora with one soft
white paw laid in silent petition on his friend’s knee. His irritation,
with difficulty kept under so far, instantly boiled over on the head of
the innocent cat. “Get down!” he roared, “get down, you brute! I’ll
drown that beast one of these days! Take that animal away,” he
continued, turning angrily towards Marianne, who had just brought in the
coffee; “if she comes into this room again, I’ll throw her out of the
window!”

“Come to me, pussy,” said Marianne in an extra-gentle tone of voice,
taking the cat in her arms and kissing it; “these Parisian gentlemen
don’t like you, it seems. A regular Turk he is, too, turning the house
topsy-turvy,” she muttered as she went out of the room, scowling over
her shoulder at the visitor.

Rouvière had risen from the table during this episode, and, tongs in
hand, was busy with the bright wood fire. He smiled maliciously when the
cat was carried away, and, as if in very lightness of heart, broke forth
in song:

“‘_O bell’ alma innamorata! O bell’ alma innamorata!_’ Tell me, George,”
he interrupted himself to say, “have you a good theatre here in
Saint-Sauveur?”

“A theatre? That’s an idea! Well, yes, we have a theatre once a year, on
the fair-day at mid-Lent!”

“That’s too bad!” laughed Rouvière. “How on earth do you contrive to get
through your evenings?”

“Well, in winter,” answered George, “we chat by the side of the fire, or
my wife and I play at piquet; sometimes two or three neighbors come in,
and then we have a game of whist!”

“Phew!” whistled the man of the world. “With the _curé_, I’ll swear,”
said he presently with his customary mocking smile, as he planted
himself comfortably with his back to the blaze and his coattails
gathered up under his arms.

“Yes,” went on George simply, apparently unconscious of his friend’s
sneer; “sometimes with the _curé_. And then in summer I water my garden,
and Reine and I take a walk on the highroad up to the top of the hill,
or in the wood by the river’s side; and then—well, everybody goes to bed
early here.”

“Very moral, indeed!” sneered Rouvière again, picking his teeth.

By this time Marianne had cleared away the dinner things, and, after
placing a provision of glasses and a bottle of brandy, another of rum,
and a case of liqueurs on the table, had finally departed to dine in her
turn with Jeannette, and to confide her observations on the obnoxious
Parisian to her companion’s sympathizing ear.


                                  III.

“So at last we are alone!” exclaimed Dupuis with a sigh of satisfaction,
as the maid closed the door behind her. “Now, Tom, sit down and let us
drink. Come and tell me what you think of this brandy. Here’s to your
health, old friend!” filling himself a glass of old Cognac and tossing
it off excitedly. “Do you know how many years it is since we last met,
Tom? Five-and-thirty, Tom—five-and-thirty years!”

“Yes, _parbleu_!” said Rouvière, helping himself to the brandy. “I
suppose it must be some thirty-five years since we parted in the
diligence yard, Rue Montmartre. I remember that we swore eternal
friendship and constant correspondence. The correspondence did not last
long—less than two years, it seems to me—but our friendship, George, it
smouldered under its ashes, but it kept alive, my boy!”

The two friends clasped each other’s hands for a moment silently.

“Your brandy is first-rate,” remarked Rouvière presently, as he finished
his _petit-verre_.

“You like it? Bravo! Well, there are still some pleasant hours in
life—aren’t there now, Tom?”

“I believe you,” answered the guest meditatively.

“Who should know it better than you, fortunate fellow as you are! But I
say, Tom, how does it happen that you have not changed in the least? Not
in the least, by Jove! You’ve remained young and handsome.... ‘I was
young and handsome!’—do you remember how magnificently Talma used to say
that? Your beard and moustaches might belong to an African lion! You
make me think of Henri Quatre! But drink, Tom; you don’t drink!”

“My dear old George,” said Rouvière in a quiet, confidential tone of
voice, and resting his two arms on the table, while he fixed his eyes on
his friend’s flushed face—“my dear old George, what _was_ your reason
for burying yourself alive in Cotentin? Tell me.”

“Why do you ask me that, Tom?” cried Dupuis, who suddenly became
serious. “You find me rusty, then?”

“No, no; but _what_ was your reason? Tell me in confidence, you know.”

“Yes, I am rusty; I feel it!” said poor Dupuis mournfully. “I tell you
what, Tom, the provinces of France deserve all that is said against
them. They are like those springs of mineral waters which turn to stone
every living creature you throw into them! What reason had I, do you
ask? Gracious heavens! What is life, Tom, but a series of chances; some
fatality gets you into a groove, and you are pushed on and on until you
reach your grave. Try this rum, Tom.”

“Do you indulge in such prolonged libations every evening?” asked
Rouvière.

“No, never. These are in honor of you.”

“So I suspected. This is the rum, isn’t it? Come, go on, George; I want
to hear the rest of your _Odyssey_.”

“Well, Tom,” resumed his friend, taking a sip at his glass of rum and
breathing at the same time a sigh which was almost a groan, “you
remember that my prospects were pretty bright in Paris. I fully intended
to buy that solicitor’s office where I was working—it had been offered
to me on good conditions; but some family affairs called me home here,
and here I stayed. I don’t know how it happened, but it is certain that
I found a charm in this provincial life—in its futile comfort, its
indolent habits, its tame monotony.”

Here poor Dupuis stopped, that he might give vent to an angry gust of
self-reproach by punching the fire with the tongs; after a sip of rum he
continued: “All these got possession of me, wound themselves around me
like a net, and I remained their captive.”

His head bowed itself forward, and he sat gazing regretfully on the ugly
clock in the middle of the chimney-piece.

“All right, George!” laughed Rouvière; “you don’t say it, but I suspect
that Madame Dupuis had a good deal to do with this final catastrophe!”

“It is true, Tom,” replied the other, his countenance lighting up for a
moment; “and you may believe it or not, as you like, but I swear that
she was a charming girl! Moreover, my dear old mother was living then,
and it was a great pleasure to her to have me settle here where we were
all born. The long and the short of it was that I married, bought my
father-in-law’s office, and all was over—the die was cast! Take some of
the Kirschwasser, Tom,” he added hurriedly, as if his remembrances were
too painful to be dwelt on.

“Presently,” said Rouvière, a smile flickering over his worldly-wise
face; “but tell me, first, you’ve not stayed walled up in Saint-Sauveur,
I hope, all these thirty-five years? You take a run to Paris every once
in a while, don’t you?”

“Don’t mention it,” groaned Dupuis. “I’ve not seen Paris since I said
good-by to you in the Rue Montmartre!”

“Phew!” whistled Rouvière, helping himself to the Kirschwasser. The
friends remained silent for a time, gazing at the fire.

“But you used to like to travel,” exclaimed Rouvière, at last.

“And so I do still, my dear Tom; my taste has not changed in that
respect, I can assure you. But what could I do? When I married, my idea
was to work steadily for fifteen years, and then sell my business and
live on what I had saved. I intended then to take a trip to Paris with
my wife, after that to the Pyrenees—I always wished so much to see the
Pyrenees! But it was not to be; as the old women say, Man proposes and
God disposes. We had been married just five years when our daughter was
born....”

“What’s that you say—you have a daughter?” interrupted his friend.

“A daughter and a granddaughter, Tom,” replied George, with an
inflection in his voice that sounded very like pride, and a soft look in
his eyes; “so you understand that I had to stick to my business for ten
years more, that I might get her a dowry; and then, when at last I did
sell out—well, I was old ... and I couldn’t think of anything pleasanter
than just to stay quietly in my arm-chair! Didn’t I tell you that my
life has been nothing but a chapter of accidents from beginning to end?
Come, shall we have some punch, Tom? I’ll make it.”

“If you will. So you have a daughter! And she is married! Well married,
I hope?”

“Well, yes; her husband is a sub-prefect.”

George’s voice again took a tone of gratified pride, which elicited a
smile from his observant friend.

“A sub-prefect! Bravo, bravissimo! But you’re putting too much lemon
into that punch.”

“Do you think so? And now, Tom, that I’ve made a clean breast of it—told
you all—you must explain something to me that I never could comprehend:
how _have_ you contrived to make your modest fortune suffice for nearly
half a century’s constant travel?”

“It is easy enough to explain,” said Rouvière, sitting up straight in
his chair and becoming very animated and somewhat loud as he proceeded.
“I began life with ten thousand francs a year in land; my first
operation was to change my patrimony into bank-notes, by which means I
doubled my income; then I invested it in the sinking funds, which
trebled it. And then, freed from every narrow calculation, from every
family tie, from every social trammel, I took my flight into space!
Here’s to your health, my old friend George! Hip! hip! hurrah!”

“What a wonderful fellow!” cried George in a paroxysm of admiration,
excited, very probably, much more by the brandy and the rum and the
punch than by Rouvière’s comprehension of life and happiness. “What
energy! what grandeur!”

“I consecrated my youth,” continued Tom in a declamatory style, “to
distant adventures, reserving Europe for the autumn of life. My
foot—this foot, this very foot, George, which now touches yours on this
carpet—has left its print among those of the tiger and the elephant on
the sands of India! Nay, it has even followed those terrible prowlers
into their forests of bamboo, lofty and solemn as our cathedrals!”

“Ah! that was something like living!” ejaculated Dupuis, who listened
with almost breathless interest.

“Two years later I arrived in Canton. What an arrival, ye gods! Never
shall I forget the scene. It was a lovely summer night. The accession of
the emperor of the Celestials to his ancestral throne was being
celebrated. Our canoe could scarcely force its way among the junks and
flower-boats, all of them decorated with innumerable paper lanterns.
Fireworks of a thousand different hues were reflected, mingled with the
stars, in the flowing river, and we could watch their rainbow tints
playing on the porcelain temples that rise on its banks!”

“What a fairy-like sight! Happy, happy Tom!” murmured Dupuis.

“From China,” pursued Rouvière, after quaffing off his glass of punch,
“I sailed for the Americas. I travelled about there for several years,
going to and fro, from north to south, from the savannas to the pampas,
from the great austere Canadian woods to the smiling Brazilian forests;
sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback, oftenest in a _pirogue_. My
longest stay was in Peru. I could not tear myself away from that
coquettish city of Lima!”

“Ha! ha! _traître_, gay deceiver! O Tom, Tom!” laughed Dupuis, shaking
his head in ecstasy.

“I turned gamester, too. It is impossible for you, George, to conceive
the immense attraction a gaming-table possesses in that land of gold and
silver and jewels. One might almost fancy that one of those fabulous
trees we read of in Oriental tales had been shaken over the green cloth!
There is little or no regular coined money to be seen on it, but dull
yellow ingots, bright golden spangles, fiery diamonds, and milk-white,
lustrous pearls are heaped up there pell-mell! All the treasures of
earth and ocean seem to be brought together on that table, tumbled and
jostled in dazzling confusion! You can stay whole nights by that
board—nights that fly like minutes—your eyes fascinated, your brain on
fire! Twenty times in twenty-four hours you are raised to the throne of
Rothschild—as often precipitated down, down to Job’s dunghill. You
become bald, you may become mad, but you feel what life is—you live!”

“It is true, it is true!” cried Dupuis in a state of intense excitement;
“you are right, Tom, there is no doubt of that. And to think that I have
never played at anything but that blackguard whist at a sou the counter!
But go on, Tom, go on; you really electrify me!”

“Everything has its end,” continued Rouvière, highly flattered by the
effect he was producing; “there came a day of sadness and
discouragement, and I took passage on board an American whaler bound for
the south pole. Yes, my hand has touched the frozen limits of our globe;
I have contemplated, with feelings akin to awe, those creatures with
human-like faces, the morse, on their pedestals of ice, recumbent and
dreamy as the sphinx of Thebes. And in the midst of those silent spaces,
so strangely different from all I had hitherto seen, I experienced
sensations that seemed to belong to another world. A kind of
_posthumous_ illusion of being in another planet took possession of me.
Certainly I am much deceived if the days and nights I saw in those
regions of ice do not resemble those in our pale satellite. What more
shall I tell you, my dear friend? Three years after this I found myself
in Rio Janeiro, whence I returned to Europe, after having literally
described the whole circumference of our globe with the end of my
walkingstick! And thus passed away my youth!”

M. Rouvière here threw himself back in his arm-chair, and stroked his
beard with a sigh.

“Every king living might envy you, Tom!” cried Dupuis. “But tell me
more. What have you been doing since then?”

“Since then, George,” said Rouvière with nonchalance, “I have not
travelled; I have merely made excursions. First upon the
Mediterranean—but, pshaw! it was like sailing on the basin in the
Tuileries’ garden! I have visited all the countries on its shore. And by
degrees, as I grew older, my circle became smaller, so that now I live
entirely in Europe, going from city to city, according to the attraction
of the moment. Indeed, I may say, my dear fellow, that Europe is my
property, my domain!” Here the speaker began to wax warmer and louder.
“Every festival given by nature or man in Europe is given to amuse me.
For me Naples displays her bay and her volcano, and keeps open her grand
theatre, San Carlos; for my recreation Paris adorns her boulevards and
builds her opera-house; to amuse me Madrid has a Prado and bull-fights.
All the great exhibitions were made for me, beginning with that of
London. _Evviva la libertà!_ Let’s drink!” So saying, he filled for
himself a brimming bumper of punch, and tossed it off with a very
self-satisfied smile.

“Tom!” cried Dupuis delightedly, “you are a genius! But you have said
nothing about the great monuments—the Alhambra, the Coliseum, the
Parthenon.”

“Pshaw! those are your friends!” retorted Tom with his peculiar sneer.
“I’ve said nothing about them because they are dragged about everywhere.
Who hasn’t seen _them_?”

There was a minute of silence, broken by an emphatic “Ah!” breathed not
loudly but deeply by the excited listener. Starting from his seat, and
thrusting his hands into his pockets, he began hurriedly to pace up and
down the room. His friend glanced at him uneasily.

“What’s the matter? What annoys you?” he asked.

“O Tom, Tom!” cried George, still continuing his agitated walk, “I blush
when I compare your life with mine. While your heart has counted each
pulsation by some noble or beautiful emotion, mine has stupidly gone on
ticking off the hours and days and years as calmly as a kitchen clock!
Have I really lived, tell me?” He stopped in front of his friend,
gesticulating violently. “I was born, and I have slept, and I have
eaten; but what else? And what has been the result? My intelligence is
extinguished; I have dried up; I have descended in the scale of being,
until I have come to be on a level with the idiot of the Alps, with a
shellfish, with an oyster!”

“Come, come, George, you’re going too far!” said Rouvière soothingly.
“Even supposing that you no longer possess as much freshness of
imagination, as much vivacity of wit, as you used to have....”

“I thought so! I knew it!” interrupted Dupuis, resuming his hurried walk
backwards and forwards; “you acknowledge that you find me rusty!”

M. Rouvière rose slowly from his seat, and, after lighting a cigar,
remained standing with his back against the chimney-piece, his eyes
fixed on his friend, who paused in front of him at his first word.

“Listen to me, George,” said he seriously, caressing his moustache with
his fingers as he spoke; “I will be frank with you. You know that I
always used to be frank with you. The impression your house made on me
when I first entered it was, I must confess, a sinister one. I seemed to
breathe the air of a cemetery in it. I could have fancied that I was in
one of those long-buried dwellings which the patient labor of
enthusiastic antiquaries has restored to light and life. While the
servant went to call you I could not prevent myself from examining, with
a kind of wondering, stupid curiosity, the old-fashioned furniture, and
the pictures, and those dismal tapestries worthy of figuring in a
museum! I remembered the delicacy of your character, the elegance of
your manners, your intelligent taste, your love of art; and positively I
could not reconcile the bright memories I retained of you with the dull,
insipid existence of which I had the evidence before my eyes. You came
to me; I looked at you; you spoke. What was it? Was my sight affected,
or my judgment biassed by the thoughts which were literally _preying_ on
me at that moment? I can’t tell what it was—I can’t explain—but your
language astonished me! Your forehead actually seemed to me to have
grown narrower! I wiped away a secret tear, and I sighed as I should
have sighed had I been standing by your grave! I even half spoke the
words, ‘This, then, is all that remains of my friend!’ You’re not
offended, George?” added M. Rouvière, stopping short and looking
inquiringly into his victim’s anxious, attentive face.

“Not a bit, Tom; not a bit,” replied George. “I tell you I felt that I
had sunk; at least, I suspected it, and the suspicion was intolerable. I
prefer the certainty.” He turned away with an attempt at a smile, and
resumed his agitated walk up and down the room.

Rouvière applied himself to the fire, put on a new log of wood,
shovelled up the glowing embers and ashes and threw them with much care
and skill to the back, gazed on his work for a minute, and, finally
assuming again his favorite _pose_, with his back leaning against the
chimney-piece, started the conversation afresh in a lively, chatty tone.

“Let us change the subject,” said he. “You have sold your business; what
do you think of doing now?”

“What do you expect me to do?” cried Dupuis vehemently. “I shall finish
by dying!”

“_Morbleu!_ you had better resuscitate. Let us talk seriously, George.
When you married you created for yourself new duties, which you have
fulfilled to the utmost, honestly and generously. You have provided
amply for the future of your wife and daughter. What is there, then, to
prevent you now from plunging yourself for two or three years into the
vortex of life, and so awaken and reinvigorate your benumbed faculties?
The facilities of travel nowadays are wonderful. In the space of two
years you can run over the whole of Europe, and even explore a part of
Asia and Africa. All the freshness and vivacity of thought you once
possessed will return to you when you find yourself in contact with the
most glorious creations of art and nature. In the course of two
years—two years, mark you!—you can lay at rest for ever every one of
those regretful feelings which are now eating out your heart and
shortening your life! Choose now: suicide or travel? Remember that you
are free in your choice—you are free to do as you like!”

“Pish!” cried George, turning on his heel and pursuing his walk. “Is it
probable that at my time of life I shall set out alone to scour the
highways of Europe?”

“But who wants you to go alone?” said Rouvière, going up to him and
laying a hand on his shoulder. “Am not I ready to go with you? My
experience, my post-chaise, my servant—everything I have is at your
service, George!”

“Is it possible, Tom? Are you really in earnest?” exclaimed Dupuis,
gratified beyond expression at this proof of his friend’s affection.
“You really will accompany me?”

“I will lead you by the hand, my boy!” answered Rouvière gaily; and,
falling into step with George, the two friends paced the room together.
“I will spare you the torment of guides and ciceroni, and all that
species of vermin which besets the tourist. No, don’t thank me,” he
continued, when Dupuis began to express his gratitude. “The thought
delights me as much as it does you. Your new impressions will revive
mine of past days. And won’t it be delicious, George, to end our lives
as we began them—participating in the same adventures, in the same
pleasures, and even sharing our purses? Come, now, is it settled?”

“My dear friend,” replied Dupuis, with a slight hesitation in his voice,
“I will confess to you that no project was ever more agreeable to me,
but....”

“No buts! no buts!” cried Rouvière imperatively; “it _is_ settled! We
will go direct from this to Paris and wait there until the spring. The
museums and theatres will help us to while away the time. I will take
you behind the scenes; you shall hear Ristori and Patti! You used to
love music!”

“I love it still,” said George, smiling; “I play the flute!”

“So much the better!” cried Tom with increasing animation, as they
continued to pace the room side by side; “so much the better! You shall
bring your flute with you. What was I saying? Oh! yes; well, the winter
in Paris—that’s settled; but at the very beginning of spring we’ll cross
the Pyrenees and spend three glorious months in Spain. Then we’ll take
advantage of the summer to visit all the principal cities of Germany;
and after that we’ll get down into Italy by Trieste and Venice. What do
you say to this programme?”

“I say,” replied Dupuis, stopping in his walk and speaking in a strong,
decisive tone—“I say that it opens Paradise to me. Give me a cigar, Tom.
I say that you are right. I _have_ lived long enough for others. I
_have_ offered up a sufficiently large portion of my life as a
sacrifice. Bah! a man has duties towards himself.” He lighted his cigar
and puffed vigorously for a minute or two. “Providence has conferred
gifts on us,” he resumed, “for which we have to render an account.
Intellect, imagination, the feeling of the beautiful—these are gifts
which bind us. Savages only ought to be capable of such a crime as to
allow these sacred flames to die out for want of nourishment!”

“Well said!” exclaimed Rouvière exultingly; “that’s my old George again!
Now let us strike while the iron’s hot. Marianne!” He went towards the
door to open it as he spoke.

“Hush! hush!” cried Dupuis, stopping him and speaking under his breath;
“what do you want with her?”

“I want to tell her that you are going away to-night, and that she must
look after your portmanteau. Marianne!” he called again.

“Hush, I beg of you!” repeated poor George earnestly. “Surely we are not
going to start to-night?”

“At nine o’clock to-night,” answered Rouvière decisively; “you know very
well that I ordered horses for nine o’clock.”

“Yes, I know,” said Dupuis, hesitating and embarrassed; “but the night
is going to be deucedly cold—Siberian. I think we should do better to
wait until to-morrow morning.”

“Now, just let me tell you this, George,” cried the other impatiently:
“if you’re afraid of frosted fingers or toes, and of a night in a
post-chaise, you’d better pull your night-cap over your ears at once and
go to bed, and never talk again about travelling!”

“I’m afraid of nothing and of nobody,” replied poor Dupuis, driven to
his wits’ end; “but the truth is this haste rather puts me out. I had
reckoned upon two or three days to look about me and to make my
preparations.”

“Preparations! What preparations?” cried Tom in a tone of indignant
surprise. “You need a portmanteau and a few shirts and stockings, and
you have an hour before you to get them together, and that’s more than
time enough. Come, now, George, no childishness; if you defer your
departure for two or three days, you know just as well as I do that you
won’t go at all. I’ve no need to tell you what influences will be
brought to bear on you, what obstacles will rise up before you, to unman
you and break down your resolution. Believe me, my dear fellow, in such
cases as this, however you yourself may suffer and _make_ suffer, you
_must_ cut down to the quick or give up....”

“Once more you are right, Tom,” said Dupuis after a moment’s silent
thought. “I’m your man; there’s my hand on it.”

“Marianne!” shouted Rouvière, shaking his friend’s hand with a will.

“No, no, don’t call Marianne,” cried Dupuis hurriedly, and getting
between Rouvière and the door. “I know better than she does what I shall
need. I shall pack my portmanteau myself as soon as my wife comes in.
It’s just eight now,” looking at the clock; “she’ll not be long. Well,”
he continued with some agitation, “I shall have to pass a few
minutes—sad ones they will be, I know—but my conscience reproaches me
with nothing; ... and after all, if my cup be filled with generous wine,
what does it matter though the edge be a little bitter?... O Tom!” he
continued after a moment’s pause, during which he seemed to have roused
his courage, “what a perspective you have opened out before me—what a
horizon! Granada! Venice! Naples! It is a dream!” He glanced at the
clock and his voice fell. “Five minutes past eight! I would willingly
give twenty-five louis to be a quarter of an hour older—a quarter of an
hour! I know that I am very weak, but....”

“Shall I tell your wife for you?” interrupted Rouvière, who was watching
him anxiously.

“Well, frankly, Tom, you would do me a service,” cried Dupuis eagerly.

“Go and pack your trunk, then, and I’ll settle the business.”

“There’s no danger of a scene,” said George, stopping short near the
door; “you would be quite mistaken in your estimate of her character if
you feared that.”

“I shall see,” returned his friend laconically.

“Tell her that I entreat her to keep calm. Tears might unman me, but
could change nothing in my plans.”

“I’ll tell her. Go to your trunk.”

“I’m going, Tom.”

He opened the door, hesitated, then closed it again and came back to the
fireplace, near which Rouvière was still standing.

“My dear friend,” said he softly, laying his hand on Tom’s arm, “you
will be very gentle with her, will you not?”

A kind smile gleamed in the usually cold, sharp eyes of the traveller,
as he looked in his friend’s anxious, agitated face.

“Don’t be afraid,” he replied; “but you—don’t you desert me when I’ve
gone to the front.”

“Desert during the battle! You don’t know me, Tom!”

“Why, you see,” said Tom, “I should look wondrous silly if you did!”

“Tom Rouvière,” cried Dupuis solemnly, “permit me to assure you that my
mind is made up, and that this evening at nine o’clock, come what will,
I go with you. I pledge you my word of honor. Are you satisfied?”

“Go and pack your trunk!” laughed Rouvière, taking him by the shoulders
and pushing him out of the room.

Left to himself, M. Rouvière returned to the chimney-piece and stood
over the fire, rubbing his hands meditatively, and from time to time
breaking out into words.

“Now then, Mme. Dupuis, it’s between you and me,” said he, half-aloud,
with a kind of chuckle. “It’s very certain that my principal object is
to make poor George something like himself again, but I really sha’n’t
be sorry to try the effect of a thunder-bolt on that serene-looking
lady!” Here M. Rouvière rubbed his hands gleefully and laughed heartily;
picturing to himself, probably, the poor wife’s consternation and
despair when he should announce the fatal news.

“I’m not a Turk,” he muttered presently—“far from it, I’m sure; until
now I always believed, like every true Christian, that polygamy deserved
the gallows; but, hang it! only think of a decent man condemned to
perpetual communion with such a disagreeable creature as that old
village sauce-pan! Such a life is clearly impossible!” A minute’s silent
thought followed, and then M. Rouvière roused himself, and sat down
before the fire to warm the soles of his feet. But not for long.

“I understood that woman,” he suddenly exclaimed, starting up from his
seat and beginning to pace rapidly up and down the floor—“I understood
her and judged her before I saw her! I knew her to be exactly what she
is, from her cap to her shoes! She was always odious to me! Just see
with what stupid symmetry all this furniture is arranged: two chairs
here and two chairs there, everything square with its neighbor, all at
equal distances—how wearisome! That old barometer, too, and these absurd
curiosities”—he stopped, as he spoke, in front of the chimney: “a
stuffed bird, a shell-box, spun-glass, and horrid cocoanut cups carved
by galley-slaves! They absolutely give one the height and the breadth
and the weight of the woman, both physically and morally. Poor George!
an intelligent man, too. I was sorry for him,” he continued, taking a
seat in front of the fire, “but I couldn’t help it. How I pegged into
her all dinnertime! Ha, ha, ha! I was as disgusting as a Kalmuck! I
really _was_ ashamed of myself! but, the deuce take it! every one’s
nerves are not made of bronze. M. du Luc! Mme. le Rendu! and her fish
... and her cat ... and her _curé_ ... hang it! I _couldn’t_ stand it.”

Here M. Rouvière interrupted his monologue for a minute to examine the
toe of his boot; satisfied that it was intact, he resumed his train of
thought.

“No, I really don’t believe that it would be possible to meet with a
more perfect type of the humdrum existence, the narrow-minded ideas, and
flat conversation prevalent in these provincial mole-hills than this
dowdy female presents! That good fellow—how much he must have suffered
before he learnt to bow his intellect beneath her imbecile yoke! God
bless me! I know the whole story. He probably struggled hard at first,
and then, little by little, he was bowed and bent and broken, as so many
others have been, by the continued pressure of a feminine will! Thirty
years’ martyrdom. But, ha! ha! Mme. Dupuis, _your_ hour has come; he
shall be avenged.”

Here M. Rouvière drew himself up straight in his chair and laughed
merrily. “It reminds me,” continued he half-aloud, “of my battle with
that old Indian woman when I stole her idol while she was asleep. What a
good-for-nothing hussy she was! Extraordinary how much old women
resemble one another all the world over.”

[TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.]


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


                  A GLANCE AT THE INDIAN QUESTION.[40]

Let us begin by considering the Indian himself. As soon as he is able to
stand alone he commences that practice with the bow and arrow which
makes him a good marksman before he is well in his teens. He is tied in
his saddle before he can walk, and a horse becomes as much a part of his
nature as if he were a Centaur. While yet a child he learns the
subterfuges of the chase: the quiet, patient, breathless watchfulness,
the stealthy, snake-like advance, which enable him in adult life to
crawl, unseen and unheard, upon his unsuspecting victim, to take him at
a disadvantage, surprise and kill him without the risk of a wound. From
his earliest years he hears the warriors of his tribe relate their acts
of treachery and blood, of rapine and violence, and boast of them as
brave and glorious deeds. He is taught to consider treachery courage,
robbery and murder honorable warfare, and the most renowned warrior the
one who despatches his foe with the least possibility of danger to
himself. For him revenge is a sacred duty. He hears shouts of savage
laughter and applause greet the warrior who devises the worst tortures
for the miserable captive. His initiation to the order of warriors is a
terrible ordeal of physical suffering, which must be borne without
flinching or murmuring to ensure the success of the candidate. The
grossest sensuality is practised openly under his childish eyes. He
learns to regard cunning and falsehood as virtues, and to look upon the
warrior most skilled in the arts of deceit as the greatest hero of his
tribe. Until he has committed some signal act of murder, treachery, or
robbery, he is without influence among the braves or attractions for the
squaws.

All is fair in the wars of Indians, either with the white man or foes of
their own color. The Sioux kills the Crow—man, woman, or papoose at the
breast—at sight. The Crow will brain the sleeping Sioux equally without
regard to age or sex. A small party of Minneconjon Sioux went to the
Tongue River Cantonment, last December, to surrender. They carried a
flag of truce. Unfortunately, they rode into the camp of some Crow
scouts which was situated within a few hundred yards of the cantonment.
The Crows received them in a friendly manner, shook hands with them, and
while with one hand they gave the pledge of amity, with the other they
poured the contents of their revolvers into the breasts of the bearers
of the white flag. The Crows could not understand the indignation of the
officers and soldiers at such an act of treachery and cowardice (we
regret to say that it was not without apologists and applauders among
white frontiersmen), but they feared it enough to run away to their
agency, where the leader in the bloody deed was the recipient of high
honors. There he was the hero of the time.

HOW THE INDIAN IS CIRCUMSTANCED.

Next let us consider the circumstances in which this creature, so
savagely nurtured and developed, is placed.

We find him in a district of country which he believes to be his by
immemorial right of possession. It is the land of his fathers. The white
man formally recognizes his claim by making solemn treaties for the
transfer of portions of the Indian’s heritage. The land being his, the
game is his. The Great Spirit created the buffalo for the sustentation
of his red children. The buffalo-hunter enters the Indian’s domain, and
slaughters the buffalo by tens of thousands for the robes, leaving the
flesh to rot upon the plain. Thousands are wantonly destroyed by wealthy
idlers who call themselves sportsmen. The buffalo supplies the Indian
not only with food, but with raiment and shelter. It furnishes him the
article of exchange which enables him to obtain the necessaries of his
savage life. The diminution of the buffalo means privation, suffering,
nakedness, starvation to the Indian and his family.

The white man by formal compact purchases from the Indian some certain
district, and solemnly binds himself to respect the Indian’s remaining
rights within certain prescribed limits, to keep trespassers from
entering the now diminished territory, and to ensure it to him and his
tribe for ever. But this does not stop the insatiate adventurer, who
again crosses the newly-defined limit.[41] The government seems
powerless to compel its citizens to respect its treaty obligations or to
punish their infraction. The exasperated Indian kills some of the
trespassers. Would it be astonishing that he should do so, even if he
had been reared under the influences of Christianity instead of those of
barbarism? Troops are now sent against the Indians. After the sacrifice
of a greater or less number of brave soldiers the hostile tribe is
subjected, compelled to return to a quasi-peaceful condition, and to
consent to a further reduction of its territorial limits. Before the ink
is dry with which the so-called treaty is written the adventurer again
crosses the newly-designated boundary. Thus the process goes on _ad
infinitum_, or until the Indian, driven from the last foot of his
ancestral earth, starving, naked, the cries of his suffering women and
children ringing in his ears, is compelled to accept any terms which
will give him food and covering.

THE INDIANS ON THE RESERVATIONS.

The Indian is now taken to a reservation. Even his removal may be a
transportation job by which some politicaster in New York or Boston or
friendly Philadelphia, who never saw a hostile Indian, and who invests
no money in the enterprise, makes a fortune. From this time on he is a
means of money-making for a crowd of sharpers. A scanty supply of bad
beef at a high price, a little coffee and sugar of the lowest grade,
with sometimes indifferent flour, compose his ration. If he happens to
be where he can occasionally kill a buffalo, a deer, or a wolf, his
squaw dresses the skin, and he takes it to the trader’s store, where he
barters it for a little sugar, coffee, or pemican to add to his meagre
ration. He gets in exchange for his peltries what the trader chooses to
give him. For a calf-robe or a wolf-skin he may get a few cupfuls of the
coarsest sugar, or a tin cup worth about ten cents in New York. For a
fair calf-robe the trader will ask _three dollars_! “We make every white
man rich who comes to our country,” said Sitting Bull to Gen. Miles in
the council which preceded the fight on Cedar Creek, in Montana, last
October. The remark was not without truth, so far as Indian traders and
reservation rings are concerned.

It is alleged that Indians on reservations have been compelled to kill
some of their ponies to feed their families. We do not personally know
this to be so, but we can well believe it. We do know that not three
years ago the Kiowas and Comanches were without flour for months; that
the beef issued to them was miserable. We have seen it stated and have
been told time and again that rations have been drawn for numbers
greatly exceeding those actually at the agencies; and, with the
developments made through the honesty and courage of Professor Marsh
still fresh in our memory, we can well believe it also. Is it a subject
of special wonder that, being the victim of such a system, in addition
to his peculiar training, the Indian should look upon deceit and robbery
as not only justifiable but laudable?

WHAT WE ASK OF THE INDIAN.

All men are naturally tenacious of their rights of property; the more
civilized the community the more sacred those rights. The Indian has the
instinct of property very strongly developed. After we have subdued,
swindled, and reduced him to the verge of starvation we say to him: “You
must now surrender your horses and your arms.” The earliest ambition of
an Indian is to possess a fire-arm. He will pay thirty to forty ponies
for a good rifle. Ponies are his currency. If the government sells this
rifle by auction, it will bring perhaps five to ten dollars. It is hard
for the Indian to see his rifle carried off and his horse ridden away by
some white hunter, “wolfer,” or trapper. He is very fond of his ponies.
No consideration of value will induce him to part with a favorite horse.
A friend of the writer saw a squaw, with tears in her eyes, cut a lock
from the mane of her favorite pony before surrendering the animal to the
representative of the government. Thus, we starve the Indian; we deprive
him of his arms, with which he might kill game to eke out a subsistence;
we take away his ponies, which furnish him food when he is reduced to
extremity through our fault or failure. What Christian people would be
content under such treatment? Can we be surprised that an untutored
savage, who cannot understand our clashing of bureaus, our shifting of
responsibility, or our red-tape refinements of official morality, should
look upon the white man as the liar of liars and the thief of thieves,
and, when he is on the war-path, should execute the wild justice of
revenge on any of the race who happens to come within reach of his
rifle? Can we be surprised if he leaves his reservation and chooses to
fight to the last rather than be the patient victim of such a system of
injustice and spoliation? It is not astonishing that the Indian should
surrender only his poorest animals, should hide his magazine guns and
rifles and give up only rusty old smooth-bores or arms for which he
cannot procure fitting ammunition. In our every transaction with him we
strengthen by example the lessons of deception he was taught in his
childhood.

INDIAN LIFE AT AN AGENCY.

An Indian agency is not usually a school of morality. Interpreters,
traders’ clerks, “squaw-men,” have what are euphemistically termed
“Indian wives.” It is scarcely necessary to say that these are nothing
more than concubines. These poor red slaves are usually purchased from
their savage sires for a blanket, a cheap trinket, a pony, or a few
cartridges. Sometimes they are presents given for the purpose of making
interest with influential underlings. Agency life has no tendency to
elevate the Indian. He lives in idleness and inaction. He has nothing to
do and nothing to hope for. He has no future. He must occupy his time in
some way, and he becomes a slave to gambling and sexual indulgence.
Occasionally the young men, wearied by the monotony of such a life and
ambitious of distinction, seize upon the first real or fancied wrong as
a pretext for revolt, fly the agency, and go upon the war-path.

OUR INDIANS IN CANADA.

Why is it that the Indians who give us so much trouble become peaceable,
and remain so, when they settle on the Canadian side of the border?
There they receive no governmental aid, and are able to procure their
own subsistence. We read of no outrages or robberies there. It is simply
because the Indian’s rights are respected. He has been protected in his
rights even against the greedy nephews of English statesmen who cast
covetous eyes upon his lands. If he is guilty of offence, he is promptly
and sternly punished. The arm of the military is not held back when
offending Indians are within reach of punishment because a million or so
has been appropriated to be expended for their benefit as soon as they
can be reported peaceable, and because the vultures of the ring are
a-hungering for the spoil.

THE FRONTIERSMAN AND THE INDIAN.

It is difficult for the honest frontiersman—the hardy pioneer who, with
an axe in one hand and a rifle in the other, hews himself a farm out of
the wilderness—to be just toward the Indian. The memory of massacre of
his neighbors or relatives, of outrage on defenceless women, stirs up,
even in gentle breasts, a hatred of the red man which prompts an undying
vendetta, which begets a feeling that a remorseless shedding of Indian
blood to the very last drop would not be an adequate punishment for such
atrocities. There is many a worthy and otherwise humane and law-abiding
pioneer who believes that dead Indians are the only good ones; and such
a feeling seizes even the strongest advocate of a humane policy when he
sees the scalp of a white woman dangling from the girdle of a filthy
savage. There are men on the frontier, otherwise brave and
gentle-hearted, who would have no more scruple to shoot an Indian at
sight than to kill a prairie-wolf. Peace is difficult to keep between
two opposing elements imbued with corresponding sentiments toward each
other. For this state of things the rapacious Indian rings, the
violators of treaty stipulations, the ruthless adventurers, the
horse-thieves, the murderers, fugitives from justice, respecting no
laws, human or divine, who infest the Indian country, are mainly
responsible. An American gentleman who spent two years recently in
Manitoba told the writer that he found many of the Sioux who were
engaged in the Minnesota massacre living there peaceful and contented.
“Wearing a red coat,” said he, “I can travel alone from one end of the
Territory to the other without danger of molestation.”

THE QUAKERS AND THE INDIANS.

The failure of the Quaker specific does not need to be dwelt upon. We
have had under the Quaker management the most serious and bloody Indian
wars that have afflicted the frontier for many years. Besides, there is
scarcely a wild tribe of which some portion has not been in a state of
hostility to a greater or less extent. There are itching palms among the
Quakers as well as among the other religious denominations. What was
needed was not men who made professions of peace—or “made-up Quakers,”
who put on the Friendly drab for the occasion—but men who practised
honesty and fair-dealing.

THE ARMY AND THE INDIANS.

The worst elements of society on the frontier—“wolfers,”
buffalo-hunters, trappers, guides, scouts, contractors, venders of
poisonous whiskey, and keepers of frontier gambling-saloons—may and
generally do desire Indian wars; for to them they are a source of
employment and profit. Territorial officials, their friends and clients,
may desire a state of hostility, on account of the money it causes to be
expended in their districts, especially if authority can be obtained to
raise special forces. This, in addition to opportunities of profit,
offers a means of augmenting and strengthening what is delicately termed
“political” influence by a judicious distribution of patronage. It is
not very long since a force was raised, in a certain frontier State,
which, during an Indian war then raging, did not kill or capture an
Indian, inflict or receive a scratch, or fire a shot. This force, which
was in service only for a few months, cost the country at large nearly
two hundred thousand dollars. This was very pleasant for the force, very
profitable to the State. No doubt a repetition of the experience would
be agreeable at any time. It was not very economical or beneficial to
the country at large. But to suppose that the regular army desires wars
with the Indian tribes is a very great mistake. Why should it? To the
army Indian wars are neither sources of honor nor of profit. To it they
only mean hard work, no glory, increased personal expenditures without
additional pay. For our hard-worked little army receives no field
allowances. A member of the non-combatant branches of the military
establishment can effect more toward his advancement in one campaign in
Washington than can the live, the real soldiers, the fighting men, in
five lustres of laborious and dangerous field-service in the Indian
country. Operations against hostile tribes, though attended by exposure,
hardship, suffering, and dangers to which civilized warfare presents no
parallel, with the possibility of death by indescribable tortures in the
event of capture, are not considered “war” by certain gentlemen who sit
at home at ease and enjoy, if they do not improve, each shining hour.
Hundreds of brave men in blue may fall in Indian battle, crushed by the
mere power of numbers; but this, forsooth, is not “war.” It is only
wounds, or maiming for life without hope of recognition or reward, or
death upon a battle-field to which glory is denied.

THE TRANSFER OF THE INDIANS TO THE WAR DEPARTMENT.

The transfer of the Indians to the War Department would be advantageous,
for a time, both to the government and the Indian, but it would be
ruinous to the army. The Indian Ring would eventually either effect the
abolition of the army altogether—which would be bad enough—or fill it
with the material of which Indian traders and reservation sharks are
made—which would be still worse. The country cannot afford to risk the
deterioration or destruction of a class of officials admitted on all
hands to be among the most honorable and trustworthy servants of the
government.

CAUSES OF INDIAN WARS.

The usual cause of Indian wars is want of good faith in carrying out the
obligations of treaties. It is scarcely too much to say that we rarely,
if ever, carry out treaty stipulations with Indians. The great majority
of the people of the United States wish to treat the Indian not only
fairly, but kindly, generously, magnanimously. Money enough is
appropriated, if it were judiciously and honestly expended. But the sums
appropriated seem to become small by degrees and wonderfully less before
they reach the Indian. It is not the interest of the Indian Ring to have
the Indian question settled.

The transgression of limits solemnly agreed upon has been already
mentioned. The lawless classes enumerated above steal Indian ponies and
do not scruple to kill an unoffending Indian occasionally. The Indian
does not understand individual responsibility for crime. He holds the
whole race or tribe accountable for the actions of one of its members,
and avenges the killing of his brother on the first victim presented to
him.

Indian wars have doubtless been caused by more than usually grasping
traders whose rapacity has made the Indians discontented and driven them
from the reservations. We have read, at least, of cases in which numbers
have been fed on paper in excess of the actual number present on the
reservation. We are told that in such cases, when an impending
investigation has made discovery possible, the tribe is reported hostile
and large numbers said to have left the agency. The Indians who have
lived quietly on the reservation, utterly unable to comprehend the
forcible measures about to be adopted, suspicious as Indians always are,
and supposing they are all to be killed, leave the reservation and go
upon the war-path.

THE FIRST STEP TOWARD PEACE.

The first step toward bringing the Indian to a permanently peaceful
condition is to place in his country a military force strong enough to
show him the utter madness of keeping up the war. In general, a show of
sufficient force is all that is necessary to bring the Indian to
subjection. No one understands the lesson of force better or applies it
more readily than he. It is the only thing he respects or fears. Instead
of doing this, however, we place in the Indian country meagre garrisons,
barely able to protect themselves, and powerless for offensive
operations. The Indian does not believe our statements of the numbers we
could put in the field if we would. He thinks we are boasting, or—as he
plainly calls saying anything that is not exact truth—lying. With the
directness of mind of a child of nature, he takes a plain, logical view
of the situation, and cannot imagine that we have strength and do not
use it, or, at least, exhibit it. After the annihilation of Custer on
the Little Horn in 1876, and the retirement of all forces from the
country between the Yellowstone and the Missouri, except four or five
hundred infantry, the Indians at certain agencies, who sympathized and
held constant communication with the hostiles, thought they had
succeeded in killing nearly all the white soldiers, and boasted that at
length the Great Father in Washington would have to accede to their
terms. There should be to-day 10,000 men in the Sioux country—6,000
infantry, 2,500 thoroughly drilled and disciplined light cavalry (not
raw boys from the great cities who can neither ride nor shoot, mounted
on untrained horses), and 1,500 light artillery with light steel guns
easily transportable over rough country, but possessing considerable
comparative length of range. Such a force would thoroughly complete the
work done by the infantry amid the snow and ice of the past winter. It
would be the most humane and least expensive mode of laying the
indispensable foundation for further work toward the elevation and
amelioration of the Indian’s condition. Such a force would drive all the
Indians between the Yellowstone and the British line to their agencies,
with little, if any, loss of life. If the humanitarians would end the
war with the least possible shedding of blood, this is the way to do it.
When such a display of force is made as makes resistance hopeless—and
the Indian will be quick to see it—there will be an end of Indian wars
and we may begin the work of civilization in earnest.

THE MODE AND EXTENT OF INDIAN CIVILIZATION.

We must not try to push the Indian forward too fast. There is no use in
trying to make the adult Indian of to-day an agriculturist, or to take
him far out of the sphere in which he was brought up. Once the writer
happened to be in company with a gentleman who has given some thought to
the Indian question, and has had some experience of the Indian
character, when a feathered and beaded warrior made his appearance. He
was richly dressed—scarlet cloth, eagle’s feathers, profusely-beaded
moccasins. “It is nonsense to expect such a creature as that to dig in
mud and dirt,” said our friend. “He would spoil his fine clothes and
ruin his dainty moccasins.” And there was much wisdom in the remark. The
best you can do with the adult Indian is to make him a stock-raiser.
Give him good brood mares. Introduce good blood among his herds of
ponies. Then find a market for his horses. Buy them for the cavalry. Let
him raise a certain proportion of mules, and let the government buy them
for the Quartermaster’s Department. Encourage him to raise beef-cattle
enough at least for his own consumption; and if you can induce him to
raise a surplus, buy the surplus for the Subsistence Department. Give
the Indian a fair price for his produce. Dash down the monopoly of
Indian trading. Allow any merchant of good standing to trade with the
Indian, under proper restrictions as to exclusion of ammunition and
spirituous liquors. Let the red man have the benefit of free-trade and
competition. Ammunition should be furnished, when necessary, only by the
Ordnance Department.

Let the red man also have the same liberty of conscience which is
accorded to the white, the black, and even the yellow. Let there be no
more parcelling out of Indians among jarring sects. Let them have
missionaries of their choice.

Compel all children now under fourteen years to attend schools. Vary
school exercises with the use of tools in the workshop or agricultural
training in the field. Thus you may make some mechanics and some
agriculturists out of the generation now rising. You will have more out
of the next generation. But you cannot make an agriculturist out of the
grown-up Indian, nor a mechanic. It is folly to attempt it. You cannot
reconcile to our nineteenth-century civilization those who have grown up
to maturity with the ideas, manners, and morals of the heroic ages. You
can no more expect Crazy Horse to use the shovel and the hoe than you
could Achilles and Tydides Diomed to plant melons or beans.

THE ONE GREAT REMEDY, AND THE HOPELESSNESS OF ITS APPLICATION.

The remedy of remedies is common honesty in our dealings with the
Indian, backed by a force strong enough and always ready to promptly
crush any attempt at revolt, and punish speedily and severely every act
of lawlessness committed by an Indian. But too many are interested in
keeping up the present system to warrant even the slenderest hope of any
radical change. To put it in crude frontier terms: “There is too much
money in it.” Politicasters, capitalists, contractors, sub-contractors,
agents, traders, agency employés, “squaw-men”—or degraded whites who
live in a state of concubinage with Indian women, and who are generally
tools and touters for the traders—hosts of sinecurists and their
friends, find “money in it.” The links of the ring are legion. It is too
strong. It can shelve or crush any man with honesty and boldness enough
to attack the system. It is too strong for the commissioner or the
secretary. It is to be feared that it may prove too strong for the
country.


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


                         CHARLES LEVER AT HOME.

The man whose rollicking pen has made more dragoons than all the
recruiting-sergeants in her Britannic Majesty’s service; who has
“promoted” the “Connaught Rangers” and _Faugh a ballaghs_ into _corps
d’élite_; who has broken more bones across country than the six-foot
stone walls of Connemara; whose pictures of that land “which smiles
through her tears like a sunbeam in showers” are as racy of the soil as
her own emerald shamrock; who has painted Irish girls pure as angels’
whispers, bright as saucy streamlets, and the “boys” a bewildering
compound of fun, fight, frolic, and “divarshin”; whose career was as
stainless as his success was merited, and whose memory is an
heirloom—was born in the city of Dublin in the year of grace 1806.
Graduating at Cambridge University, and subsequently at the
_U_-niversity of Göttingen, his student-life betrayed no symptoms of the
mental _élan_ which was to distinguish him later on, and, save for its
Bohemianism, was absolutely colorless, and even dull. The boy was not
father to the man. Selecting the medical profession as much by chance as
predilection, he succeeded, during the visitation of cholera in 1832, in
obtaining an appointment as medical superintendent in the northwest of
Ireland, in the districts of Londonderry and Coleraine, and for a time
continued to “guess at prescriptions, invent ingredients,” and generally
administer to the requirements of afflicted humanity. But the task was
uncongenial, the life a dead-level, flavored with no spice of variety,
uncheckered in its monotonous routine. It was a “bad billet, an’ no
Christian man cud live in it, barrin’ a say-gull or a dispinsiry
docthor.” Doctor Lever!—pshaw! Charley Lever; who ever thinks of the
author of _Harry Lorrequer_ as Doctor Lever? Nevertheless, his
experiences at this period bore him rich fruit in the after-time, and in
Billy Traynor, “poet, peddler, and physician” (_The Fortunes of
Glencore_), we have a type of the medical men with whom he was then
associated. “I am the nearest thing to a doctor going,” says Billy. “I
can breathe a vein against any man in the barony. I can’t say that for
any articular congestion of the aortis valve, or for a seropulmonic
diathesis, d’ye mind, that there isn’t as good as me; but for the ould
school of physic, the humoral diagnostic touch, who can beat me?” The
hedge-doctor and hedge-schoolmaster, pedants both, are now an
institution of the past.

Charles Lever, however, was not destined to blush unseen or waste his
sweetness on a country practice. Appointed to the Legation at Brussels,
he bounded from the dreary drudgery of a dispensary to the glittering
gayety of an embassy, from the hideous squalor of the fever-reeking
cabin to the coquettish gravity of the palatial sick-room. In “Belgium’s
capital” the _cacoethes scribendi_ seized him, and the result was _Harry
Lorrequer_. He awoke, and, like Lord Byron, found himself famous. The
distinct portraiture, the brilliant style, the thoroughly Hibernian
_ensemble_, claimed a well-merited success for the book, and, written at
the right moment—how many good works have perished by being floated on
an ebb tide!—the public, who had hitherto accepted Ireland through the
clever but trashy effusions of Lady Morgan, and the more genuine metal
of Maria Edgeworth and Samuel Lover, joyously turned towards the rising
sun, and, seizing upon this genuine bit of shillelah, clamorously
demanded a fresh sprig from the same tree. The wild dash, as
exhilarating as “mountain dew,” the breezy freshness, the gay _abandon_
of society and soldiering, the “moving accidents by flood and field,”
acted upon the jaded palates of the British public like a tonic, and
_Harry Lorrequer_, instead of being treated as an _entrée_, became
respected as the _pièce de résistance_. Harry’s appearance on parade
with the Othello blacking still upon his face; Miss Betty O’Dowd’s visit
to Callonby on the “low-backed car”; her desire of disowning the
nondescript vehicle, and its being announced by her shock-headed
retainer as “the thing _you know_ is at the doore”; the description of
boarding-house life in Dublin sixty years ago; Mrs. Clanfrizzle’s, in
Molesworth Street—the establishment is still in existence, and may be
recognized in Lisle House; the “amateur hotel,” so graphically described
by Mr. Lever; the picture of “dear, dirty Dublin” itself:


                “Oh! Dublin, sure there is no doubtin’,
                  Beats every city upon the say;
                ’Tis there you’ll see O’Connell spoutin’
                  And Lady Morgan making tay”;


a night at Howth; the Knight of Kerry and Billy McCabe—form a succession
of sketches teeming with vivacity, humor, and wit, and dashed off with a
pen which almost makes a steeplechaser of the reader, so exciting and so
rapid is the pace.

To Lever’s official career at Brussels we are indebted for several
diplomatic portraits, notably those of Sir Horace Upton (_The Fortunes
of Glencore_) and Sir Shally Doubleton (_A Day’s Ride_); the former of
“a very composite order of human architecture, chivalrous in sentiment
and cunning in action, noble in aspiration and utterly sceptical as
regards motives, deep enough for a ministerial dinner and fast enough
for a party of young guardsmen at Greenwich,” and the latter who could
receive a Foreign Office “swell” thus: “Possibly your name may not be
Paynter, sir; but you are evidently before me for the first time, or you
would know that, like my great colleague and friend, Prince Metternich,
I have made it a rule through life never to burden my memory with what
can be spared it, and of these are the patronymics of all subordinate
people; for this reason, sir, and to this end, every cook in my
establishment answers to the name of Honoré, my valet is always Pierre,
my coachman Jacob, and all Foreign Office messengers I call Paynter.”
Upon the small-fry of diplomacy Mr. Lever is occasionally very severe,
and his pictures of life at Hesse Kalbbratonstadt and similar
unpronounceable principalities are as amusing as they are possibly
realistic.

The success of _Harry Lorrequer_ set its author at quill-driving in the
same direction, and _Charles O’Malley, or The Irish Dragoon_, was given
to the world. The very name sounds “boot and saddle”—rings of the spur
and clanks of the sabre. What a romance: the high-spirited lad who leads
his rival to the jaws of the grave in the hunting-field, and follows him
in a ride of death against the unbroken front of Cambronne’s battalions
on the blood-stained field of Waterloo! What a picture of the old
Peninsular days! What portraits of _Le petit Caporal_, as the French
army loved to call Napoleon, of the “Iron Duke,” the gallant Picton, and
the great captains of that eventful period! What glimpses of dark-eyed
señoritas and haughty hidalgos; of lion-hearted sons of Erin charging to
the cry of _Faugh a ballagh_, and leading forlorn hopes with saucy jokes
upon their laughing lips; of “Connaught Robbers,” as the Connaught
Rangers were jocosely called, on account of the number of prisoners
which they invariably made, and for the most part single-handed; of
Brussels the night before Waterloo; and of the Duchess of Richmond’s
celebrated ball:


             “There was a sound of revelry by night,
             And Belgium’s capital had gathered then
             Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
             The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men.”


What pictures of old Ireland—of Daly’s Club-House, the resort of the
Irish members in College Green, still standing, but now converted into
insurance offices. “I never pass the old club,” said Sir Thomas Staples,
the last surviving member of the Irish House of Commons, to the writer,
“without picturing it as I remember it, when Grattan, and Curran, and
Ireland’s best blood strolled in after a fiery debate, or rushed out on
the whisper of that awful word, ‘division.’ Very little would restore
Daly’s to its original shape; and who knows but it may yet be revived,
if repeal of the Union be carried?” Sir Thomas Staples is dead some
years, and the Home-Rule question had not come to the front whilst he
was yet numbered amongst the living. Shall we behold an Irish Parliament
sitting once again in College Green? Shall Daly’s club be restored to
its former splendor? Shall we see Mr. Butt, Mr. Sullivan, Mr. Mitchell
Henry, with many other earnest sons of Ireland, enrolled amongst its
members?

Who can forget the account of Godfrey O’Malley’s election, when, in
order to avoid arrest for debt, he announced his own death in the
papers, and, having travelled in the hearse to Connemara, reached his
stronghold in the west, where bailiffs and process-servers foolhardy
enough to cross the Shannon were compelled to eat their own writs under
penalty of tar and feathers, and from whence he triumphantly addressed
his constituents, appealing to their sympathies and support on the very
powerful plea of _having died for them_? There is a story extant of
Jackey Barrett which has not travelled far, if at all, beyond the walls
of Trinity. Upon one occasion the vice-provost was dining off roast
turkey in the glorious old Commons Hall, and next to him sat his nephew,
the heir expectant to his enormous wealth. The turkey was somewhat
underdone, and the nephew sent the drumsticks to be devilled. Some
little delay occurred, which caused the vice-provost to observe to his
kinsman with a malicious grin: “That devil is keeping you a long time
waiting.” “Not half as long as _you_ are keeping the devil waiting,” was
the retort. Jackey never forgave him. What a creation is Mickey Free,
that devoted, warm-hearted, rollicking Irish follower, that son of song
and story, who, by his own account, sang duets with the
commander-in-chief in the Peninsula, and wore a masterpiece of Murillo
for a seat to his trousers! Mickey was quoted recently, during a debate
in the British House of Commons on the Eastern question by Major
O’Gorman, the jester-in-chief, _vice_ Mr. Bernal Osborne, the rejected
of Irish constituencies:


                 “For I haven’t a janius for work—
                    It was never a gift of the Bradies;
                  But I’d make a most illigant Turk,
                    For I’m fond of tobacco and ladies.”


The House roared, and even Mr. Disraeli, that was, allowed his parchment
visage to snap into smiling. Charles Lever informed the writer that he
originally intended Mickey Free for a mere stage servant, who comes on
with a tray or exits with a chair or a table; but upon discovering that
Mr. Free had made his mark he wrote him up. “I never could give a
publisher a complete novel all at once,” said Mr. Lever, “although I
have been offered very large sums of money for one; I always wait to see
how my public like me, and write from month to month, trimming my sails
to suit the popular breeze.”

_Charles O’Malley_ was a brilliant success. A spirit of martial
enthusiasm inflated the minds of the rising generation, until to be a
dragoon became the day-dream of existence, and many an embryo warrior
who failed in obtaining a commission compromised with a cruel destiny by
accepting the queen’s shilling. The charm of the book is complete; and
for break-neck, dashing narrative, for wit, sparkle, and genuine Irish
drollery, interspersed here and there with tender touches of pathos and
soft gray tones of sorrow, _Charles O’Malley_ stands unrivalled, and
will hold its own when hundreds of so-called Irish romances shall have
returned to the dust out of which they should never have emerged, even
into a spasmodic vitality.

Perhaps the only smart thing ever uttered by King George III. was when
he taxed Sheridan with being afraid of the author of the _School for
Scandal_; and perhaps Lever was afraid of the author of _Charles
O’Malley_, as he published _Con Cregan_, _Maurice Tiernay_, _Sir Jasper
Carew_, and one or two other novels anonymously; but a quickwitted
public, detecting the ring of the true metal, compelled “Harry
Lorrequer” to stand revealed. Novel followed novel in quick succession,
Ireland providing the mine from which he dug his golden ore; and
although he carries his readers to fairer climes and sunnier skies,
somehow or other he contrives to land them safely and soundly in the
“ould counthry” at last. We have not space, nor is it our province, to
deal with Lever’s works in detail. No modern productions of fiction have
gained a greater or more popular reputation for their writer. By no
Irish author is he equalled in Irish humor, by no author is he surpassed
in unwearying narrative. The foreign tone infused into some of his later
productions is due to his residence in Italy. “You wish to have nothing
to do, Lever? There is eight hundred a year; go and do it,” said the
late Lord Derby, bestowing the vice-consulship of Spezzia upon him.
Later on he was promoted to Trieste.

For a time Charles Lever edited the _Dublin University Magazine_, then a
coruscation of all that was brilliant in literature. He resided at the
village of Templeogue, situated in the lap of the Dublin mountains, with
Sugar Loaf at one extremity, and Mount Pelier, with its ruined castle
renowned for the orgies of the infamously-celebrated “Hell-fire Club,”
at the other. Templeogue Lodge was the Mecca towards which all “choice
spirits” devoutly turned, and the wit, repartee, song, jest, and story
circulated within its walls made the _Noctes Ambrosianæ_ but dull
affairs in comparison. “One little room rises to recollection, with its
quaint old sideboard of carved oak, its dark-brown cabinets, curiously
sculptured, its heavy old brocade curtains, and all its queer devices of
knick-knackery, where such meetings were once held, and where, throwing
off the cares of life—shut out from them, as it were, by the massive
folds of the heavy drapery across the door—we talked in all the fearless
freedom of old friendship.” There are a few still surviving who will
recognize that room, and recall with a throb of painful pleasure the
nights at the little lodge at Templeogue.

Lever was fond of portraying banished heroes, misanthropes—men who had
dug their own graves, or, overtaken by some whirlwind of misfortune,
“gave signs that all was lost.” The character of Lord Glencore is
admirably drawn, and his life of torture in his mad cry for vengeance
fearfully vivid. _Luttrell of Arran_ is the story of a disappointed
life, from out of which springs a bright flower of maidenhood—Kate, one
of Lever’s most charming creations. Again, we have the _Knight of
Gwynne_, over whose gentle head wave after wave of hard fortune
pitilessly breaks, and, driven from the lordly home of his ancestors to
a sheeling by the sad sea-wave, he is as cheerful in adversity as he was
noble in prosperity. The portrait of the fire-eating Bagenal Daly is not
overdrawn, and the introduction of Freeny the robber, although highly
melodramatic, is not only possible but probable. Freeny’s “character”
stood remarkably high. He would rob a rich miser to save a poor family
from starvation, and his word was as good as his bond; ‘98 turned many a
man upon the king’s highway who, but for being “out,” would have lived
respecting and respected. The _Martins of Cro’ Martin_ is another
ghastly narrative of the wreck and ruin of a proud old Irish race. It is
“an owre true” story. A few miles outside of the town of Galway, on the
road to Oughterard, stand two gaunt pillars surmounted by granite
globes. The gates have disappeared, as also the armorial bearings; but
this was formerly the entrance to Ballinahinch, the seat of the “ould,
anshint” Martins, and from that gate to Ballinahinch Castle was a drive
of forty Irish miles. The castle, situated in one of the loneliest and
loveliest valleys in Connemara, was maintained in a style of regal
magnificence, the stables, marble-stalled, affording accommodation for
sixty hunters. On an island, in the centre of a small lake opposite the
castle, stands a desolate, half-ruined keep, within the four walls of
which such of his retainers or neighbors as proved refractory were
imprisoned by “The Martin” of the period. Recklessness and improvidence
scattered the broad acres, mortgage overlapped mortgage, and every inch
of the grand old estate became the property of the London Law Life
Assurance Society. Notably the last of the family was Richard Martin,
commonly known as “Humanity Dick,” in reference to a bill introduced by
him into the British House of Commons for the repression of cruelty to
animals. Upon the occasion of its introduction the English members
essayed to cough him down. “I perceive,” said Mr. Martin, “that many of
you seem troubled with severe coughs; now, if any _one_ gentleman will
cough distinctly, so that I may be able to recognize him, I can give him
a pill which may, perhaps, effectually prevent his ever being again
troubled with a cough on this side of the grave.” Mr. Martin’s
prescription was at once effectual.

With “Humanity Dick’s” granddaughter perished the race; and her name is
still breathed in Connemara as a prayer, as one “who never opened a
cabin-door without a blessing, nor closed it but to shut hope within.”
The farm-house where she was nursed is still fondly pointed out, and
“Miss Martin’s lep”—she was a superb horsewoman—is proudly shown to
every “spalpeen” of an Englishman who travels that wild, bleak, and
desolate road between Oughterard and Clifden. Mr. Lever, with that magic
all his own, has told the sad story. _His_ Mary Martin is but the
portrait of that fair young Irish girl who dearly loved “her people”
unto the last, and who, in the bright blossom of her life, died an exile
from that western home which was at once her idol and her pride. Where
but in Ireland could this sad and solemn gathering around the bedside of
a dying girl take place?

    “And yet there was a vast multitude of people there. The whole
    surface of the lawn that sloped from the cottage to the river
    was densely crowded with every age, from the oldest to the very
    infancy; with all conditions, from the well-clad peasant to the
    humblest ‘tramper’ of the highroads. Weariness, exhaustion, and
    even hunger were depicted on many of their faces. Some had
    passed the night there, others had come long distances, faint
    and foot-sore; but, as they sat, stood, or lay in groups around,
    not a murmur, not a whisper, escaped them. With aching eyes they
    looked towards an open window where the muslin curtains were
    gently stirred in the faint air. The tidings of Mary Martin’s
    illness had spread rapidly; far-away glens down the coast,
    lonely cabins on the bleak mountains, wild, remote spots out of
    human intercourse, had heard the news, and their dwellers had
    travelled many a mile to satisfy their aching hearts.”

This is Ireland. This is the undying affection of the people for the
“rale ould stock.” This is the imperishable sentiment, as fresh at this
hour as the emerald verdure upon the summit of Croagh Patrick.

In _A Day’s Ride: a Life’s Romance_, Mr. Lever has given us Algernon
Sydney Potts—one of those romantic visionaries who believe in destiny,
bow to their _Kismet_, and, going with the tide, clothe the meanest
accidents of life in dreamy panoply. The adventures which befall the
Dublin apothecary’s son, from his ride in Wicklow to his imprisonment in
an Austrian fortress, are as varied as they are exciting, and we are
strongly inclined to believe that Lever, “letting off” a good deal of
Bohemia, is at his best in the wild vagaries of this reckless
day-dreamer. _Tom Burke of Ours_ is a dashing military story, as is also
_Jack Hinton, the Guardsman_. _The O’Donoghue_ is charmingly written and
is thoroughly Irish. _That Boy of Norcott’s_ is unsatisfactory.
Commencing in Ireland, it wanders from the old country with the evident
intention of returning to it; but a change came o’er the spirit of the
author’s dream, and it bears all the imprint of having been hastily
written, a changed venue, and of being “hurried up” at its conclusion.
_Sir Brook Fosbrooke_, on the other hand, bears traces of the utmost
care, the details of character being worked out with microscopic
minuteness. The old lord chief-justice is supposed to have been meant
for Lord Chief-Justice Lefroy, of the Court of Queen’s Bench in Ireland,
who died at a very advanced age a few years since, in full possession of
the astounding legal acumen which marked his extended career at the bar,
and subsequently upon the bench.

The writer spent a long-to-be-remembered day with Charles Lever in the
April before his death. He was stopping in Dublin at Morrison’s Hotel,
Dawson Street. We found him seated at an open window, a bottle of claret
at his right hand and the proof-sheets of _Lord Kilgobbin_ before him.
It was a beautiful morning borrowed from the month of May; the hawthorns
in the college park were just beginning to bloom, and nature was young
and warm and lovely.

At the date of our visit he looked a hale, hearty, laughter-loving man
of sixty. There was mirth in his gray eye, joviality, in the wink that
twittered on his eyelid, saucy humor in his smile, and bon mot, wit,
repartee, and rejoinder in every movement of his lips. His hair very
thin, but of a silky brown, fell across his forehead, and when it
curtained his eyes he would jerk back his head—this, too, at some
telling crisis in a narrative when the particular action was just the
exact finish required to make the story perfect. Mr. Lever’s teeth were
all his own, and very brilliant, and, whether from habit or accident, he
flashed them upon us in company with his wonderful eyes—a battery at
once both powerful and irresistible. He spoke slowly at first, but
warming to his work, and candying an idea in a short, contagious,
musical laugh, his story told itself all too rapidly, and the light
burned out with such a glare as to intensify the succeeding darkness.
Like all good _raconteurs_, he addressed himself deferentially to his
auditor in the beginning, and as soon as the fish was hooked, the
attention enthralled, he would speak as if thinking aloud. Mr. Lever
made great use of his hands, which were small and white and delicate as
those of a woman. He made play with them—threw them up in ecstasy or
wrung them in mournfulness, just as the action of the moment demanded.
He did not require eyes or teeth with such a voice and such hands; they
could tell and illustrate the workings of his brain. He was somewhat
careless in his dress, but clung to the traditional high shirt-collar,
merely compromising the unswerving stock of the Brummel period. “I stick
to my Irish shoes,” he said, thrusting upwards about as uncompromising a
“bit of leather” as we have ever set eyes on right under our nose, “and
until a few years ago I got them from a descendant of the celebrated
Count Lally, who cobbled at Letterkenny. There is no shoe in the world
equal to the Irish brogue.”

“You are ‘taking time by the forelock,’ as we say in the play,” said the
writer, pointing to the rough copy of the _Cornhill Magazine_, in which
the story was running.

“Always at the heel of the hunt,” he replied. “This is the May number,
and not corrected yet.”

“I consider _Lord Kilgobbin_ as good as, if not better than, anything
you have written.”

There was unutterable sadness in his tone and gesture as he said, with a
weary sigh:

“Ah! I have been tilting the cask so long that the lees are coming out
very muddy.”

“Which of your novels do you like best?” was asked.

“Well, my most careful work is _Sir Brook Fosbrooke_, but I prefer the
_Dodd Family Abroad_, and all for the sake of Carry Dodd, who is my
ideal of a pure, bright, charming Irish girl.”

Further on:

“You are the same reckless, rollicking, warm-hearted, improvident people
as when I left you, and the lower orders entertain the same hatred of
Saxon supremacy. I was walking down College Green yesterday, and as I
stood opposite the old Parliament House, a troop of dragoons, in all
their panoply of glancing helmets, blood-red coats, and prancing steeds,
trotted past. A ragged, tatterdemalion carman was feeding a horse only
fit for the knacker’s yard, attached to an outside car, with a wisp of
hay.

“‘What regiment is that?’ I asked, partly from curiosity, partly for the
sake of a conversation.

“‘Sorra a know I know,’ was the gruff response.

“‘Where are they going to?’

“Without raising his head, and giving a vicious chuck to the hay:

“‘To h—l, I hope.’

“I will give you another illustration,” continued Mr. Lever, “of how
determinedly the lower order of my countrymen disparage anything and
everything English. I was invited to spend some days with the late Lord
Carlisle, twice your Lord Lieutenant, at Castle Howard, in Yorkshire. I
had at that time an Irish servant, a son of Corny Delany, to whom
grumbling was chronic. As we drove through the magnificent avenue
beneath the extending branches of giant oaks and lordly elms, I observed
to my follower: ‘What do you think of those trees?’

“‘I see thim.’

“‘Are they not splendid?’

“‘Och! threes is threes anywhere.’

“‘But the Howards are proud of these trees; they are the finest in
England. Lord Carlisle sets great store by them.’

“‘Arrah, thin, why wudn’t he have the hoighth av fine threes? Shure
hadn’t he the _pick av the Phaynix Park_?’

“I was dining with Judge —— on Sunday, who, as you know, is a very
diminutive, shrivelled-up-looking little man,” continued Mr. Lever, “and
he told me an amusing story. When attorney-general, he purchased an
estate in Tipperary near Clonmel. Shortly after the purchase he resolved
upon paying the place a visit to take a look at his recent acquisition.
As he was proceeding with his agent through a _boreen_ which led to
mearings of his property, he overheard the following conversation
between two old women:

“‘Wisha, thin, d’ye tell me that’s the new landlord, Missis Mulligan?’

“‘Sorra a lie in it, ma’am.’

“‘That dawny little bit av a crayture?’

“‘A leprechaun, no less.’

“‘_Why, begorra, the boys might as well be shootin’ at a jacksnipe._’”

Mr. Lever’s conversational powers were simply marvellous; his anecdotes
fell like ripe fruit from an overladen tree. In London his great delight
was a night at the Cosmopolitan Club, Berkeley Square. This club is only
open upon Wednesday and Sunday nights during the Parliamentary session.
The members stroll in from eleven o’clock at night to about three
o’clock A.M. Cabinet ministers, ambassadors of all nations, members of
the legislature, eminent _littérateurs_, Royal Academicians, repair
thither for a gossip; and here, amidst the best talkers in the world,
Charles Lever stood pre-eminent. As the wits and _raconteurs_ at Will’s
Coffee House were silent whilst Joseph Addison talked _Spectator_, so
the members of the Cosmopolitan maintained a breathless attention when
Charles Lever talked _Cornelius O’Dowd_; and many a man has “dined out
considerably” upon a _mot_, and has, perhaps, established a reputation,
by the retailing of an anecdote recounted within the _salons_ of the
club by the inimitable and fascinating “Harry Lorrequer.” When the
writer parted with Lever upon that evening, he felt justifiably elated
at being enabled to amuse, if not astonish, the most brilliant man of
the day, but, upon a rigid self-examination, was somewhat disappointed
upon discovering that, instead of his having been engaged in
entertaining Lever, Lever had been entertaining _him_, and that he had
not uttered a single sentence out of the veriest commonplace. Such was
the charm of Lever’s manner that he took you, as it were, from out
yourself, and for the time infused his own groove of thought, causing
your ideas to mingle with his and float joyously onward upon the
glittering current of his conversation. Lever was a devoted worshipper
of the “sad solemnities of whist,” playing rubber after rubber up to any
and all hours. It is related that an eminent wearer of the ermine, a
fellow of Trinity College, a gallant field officer, and Lever met, dined
early, and played whist until the hour at which the train departed for
Kingston by which “Harry Lorrequer” was to leave _en route_ for London.
“Come on to Kingston,” said Lever, “sleep at the Anglesea Arms Hotel,
and I will not go until the morning boat.” They played all night and
until one o’clock next day. _Si non e vero e ben trovato_, but the
writer has the story from unimpeachable authority.

Charles Lever’s _last_ novel, concluded shortly before his death, is
_Lord Kilgobbin_. Let its unutterably sad preface speak for itself:

“To the memory of one whose companionship made the happiness of a long
life, and whose loss has made me helpless, I dedicate this book, written
in breaking health and broken spirits. The task that once was my joy and
my pride I have lived to find associated with my sorrow. It is not,
then, without a cause I say, I hope this effort may be my last.—TRIESTE,
January 20, 1872.”

It is with a pang of regret that we peruse the _Cornelius O’Dowd_
papers. They are tinged with that abominable spirit which is sending
Italy at the present hour to perdition, and we greatly fear that Mr.
Lever wrote them for the London market. He was no bigot, however; on the
contrary, his life was passed amongst Catholics, and his dearest and
best friends were of the true church; consequently, the pain is
intensified when we come to stand face to face with the fact that these
papers were, if not the outcome of a pecuniary necessity, at least the
result of a craving for money, and the hollow effusions of a
hirelingpen. His Italian sojourn led him gradually away from the more
kindly tone towards Catholics which pervaded his earlier Irish novels.

Lever and Griffin have been compared as writers of Irish fiction. We
would rather have been the author of _The Collegians_ than of any work
of Mr. Lever’s. There is a virgin simplicity in Gerald Griffin’s style
that “Harry Lorrequer” could not touch; an atmosphere which he could not
breathe; a purity which, while the _morale_ of Lever’s writings is
unimpeachable, is of that order that is so rarely attained by the most
chaste and most elevated amongst our writers of fiction. Griffin’s Irish
is not stagy—it is real; so, too, is Lever’s. But while the former
paints the portrait, leaving the imagination of the reader to put in the
finishing touches, the latter rubs in a laugh here or a keen thrust
there, so as to dramatize the picture; and, while it is more vivid
during perusal, the mind falls back upon the other for less exciting
_pabulum_.


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


                                 ORDER.

                  FROM A POEM BY ST. FRANCIS D’ASSISI.

                           _Our Lord Speaks_:


           And though I fill thy heart with warmest love,
             Yet in true order must thy heart love me;
             For without order can no virtue be.
           By thine own virtue, then, I from above
             Stand in thy soul; and so, most earnestly,
             Must love from turmoil be kept wholly free.
           The life of fruitful trees, the seasons of
             The circling year, move gently as a dove.
               I measured all the things upon the earth;
                 Love ordered them, and order kept them fair,
                   And love to order must be truly wed.
               O soul! why all this heat of little worth?
                 Why cast out order with no thought or care?
                   For by love’s warmth must love be governèd.


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


                    THE LITTLE CHAPEL AT MONAMULLIN.

Situated in the wildest portion of the county of Mayo, Monamullin, at
the date upon which this story opens, mustered about forty mud-cabins
erected here and there, and in such positions as were deemed most
suitable, having regard to the cruel winds from the ocean, and the “bit
o’ ground” for the cultivation of the potatoes.

A cottage covered with a crisp amber thatch, and whitewashed to the
color of the driven snow, held the post of honor in the village. It
boasted a flower-garden in front and a vegetable patch in the rear.
Moreover, it was guarded by a neatly-cropped privet hedge, while a
little green gate admitted to a red-bricked pathway leading to a rustic
porch adorned with roses that seemingly bloomed the whole year round,
and a Virginia creeper whose leaves were now the hue of blood.

In the front garden, his head bared, the rays of the setting sun
surrounding it as with an aureole, stalked a man attired in the black
flowing soutane of a Catholic clergyman.

Father Maurice O’Donnell, the parish priest, was engaged in reading his
office from a tattered and dog’s-eared breviary. Tall and thin almost to
emaciation, there was yet a wiry swing in his gaunt frame that spoke of
unfaded vigor, whilst the glowing fire in the dark blue eye told its own
tale.

“Father Maurice” was loved and cherished by his little flock. His every
want—and his wants were few enough—was anxiously anticipated. His patch
of oats was tilled, weeded, cut, and stacked, his cottage thatched and
whitewashed, his potatoes planted, his pony treated as common property
in so far as fodder was concerned, while upon fast-days the “finest lump
av a salmin” or the “illigantest” turbot, ever found its way to the back
door of “The House,” as his humble abode was somewhat grandiloquently
styled.

Maurice O’Donnell was wrapped up in his flock. In good sooth he was
their shepherd. Night, noon, and morning found him ever watchful at “the
gate in the vineyard wall.” He was the depositary of all their griefs,
the sharer in all their joys—their guide, philosopher, and friend. In
worldly matters he was simple as a child. Living, as he did, out of the
world, he was perfectly contented to learn what was whirling round
within it from the pages of the _Nation_, from the columns of which it
was his practice to read aloud on Sunday afternoon to a very large
muster, if not to the entire adult population, of Monamullin—in summer
time seated in a coign of vantage by the sad sea-wave, in winter
opposite a rousing turf fire laid on especially for the important
occasion, and with a great display of ceremony by his housekeeper, “an
ould widdy wumman” rejoicing in the name of Clancy, whose husband had
been lost at sea in the night of “the great storm.”

Father Maurice never asked for money—he had no occasion for it. His
solitary extravagance was snuff, and the most sedulous care was taken by
the “boys” returning from Castlebar or Westport to fetch back a supply
of “high toast,” in order that his “riverince’s box” might stand
constantly replenished.

Upon this particular August evening Father Maurice was hurrying through
his office with as much rapidity as the solemn nature of the duty would
permit, as a drive of no less than seven honest Irish miles lay between
him and his dinner.

The even tenor of his life had been broken in upon by an invitation to
dine and sleep at the palatial residence of Mr. Jocelyn Jyvecote, a
Yorkshire squire, who had purchased the old acres of the Blakes of
Ballinacor, and who had recently expended a fabulous sum in erecting a
castle upon the edge of a gloomy lake in the desolate valley of
Glendhanarrahsheen. In his letter of invitation Mr. Jyvecote had said:
“I am extremely desirous of introducing my youngest daughter to you, as
she has taken it into her head to go over to your church; and, since you
are so devoted to _her_ interests, I beg of you to accept this
invitation as you would undertake a little extra duty.”

To decline would be worse than ungracious, especially under the peculiar
circumstances of the case, and it was with a heavy heart, and not
without a keen debate with Mr. Lawrence Muldoon, the “warm” man of the
village, in which the _pros_ and _cons_ were duly and gravely weighed,
that the worthy priest replied in the affirmative. While Father Maurice
was engaged in pacing his little garden, Mrs. Clancy, his housekeeper,
was calmly preparing for a steady but copious enjoyment of her evening
meal in the kitchen, which from floor to ceiling, from fireplace to
dresser—shining again with crockery of the willow pattern—was, to use
her own expression, “as nate as a new-biled egg.” A large brown
earthenware teapot had just been promoted from the hob to a table
“convaynient” to the window. A huge platter of stirabout, with a lump of
butter oiling itself in the middle, stood within easy reach of her right
hand, while a square of griddle-bread occupied a like position upon her
left, and a wooden bowl full of jacket-bursted potatoes formed the near
background.

Mrs. Clancy was strong upon tea, and in the village her opinion upon
this as upon most other subjects was unwritten law. She was particularly
fond of a dash of green through a full-flavored Pekoe, preparing the
mixture with her own fair hands with a solemn gravity befitting so
serious an undertaking. She was now about to try a sample of Souchong
which had just arrived from Westport, and her condition of mind was akin
to that of an analytical chemist upon the eve of some exceedingly
important result.

Mrs. Clancy had seated herself in that cosy attitude peculiar to elderly
females about to enjoy, to them, that most inviting of all meals, and
had already ascertained, upon anxious reference to the teapot, that its
contents had been sufficiently drawn, when the door was thrust somewhat
violently open, and Murty Mulligan, the “priest’s boy,” unceremoniously
entered the _sanctum_.

Murty was handy-man and _factotum_. He “swep out” the chapel, rang the
bell, attended Mass, groomed the pony, dug the potatoes, landed the
cabbage, and made himself generally useful.

Although designated a “boy,” he had allowed—not that he could claim any
particular option in the matter—some forty-five summers to roll over his
head, every one of which, in addition to their attendant winters, had
been passed in the peaceful little village of Monamullin. His travels
had never extended further than Westport, which he regarded as a vast
commercial seaport—a Liverpool, in fact—and it was his habit to place it
in comparison with any city of note that might come upon the _tapis_,
extolling its dimensions and dilating upon its unlimited importance.

Murty’s appearance savored much of the stage Irishman’s. His eyes
sparkled comically, his nose was tip-tilted—Mr. Tennyson will excuse the
application of the simile—while his mouth was large and always open. His
forehead was rather low, and his ears stood out upon either side of his
head like the orifices of air-shafts. He was now arrayed in his bravest
attire, as he had been told off to drive his reverence to Moynalty
Castle. His brogues were as highly greased as his hair, and his
Sunday—last Mass—clothes, consisting of a gray frieze body-coat with
brass buttons, a flowered silk waistcoat, corduroy knee-breeches, and
blue worsted stockings, looked as fresh as if they had been donned for
the first time.

Not a little vain of the importance of his office, combined with the
general effect of his appearance, he swaggered into the kitchen in a
manner totally at variance with his usual custom, as Mrs. Clancy was
every inch queen of this realm, and a potentate who exercised her
prerogative with right royal despotism.

The “consait” was considerably taken out of Murty by being met with an
angry, contemptuous stare and “What ails ye, Murty Mulligan?”

“It’s time for to bring round the yoke, ma’am,” replied Murty in an
abashed and respectful tone, eyeing the teapot with a wistful glance, as
he was particularly partial to a cup of the beverage it distilled,
especially when brewed by Mrs. Clancy.

“Well, av it is, bring it round,” was the tart rejoinder.

“I dunna how far he’s upon his office,” said Murty.

“Ye’d betther ax, Murty Mulligan.”

“I dar’n’t disturb him, Mrs. Clancy, an’ ye know that as well as I do
meself, ma’am.”

“Well, don’t bother me, anyhow,” observed the lady, proceeding to pour
out a cup of tea.

“Is that the tay I brought ye from Westport, ma’am?” demanded Murty,
upon whom the sight of the rich brown fluid and its pungent aroma were
producing longing effects.

Mrs. Clancy took a preliminary sip with the sound of a person
endeavoring to suck a coy oyster from a clinging shell.

“Sorra worse tay I ever wetted,” she retorted. “There’s no more
substance in it nor in chopped sthraw. I’ll never take a grain o’ tay
out o’ Westport agin—sorra a wan.”

“I done me best for ye, anyhow, ma’am. I axed Misther Foley himself for
the shupariorest tay in the town, an’ he gim me what’s in that pot; an’,
faix, it smells rosy an’ well.” And Murty sniffed, as if he would drive
the aroma up through his nostrils out to the top of his head.

Mrs. Clancy turned to Murty with a frowning and ominous aspect, the
glare of an intense irritation blazing in her face.

“Do ye know what I think ye done, Murty Mulligan? It’s me belief ye done
it, an’ if ye tuk the buke to the conthrairy I wudn’t credit ye,”
placing her arms akimbo and fixing him with her eye.

“What is it I done, Mrs. Clancy?” demanded Murty boldly, flinging his
caubeen upon the floor and assuming a defiant attitude. “What is it I
done, ma’am?”

The housekeeper regarded him steadily, while she said in a slow and
solemn tone of impeachment:

“Ye got me infayrior tay, an’ ye tuk a pint out av the change.”

It was Murty’s turn to become indignant now.

“I’d scorn for to do the likes of so mane an action, Mrs. Clancy.
There’s them that wud do the like, but I’d have ye know, ma’am, that me
father’s son wud rather be as dhry as a cuckoo, ma’am, nor demane
himself in that way. Yer sentiments, ma’am, is very hurtful to me
feelin’s, an’ I’d as lieve ye’d call me a thief at wanst, ma’am, as for
to run down me karakter in that a-way.”

“I don’t want for to call ye nothin’, but I repate that—”

“Don’t repate nothin’, ma’am. Av ye wur a man I’d give ye a crack in the
gob for daarin’ to asperge me karakter, more betokin all for the sake av
the filthy lucre av a pint of porther. Porther, indeed!” added Murty.
“I’m goin’ to-day, ma’am, where I’ll get me fill av port wine, an’
sherry wine, and Madayrial wine, ma’am; an’ dickins resave the word I’ll
tell ye av the goin’s-on at the castle beyant for yer thratemint av me
this blessed evenin’, Mrs. Clancy.”

This threat upon the part of Murty threw the housekeeper into the
uttermost consternation. The proceedings at Moynalty Castle were fraught
with the deepest interest to her; for in addition to her personal
curiosity, which was rampant, it was necessary that she should become
acquainted with everything that took place, in order to retail her
special knowledge to her cronies in the village, who awaited the
housekeeper’s report in eager and hopeful expectation.

Had she burnt her boats? Had she cut down the bridge behind her?

Murty Mulligan’s tone was resolute.

“Murty, Murty avic! shure it’s only jokin’ I was—sorra a more,” she said
in a coaxing way.

Murty grunted.

“Shure yer welkim to yer pint av—”

Murty confronted her:

“I tell ye, Missis Clancy, that I tuk nothin’, nayther bit, bite, nor
sup, from the time I et me brekquest till I met Misther Fogarty’s own
boy, and he thrated me. Av I tuk a pint out av yer lucre, ma’am, I’d say
it at wanst, wudout batin’ about the bush.”

“That’s enough, Murty; say no more about the tay. They gev ye a bad
matarial, Murty, an’ shure that’s none o’ you’re fault. Here,” she
added, pouring out a saucerful—the saucer being about the dimensions of
a large soup-plate—and presenting it to him; “put that to yer mouth an’
say is it worth three hapence an ounce?”

“Sorra a care I care,” growled Murty, but in a much softer tone.

“Thry it, anyhow,” urged the housekeeper.

“I don’t care a _thraneen_ for tay, Mrs. Clancy,” said Murty, throwing a
glance full of profound meaning towards a small press in which Mrs.
Clancy kept a supply of cordials.

“Ah!” exclaimed that lady, “I see be the twist in yer eye that ye want
somethin’ to put betune yer shammy an’ the cowld. Ye have a long road to
thravel, Murty, so a little sup o’ ginger cordial will warm it for ye,
avic.” And while the now thoroughly pacified Murty gently remonstrated,
Mrs. Clancy proceeded to the cupboard, and, pouring a _golliogue_ of the
grateful compound into a tea-cup, handed it to Murty, who tossed it off
with a smack that would have started a coach and four.

“So ye’ll stop the night at the castle?” observed the housekeeper in a
careless tone.

“Yis, ma’am.”

“It’s a fine billet, Murty.”

“Sorra a finer. Shure it bates Lord Sligo’s an’ Mitchell Hinry’s beyant
at Kylemore; an’ as for atin’ an’ dhrinkin’, be me song they say that
lamb-chops is as plentiful as cabbages is here, an’ that there’s as much
sperrits in it as wud float ould Mickey Killeher’s lugger.”

“It’s a quare thing for Misther Jyvecote for to be axin’ Father Maurice
to a forrin’ cunthry like that, Murty.”

“Troth, thin, it is quare, ma’am; but, shure, mebbe he wants for to be
convarted.”

“That must be it; an’ he’d be bet intirely, av Father Maurice wasn’t
there for to back his tack. His sermon last Sunda’ was fit for the Pope
o’ Room.”

“I never heerd the like av it. It flogged Europe. Whisht!” suddenly
cried Murty, “who’s this comin’ up the shore?”

“It’s a forriner,” exclaimed the housekeeper, after a prolonged
scrutiny—meaning by the term foreigner that the person who was now
approaching the cottage was not an inhabitant of the village. “A fine,
souple boy,” she added admiringly.

“It’s a gintleman, an’ he has a lump av a stick in his hand,” said
Murty.

“Arrah! what wud bring a gintleman _here_, ye omadhawn?” observed Mrs.
Clancy with some asperity.

“A thraveller, thin,” suggested her companion. “He’s a bag on his back.”

“Troth, it’s badly off he’d be for thravellin’, if he come here for to
do the like.”

“He’s makin’ for the gate.”

“He’s riz the latch.”

“I’ll run out, Mrs. Clancy, and bring ye the hard word, while ye’d be
axin’ for the lind av a sack.”

“Ay, do, Murty avic; an’ I’ll have a cup av Dimpsy’s tay wet be the time
yer back.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Father Maurice had just finished the perusal of his office, and was in
the act of returning to the house, when the stranger approached him.

“Father Morris?” said the new-comer, lifting his hat.

“Maurice O’Donnell, at your service, sir,” replied the priest.

“I should apologize for addressing you so familiarly, reverend sir, but
three or four persons of whom I asked my way told me that Father Morris
was Monamullin, and that Monamullin was Father Morris.”

“My people invariably address me by my Christian name, and I beg, sir,
as you are now within my bailiwick, that _you_ will continue to do so.”

“As I _am_ within your bailiwick, I must needs do your bidding, Father
Maurice.”

Such a genial, happy voice! Such frank, kind blue eyes! Such a well
knit, strong-built figure!

The priest gazed at a young man of about five-and-twenty, six feet high,
with crisp brown curly hair, beard _en Henri Quatre_, broad forehead,
and manly, sunburnt neck and face, attired in a suit of light homespun
tweed, a blue flannel shirt very open at the throat, a scarlet silk tie
knotted sailor fashion, and heavy shoes, broad-toed and thick-soled.

“My name is Brown,” he said. “I am an artist. I have walked over from
Castlebar. I am doing picturesque bits of this lovely country—not your
confounded beaten tracks, but the nooks which must be sought like the
violet. I have very little money, and needs must rough it. This stick
and knapsack constitute my _impedimenta_, and, like Cæsar, I have
carried my Commentaries before now in my teeth while bridging a river by
swimming it. I asked for the inn, and I was referred to Father Maurice.”

“I can answer for it, Mr. Brown, that you will find every house in
Monamullin willing to shelter you; and, further, that you will find this
to be possibly the best. I am unfortunately compelled to travel seven
miles along the coast to-night, but will be back, please God, to-morrow;
in the meantime my housekeeper will try what some broiled fish and a
dish of ham and eggs can do towards appeasing what ought to be a giant’s
appetite. And I can answer for the sheets being well aired, having
pulled the lavender myself in which they are periodically enshrined.”

Father Maurice ushered his guest into the cottage with a welcome so
genuine that Mr. Brown felt at his ease almost ere the greeting had died
upon the priest’s lips, and proceeded to hang up his hat and knapsack
with the air of a man who was completely at home.

The neat little parlor was cosily furnished. A genuine bit of Domingo
mahogany stood in the centre of the room, and round it half a dozen
plump horse-haired, brass-nailed chairs, with a “Come and sit on us, we
are not for show” air about them peculiarly inviting. A venerable
bureau, black as ebony from age, and brass-mounted, ornamented one
corner, and opposite to it a plaster-of-paris bust of Pius IX. upon a
fluted pedestal, while the recesses at either side of the fireplace were
furnished with antique book-cases containing a well-thumbed library of
ecclesiastical literature, the works of St. Augustine being prominently
conspicuous. Over the mantel-piece hung a portrait of Daniel O’Connell,
with the autograph of the Liberator in a small frame beneath, and at his
right and left engravings, and of no mean order either, of Henry Grattan
and John Philpot Curran. The walls were adorned with copies of the
cartoons of Raphael, a view of Croagh Patrick from Clew Bay, a
bird’s-eye glance at St. Peter’s, and an illuminated address from the
inhabitants of Monamullin to their beloved pastor upon the completion of
his thirtieth year on the mission—an address the composition of which
conferred undying renown upon Tim Rafferty, the schoolmaster, and begat
for the boy who wrote it a fame only second to that of the erudite
pedagogue.

“You are delightfully snug here, Father Maurice,” observed his guest,
seating himself and glancing admiringly round the apartment. “What a
treasure of an antique bureau! Why, the brokers in London are giving any
amount of money for such articles; we are all running mad over them. If
you could get it whispered that Dean Swift or Joe Addison worked at that
desk, it would be worth its weight in gold. It’s Queen Anne now or
nothing.”

“You are an Englishman?”

“A base, bloody, and brutal Saxon!”

“We have one of your countrymen residing in this part of the country—a
Mr. Jyvecote.”

The stranger started. “Any of the Jyvecotes of Marston Moor, in
Yorkshire?”

“_The_ Jyvecote, I believe. He came over here about ten years ago to
shoot, taking poor Mr. Bodkin Blake’s Lodge in the valley of
Glendhanarrahsheen, and—”

“Oh! do say that word again, it is so delightfully soft—a cross between
Italian and Japanese,” burst in the artist.

“Glendhanarrahsheen,” repeated Father Maurice. “We have some softer than
that. What think you of Tharramacornigaun? But, as I was saying, Mr.
Jyvecote liked the valley so much that he brought his family over in the
following year. Mr. Jyvecote was delighted with the place, and he bought
the Lodge, extended it, and at length determined upon building a castle.
This castle—Moynalty Castle he calls it—was completed about three years
ago, the bare walls alone costing seventy thousand pounds. Except the
Viceregal Lodge in Dublin,” added the priest, “there is nothing so grand
in all Ireland.”

“I must walk over there some day. Which way does it lie?”

“It’s between us and Westport, along the coast, almost out upon a rock.”

“What a strange idea to put such a lot of money into such a corner!”

“Is it not? It’s completely out of the world. The nearest railway
station is fifty miles.”

“Then I forgive Mr. Jyvecote. I take off my hat to him. I congratulate
him. O my dear Father Maurice!” exclaimed the artist enthusiastically,
“you who live in such tender tranquillity, with the moan of the sea for
a lullaby, can know nothing of the ecstatic feeling attendant upon
leaving steam fifty miles behind one. It is simply a new, a beatific
existence! And so Jocelyn Jyvecote is within ten miles,” he added, more
in the tone of a person engaged in thinking aloud than by way of
observation.

“Are you acquainted with him?” asked the priest.

“Oh! yes—that is, very slightly.” There was a decided shade of
embarrassment in his manner that would have struck an ordinary observer,
but the simple-minded clergyman failed to notice it.

“The yoke’s at the doore, yer riverince, an’ if we don’t start at wanst
we’ll be bet be the hill beyant Thronig na Coppagh,” shouted Murty
Mulligan, thrusting his shock head into the apartment.

“How unfortunately this happens!” exclaimed the priest. “I have not
slept out of this cottage for nearly thirty years, and the very night I
could have wished to be here I am compelled to go elsewhere. However,
Mr. Brown, I shall leave you in good hands, and before I start I must
make you acquainted with my housekeeper.”

Murty had returned to the kitchen considerably baffled.

“He’s goin’ for to stop the night, Mrs. Clancy,” he reported to the
expectant housekeeper.

“Who’s goin’ for to stop the night?”

“The strange gintleman above.”

“Where is he goin’ for to stop, I’d like for to know? Mrs. Dooly’s
childre is down wud maysles. The gauger is billeted at Mooney’s—”

“He’s goin’ to stop here in this house. I heerd his riverince axin’
him.”

“Arrah, _baithershin_!” exclaimed Mrs. Clancy incredulously.

“It’s truth I’m tellin’ ye, ma’am.”

“Well, may—”

At this moment the voice of Father Maurice was heard calling, “Mrs.
Clancy.”

“Yer wanted, ma’am,” cried Murty.

“I’m not fit for to be seen. Slip up an’ discoorse him, Murty avic, till
I put on a clane cap an’ apron.”

“Mrs. Clancy, you will take good care of this gentleman, Mr. Brown, till
I come back. Show your skill in frying eggs and bacon, and in turning
out a platter of stirabout. Don’t let the hens cheat him of his fresh
egg in the morning, and see that his bed is as comfortable as my own.”
And seating himself upon one side of the low-backed jaunting-car, with
Murty Mulligan upon the other, and with a courteous farewell to his
guest, Father Maurice rapidly disappeared in the direction of the valley
of Glendhanarrahsheen.

Mr. Brown stood in the middle of the road gazing after the car, his
hands plunged into his breeches pockets, and a sweet little bit of
meerschaum stuck in his handsome mouth.

“What a turn of the wheel is this?” he said to himself. “I wander here
into the most out-of-the-way place in out-of-the-way Ireland, and I find
myself treading on the kibes of the very man whom of all others I would
least care to meet. I always thought that Jyvecote was in Kerry, near
Valentia, where the wire dives for America. However, seven miles mean
utter isolation here, and, by Jove! I’m too much charmed with this
genial old clergyman and his genuine hospitality to think of shifting my
quarters; besides I’ll paint him a holy picture, perhaps a Virgin and
Child, which will in some small measure repay him. Nowhere in the world
would one meet with such a reception, save in Ireland. Here I am taken
upon trust, and believed to be an honest fellow until I am found out,
completely reversing the social code. He places his house, his all, at
my disposal, believing me to be a poor devil of an artist on tramp and
ready to paint anything for bread and butter. Hang it all! it makes me
feel low and mean to sail under the false colors of an assumed name, and
yet it is better as it is—much better. Suppose I meet Mr. Jyvecote? He’d
scarcely recognize me. I’ve not seen him since our stormy interview at
Marseilles. Had I my beard then? No; it was on my way out to Egypt, and
that’s exactly three years ago this very month. He had a lot of
womankind with him. _Per Bacco!_ I suppose he was making for this
place.”

Mr. Brown strolled over to the beach, and, seating himself upon a
granite boulder, smoked on and on, buried in thought. The sea was as
still as a sea in a dream, and gray, and mystic, and silent. The hush
that Eve whispers as Night lets fall her mantle was coming upon the
earth, and the twinkling stars began to throb in the blue-black sky; not
a speck was visible on the billowy plain save a solitary fishing-boat,
which now loomed out of the darkness like a weird and spectral bark.

In such scenes, and in the awful quiet of such hours, images and
thoughts that dare not die are deposited upon the silent shore of
memory. The man who sat gazing out to sea with his hands clasping his
knees was Sir Everard Noel, the fourth baronet of a good old Yorkshire
family, and owner of a fine estate between Otley and Ilkley, in the
North Riding of that noble county. He was five-and-twenty, and had been
his own master ever since he attained his majority, until which
momentous event he had been the victim of a peripatetic guardian and the
Court of Chancery, his father having died while he was yet an infant,
and his mother when he had reached the age of nineteen. Freed from the
yoke of his guardian, who led him a tour of the world, and placed in
possession of ninety thousand pounds, the accumulation of his minority,
and with an income of ten thousand a year, he plunged into the giddy
whirl of London fast life, and for a brief season became the centre of a
set composed of the _crème de la crème_, the _aurati juvenes_ of that
modern Babylon. He was liberal to lavishness, was fascinated with
Clubland and _écarté_, losing his money with a superb tranquillity, and
addicted to turning night into day. He flattered the fair sex with the
“homage of a devotee,” and broke hearts as he would nutshells.
Intriguing dowagers fished for him for their “penniless lasses wi’ long
pedigrees,” but somehow or other, after four seasons, during which he
had had several hairbreadth escapes, he still was single, still healthy
and heart-whole, but _minus_ his ninety thousand pounds.

During his minority he had wooed Art, wisely and well, and even while
the daze of deviltry was upon him he never totally neglected her. He
painted with more than the skill of a mere amateur, and had even the
best of it in a tussle with the art critic of the _Times_ upon the
genuineness of a Rembrandt which had burst upon the market, to the
intense excitement of the _cognoscenti_. There was a good deal of the
artist in his nature, and he was an immense favorite with the bearded
Bohemians, knights of the brush, who voted him a good fellow, with the
solitary drawback of being unavoidably a “howling swell.”

Four years of wasted life brought on satiety, and he turned from the
past with a shudder, from the present with loathing. He wanted to do
something, to be interested in something, and to shake off the sickening
aimlessness of his every-day life that clung to him like a
winding-sheet.

There came a day when the men in the smoking-room of the club asked each
other, “Where the doose is Noel?” when wily matrons found their gushing
notes of invitation unanswered; when toadies, hangers-on, and sycophants
found his apartments in Half-Moon Street, Piccadilly, closed. There came
a day when club and matron and toady thought of him no more. The wave of
oblivion had passed over him and he was forgotten. _Sic itur ad astra._
Away from the fatal influences that had, maelstrom-like, sucked him into
their whirl, new thoughts, new impulses, new aspirations burst into
blossom, and his old love—Art—turned to him with the radiant smile of
the bygone time.

There is red red blood in the veins at twenty-five, and white-winged
Hope ever beckons onwards with soul-seductive gesture. He determined to
seek change of scene and of thought. As Sir Everard Noel, the president
of the Four-in-Hand Club; the owner of Katinka, the winner of the
Chester Cup; the skipper of the _Griselda_, that won the queen’s prize
at Cowes; the best rider with the Pytchley hounds, every hotel on the
Continent, every village in Merrie England, would recognize him, and the
old toadying recommence; but as plain Mr. Brown, an obscure artist, with
a knapsack on his back, he would be free, free as a bird, and the summer
morning this idea flashed across his mind found him once again a bright,
happy, and joyous man.

Sir Everard Noel was a gentleman of warm temper and great energy, prone
to sudden impulses and unconsidered actions. No sooner had he made up
his mind to go upon the tramp than he started; and, considering that he
would be less liable to recognition in Connemara than in Wales, made
Galway the base of his supplies, and, knapsack on back, containing
sketching materials and a change of flannel, a few days’ walking brought
him to Monamullin in glorious health, splendid spirits, and prepared to
enjoy everybody and everything.

“How much more delightful all this is,” he thought, “than the horrors I
have passed through—horrors labelled pleasures! Faugh! I shudder when I
think of them. Let me see, it’s ten o’clock; at this hour I would be
about half-way through a miserably unwholesome dinner, spiced up in
order to meet the requirements of a demoralized appetite, or yawning in
an opera-box, with six or seven long, dreary hours before me to kill at
any price, especially with brandy and soda. How delicious all _this_ is!
How fresh, how pure! What a dinner I ate of those rashers and eggs! And
such tea! By Jove! that old lady must have a chest entirely for her own
consumption. If my bed is as comfortable as it looks, I shall not awaken
till the _padre_ returns from Jyvecote’s. How disagreeable to meet
Jyvecote or any of the lot! I never knew any of them but Jasper and the
father. What a glorious old gentleman is Father Maurice—simple as a
child, with the dignity of a saint. I had better get to bed now, as I
shall begin on a Virgin and Child for him to-morrow; or, if his Stations
are daubs, I can do him a set, though it will take me a deuce of a time.
I must visit the chapel to-morrow; I suppose it’s very dingy.” And with
a good stout yawn Mr. Brown—for we shall continue to call him by this
name until the proper time comes—turned towards the cottage.

Mrs. Clancy met him at the door.

“I was afraid ye wor lost, sir,” she said as he entered the hall.

“Not lost, my good lady, but found. I suppose you lock the doors here
earlier than this.”

“Lock!” she exclaimed almost indignantly—“lock indeed! There’s not a
bowlt nor a bar nor a lock on the whole house. Arrah! who wud rob Father
Maurice but th’ ould boy?—an’ he’d be afeard. He daren’t lay a hand on
anything here, an’ well he knows it, God be good to us!”

“I suppose you’ve been a long time with Father Maurice, Mrs. Clancy.”

“Only sence me man—the Lord rest his sowl, amin!—was lost in the night
av the great storm, nigh fifteen year ago—fifteen year come the
fourteenth av next month, on a Frida’ night. He was a good man, an’ a
fine provider, an’ wud have left me warm an’ comfortable but for the
hard times that cum on the cunthry be raison av the famine. Ye might
have heard tell of it, sir.”

“Oh! indeed I did.”

“Och! wirra, wirra! but it was an awful time, glory be to God! whin the
poor craythurs was dyin’ by the roadsides and aitin’ grass to keep the
sowles in their bodies, like bastes.”

“I was far away then, in China,” said Brown.

“That’s where the tay cums from; an’ very infayrior tay we’re gettin’
now, sir, compared wud what we used to get. I can’t rise more nor a cup
out av two spoonfuls, an’ well I remimber whin wan wud give me layves
enough for to fill a noggin. Are ye thinkin’ av Maynewth, sir?” asked
Mrs. Clancy, exceedingly desirous of some clue as to the identity,
habits, and occupation of her guest, as it would not do to face
Monamullin with her finger in her mouth.

“Maynewth?” he replied. “What is Maynewth?”

“The collidge.”

“What college?”

“The collidge where the young priests is med.”

“Oh! dear, no, Mrs. Clancy,” he replied, laughing heartily. “I am a
painter.”

“A painther!” she said in considerable astonishment.

“Yes, a poor painter.”

“Musha, now, but that flogs. An’ what are ye goin’ for to paint?”

“Anything that turns up.”

She thought for a moment, hesitated a little, scrutinized his apparel,
hesitated again, and at length, “Wud ye be afther doin’ his riverince a
good turn?”

“I should be only too delighted.”

“Thin ye might give the back doore a cupple o’ coats o’ paint afore ye
go.”

The artist burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, long, loud,
joyous, and rippling as that of a schoolboy’s, again and again renewed
as the irritated puzzle written in the housekeeper’s face met his
glance. At length he burst out after a tremendous guffaw:

“I am not exactly that sort of a painter, Mrs. Clancy, but I dare say I
could do it if I tried; and I will try. I am more in that line,”
pointing to the picture of Daniel O’Connell suspended over the
mantel-piece.

The cloud of anger rapidly disappeared from Mrs. Clancy’s brow upon this
explanation, and in a voice of considerable blandishment she
half-whispered:

“Arrah, thin, mebbe ye’d do me a little wan o’ Dan for the kitchen,
honey.”

After another hearty peal of laughter Mr. Brown most cordially assented,
and, taking his chamber candle—a flaring dip—retired to his bedroom.

“_Ma foi_,” he gaily laughed, “this _is_ homely. Do I miss my valet? Do
I miss my brandy and soda? Do I miss my Aubusson carpet, my theatrical
pictures, my Venetian mirror, or my villanous French novel? Not a bit of
it. This is glorious; and what a tub I shall have in the morning in the
wild Atlantic!”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Father Maurice’s guest was up, if not with the lark, at least not far
behind that early-rising bird, and out in the gently-gliding wavelets,
buffeting them with the vigorous stroke of a skilful swimmer. The ocean
on this still, clear morning was beautiful enough to attract wistful
glances from eyes the most _blasé_. The cloudless sky was intensely dark
in its blue, as though the unseen sun was overhead and shining
vertically down. The light did not seem of sea or land, but it shone
dazzlingly on the low line of verdure-clad hills, on the cornfields in
stubble, causing every blade to glisten like a golden spear, on the
whitewashed cottages, on the bright green hedges, on the line of dark
rock, and enveloping the mountains of Carrig na Copple in the dim
distance in blue and silver glory. The colors of the sea were magical,
in luminous green, purple, and blue; and out across the billowy plain
great bands of purple stretched away to the sky line, as a passing cloud
flung its shadows in its onward fleecy progress. The artist felt all
this beauty, drinking it in like life-wine, till it tingled and throbbed
in every vein.

After partaking of a breakfast the consumption of which would have
considerably astonished some of his quondam London set, and having
lighted his meerschaum, Mr. Brown set out for a stroll through the
village, accompanied by half a dozen cabin curs, who, having scented the
stranger, most courteously made up their minds to act as his escort. The
inhabitants of the cabins _en route_ turned out to look respectfully at
him. Children timorously approached, curtsied, and, when spoken to,
retreated in laughing terror. Matrons gazed and gossiped. A cripple or
two touched their caps to him, and on every side he was wished
“good-luck.” He was Father Maurice’s guest, and, as a consequence, the
guest of Monamullin. Whitewash abounded everywhere; amber thatch covered
the roofs; scarlet geraniums bloomed vigorously, their crimson blossoms
resembling gouts of blood spurted against marble slabs. A shebeen or
public-house was not to be seen; order and peace and happiness reigned
triumphant.

“A few trees planted down this street—if I may call it so—would make
this an Arcadian village. I must ask Father Maurice to let me have them
planted. A fountain, too, would look well just opposite that
unpretending shop. I wonder where the church can be?”

A man with a reaping-hook bound in a hay rope happened to be passing, to
whom he addressed himself.

“Can you tell me where the church is?”

“Yis, yer honor; troth, thin, I can.”

“Where is it, please?”

“Av it’s Mass ye want, Father Maurice is beyant at Moynalty Castle.”

“I merely want to see it.”

“An’ shure ye can, sir; it’s open day an’ night.”

“But where is it, my man?”

“Where is it? Right foreninst ye, thin. Don’t ye see the holy and
blessed crass over the doore?”

The chapel was a small, low, cruciform building, very dingy despite its
whitewash, and very tumble-down-looking. It was surrounded by a small
grass-plat and a few stunted pines. A rude cross with a real crown of
thorns stood in one corner, at the foot of which knelt an old man,
bare-headed, engaged in repeating the rosary aloud, and two women, who
were rocking themselves to and fro in a fervor of prayer. Within the
church the fittings were of the most primitive description. The floor
was unboarded, save close to the altar-rails; a few forms were scattered
here and there, and one row of backed seats occupied a space to the
right. The altar, approached by a single step, was of wood, a golden
cross ornamenting the front panel, and a series of gilded Gothic arches
forming its background, while the tabernacle consisted of a rudely-cut
imitation of a dome-covered mosque. A picture of the Crucifixion hung
over the altar suspended from the ceiling, and, as this was regarded as
a masterpiece of art by the inhabitants of Monamullin from time
immemorial, we will not discuss their æstheticism here. The Stations of
the Cross were represented by small colored engravings in mahogany
frames, and the holy-water font consisted of a huge boulder of granite
which had a large hole scooped out of it.

“This will never do,” said Mr. Brown, gazing ruefully at the several
works of art. “What a splendid chance for me! I shall paint, as the old
masters did, under direct inspiration. What a sublime sensation, when my
picture shall have been completed, to witness the reverential admiration
of the poor devout people here! I shall be regarded as a benefactor.
Fancy _my_ being a benefactor to anybody or anything! Heigh-ho!” he
sighed, “what a glorious little Gothic church, a prayer in stone, a
portion of the money I so murderously squandered would have built
here!—that four thousand I flung last March into the mire in Paris.
Faugh!” And, dragged back over the waves of Time, he sat down upon one
of the wooden benches, overwhelmed by the rush of his own thoughts.

Of the length of time he remained thus absorbed he made no count. The
dead leaves of the misspent past rustled drearily round his heart,
weighing him down with a load of inexpressible sadness—a sadness almost
amounting to anguish—and two hours had come and gone ere his reverie was
broken.

Happening to raise his eyes towards the altar, he was startled by
perceiving a female form kneeling at the railings, lithe, _svelte_, and
attired in costly and fashionable raiment. As he gazed, the young girl
finished her prayers, and, with a deep, reverential inclination in front
of the altar, swept past him with that graceful, undulatory motion which
would seem to be the birthright of the daughters of sunny Spain. She was
tall, elegantly formed, and possessed that air of high breeding which
makes itself felt like a perfume. Her bright chestnut hair was brushed
tightly back from an oval face, and hung in massive plaits at the back
of her head. Her eyes were soft brown, her complexion milk-white.

“What a vision, and in this place, too! That is the best of the Catholic
religion. The churches are always open, inviting one to come in and
pray. I wonder who she can be? Some tourist. Pshaw! your tourist doesn’t
trouble this quarter of the globe. To see, to be seen, to dress, and
wrangle over the bills at palatial hotels, means touring nowadays. Some
county lady, over to do a little shopping; but there are no shops,
except that miserable little box opposite, and they apparently sell
nothing there but marbles, tobacco-pipes, kites, and corduroy. Ah! I
have it: some inlander coming for a plunge in the Atlantic. I suppose I
shall meet her pony phaeton as I pass up through the village. I
seriously hope I shall. There is something very fetching about her, and
it purifies a fellow to see a girl like that at prayer.”

Such were the cogitations of Mr. Brown as he emerged from the dingy
little chapel. Brown was not a Catholic. He had been educated at Eton,
and, although intended for Cambridge, his guardian took him to Japan
when he should have been cramming for his degree. Of the religion as by
law established in England, he paid but little attention to the forms
and merely went to church during the season to hear some “swell”
preacher, or because Lady Clara Vere de Vere gave him a _rendezvous_.
But, with all his faults and follies, he was never irreverent, and his
respect for the things that belong unto God was ever honest, open, and
sincere.

He was doomed to be disappointed. No pony phaeton disturbed the
stillness of the village street. The curs, which had patiently waited
for him whilst he remained in the church, received him with noiseless
but cheery tail-wagging as he came out, and marched at his heels as
though he had been their lord and master. The children rushed from
cabins and dropped their quaint little curtsies. The cripples doffed
their caps, the matrons gazed at him and gossiped; and, although he
lingered to say a few words to a passing fisherman, and somewhat eagerly
scanned the surrounding country, no sign could he obtain of the fair
young girl who had flashed upon him like a “vision of the night.”

“I shall never see her again,” he thought; “and yet I could draw that
face. Such a mouth! such _contour_! I must ask the _padre_ if he knows
her, though that is scarcely probable; and yet she is one of his
flock—at least, she is a Catholic, so there is some hope.”

He returned to the cottage, and encountered Father Maurice in the
garden.

“I did not like to disturb you at your devotions, Mr. Brown,” he said,
“but I was only going to give you five minutes longer, as the salmon
grill will be ready by that time.”

“How did you ascertain I was in the church?” asked Brown, entering the
hall and hanging up his hat.

“A beautiful young lady told me.”

“I saw her; who is she?” exclaimed the artist eagerly.

“I shall present you to her. Here she is. Mr. Brown, Miss Julia
Jyvecote.”

[TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.]


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


                     THE TWO PROPHETS OF MORMONISM.

MR. T. B. H. STENHOUSE, one of the Scottish converts to Mormonism, was
for a quarter of a century an elder and missionary of the church of the
Latter-Day Saints. He is the author of the most complete and careful
history of the Mormons in the English language. Although he has
“outgrown” the faith of Brigham Young and Joseph Smith, and disbelieves
the doctrines which he once preached, he writes of his former associates
in a tone of moderation and good sense, and gives them more credit for
sincerity than the rest of the world will be likely to concede them. In
the introduction to his _Rocky Mountain Saints_ he says:

    “Whatever judgment may be passed upon the faith and personal
    lives of the Mormon Prophet and his successor, there will be a
    general recognition of a divine purpose in their history. Under
    their leadership the Mormon people have aided to conquer the
    western desert, and to transform a barren and desolate region of
    a hitherto ‘unknown country’ into a land that seems destined at
    no distant day to teem with millions of human beings, and which
    promises to stand pre-eminent among the conquests of the
    republic. It is doubtful whether any collective body of other
    citizens, unmoved by religious impulses, would ever have
    traversed the sandy desert and sage-plains, and have lived an
    age of martyrdom in reclaiming them, as the Mormons have in
    Utah. But this has been accomplished, and it was accomplished by
    faith. That was the Providence of the saints, and it must be
    conceded that, as a means subservient to an end, the Mormon
    element has been used in the Rocky Mountain region by the
    Almighty Ruler for developing the best interests of the nation,
    and for the benefit of the world at large.”

The fallacies hidden in these reflections will not escape the notice of
any thoughtful Catholic reader. Mr. Stenhouse has got a feeble hold of a
great truth, but, embarrassed by the materialistic ideas which form so
important a part of the Mormon philosophy, he does not know how to apply
it. We quote the passage as a striking illustration of the spirit in
which too many of our countrymen are inclined to judge the history and
character of the saints of the Great Salt Lake. Americans have a
profound veneration for material prosperity, and hardly find it in their
hearts to condemn a community which has built cities in the remote
wilderness, planted gardens in the midst of the desert, taught brooks to
run across the arid plains, and “developed the resources” of one of the
least promising territories in our national domain. Any man, according
to the popular theories of the emancipation of conscience, has a right
to make a religion to suit himself; and whatever he may profess—unless,
indeed, he should chance to concur with about 160,000,000 other persons
in professing the doctrines of the holy Catholic Church, in which case
there would be a fair presumption that he was dangerous to society—his
fellow-citizens are bound to treat his creed respectfully and admit the
purity of his motives.[42] Hence the world honors the founder of a new
state, even though he may be also the founder of a false religion. There
are 80,000 Mormons in Utah, and as a community they are rich and
thrifty. It is not surprising that we have heard of late so much
admiring comment upon the genius of Brigham Young, so many predictions
that he will be reckoned hereafter among the great men in American
history.

It may be worth while to clear our minds by a brief sketch of the rise
and development of Mormonism. It is a phenomenon too important to be
passed over, and it has a closer connection with the moral and
intellectual tendencies of the time than most of us suspect. The general
direction of Protestant theology has always been towards rationalism and
materialism. Founded upon the denial of everything that man cannot
perceive by his unaided natural powers, it leads irresistibly to the
rejection of divine interposition in worldly affairs and of all manner
of heavenly revelation. But the human mind can no more rest without
belief in the supernatural than the human body can rest upon air.
Superstition is consequently the offspring of infidelity. The extremes
of negation produce a reaction of credulity; the worship of Baal
alternates with the worship of God; we see Protestantism swaying
perpetually to and fro between a cold philosophical scepticism and the
wildest extravagances of fanaticism and imposture. A time of general
negation and intellectual pride is followed by an epidemic of rhapsodies
and convulsions. Prophets arise; spirits are seen in clouds of light;
conventicles resound with the ravings of frenzied sinners and the
shouting of excited saints; Swedenborg makes excursions in the body into
heaven and into hell; the Shakers place Mother Ann on the throne of the
Almighty; the Peculiar People look for the direct interference of God in
the pettiest affairs of life, and demand a miracle every hour of the
day. Mormonism was the product of such a season of spiritual riot. Fifty
years ago animal magnetism and clairvoyance were at their height. The
pride which refused to worship God stooped to amuse itself with ghosts
and witches. The soul, emancipated from religion, became the slave of
magic; and superstition, rejecting the revelations of a loving Creator,
was almost ripe for the instructions of dancing tables and flying
tambourines. Mesmer had excited the learned world with his mystic tubs;
throngs of prophetic somnambulists had prepared the way for the oracles
of Andrew Jackson Davis. In England there was even a more chaotic
disturbance of minds than here. Multitudes on the one hand, disbelieving
in a personal deity altogether, took refuge in pure scepticism.
Multitudes on the other looked for the advent of the Lord in power and
glory, to establish on earth in visible form the kingdom foretold by the
inspired writers. The study of the prophecies became an absorbing
passion of sectaries and enthusiasts. They muddled their brains with
much reading of Isaias and the Apocalypse. They made it their mission to
explain dark sayings; and having placed their own interpretation upon
the divine predictions, they watched the sky for signs of their
immediate fulfilment, and found in contemporary events a thousand
confirmations of their crazy fancies, a thousand portents of the speedy
coming of the Lord. There was no conceivable theological vagary for
which they did not seek authority among the prophets. There was a
wide-spread revival of the ancient belief in a terrestrial millennium,
with a faith that it was close at hand. Edward Irving was setting
England and Scotland aflame with fiery announcements of the Second
Advent; fashionable society left its bed at five o’clock in the morning
to hear him preach, for three hours at a stretch, on the impending
accomplishment of what had been foretold; and although it was not until
a few years later that William Miller organized in this country the
first regular congregations of those who expected the speedy end of the
world, and who sat in white robes listening for the judgment trump,
there is no doubt that the general religious ferment which preceded this
particular hallucination was felt simultaneously on both sides of the
ocean, and presented on both sides the same essential characteristics.

Naturally this exciting period was also a season of powerful Methodistic
revivals. These sensational experiences belong, like spiritualism and
the other delusions which we have mentioned, to what has been called
“inspirational” as distinguished from rationalistic Protestantism, and
they are apt to run their course together. Between 1825 and 1830 the
revival movement was carried to great lengths, and its excesses seem to
have been most marked in Central and Western New York just at the time
when Mormonism arose there. We speak of the revivals as Methodistic only
by way of defining their character; they were by no means restricted to
the Methodist denomination. The most famous revival preacher of the day
was the Rev. Charles G. Finney, a Presbyterian; and any one who is
curious about the spiritual uproar which he carried through the State
with him is referred to the chapter on “Fanaticism in Revivals” in the
_Personal Reminiscences_ of Dr. Gardiner Spring, of the Brick
(Presbyterian) Church in New York City.[43]

It was in such a time, equally favorable to delusions and impostures,
that Joseph Smith, the inventor of Mormonism, made his appearance. The
accounts of his early life are not satisfactory. His origin was obscure.
His neighbors were ignorant. Little is on record except his
_Autobiography_ and a sketch by his mother, neither of which productions
is entitled to much credit. It is evident, however, that he was caught
up by the religious excitement which raged all around him. We are
assured that on at least two special occasions during his boyhood he was
“powerfully awakened” by Methodist revivalists. His writings abound with
revival phraseology; his pretended revelations are full of the
cant-terms of the camp-meeting; his code of doctrines bears traces of
the denominational controversies which were most active in Western New
York when he emerged upon the stage of history. In 1827 he was an
illiterate and idle rustic of twenty-two years, living at Palmyra, in
Wayne County, New York. His parents were shiftless and visionary people,
who got drunk, and used the divining-rod, and dug for hidden treasures,
and, according to their neighbors, stole sheep. Joseph was no better
than the rest of the family. By natural disposition he was a dreamer and
an adventurer. According to his own account, he began to see miraculous
appearances in the air and to hear the voices of spiritual messengers as
early as his fifteenth year. It was in one of his seasons of
“awakening,” when, perplexed by the contradictions of rival sects, he
went into a grove and asked the Lord which he should follow, in the firm
persuasion that his question would be answered by some physical
manifestation. We give the Mormon account of the result of his
experiment:

    “At first he was severely tempted by the powers of darkness,
    which endeavored to overcome him; but he continued to seek for
    deliverance, until darkness gave way from his mind. He at length
    saw a very bright and glorious light in the heavens above, which
    at first seemed to be at a considerable distance. He continued
    praying, while the light appeared to be gradually descending
    towards him; and as it drew nearer it increased in brightness
    and magnitude, so that by the time that it reached the tops of
    the trees the whole wilderness for some distance around was
    illuminated in the most glorious and brilliant manner. He
    expected to have seen the leaves and boughs of the trees
    consumed as soon as the light came in contact with them; but
    perceiving that it did not produce that effect, he was
    encouraged with the hopes of being able to endure its presence.
    It continued descending slowly, until it rested upon the earth
    and he was enveloped in the midst of it. When it first came upon
    him it produced a peculiar sensation throughout his whole
    system; and immediately his mind was caught away from the
    natural objects with which he was surrounded, and he was
    enwrapped in a heavenly vision, and saw two glorious personages,
    who exactly resembled each other in their features or likeness.
    He was informed that his sins were forgiven. He was also
    informed upon the subjects which had for some time previously
    agitated his mind—namely, that all the religious denominations
    were believing in incorrect doctrines, and consequently that
    none of them was acknowledged of God as his church and kingdom.
    And he was expressly commanded to go not after them; and he
    received a promise that the true doctrine, the fulness of the
    gospel, should at some future time be made known to him; after
    which the vision withdrew.”[44]

Joseph, upon whose word alone this narrative rests, relates that when he
came to himself he was lying on his back looking up into the clouds. He
seems to have accepted cheerfully the condemnation of all existing
religions, but the vision had no other practical effect upon him; as
Orson Pratt confesses, his life continued to be unedifying, and his
story of the celestial apparition was received with stubborn incredulity
by those who knew his character and habits. It was three years before he
professed to be favored with a second visit. Then, he says, a white and
lustrous angel came into his room while he was at prayer, and told him
that Heaven designed him for a great work. There was hidden in a certain
place, to be revealed hereafter, a book written upon gold plates, which
contained “the fulness of the everlasting gospel as delivered by the
Saviour to the ancient inhabitants” of the American continent. This was
the Mormon Bible, commonly known now as the Book of Mormon from the
title of one of its divisions. In his _Autobiography_ Joseph Smith
states that the angel was Nephi, author of the First and Second Books of
Nephi, which stand at the head of the Mormon scriptures; but in his
_Doctrine and Covenants_ he speaks of his visitant as Moroni, who wrote
the last book in the collection and placed the gold plates where they
were afterwards to be found. We do not know what explanation the Mormons
offer of this singular discrepancy. The vision was repeated during the
night, and Joseph was directed to search for the buried treasure in a
hill near Manchester, a village about four miles from Palmyra, in the
adjoining county of Ontario. He saw, as if in a dream, the exact spot in
which he was to dig. He went to Manchester and found the plates,
enclosed in a sort of box formed of stones set in cement. With them
“there were two stones in silver bows (and these stones, fastened to a
breastplate, constituted what is called the Urim and Thummim), and the
possession and use of these stones was what constituted seers in ancient
or former times, and God had prepared them for the purpose of
translating the book”—an idea which Joseph borrowed, of course, from the
Jewish high-priest’s “rational of judgment,” described in Exodus, chap.
xxviii. Moroni (or was it Nephi?) would not allow the plates to be
removed yet; but he gave Joseph a great many interesting and
comfortable, though rather vague, instructions. He opened the heavens
and caused him to see the glory of the Lord. He made the devil and his
hosts pass by in procession, so that Smith might know them when he met
them. Once a year Joseph was to return to the same spot and receive a
new revelation. On the fourth anniversary of the discovery—that is, in
September, 1827—the angel placed the plates and the Urim and Thummim in
his hands, with a caution that he should let nobody see them. But he
seems to have talked freely about his experiences; for, according to his
own story, the whole country-side was up in arms to get the plates away
from him. He was waylaid and chased by ruffians with clubs. He was shot
at. His house was repeatedly mobbed; and when at last he removed to
Pennsylvania in search of peace, carrying the plates in a barrel of
beans, he was twice overtaken by a constable armed with a
search-warrant, who failed, however, to find what he was looking for.
Possibly the plates and the constable were equally fictions of Joseph
Smith’s imagination.

Incredulous historians of Mormonism offer various explanations of the
story which we have thus far recounted. They detect in Joseph Smith’s
alleged visions a close resemblance to the trance state sometimes
brought on by spiritual excitement among the Methodists and other sects
who make strong appeals to the emotional nature; or they refer his
supernatural exaltation to mesmeric clairvoyance; or they see in him
merely a “spiritual medium,” a precursor of the rappers and
table-tippers who became so common a few years later. Others, again,
account for the whole case upon the theory of demoniac possession; while
still others suppose that, having really discovered some sort of
metallic tablets, the dreams of a disordered mind supplied him with the
interpretation and the _dramatis personæ_.[45] It seems to us hardly
necessary to discuss these various explanations, for there is no proof
of the alleged facts. The whole narrative rests upon nothing but Joseph
Smith’s word. It is the story told by him in after-years to account for
the new gospel. There is none who shared with him the privilege of
angelic visitations. There is none who saw the great light, who heard
the mysterious voices, who even beheld Joseph himself at the moment of
the alleged revelations. No one knows what became of the golden plates.
The angel, said Joseph, came and took them away again. While they
remained in the prophet’s hands they were kept from curious eyes.
Prefixed to the Book of Mormon in the current editions is the “Testimony
of Three Witnesses”—Oliver Cowdery, David Whitmer, and Martin
Harris—that they were permitted to see the plates, and that a heavenly
voice assured them of the faithfulness of Smith’s translation; but all
these three witnesses afterwards confessed that their testimony was a
lie. To their certificate is appended the testimony of eight other
witnesses—namely, Joseph’s father and two brothers, four of the Whitmer
family, and a disciple named Page—who also profess to have seen the
plates; but their connection with the beginnings of the Mormon Church
makes it impossible to put confidence in their statement. We do not know
the circumstances under which the sight may have been vouchsafed to
them, and we certainly have no sufficient reason to believe their
word.[46]

Thus far, then, Mormonism is a mere legend. In 1828 it becomes
historical fact; and whatever may be thought of the prophet’s good faith
in the matter of his early dreams and visions, we find it impossible to
resist the conviction that henceforth he was only a conscious and daring
impostor. From this time to the day of his death, in his acts and his
writings, in his shrewdness, his ambition, and his reckless
courage—planning new settlements, fabricating new Bibles, uttering
forged revelations, nominating himself for President of the United
States, assuming to command armies, running a wild-cat bank, debauching
women—we can see nothing but a career of vulgar fraud. There was wild
fanaticism in the foundation of the Mormon Church; but it was not on the
part of Joseph Smith.

There is proof that about fifteen years before this pretended revelation
an ex-preacher, named Solomon Spalding, a graduate of Dartmouth College,
and a resident of Crawford County, Pennsylvania, offered for publication
at a Pittsburgh printing-office a book called the _Manuscript Found_, in
which he attempted to account for the peopling of America by deriving
the Indians from the lost tribes of Israel. It was a sort of Scriptural
romance, written in clumsy imitation of the historical books of the Old
Testament, and it contained, among its other divisions, a Book of
Mormon. Although announced for publication, it never appeared. The
manuscript remained in the printing-office for a number of years.
Spalding died in 1816. The bookseller died in 1826. Sidney Rigdon, one
of the first disciples of Mormonism, was a compositor in the
printing-office, and it seems to be pretty well established that he made
a copy of the book and afterwards gave it to Smith. At any rate the Book
of Mormon, when it came from the press in 1830, was immediately
recognized as an adaptation of Solomon Spalding’s romance. A great many
people had read parts of it during Spalding’s lifetime, and remembered
not only the principal incidents which it narrated, but the names of the
leading characters—Nephi, Lehi, Moroni, Mormon, and the rest—which Smith
boldly appropriated. Spalding’s only object was literary amusement, with
perhaps a little harmless mystification. The theological teachings
incorporated with his pretended history were the additions of Smith and
Rigdon. As it now stands the Mormon Bible purports to relate the
wanderings of a Hebrew named Lehi, who went out from Jerusalem six
hundred years before Christ, and, after travelling eastward eight years
“through a wilderness,” came to the sea-coast, built a ship, got a
mariner’s compass somewhere, set sail with his wife Sariah, his sons
Laman, Lemuel, Sam, Nephi, Joseph, and Jacob, the wives of the four
elder sons, and six other persons, and in due time reached America.
After the death of Lehi the Lord appointed Nephi to rule over the
settlers, but Laman and Lemuel, heading a revolt, were cursed, and
became the ancestors of the Indians. We shall not waste much time over
this absurd and wearisome farrago, a mixture of Scriptural parodies,
stupid inventions, and bold thefts from Shakspeare and King James’
Bible. It is intolerably verbose, dragging through fifteen books,
stuffed with gross faults of grammar, anachronisms, and solecisms of
every kind, and comprising as much matter as four hundred and fifty of
these pages, or more than three entire numbers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD.
There are wonderful miracles and tremendous battles. Vast cities are
created in North and South America. Nations wander to and fro across the
continents. Priests, prophets, judges, and Antichrists, with names
curiously constructed out of those in the Jewish Scriptures, appear and
disappear like travesties of the persons in sacred history. The Nephites
and the Lamanites hack and slay each other. A republican form of
government is instituted, and is assailed by monarchical conspiracies.
Nephi, Jarom, Omni, Mosaiah, Mormon, Moroni, Alma, Ether, and other
leaders of the Nephites write the records of the people upon golden
plates, and save them for Joseph Smith to find in due season. Seers give
long-winded explanations of the divine purposes, and predict the
incidents of the beginning of Mormonism, which had already taken place
when Joseph Smith brought these predictions to light. The history of the
Nephites is supposed to be contemporaneous with the history of the Jews,
but entirely independent of it; their Scriptures are intended to
supplement, not contradict, the holy Bible. The crucifixion of our Lord
was announced to these American Jews by portents and prophecies, and
afterwards the Saviour came to the chief city of the Nephites, showed
his wounded hands and feet, healed the sick, blessed little children,
and remained here forty days teaching Christianity. Gradually the
Lamanites, or Indians, overcame the Nephites. In the year 384 a final
battle was fought on the hill Cumorah (Ontario County, New York), where
320,000 Nephites were slain. This was the end of the pre-Columbian
civilization of America, little or nothing being left of the Nephites
except Mormon and his son Moroni, who completed the records on the gold
plates and “hid them up” in the hill. Such, in brief outline, is the
Mormon Bible. With the narrative of the descendants of Lehi, however, it
contains an account of two other emigrations from Asia to
America—namely, that of the Jaredites, who came here direct from the
tower of Babel, and perished after they had stripped the continent of
timber, and that of a party of Jews who followed Lehi at the period of
the Babylonian captivity. The Jaredites came in eight small air-tight
barges, shaped like a covered dish, loaded with all manner of beasts,
birds, and _fishes_, and driven by a furious wind. The voyage lasted
three hundred and forty-four days, so that, in spite of the miraculous
gale astern, it was probably the slowest on record.

It would be an endless task to point out even a tithe of the huge
blunders in this fraudulent volume. We read of Christians a century
before Christ, of the Gospel and the churches six centuries before
Christ, of three oceans lying between Asia and America, of pious Hebrews
eating pork, of Jews long before the name of Jew was invented, of
horses, asses, swine, etc., running wild all over the face of this
continent in the time of the Jaredites, although it is certain that they
were first introduced by the Spaniards. Nephi, in giving an account of
the emigration of his father Lehi, says: “And it came to pass that the
Lord spake unto me, saying, Thou shalt construct a ship after the manner
which I shall show thee, that I may carry thy people across these
waters. And I said, Lord, whither shall I go that I may find ore _to
molten_, that I may make tools?... And it came to pass that I did make
tools of the ore which I _did molten_ out of the rock.” Nephi, like St.
John, was unable to write down all the things that Jesus taught:
“Behold, I _were_ about to write them all, but the Lord _forbid_ it.”
Alma declares: “And it came to pass that whosoever did mingle his seed
with that of the Lamanites did bring the same curse upon his seed;
therefore _whomsoever_ suffered himself to be led away by the Lamanites
_were called that head_, and there was a mark set upon _him_.” Mormon is
one of the most eccentric in syntax of all the scribes: “And Ammaron
said unto me, I perceive that thou art a sober child, and art quick to
observe; therefore when _ye_ are about twenty-and-four years old I would
that _ye_ should remember,” etc. Nephi “_saw_ wars and _rumors_ of
wars.” Alma writes: “And when Moroni had said these words, he went forth
among the people, waving the rent of his garment in the air, that all
might see _the writing which he had wrote upon the rent_”! The language
of the precious records is described as “reformed Egyptian,” and Nephi
explains that it “consists of the learning of the Jews and the language
of the Egyptians,” though upon what principle they are combined we are
left to imagine. Pressed to exhibit a specimen of the mysterious
characters, Joseph Smith gave what purported to be a fac-simile of a few
lines to one of his disciples, who came to New York and submitted it to
Prof. Anthon. “It consisted,” says Prof. Anthon, “of all kinds of
crooked characters disposed in columns, and had evidently been prepared
by some person who had before him at the time a book containing various
alphabets, Greek and Hebrew letters, crosses and flourishes; Roman
letters inverted or placed sideways were arranged and placed in
perpendicular columns; and the whole ended in a rude delineation of a
circle, divided into various compartments, decked with various strange
marks, and evidently copied after the Mexican calendar given by
Humboldt, but copied in such a way as not to betray the source whence it
was derived.” Mormon says he would have written in Hebrew, if the plates
had been large enough.

In giving the translation of the mysterious books to the world Joseph
Smith, whose education had been sadly neglected, made use of an
amanuensis. This at first was a farmer named Martin Harris. The prophet
sat behind a blanket stretched across the room, and, thus screened from
profane eyes, read aloud from the gold plates, by the miraculous aid of
the Urim and Thummim, the sacred text, which the confiding Harris
reduced to writing. The sceptical, of course, believe that what Smith
held before him was no pile of metallic tablets, but merely the
manuscript of Solomon Spalding, into which he emptied from time to time
a great deal of rubbish of his own make. No one, however, succeeded in
penetrating behind the blanket. The work had gone on for a year and a
half, when Harris, tempted by his wife, embezzled the manuscript. This
was a serious loss. Joseph could not reproduce it in the same words, and
it would not do to risk discrepancies. “Revelation” came to his aid in
this dilemma, and informed him that Harris had “altered the words” of
the manuscript “in order to catch him” in the translation. The stolen
pages were from the Book of Mormon; he must not attempt to replace them;
he should let them go, for a narrative of the same events would be found
in the Book of Nephi:

    “And now verily I say unto you that an account of those things
    that you have written, which have gone out of your hands, are
    engraven upon the plates of Nephi; yea, and you remember it was
    said in those writings that a more particular account was given
    of these things upon the plates of Nephi. Behold they have only
    got a part or an abridgment of the account of Nephi. Behold,
    there are many things engraven on the plates of Nephi which do
    throw greater views upon my gospel; therefore it is wisdom in me
    that you should translate this first part of the engravings of
    Nephi, and send forth in this work.”[47]

Oliver Cowdery now became scribe, and the task was finished without
further accidents, the Books of Nephi standing at the head of the
volume, and the remnant of the Book of Mormon, which gives its title to
the whole collection, coming near the end of the table of contents.
Still, the wretched Harris was not altogether cut off for his sin. He
owned a farm. When the translation was finished Heaven uttered, by the
mouth of Smith, “a commandment of God, and not of man, to Martin
Harris”: “I command thee that thou shalt not covet thine own property,
but impart it freely to the printing of the Book of Mormon. And misery
thou shalt receive if thou wilt slight these counsels—yea, even the
destruction of thyself and property.” So Harris mortgaged his farm to
pay the printer, and in 1830 appeared at Palmyra, New York, _The Book of
Mormon: an Account Written by the Hand of Mormon upon Plates taken from
the Plates of Nephi_. By Joseph Smith, Jr., author and proprietor.[48]

Instructed by John the Baptist, Smith and Cowdery now went into the
river and baptized each other by immersion. Joseph then ordained Oliver
to the Aaronic priesthood, and Oliver ordained Joseph. In April, 1830,
the “Church of Christ” was organized at the house of Peter Whitmer in
Fayette, Seneca County, New York, the company of the faithful consisting
only of the prophet, his two brothers, his scribe, and two Whitmers; but
in the course of the summer several other converts appeared, and Joseph
became associated with three men of some ability and education, who gave
the Mormon creed a doctrinal development which the founder himself was
quite incapable of devising. These three were Sidney Rigdon, Orson
Pratt, and Parley P. Pratt. They were devotees of the sensational and
inspirational school, ready for any new form of spiritual extravagance,
believers in visions, crack-brained students of the prophecies. Rigdon
had been a preacher among the Campbellites—a sect whose fundamental
doctrine it is that no precise doctrines are necessary. Read your Bible,
say they, select your opinions from it, don’t allow infant baptism, but
get yourselves baptized by immersion as often as you commit sin. Upon
this broad foundation they can erect as many different systems of
theology as they have congregations. Rigdon had outgrown the
latitudinarianism and bibliolatry of the Campbellites, and at the time
of Joseph Smith’s appearance he was preaching a religion of his own,
rousing his little Ohio congregation with apocalyptic dreams and
interpretations, and bidding them look for the instant coming of the
Lord. Although his name does not appear in the roll of the first
converts and apostles, it is certain that he was intimately associated
with Smith from the beginning; it is certain that he embodied his
peculiar views in the Mormon creed; it is suspected that he had more
than a half-share in arranging the original machinery of imposture.
Parley P. Pratt was likewise a Campbellite preacher, a man of ardent and
passionate temperament, restless, eloquent, a brilliant albeit somewhat
rude orator. Orson Pratt, inclining rather towards metaphysical
speculations than prophecy and spiritual excitement, became the Mormon
philosopher and controversialist, and to him are attributable the
extraordinary materialistic doctrines which form so important a part of
the new system.[49] When Smith and his companions began to preach it
does not appear that they had any scheme of theology ready at hand.
Moroni and the golden plates made up the sum of their first teachings.
There was comparatively little doctrine of any kind in the Book of
Mormon; but, as Joseph’s prophetic pretensions found acceptance, it
became necessary for the prophet to announce some positive creed. In
setting it forth, point after point, he appealed neither to history nor
to reason; “revelation” taught him from day to day all that he wished to
know; and so, little by little, he built up a mass of dogma in which it
is impossible to discover any regular plan. The authoritative handbook
of Mormon theology as it existed in Smith’s time is a small volume first
published in 1835, entitled _The Doctrine and Covenants of the Church of
Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, carefully selected from the
revelations of God_, by Joseph Smith, President of said Church. It
comprises two parts. The first consists of seven Lectures on Faith,[50]
which need not detain us; the second and more important contains about
one hundred “revelations,” addressed sometimes to Smith, sometimes to
one or another of the disciples, sometimes to the church, and
occasionally to sceptical Mormons who showed signs of becoming
troublesome. They embrace counsels and instructions of all kinds, for
the organization of the hierarchy, the preaching of the new gospel, the
regulation of private business affairs, and the management of
congregations. Here is a sample of a “revelation given in Kirtland,
August, 1831”: “Let my servant Newel K. Whitney retain his store—or, in
other words, the store yet for a little season. Nevertheless, let him
impart all the money which he can impart, to be sent up unto the land of
Sion.” A few days later the voice of heaven spoke through Joseph Smith
again:

    “And now verily I say that it is expedient in me that my servant
    Sidney Gilbert, after a few weeks, should return upon his
    business, and to his agency in the land of Sion; and that which
    he hath seen and heard may be made known unto my disciples, that
    they perish not. And for this cause have I spoken these things.
    And again, I say unto you, that my servant Isaac Morley may not
    be tempted above that which he is able to bear, and counsel
    wrongfully to your hurt, I gave commandment that his farm should
    be sold. I willeth not that my servant Frederick G. Williams
    should sell his farm, for I the Lord willeth to retain a
    stronghold in the land of Kirtland for the space of five years,
    in the which I will not overthrow the wicked, that thereby I may
    save some.”

There was a special revelation to the prophet’s wife, Emma, who never
quite relished Joseph’s proceedings:

    “Hearken unto the voice of the Lord your God while I speak unto
    you, Emma Smith, my daughter; for verily I say unto you all
    those who receive my gospel are sons and daughters in my
    kingdom. A revelation I give unto you concerning my will, and if
    thou art faithful and walk in the paths of virtue before me, I
    will preserve thy life and thou shalt receive an inheritance in
    Sion. Behold, thy sins are forgiven thee, and thou art an elect
    lady whom I have called. Murmur not because of the things which
    thou hast not seen, for they are withheld from thee and from the
    world, which is wisdom in me in a time to come. And the office
    of thy calling shall be for a comfort unto my servant, Joseph
    Smith, Jr., thy husband, in his afflictions, with consoling
    words in the spirit of meekness.”

She was afterwards styled by the saints the Elect Lady, or “Cyria
Electa,” and was “ordained” by Joseph as his scribe in the place of
Oliver Cowdery. The dogmas to be found in this book are few and simple.
The saints were taught to believe in “God the Eternal Father, and in his
Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost”; to believe that men will not
be punished for original sin; that the four saving ordinances of the
Gospel are faith, repentance, baptism, and the laying-on of hands for
the Holy Ghost; that the church enjoys still, as it did in primitive
times, “the gift of tongues, prophecy, revelation, visions, healing,
interpretation of tongues, etc.”; that the Bible, “as far as it is
translated correctly,” and the Book of Mormon are both the word of God;
that “the organization of the primitive church—viz., apostles, prophets,
pastors, teachers, evangelists, etc.”—ought to be revived; and that
Israel will be literally gathered and the ten tribes restored, Sion
built on this continent, the personal reign of Christ established on
earth, and the earth renewed in paradisaic glory. Finally, the book
contains elaborate instructions for the establishment of a double
priesthood; that of Melchisedech is the higher, and embraces the offices
of apostle, Seventy, patriarch, high-priest, and elder; the other is
that of Aaron, and includes bishop, priest, teacher, and deacon; it can
only be held by the lineal descendants of Aaron, who are designated by
revelation.

It will be seen how artfully this plan of a church was adapted to the
purposes of Smith and Rigdon, supposing them to have been, as we have no
doubt they were, arrant and conscious cheats. There was novelty and
mystery enough in it to attract the fanatical, and there was not so very
much after all to shock their common sense; while the doctrine of
continuous revelation and the prophetic office left a door wide open for
the introduction of other inventions as fast as they were found
desirable. We shall see, further on, what monstrous blasphemies and
absurdities were in reality adopted as the saints became strong enough
to bear them.

Noyes, in his _History of American Socialisms_, speaks of Western New
York as “the volcanic region” of spiritual and intellectual disturbance.
Here sprang up Mormonism; here were first heard the ghostly rappers;
here raged Millerism and Second-Adventism; here John Collins founded the
Skaneateles community on the basis of “no God, no government, no
marriage, no money, no meat”; here arose the “inspired” Ebenezer colony,
since removed to Iowa; here flourished all manner of Fourierite
phalanxes, wild social experiments, and extravagant beliefs; here at the
present day are found the Brocton community, with their doctrine of
“divine respiration,” and the Perfectionists of Oneida, perhaps the
worst of all the professors of free-love. In this region of satanic
activity the Mormon preachers made disciples so fast that Smith was soon
encouraged to undertake the “gathering of the tribes.” He had visited
Sidney Rigdon at Kirtland, Ohio, early in 1831, and had a revelation
commanding the saints in New York to follow him. But in June the town of
Independence, in Jackson County, Missouri, was revealed as the site of
the American Sion, and there some hundreds of the faithful, selling all
that they had in the East, assembled and laid the foundation of a
temple. With this event begins a phase of Mormonism—the political
separation of the Latter-Day Saints from the Gentiles—which at once
illustrates most forcibly its fanaticism and accounts for its temporal
success. Henceforth the leaders had only to give the word of command,
and the people went wherever the finger of the prophet pointed,
sacrificed their lands and houses, broke off domestic ties, and marched
through pain, starvation, and death into the parched wilderness. The
settlement at Kirtland, however, was retained; a revelation even
commanded the saints to build there a house for Joseph Smith “to live
and translate in,” and another great temple for the Lord. This was
fortunate, because the Mormons were soon expelled from Independence by a
mob; and when Joseph, in obedience to revelation, raised an army of two
hundred men, and, with the title of “commander-in-chief of the armies of
Israel,” marched twelve hundred miles on foot to reinstate them, his
expedition was dispersed by cholera and thunder-storms as soon as it
reached the scene of action. The saints were never restored to the homes
from which they had been driven out; yet to this day they look for a
restoration. They refused all offers to sell their estates; they hold
the Missouri title-deeds as the most precious of their inheritances; the
city of the Great Salt Lake is only the temporary home of their exile;
and Brigham Young, in his will, which was published the other day, after
giving instructions for his funeral, says: “But if I should live to get
back to the church in Jackson County, Missouri, I wish to be buried
there.”

It is not our purpose to follow the persecuted fanatics in all their
early migrations. Driven from place to place, they came, in 1840, to
Hancock County, Illinois, where the owner of a large tract of wild land
gave Smith a portion of it, in order to create a market for the rest.
The prophet sold it in lots to his followers, at high prices, and there,
on the bank of the Mississippi, the Mormons built the city of Nauvoo. It
was revealed to them that they should build a goodly and holy
“boarding-house,” and give Joseph Smith and his posterity a place in it
for ever, and those who had money were commanded by name to put it into
the enterprise (“Revelation given to Joseph Smith, Jan. 19, 1841”). They
were to build a magnificent temple also; they were to organize a
military force, known as the Nauvoo Legion; they were to create, in
short, within the limits of Illinois, a theocratic state, with Joseph
Smith at its head as mayor, general, prophet, church president, and
inspired mouthpiece of the divine will. The city grew as if by magic.
The legislature of Illinois granted it a charter of such extraordinary
liberality that its officers became practically independent of all other
authority. The apostles, sent all over America and England, preached
with such zeal that in the course of six years no fewer than fifteen
thousand believers were numbered in the Nauvoo community. Arrested
several times for treason, for instigating an attempt at murder, and for
other crimes, Joseph Smith was released by Mormon courts and set all
“Gentile” laws at defiance. He was absolute in everything, organizing
the government upon the most despotic principles, yet copying in some
things the system and the phraseology of the Hebrew nation. His aides
and counsellors received names and titles imitated from the Bible.
Brigham Young was “the Lion of the Lord,” Parley P. Pratt was “the
Archer of Paradise,” Orson Pratt was “the Gauge of Philosophy,” John
Taylor was “the Champion of Right,” Lyman Wight was “the Wild Ram of the
Mountains.” No one could deal in land or liquor except Joseph Smith. No
one could aspire to political office or to church preferment without his
permission. No one could travel abroad or remain quiet at home except by
his consent. In Kirtland, with the assistance of Rigdon, he had started
a bank and flooded the country with notes that were never redeemed. In
Nauvoo he amassed what was, for that time and that region, the great
fortune of $1,000,000. From the first gathering of the saints into
communities he had made it a practice to use them in politics. He had
given their votes to one party or another as interest dictated, and in
1844 he went so far as to offer himself for the Presidency of the United
States, and sent two or three thousand elders through the States to
electioneer for him.

As he grew in pride and prosperity the revelations multiplied, the faith
became more and more extravagant, the ceremonies and ordinances of the
church more cumbrous and more mystical. Moroni and Raphael, Peter and
John, visited and conversed with him. He healed the possessed; he
wrestled with the devil. The brethren began to prophesy in the temple;
mysterious impulses stirred the congregations; “a mighty rushing wind
filled the place”; “many began to speak in tongues; others saw glorious
visions, and Joseph beheld that the temple was filled with angels, and
told the congregation so. The people of the neighborhood, hearing an
unusual sound within the temple, and seeing a bright light like a pillar
of fire resting upon it, came running together and were astonished at
what was transpiring.”[51] This diabolic manifestation, or alleged
manifestation, reminds us of the scenes in the Irvingite congregations
in London six years previously, when those brethren likewise prophesied
in an unknown language. But the specimens of the Mormon “gift of
tongues” which have been preserved for us are not calculated to inspire
awe. “Eli, ele, elo, ela—come, coma, como—reli, rele, rela, relo—sela,
selo, sele, selum—vavo, vava, vavum—sero, sera, seri, serum”—such was
the style of the rhapsodies which inflamed the zeal of the Mormon
saints.[52]

It was discovered that there was no salvation in the next world without
Mormon baptism, and, to provide for the generations which preceded
Joseph Smith, every saint was told to be immersed vicariously for his
dead ancestors. There was incessant dipping and sputtering; the whole
church for a season was in a chronic state of cold and dampness; and the
recorders worked their hardest, laying up in the temple the lists of the
regenerated for the information of the angels. The double hierarchy
became so complicated that long study was needed to comprehend it. The
church offices were multiplied. The authority of the president and the
apostles grew more and more despotic. A travelling showman visited the
West with some Egyptian mummies. Joseph Smith bought them, and, finding
in the wrappings a roll of papyrus, he produced a miraculous translation
of the hieroglyphics as the “Book of Abraham.” A fac-simile of the
papyrus was taken to Paris in 1855 by M. Rémy and submitted to the
Egyptologist Devéria, who found it to consist of a representation of the
resurrection of Osiris, together with a funerary manuscript of
comparatively recent date.

All who have studied the manufacture of American religions and social
philosophies are aware how characteristic of these moral and
intellectual rebellions is an attack upon the Christian law of
marriage.[53] The inventions of Joseph Smith soon took the usual course,
although it was probably not until near the end of his career that he
became bold enough to contemplate the general establishment of polygamy.
It appears that as early as 1838 he had a number of “spiritual wives”
who cohabited with him, and Mr. Stenhouse asserts that “many women” have
boasted to him that they sustained such relations with the prophet. This
sort of license, however, was an esoteric doctrine, for the advanced
believers only, not for the common people. Indeed, in 1842, although a
practical plurality had been for some time enjoined by the illuminated,
the doctrine was formally repudiated by a number of elders, apostles,
and women, who declared that they knew of no other marriage than that of
one wife to one husband. In 1845 an appendix on “Marriage” was added to
the book of _Doctrine and Covenants_, in which occurs the following
passage: “Inasmuch as this church of Christ has been reproached with the
crime of fornication and polygamy, we declare that we believe that one
man should have one wife, and one woman but one husband, except in case
of death, when either is at liberty to marry again.” Yet it is beyond
all question that Joseph long before this had been involved in serious
domestic difficulties on account of the jealousy of his true wife, Emma,
and he was obliged to resort to “revelation” to pacify her. The
“Revelation on Celestial Marriage,” which enjoins a plurality of wives
as a service especially acceptable to God, purports to have been given
at Nauvoo in 1843. It contains these sentences:

    “And let mine handmaid Emma Smith receive all those that have
    been given unto my servant Joseph, and who are virtuous and pure
    before me. And I command mine handmaid Emma Smith to abide and
    cleave unto my servant Joseph and to none else. And again verily
    I say, let mine handmaid forgive my servant Joseph his
    trespasses, and then shall she be forgiven her trespasses.”

The revelation, however, was kept secret until long after Joseph’s
death. Emma, if not satisfied, was quieted. The spiritual marriages went
on, and even the initiated continued to deny them. John Taylor, the
present head of the church, held a public discussion of Mormonism in the
English colony at Boulogne in 1850, and stoutly denied the doctrine of
polygamy, although he had at the time five wives in Utah.

It was polygamy that brought Joseph to his violent end. He had attempted
to take the wife of a disciple named Law. The husband rebelled, and with
one or two other malcontents established a paper called the _Nauvoo
Expositor_, for the purpose of exposing the secret corruptions of the
prophet and his chief associates. Only one number was printed. Joseph
ordered the press to be destroyed and the type scattered. Law and his
party appealed to the authorities of the county for redress. Writs of
arrest were issued, and set aside by the Mormon courts. The government
called out the militia to enforce the process. An armed conflict
appeared inevitable, when the Mormon leaders surrendered, and Joseph
Smith, Hyrum Smith, John Taylor, and Willard Richards were lodged in the
county jail at Carthage. There, on the 27th of June, 1844, they were
attacked by an armed mob. Hyrum was shot down at the first volley and
almost instantly expired. Joseph, after defending himself with a
revolver, attempted to escape by the window, and was killed by a
discharge of musketry from the yard below.

In his lifetime the prophet was often denounced and resisted by his own
followers; “revelation” repeatedly put down revolts; apostates in great
numbers, including the very founders of the church, were cut off and
given over to Satan for questioning the truth of Joseph’s inspired
utterances. But his death healed all such quarrels. He became in the
eyes of his fanatical followers the first of saints, the most glorious
of martyrs. To this day even those who do not believe in Mormonism argue
that Joseph must have believed in it, because for its sake he lived a
life of persecution and submitted to a cruel death. The narrative which
we have briefly sketched is enough to show the fallacy of this
reasoning. Mormonism gave Joseph Smith wealth, power, flattery, and
sensual delights. It found him a miserable, penniless country boy; it
made him the ruler of a state, the autocrat of a thriving community, the
head of a harem. There never was a time when the choice was offered him
between worldly advantage on the one hand and fidelity to his creed on
the other. To renounce his pretensions would have been the ruin of his
fortunes. Having once entered upon the career of imposture, he had every
temptation to persevere to the end. He was mobbed and exiled and
imprisoned, not because he believed in the Book of Mormon, but because
he warred upon existing social and political institutions; and there was
nothing to make his death more sacred than that of any other cheat and
libertine who is murdered by masked ruffians in a frontier settlement.
After his death the twelve apostles ruled the church, waiting for the
will of Heaven to designate by inspiration a new leader.[54] Sidney
Rigdon claimed the prophetic office, but was rejected and driven forth.
The prime mover in his excommunication was the senior apostle, to whom
the accident of rank gave a practical precedence in all the affairs of
the church. He taught the saints to be patient and expectant, to
reverence Joseph as their chief for all eternity, to be governed by
Joseph’s voice, to cease vexing themselves about Joseph’s successor.
This was Brigham Young.

At length the time was ripe and the minds of the people were prepared.
On the 24th of December, 1847, Brigham ascended the pulpit to preach.
The Gentiles assert that he arranged his face and dress, modulated his
voice, regulated his gestures, to imitate the departed prophet. The
effect was electrical. The people believed that Joseph stood before
them. Women screamed and fainted; men wept; cries resounded through the
temple. Here was the successor of Joseph at last, and Brigham Young was
made president of the church, and recognized as “prophet, seer, and
revelator.” He was a man greatly inferior in education to some of the
other leaders, and he had done little as yet to justify the preference
now shown him. He was a native of Vermont, and one of the early
converts. Before joining the church he had been a painter and glazier.
In the church he was noted as a stanch, shrewd, hard-working, useful
brother, not much troubled with visions or theological theories, rarely
caught up by those tempests of spiritual madness which used to sweep
through the congregations. He could not have devised the imposture which
Joseph and Rigdon created. He could not have built up the elaborate
system which they constructed out of Old-World religions and modern
politics. He was fierce, and perhaps fanatical, but he had little
imagination and little inventiveness. In the case of other early Mormons
it was sometimes doubtful whether they were not occasionally deceived by
their own impostures, hurried along by a spirit which they had raised
and knew not how to control; but Brigham offered no cause for such
suspicion. He left Mormonism a very different thing from what it was in
1840, yet he added nothing to it. A change had been going on insensibly
ever since the saints gathered at Nauvoo; a further change had been
begun by the preaching of Orson Pratt; and Joseph Smith had originated
two great movements—the introduction of polygamy and the removal into
the heart of the wilderness—which Brigham was to bring to their term. He
is the developer, therefore, of other men’s ideas.

The notion that the Mormons were a chosen and inspired people, blessed
with revelations not given to the rest of the world, and governed by the
direct and special commands of Heaven, necessarily implied the
establishment of an independent political community, and it was their
disloyalty to the state rather than their immoralities which roused
against them so often in the early times the anger of mobs and the
animosity of the civil authorities. The experiment of creating a state
within a state had failed, and Joseph Smith before his death had taken
the first steps towards beginning a new settlement in the far West, and
removing the whole body of his disciples to some remote and solitary
region where neither the United States nor any other government would be
likely to interfere with them. It was Brigham’s part to lead this
extraordinary exodus. It began more than a year before his formal
appointment as head of the church; it was hastened by the fact that
warrants had been issued in Illinois for the arrest of a large number of
prominent saints on a charge of manufacturing counterfeit money, and
that, partly on this account, partly by reason of the prevalence of
murders, thefts, arsons, and various other outrages in which the Mormons
and their opponents were about equally implicated, Nauvoo appeared
likely soon to be the theatre of a civil war. An exploring party had
been sent to the Pacific coast in 1844. Early in February, 1846, the
general migration began. Rarely has the world witnessed such a scene.
The great temple at Nauvoo had just been completed with extravagant
splendor. The city contained 17,000 inhabitants, and only a small
fraction of their valuable property could be disposed of at any price.
They abandoned all that they could not carry, sacrificed their lands and
houses, collected about twelve hundred wagons, and, under the command of
captains of fifties and captains of hundreds, crossed the Mississippi on
the ice and moved into the wintry wilderness. We shrink from repeating
the narrative of that horrible march. For more than two years they
toiled westward, strewing the path with their dead. In winter they
camped near Council Bluffs, and thence Brigham and a body of pioneers
made their way across the Rocky Mountains. The first detachment reached
the Great Salt Lake in July, 1847; the rest followed in the summer of
1848. It was a parched, desolate, rainless valley, but the wanderers
hailed it as a haven of rest; they encamped on the bank of a small
stream, rested their weary animals, and without loss of an hour began to
plough the ground, sow the autumn crops, and build a dam and a system of
irrigating canals. They had escaped from the United States, as they
fondly believed, and were on the soil of Mexico, where they had no doubt
they could maintain themselves against the feeble Mexican government.
But “manifest destiny” was pursuing them. The boundaries of the United
States were soon extended beyond this region by the treaty of Guadalupe
Hidalgo; the discovery of gold in California destroyed the isolation of
the new Sion; it was no longer a city hid in the desert, but a
resting-place on a great route of travel; and the irrepressible conflict
between the federal republic and the absolute theocracy has been
steadily growing sharper and sharper ever since. Of the great multitude
which set out from Nauvoo barely four thousand ever reached the Great
Salt Lake, the rest having deserted or dropped by the way; but thousands
of converts soon arrived from England, and in a very short time the
community was again strong and prosperous. In 1849, just a year after
the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, the Mormons formally declared
themselves “free and independent,” and decreed the erection of the
“State of Deseret,” whose imaginary boundaries enclosed the whole of
Nevada and Utah, and large parts of New Mexico, Arizona, California,
Oregon, Idaho, Colorado, and Wyoming. To this political fiction they
have resolutely adhered; and even while recognizing, as a matter of
prudence, the _de facto_ organization of the United States Territory of
Utah, they have always maintained the _de jure_ existence of their free
and independent state.[55] Brigham, of course, was chosen governor of
Deseret, and he held that title to the day of his death, although, with
his usual worldly shrewdness, he also accepted from Presidents Fillmore
and Pierce the title of governor of Utah.

To understand, however, the opposition which soon developed into such
alarming hostility between Deseret and the United States, we must look
at the changes which had been taking place in Mormonism itself. Possibly
the early disciples of Joseph Smith were in the main ignorant,
peaceable, and well-meaning fanatics, but in twenty years their
character had undergone a transformation. They first became quarrelsome,
then dishonest, next licentious, and afterwards unspeakably cruel and
bloodthirsty. Joseph Smith lived long enough to see the beginning even
of this last stage of corruption, but it was Brigham Young who brought
the budding immoralities into full flower. The “Revelation on Celestial
Marriage” was brought forth at a public meeting in Salt Lake City on the
29th of August, 1852, and Brigham Young gave a history and explanation
of it. The original manuscript was burned up by Joseph’s real wife,
Emma; but Brigham had a copy.

    “This revelation,” said he, “has been in my possession many
    years, and who has known it? None but those who should know it.
    I keep a patent lock on my desk, and there does not anything
    leak out that should not.... The principle spoken of by Brother
    Pratt this morning we believe in. Many others are of the same
    mind. They are not ignorant of what we are doing in our social
    capacity. They have cried out, Proclaim it; but it would not do
    a few years ago; everything must come in its time, as there is a
    time to all things. I am now ready to proclaim it.”

We do not read that any particular sensation was created by the
announcement. Indeed, the practice had already become so common that a
federal judge, a year before this date, had denounced it in a Mormon
assembly, and made a somewhat remarkable appeal to the women to put a
stop to the horrible practice:

    “The women were excited; the most of them were in tears before
    he had spoken many minutes. The men were astonished and enraged,
    and one word of encouragement from their leader would have
    brought on a collision. Brigham saw this, and was equal to the
    occasion. When the judge sat down, he rose, and, by one of those
    strong, nervous appeals for which he is so famous among the
    brethren, restored the equilibrium of the audience. Those who
    but a moment before were bathed in tears now responded to his
    broad sarcasm and keen wit in screams of laughter; and having
    fully restored the spirits of the audience he turned to the
    judge and administered the following rebuke: ‘I will kick you,’
    he said, ‘or any other Gentile judge from this stand, if you or
    they again attempt to interfere with the affairs of our
    Sion.’”[56]

Judge Brocchus, finding his life in danger, resigned his office and left
the Territory. Once avowed, a belief in the doctrine was pronounced
essential to salvation, and the practice of it was carried to a depth of
bestiality which would horrify a Turk. All degrees of relationship were
practically ignored. Incest and vicarious marriage became every-day
affairs. The saints were taught that “when our father Adam came into the
Garden of Eden he came into it with a celestial body and brought Eve,
_one of his wives_, with him”;[57] and such blasphemies were coupled
with the holiest of all names that the Christian shudders to think of
them.

The formal adoption of the doctrine of polygamy, no longer as the
personal peculiarity of a few leaders, but as the corner-stone of Mormon
society, had a result which Brigham doubtless anticipated when he
established it. The separation of the saints from the rest of
Christendom was made complete and final. Gentile civilization had forced
itself upon their mountain retreat, and in the daily contact with
Christianity and common sense the Mormon imposture was not likely long
to survive. But the institution of plural marriage placed between the
Gentile and the Latter-Day Saint a barrier more formidable than
snow-crowned sierras and alkali deserts. Social intercourse became
impossible between the followers of the two rival systems. Contempt and
horror on the one side bred hatred on the other. For the polygamous
saint, moreover, judging after the manner of men, there was no
repentance. He was tied for ever to the church, an outlaw from all
Christendom, liable to a long imprisonment if he re-entered the pale of
society, safe even in Utah only so long as he enabled the “Governor of
Deseret” to defy the authority of the United States. The polygamist
learned to place in the prophet all his hopes for this world and the
next, and to accept all his utterances with the docility of a child. So
Brigham became not only a more powerful man than Joseph Smith, but
beyond doubt the most absolute ruler in the entire world.

It was now that the Mormon theology began to assume its most repulsive
shape. Cut off from its early connection with a form of Christianity
which, however corrupt, contained at least a remnant of the ancient
faith, it sank with startling rapidity into the most dismal abysses of
polytheism. To the materialistic doctrines which constituted the
foundation and chief characteristic of the philosophy of Orson Pratt and
other primitive expounders of Mormonism, was added an immense mass of
crude and incongruous beliefs, not developed by any process of logic,
but simply heaped on by agglomeration. Daily “revelations” brought forth
daily inconsistencies and absurdities, under the weight of which the
truths once professed by Smith were gradually buried and forgotten.
Hence it is impossible to construct for Mormonism anything like a
theological system. We can only state the isolated and often
contradictory principles which are held by the saints at the present
day, premising that although many of them can be traced more or less
distinctly in the early literature of the sect, the most shocking of
them were little, if at all, known until under Brigham Young the
separation of the saints was completed. The most startling of Mormon
dogmas, relieved of extraneous complications, is that God is only a good
man, and that men advance by evolution until they become gods. There is
no Creator, there is no creature, there is no immaterial spirit. What we
call God, says one authority, is nothing but the truth abiding in man.
What we call God, says Orson Pratt, is “a material intelligent
personage, possessing both body and parts,” like an ordinary man. He has
legs, which he uses in walking, though he can move up and down in the
air without them. He cannot be in more than one place at a time. He
dwells in a planet called Kolob. He was formed by the union of certain
elementary particles of matter, self-moving, intelligent, and existing
from all eternity. All matter is eternal. All substances are material.
The souls of men were not created; they are from eternity, like God
himself. God eats, drinks, loves, hates; his relations with mankind are
purely human; he begets existences in the natural way.[58] Before he
became God he was an ordinary man. He differs from other men now only in
power. He is not omnipotent; he still increases and may continue to
increase infinitely. As God is only an improved man, so man may come by
gradual progress to know as much as God. _Indeed, there are already
innumerable gods._ The first verse of Genesis, “In the beginning God
created heaven and earth,” ought to read: “The Head God brought forth
the gods, with the heavens and the earth.”[59] Each god rules over a
world which he has peopled by generation, and the god of our world is
Adam, who is only another form of the archangel Michael; “he is our
father and our God, and the only God with whom we have to do.” The
Mormons believe in a vague way in the Trinity—nay, in two Trinities, one
composed of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; the other, and older, of
“Elohim, Jehovah, and Adam.” The Father and Son have bodies of flesh and
blood; they occupy space; they require time to move from place to place;
but the Holy Spirit (which is the mind of the Father and the Son),
although his substance is material, has no flesh and blood and permeates
everything. After death the souls of the wicked will be imprisoned in
the brutes. The saints will inhabit the planets, where they will have
houses, farms, gardens, plantations of manna, and plenty of wives, and
they will go on marrying and multiplying for all eternity. When this
planetary system is filled up, new worlds will be called into existence,
and in them the faithful, gradually developing into gods, will revel in
the sensual delights of a Moslem paradise.

Surely no such mixture of pantheism, polytheism, and rank atheism was
ever devised before; but we have not yet reached the worst. It was in
1852 that Brigham proclaimed the doctrine that Adam is God, and to be
honored and revered as such. To this soon followed the announcement that
Joseph Smith was God. In a year or two more the doctrine was taught, at
first cautiously, but after 1856 publicly and officially, that the only
God to whom this generation is amenable is BRIGHAM YOUNG!

The declaration of this appalling impiety was made in the midst of a
tempestuous “Reformation” which historians will probably regard as the
culminating point of Mormon fanaticism. In the autumn of 1856 one
Jedediah Grant, who stood high in the Mormon priesthood, began to preach
a revival in which the most remarkable practices were public
“accusations of the brethren” and public “confessions of sin.” An
uncontrollable madness seized upon the whole community. Preachers and
penitents vied with one another in disgusting disclosures. The meetings
resounded with wails and curses and slanderous charges. Men, women, and
children, not satisfied with laying bare their hidden sins, accused
themselves of crimes they had never committed, and called upon the
church to punish and disgrace them. “Go to President Young,” was the cry
of the preachers. “Give up all that you have to President Young—your
money, your lands, your wives, your children, your blood.” “Brigham
Young,” exclaimed Heber Kimball, “is my God, is your God, is the only
God we shall ever see, if we do not obey him. Joseph Smith was our God
when he was amongst us; Brigham Young is our God now.” The church
authorities fanned the flame of excitement. They sent preachers into
every ward and every settlement. Thousands of the saints placed all
their property in Brigham’s hands.[60] Then they became inflamed with
persecuting zeal. They sacked the houses of offenders, whipped and
mutilated those who spoke evil of the church. From such outrages it was
but a step to murder. At Brigham’s instigation the step was taken. In a
discourse in the Tabernacle in February, 1857, he laid down a new law of
love. We must love our neighbors as ourselves. But if we love ourselves,
we must consent to the shedding of our own blood in order to atone for
our sins and exalt us among the gods; so also it is true love to shed
our neighbor’s blood for his eternal salvation. “I could refer you to a
plenty of instances where men have been righteously slain in order to
atone for their sins. The wickedness and ignorance of the nations forbid
this principle being in full force, and the time will come when the law
of God will be in full force. This is loving our neighbor as ourselves;
if he needs help, help him; if he wants salvation, and it is necessary
to spill his blood on the earth in order that he may be saved, _spill
it_!” “There are sins,” said he on another occasion while the
“Reformation” was at its height, “that must be atoned for by the blood
of the man. That is the reason why men talk to you as they do from this
stand; they understand the doctrine and throw out a few words about it.
You have been taught that doctrine, but you do not understand it.” Alas!
understanding came soon enough. The Springville murders in March, 1857,
were followed that summer by the appalling massacre at the Mountain
Meadows of one hundred and twenty peaceable emigrants, men, women, and
children, on their way to California. The midnight assassin went his
rounds. The church executioners were despatched upon their awful
missions. Sinners were sent on errands from which they never returned.
Apostasy was punished by the knife or the bullet. A Welshman named
Morris set up as a rival prophet, and was shot down in cold blood with a
number of his deluded followers. Gentiles were put to death for
presuming to dispute with Mormons over the title to property. A husband
took his wife upon his knee and calmly cut her throat to atone for her
sins.

    “Men are murdered here,” said a federal judge to the grand
    jury—“coolly, deliberately, premeditatedly murdered. Their
    murder is deliberated and determined upon by church-council
    meetings, and that, too, for no other reason than that they had
    apostatized from your church and were striving to leave the
    Territory. You are the tools, the dupes, the instruments of a
    tyrannical church despotism. The heads of your church order and
    direct you. You are taught to obey their orders and commit these
    horrid murders. Deprived of your liberty, you have lost your
    manhood and become the willing instruments of bad men.”

Close upon the reign of terror established by the “Reformation” came the
great Mormon rebellion, and the march of an army to Utah to install the
territorial officers appointed by President Buchanan. Brigham thundered
defiance from the pulpit; but on the approach of the troops he ordered
the whole community to leave their homes and once more move out into the
wilderness to build a new Sion. It is a wonderful illustration of the
fanaticism and abject submission to which he had brought the people that
this order was promptly obeyed. Before the “war” was settled by
negotiation no fewer than 30,000 poor creatures took flight, and many of
them, being utterly destitute, were never able to return. The frenzy of
the Reformation era died out; the rebellion was quelled; but the
doctrine of blood-atonement has not been abandoned, and to this day the
soil of Utah is red with human sacrifices.

With such a savage and brutal paganism as the Mormon religion thus
became under Brigham Young’s influence it is impossible that Christian
civilization should ever be at peace. The steady resistance which it has
offered to the authority of the United States needs no further
explanation than we find in the constitution of the Mormon Church and
the fundamental doctrines of the Mormon creed. There are chapters in the
history of the Latter-Day Saints upon which we have not thought it
necessary to linger. The organization of the Danites, and the long list
of murders and other outrages preceding the open inculcation of human
sacrifices, are among the most important of the events which we have
thus passed over. They might be considered excrescences which time would
perhaps remove. We have confined ourselves to the natural and logical
consequences of the preaching of the two prophets; to the circumstances
which throw light upon their personal characters; to the facts which may
enable people to place a juster valuation than now seems to be current
upon the elements which they have introduced into American society and
the work which they have accomplished in the Rocky Mountain desert.
Accepting even the most extravagant estimates of the material prosperity
of the Mormon settlements, we think it must be admitted that their
thrift is a curse to the world. And as for Brigham himself, cold,
calculating, avaricious, sensual, violent, cruel, rolling in luxury,
stretching out his hands on every side to grasp the property of his
dupes, and pushing them on from crime to crime, from horror to horror,
that he might the better amass money, he will take his place in history
not only as a worse man than Joseph Smith, but as one of the most
dangerous monsters ever let loose upon the world.


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


                          TO THE WOOD-THRUSH.


          How shall I put in words that song of thine?
          How tell it in this struggling phrase of mine?
            That strange, sweet wonder of full-throated bliss,
            The wild-wood freedom of its perfectness,
          Faint scent of flowers frail, strong breath of pine,
          The west wind’s music, and the still sunshine.

          Could I weave sunshine into words, hold fast
          Day’s sunset glow that it might ever last,
            That clothes as with immortal robe each height,
            Rugged and stern ‘mid glare of noonday light,
          Softened beneath eve’s gracious glory cast—
          Like soul released, from strife to sweetness passed—

          Were such power mine, so might I hope, perchance,
          In fitting speech to rhyme thy song’s romance,
            To sing its sweetness with a note as sweet
            As thine that makes this sunset hour complete—
          As voice beloved doth richest joy enhance,
          As swelling organ yearning soul doth trance.

          There is no sorrow set in thy pure song;
          Thy notes to realms where all is joy belong.
            Thou callest—woods grow greener through thy voice,
            The stainless skies in deeper peace rejoice,
          All their best glories through thy singing throng—
          Voice of a life that ne’er knew thought of wrong!

          No martyr life of conquered grief is thine,
          Whose happiness but through old tears can shine;
            So, sure, didst thou in Eden sing ere Eve,
            Our eldest mother, learned for life to grieve,
          When thought was fresh, and knowledge still divine,
          And in love’s light no shade of death did twine.

          Our songs to-day grow sweetest through our pain;
          Our Eden lost, we find it not again.
            Even our truest, most enduring joy
            Earth’s twilight darkens with its dusk alloy.
          Soft, soft the shadow of thy heaven-dropt strain
          Only our weakness dims with sorrow’s stain.

          Thou singst, O hermit bird! of Paradise,
          Not as lamenting its lost harmonies,
            Not as still fair through perfect penitence,
            But as unconscious in first innocence—
          Token of time thou art when sinless eyes
          Were homes for cloudless thoughts divinely wise.

          All things that God found good seem yet to fill
          The few sweet notes that triumph in thy trill;
            All things that yet are good and purely fair
            Give unto thee their happy grace to wear.
          Sweet speech art thou for sunset-lighted hill;
          Yet day dies gladlier when thou art still.

          And I, O rare brown thrush! that idly gaze
          Far down the valley’s mountain-shadowed ways—
            Where bears the stream light burden of the sky,
            Where day, like quiet soul, in peace doth die,
          Its calm gold broken by no storm-clouds’ blaze—
          Hearken, joy-hushed, thy vesper song of praise

          That from yon hillside drops, strong carolling,
          A living echo thereto answering,
            Doubling the sweetness with the glad reply
            That drifts like argosy, joy-laden, by.
          Light grows my soul as thy uplifted wing;
          Heart knows no sorrow when it hears thee sing!


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


                     THE GOD OF “ADVANCED” SCIENCE.

“The fool hath said in his heart: There is no God.” None but fools
attempt to blind themselves to the irrefragable evidence which compels
the admission of a Supreme Being; and not even these can entirely
succeed in such an endeavor. For it is only in the frowardness of their
heart, not in the light of their reason, that they pronounce the
blasphemous phrase; their heart, not their intellect, is corrupted; so
that, notwithstanding the great number of avowed atheists who at
different times have disgraced the human family, one might be justified
in saying that a real atheist, a man _positively convinced_ of the
non-existence of God, has never existed.

What has led us to begin with this remark is an article in the _Popular
Science Monthly_ (July, 1877) entitled “The Accusation of Atheism,” in
which the able but unphilosophical editor undertakes to show that
although modern “advanced” science may not profess to recognize the God
of the Bible, yet we have no right to infer that this “advanced” science
is atheistical. The God of the Bible is to be suppressed altogether; but
“advanced” scientists, who have already invented so many wonderful
things, are confident that they have sufficient ability to invent even a
new God. Our good readers may find it a little strange; but we are not
trifling. The invention of a new God is just now the great _postulatum_
of the infidel pseudo-philosophers. The less they believe in the living
God who made them, the more would they be delighted to worship a
mock-god made by themselves, that they might not be accused of belonging
to that class of fools who have said in their heart: There is no God.

Prof. Youmans starts with the bright idea that if Dr. Draper had
entitled his book “a history of the conflict between ecclesiasticism and
science” instead of “between religion and science,” he would have
disarmed criticism and saved himself from a great deal of philosophical
abuse. We cannot see, however, how criticism could have been disarmed by
the mere adoption of such a change. The whole of Dr. Draper’s work
breathes infidelity; it falsifies the history of Christianity; it
denounces religion as the enemy of science; and from the first page to
the last it teems with slander and blasphemy; it is, therefore, a real
attack upon religion. On the other hand, we must assume that Dr. Draper
knew what he was about when he opposed “religion” to science; he said
just what he meant; and this is, perhaps, the only merit of his
production. If the title of the book were to be altered so as to “disarm
criticism,” we would suggest that it should be made to read: _A
malicious fabrication concerning a fabulous conflict between religion
and science_.

Then Prof. Youmans proceeds to say that religious people “are alarmed at
the advancement of science, and denounce it as subversive of faith.”
This is not the case. Religious people are not in the least alarmed at
the advancement of science, nor do they feel the least apprehension that
science may prove subversive of faith; quite the contrary. They love
science, do their best to promote it, accept thankfully its discoveries,
and expect that it will contribute to strengthen, not to subvert, the
revealed truths which form the object of theological faith. We admit, at
the same time, that there is a so-called “science” for which we have no
sympathy. Such a pretended “science” originated, if we do not mistake,
in the Masonic lodges of Germany, whence it gradually spread through
England and America by the efforts of the same secret organization. The
promoters of this neoteric science boast that their cosmogony, their
biology, their sociology, their physiology, etc., are “subversive” of
our faith; which would be true enough, if their theories were not at the
same time “subversive” of logic and common sense. But when we show that
their vaunted theories cannot bear examination, when we point out the
manifold absurdities and contradictions they fall into, when we lay open
the sophisms by which their objectionable assertions are supported, and
challenge them to make a reply, they invariably quail and dare not open
their mouths, or, if they venture to speak, they ignore criticism with a
convenient unconcern which is the best palliation of their defeat. As an
example of this we may remind Prof. Youmans that we ourselves have given
a refutation of Prof. Huxley’s lectures on evolution, and that we have
yet to see the first attempt at a reply. We have also refuted a defence
of Prof. Huxley written by Prof. Youmans himself in answer to Rev. Dr.
W. M. Taylor, and we have shown how his own “scientific” reasoning was
at fault in every point; but of course his scientific acuteness did not
allow him to utter a word of reply. No, we are not afraid of a “science”
which can be silenced with so little effort. Were it not that there is a
prevailing ignorance so easily imposed upon by the charlatanism of false
science, there would be no need whatever for denouncing it: it denounces
itself sufficiently to a logical mind.

Prof. Youmans pretends that the difficulty of religious people with
regard to advanced science is simply that of “narrowness or ignorance
inspired by a fanatical earnestness.” We are greatly obliged by the
compliment! Prof. Youmans is, indeed, a model of politeness, according
to the standard of modern progress; but it did not occur to him that,
before speaking of the “narrowness and ignorance” of his critics, he
should have endeavored to atone for his own blunders which we pointed
out in our number for April. To our mind, a man whose ignorance of logic
and of many other things has been demonstrated has no right to talk of
the ignorance of religious people. And as to “fanatical earnestness,” we
need hardly say that it is in the _Popular Science Monthly_ and in other
similar productions of “scientific” unbelievers that we find the best
instances of its convulsive exertions. But let us proceed.

“Atheism,” continues the professor, “has now come to be a familiar and
stereotyped charge against men of science, both on the part of the
pulpit and the religious press. Not that they accuse all scientific men
of atheism, but they allege this to be the tendency of scientific
thought and the outcome of scientific philosophy. It matters nothing
that this imputation is denied; it matters nothing that scientific men
claim that their studies lead them to higher and more worthy conceptions
of the divine power, manifested through the order of nature, than the
conceptions offered by theology. It is enough that they disagree with
current notions upon this subject, and any difference of view is here
held as atheism. In this, as we have said, the theologians may be
honest, but they are narrow and bigoted.”

Mr. Youmans does not perceive the tendency of “scientific” thought to
foster atheism. Not he! Darwin’s theory of development has for its
principal object to destroy, if possible, the history of creation and to
get rid of the Creator. This Mr. Youmans does not perceive. Tyndall, in
his Belfast lecture, professes atheism as the outcome of scientific
philosophy, and, though he has offered some explanations to screen
himself from the imputation, he stands convicted by his own words. Of
this Mr. Youmans takes no notice. Büchner ridicules the idea that there
is a God, and teaches that such an idea is obsolete, contrary to modern
science, and condemned by philosophy as a manifest impossibility. Mr.
Youmans seems to hold that this is not genuine atheism. Huxley, to avoid
creation, gives up all investigation of the origin of things as useless
and unscientific, and the advanced thinkers in general are everywhere at
work propagating the same view in their scientific lectures, books,
journals, and magazines. Yet Prof. Youmans wishes the world to believe
that the tendency of advanced scientific thought is not towards atheism!
Is he blind? The man who writes Nature with a capital letter, who denies
creation, who contributes to the best of his power to the diffusion of
infidel thought, can hardly be ignorant of the fact that what is now
called advanced science is, in the hands of its apostles and leaders, an
engine of war against God. But he knows also that to profess atheism is
bad policy, for the present at least. Science, as he laments in many of
his articles, has not yet advanced enough in the popular mind; people
are still “narrow” and “ignorant,” and even “fanatic”—that is, their
religious feelings and conscientious convictions do not yet permit a
direct and outspoken confession of the atheistic tendency of modern
“scientific” thought. Hence he is obliged to be cautious and to put on a
mask. Such are, and ever have been, the tactics of God’s enemies. Thus
Prof. Huxley, in his lectures on evolution, while attacking the Biblical
history of creation, pretends that he is only refuting the “Miltonian
hypothesis.” The same Prof. Huxley, with Herbert Spencer and many others
of less celebrity, endeavors to conceal his atheism, or at any rate to
make it appear less repulsive, by the convenient but absurd admission of
the Great Unknown or Unknowable, to which surely neither he nor any
other scientist will offer adoration, as it would be an utterly
superfluous, unscientific, and unphilosophical thing to worship what
they cannot know. And Prof. Youmans himself follows the same tactics, as
we shall see in the sequel. Hence we do not wonder that he considers Mr.
Draper’s words “a conflict between religion and science” as unfortunate,
and only calculated to provoke criticism and theological abuse. It would
have been so easy and so much better to say “between ecclesiasticism and
science.” This would have saved appearances, and might have furnished a
plausible ground for repelling the accusation of atheism.

But, says Prof. Youmans, “this imputation is denied.” We answer that the
imputation cannot be evaded by any such denial. If there were question
of the intimate convictions of private individuals, their denial might
have some weight in favor of their secret belief. Men very frequently do
not see clearly the ultimate consequences of their own principles; and
it is for this reason that an atheistic science does not always lead to
personal atheism. As there are honest Protestants who believe on
authority, though their Protestant principle sacrifices authority to
private judgment, so also there are many honest scientists who,
notwithstanding their admission of atheistic theories, believe in God.
This is mere inconsistency after all; and it can only furnish a ground
for judging of the views of individual scientists.

But our question regards the tendency of “advanced scientific thought”
irrespective of the inconsistency of sundry individuals. This question
is to be solved from the nature of the principles and of the conclusions
of “advanced” science; and if such principles and such conclusions are
shown to lead logically to atheism, it matters very little indeed that
“the imputation is denied.” This the editor of the _Popular Science
Monthly_ must admit. Now, that atheism is the logical outcome of
“advanced” science may be proved very easily. Dr. Büchner, in his _Force
and Matter_, gives a long scientific argumentation against the existence
of God. The science which led him to this profession of atheism is the
“advanced” science of which Prof. Youmans speaks. Has any among the
advanced scientists protested against Dr. Büchner’s conclusion? Have any
of them endeavored to show that this conclusion was not logically
deduced from the principles of their pretended science? Some of them may
have been pained at the imprudent sincerity of the German doctor; but
what he affirms with a coarse impudence they too insinuate every day in
a gentler tone and in a more guarded phraseology. Their doctrine is that
“whereas mankind formerly believed the phenomena of nature to be
expressions of the will of a personal God, modern science, by reducing
everything to laws, has given a sufficient explanation of these
phenomena, and made it quite unnecessary for man to seek any further
account of them.” Dr. Carpenter, from whom we have borrowed this
statement, adds: “This is precisely Dr. Büchner’s position; and it seems
to me a legitimate inference from the very prevalent assumption (which
is sanctioned by the language of some of our ablest writers) that the
so-called laws of nature ‘govern’ the phenomena of which they are only
generalized expressions. I have been protesting against this language
for the last quarter of a century.”[61]

Mr. Youmans himself implicitly admits that “advanced” science has given
up the old notion of God; and he only contends that scientists, while
disregarding the God of theology, fill up his place with something
better. “Scientific men claim that their studies lead them to higher and
more worthy conceptions of the divine power manifested through the order
of nature than the conceptions offered by theology.” Our readers need
hardly be told that this claim on the part of our advanced scientists is
preposterous and ridiculous. For if the order of nature could lead to a
conception of divine power higher or worthier than the conception
offered by theology, it would lead to a conception of divine power
greater and higher than omnipotence; for omnipotence is one of the
attributes of the God of theology. But can we believe that Mr. Youmans
entertains the hope of conceiving a power higher than omnipotence? How,
then, can he make good his assertion? On the other hand, the God of
theology is immense, eternal, and unchangeable, infinitely intelligent,
infinitely wise, infinitely good, infinitely perfect, as not only all
theologians but also all philosophers unquestionably admit. Must we
believe that our scientists will be able to conceive a higher intellect,
wisdom, or goodness than infinite intellect, infinite wisdom, or
infinite goodness? Will they imagine anything greater than immensity, or
than eternity? The editor of the _Popular Science Monthly_ has a very
poor opinion indeed of the intellectual power of his habitual readers,
if he thinks that they will not detect the absurdity of his claim.

But there is more than this. “Advanced” science has repeatedly confessed
its inability to form a conception of God. The ultimate conclusion of
“advanced” science is that the contemplation and study of nature afford
no indication of what a God may be; so much so that the leaders of this
“advanced” science, after suppressing the God of theology, could find
nothing to substitute in his place but what they call “the Great
Unknown” and “the Great Unknowable.” Now, surely, the unknowable cannot
be known. How, then, can these scientists claim that their studies lead
them “to higher and more worthy conceptions of the divine power”? Can
they conceive that which is unknown and unknowable? Have they any means
of ascertaining that a thing unknowable has power, or that its power is
divine?

Let them understand that if their “Unknowable” is not eternal, it is no
God; if it is not omniscient, it is no God; if it is not omnipotent, it
is no God. And, in like manner, if it is not self-existent, immutable,
immense, infinitely wise, infinitely good, infinitely perfect, it is no
God. And, again, if it is not our Creator, our Master, and our Judge, it
is no God, and we have no reason for worshipping it, or even for
respecting it. How can we know that these and similar attributes can and
must be predicated of the Unknowable, since the unknowable is not and
cannot be known? If, on the contrary, we know that such a being is
omnipotent, omniscient, eternal, immense, and infinitely perfect in all
manner of perfections, then it is obvious (even to Prof. Youmans, we
assume) that such a being is neither unknown nor unknowable. Thus the
unknowable can lay no claim to “divine power” or other divine
attributes; and therefore the pretended worshippers of the Unknowable
vainly attempt to palliate their atheism by claiming that their studies
have led them “to a higher and more worthy conception of the divine
power than the conception offered by theology.”

As to Prof. Youmans himself, he tells us that the divine nature is
“unspeakable and unthinkable.” This evidently amounts to saying that the
divine nature is unknowable, just as Herbert Spencer, Huxley, and others
of the same sect have maintained. The professor will not deny, we trust,
that what is unthinkable is also unknowable, unless he is ready to show
that he knows the square circle. Hence the remarks we have passed on the
doctrine of his leaders apply to him as well as to them. It is singular,
however, that neither he nor any of his sect has thought of examining
the question whether the “Unknowable” has any existence at all. For if
it has no existence, they must confess that they have not even an
unknown God, and therefore are absolute atheists; and if they assume
that it has a real existence, they are supremely illogical; for no one
has a right to proclaim the existence of a thing unknown and unknowable.
The existence of the unknowable cannot be affirmed unless it be known;
but it cannot be known unless the unknowable be known; and this implies
a manifest contradiction. To affirm existence is to affirm a fact; and
Mr. Youmans would certainly be embarrassed to show that science, however
“advanced,” can affirm a fact of which it has no knowledge whatever.
Hence atheism is the legitimate result of the doctrine which substitutes
the “Unknowable” in the place of the God of theology; and “it matters
nothing” that this consequence is _provisionally_ denied by Prof.
Youmans. Were it not that the horror inspired by the impious pretensions
of his fallacious science obliges him to keep within the measures of
prudence, it is very likely that Prof. Youmans would not only not deny
his “scientific” atheism, but even glory in its open profession. So long
as this cannot be safely done he must remain satisfied with writing
Nature with a capital N.

From these remarks we can further infer that Mr. Youmans’ complaint
about the narrowness and bigotry of theologians is utterly unfounded.
There is no narrowness in rejecting foolish conceptions, and no bigotry
in maintaining the rights of truth. Theology condemns your doctrines,
not because they “disagree with current notions,” but because they are
manifestly impious and absurd. The views you encourage are atheistical.
You admit only the Unknowable; and the Unknowable, as we have just
proved, is not God. Hence the theologians are not “narrow” nor
“bigoted,” but strictly logical and reasonable, when they condemn your
doctrines as atheistical.

And now Prof. Youmans makes the following curious argument:

    “It is surprising that they (the theologians) cannot see that in
    arraigning scientific thinkers for atheism they are simply doing
    what stupid fanatics the world over are always doing when ideas
    of the Deity different from their own are maintained. And it is
    the more surprising that Christian teachers should indulge in
    this intolerant practice when it is remembered that their own
    faith was blackened with this opprobrium at its first
    promulgation.”

Here a long passage is quoted from _The Contest of Heathenism with
Christianity_, by Prof. Zeller, of Berlin, in which we are reminded that
the primitive Christians were reproached with atheism because they “did
not agree with the prevailing conceptions of the Deity,” and that “Down
with the atheists” was the war-cry of the heathen mob against the
Christians. This suggests to Mr. Youmans the following remarks:

    “It would be well if our theologians would remember these things
    when tempted to deal out their maledictions upon scientific men
    as propagators of atheism. For the history of their own faith
    attests that religious ideas are a growth, and that they pass
    from lower states to higher unfoldings through processes of
    inevitable suffering. It was undoubtedly a great step of
    progress from polytheism to monotheism, ... but this was neither
    the final step in the advancement of the human mind toward the
    highest conception of the Deity, nor the last experience of
    disquiet and grief at sundering the ties of old religious
    associations. But if this be a great normal process in the
    development of the religious feeling and aspiration of humanity,
    why should the Christians of to-day adopt the bigoted tactics of
    heathenism, first applied to themselves, to use against those
    who would still further ennoble and purify the ideal of the
    Divinity?”

Thus, according to the professor, as the pagans were wrong and stupid in
denouncing the Christians as atheists, so are the Christians both wrong
and stupid in denouncing the atheistic tendency of “advanced” science;
and the reason alleged is that as the pagans did not recognize the
superiority of monotheism to polytheism, so the Christian theologians
fail to see the superiority of the “scientific” Unknowable to the God of
Christianity. Need we answer this? Why, if anything were wanting to
prove that Prof. Youmans is laboring for the cause of atheism, his very
manner of arguing may be regarded as a convincing proof of the fact.
For, if his reasoning has any meaning, it means that as the Christians
rejected the gods of the pagans, so Prof. Youmans rejects the God of the
Christians; and this is quite enough to show his atheism, as he neither
recognizes our God, nor has he found, nor will he ever find, another God
worthy of his recognition; for, surely, the “Unthinkable” of which he
speaks is not an object of recognition.

On the other hand, is it true that the history of Christianity “attests
that religious ideas are a growth, and that they pass from lower states
to higher unfoldings”? Does the history of Christianity attest, for
instance, that our conception of God has passed from a lower to a higher
state? But, waiving this, it requires great audacity to contend that the
theory of the “Unknowable” and of the “Unthinkable” is an unfolding of
the conception of God. We appeal to Prof. Youmans himself. A theory of
natural science which would lay down as the ultimate result of human
progress that what we call chemistry, geology, astronomy, mechanics,
electricity, optics, magnetism, is something “unknowable” and
“unthinkable,” would scarcely be considered by him an “unfolding” of
science. For how could he “unfold” his thoughts in the _Popular Science
Monthly_, if the subject of his thought were “unthinkable”? But, then,
how can he assume that his theory of the “unthinkable” is an “unfolding”
of the conception of God? God cannot be conceived, if he is unthinkable.
We conceive God as an eternal, immense, omnipotent, personal Being.
These and other attributes of Divinity, as conceived by us, constitute
our notion of God; and this notion is as unfolded as is consistent with
the limits of the human mind. But to “unfold” the conception of Divinity
by suppressing omnipotence, wisdom, eternity, goodness, and all other
perfections of the divine nature, so as to leave nothing “thinkable” in
it, is not to unfold our conception, but to suppress it altogether.

As to the flippant assertion that the Christian conception of Divinity
is not “the final step in the advancement of the human mind toward the
highest conception of the Deity,” we might say much. But what is the use
of refuting what every Christian child knows to be false? We conceive
God as the supreme truth, the supreme good, and the supreme Lord of
whatever exists; and he who pretends that there is or can be a “higher
conception of the Deity” has himself to thank if men call him a fool.

We shall say nothing of “intolerant practices,” “stupid fanaticism,” or
“bigoted tactics.” These are mere words. As to “the aspiration of
humanity,” it may be noticed that there is a secret society that
considers its aspirations as the aspirations of “humanity,” and, when it
speaks of “humanity,” it usually means nothing more and nothing better
than its “free and accepted” members. This “humanity” has doubtless some
curious aspirations; but mankind does not aspire to dethrone God or to
pervert the notion of Divinity.

Prof. Youmans accounts for “the aspiration of humanity” in the following
manner:

    “It cannot be rationally questioned that the world has come to
    another important stage in this line of its progression. The
    knowledge of the universe, its action, its harmony, its unity,
    its boundlessness and grandeur, is comparatively a recent thing;
    and is it to be for a moment supposed that so vast a revolution
    as this is to be without effect upon our conception of its
    divine control?”

This manner of arguing is hardly creditable to a professor of science;
for, even admitting for the sake of argument that the knowledge of the
universe is comparatively “a recent thing,” it would not follow that
such a knowledge must alter the Christian conception of the divine
nature. Let the professor make the universe as great, as boundless, and
as harmonious as possible; what then? Will such a universe proclaim a
new God? By no means. It will still proclaim the same God, though in a
louder voice. For the harmony, beauty, and grandeur of the universe
reveal to us the infinite greatness, beauty, and wisdom of its Creator;
and the greater our knowledge of such a universe, the more forcible the
demonstration of the infinite perfection of its Creator. Now, this
Creator is our old God, the God of the Bible, the God to whom Mr.
Youmans owes his existence, and to whom he must one day give an account
of how he used or abused his intellectual powers. This is, however, the
God whom the professor would fain banish from the universe. Is there
anything more unphilosophic or more unscientific?

But the knowledge of the universe, from which we rise to the conception
of God, is not “a recent thing.” Infidels are apt to imagine that the
world owes to them the knowledge of natural science. We must remind them
that science has been built up by men who believed in God. “Advanced”
science is of course “a recent thing,” but it does not “constitute an
important stage” in the line of real progress; for it consists of
nothing but reckless assumptions, deceitful phraseology, and illogical
conclusions. Three thousand years ago King David averred that “the
heavens show forth the glory of God, and the firmament declareth the
work of his hands.” Has advanced science made any recent discovery in
the heavens or on earth which gives the lie to this highly philosophical
statement? Quite the contrary. It is, therefore, supremely ridiculous to
talk of a “vast revolution” whose effect must be “to purify the ideal of
Divinity.” This vast revolution is a dream of the professor.

But he says:

    “Is it rational to expect that the man of developed intellect
    whose life is spent in the all-absorbing study of that mighty
    and ever-expanding system of truth that is embodied in the
    method of Nature will form the same idea of God as the ignorant
    blockhead who knows and cares nothing for these things, who is
    incapable of reflection or insight, and who passively accepts
    the narrow notions upon this subject that other people put into
    his head? As regards the divine government of the world, two
    such contrasted minds can hardly have anything in common.”

This is a fair sample of the logical processes of certain thinkers “of
developed intellect.” Our professor assumes, first, that Catholic
theologians are “ignorant blockheads,” that they “know and care nothing”
for natural truths, that they are “incapable of reflection or insight,”
and that they “passively accept” what others may put into their heads.
Would it not be more reasonable to assume that a “blockhead” is a man
who asserts what cannot be proved, as a certain professor is wont to do?
And would it be unfair to assume that the man who “knows and cares
nothing” for truth is one who beguiles his readers into error, and, when
convicted, makes no amends? We would not say that the professor is
“incapable of reflection or insight,” for we think that no human being
can be so degraded as to deserve this stigma; but we cannot help
thinking that Mr. Youmans “passively accepts” many absurd notions, for
which he cannot account, except by saying that they “have been put into
his head” by such “developed intellects” as Huxley’s, Darwin’s,
Spencer’s, and other notorious falsifiers of truth.

Professor Youmans assumes also that our intellects cannot be “developed”
enough to form a true conception of God, unless we apply to “the
all-absorbing study of the method of Nature,” by which he means the
conservation of energy, the indestructibility of matter, the evolution
of species, and other cognate theories. This assumption has no
foundation. To form a true conception of God it suffices to know that
the universe is subject to continual changes, and therefore contingent,
and consequently _created_. This leads us directly to the conception of
a Creator, or of a First Cause which is self-existent, independent, and
eternal. Modern science and “developed intellects” have nothing to say
against this. It is therefore a gross absurdity to assume that the study
of the method of nature interferes with the old conception of God.

A third assumption of the professor is that our notion of divine nature
is “narrow.” It is astonishing that Mr. Youmans could have allowed
himself to make so manifestly foolish a statement. Is there anything
“narrow” in immensity? in omnipotence? in eternity? in infinite wisdom?
or in any other attribute of the true God? And if our notion of God,
which involves all such attributes, is still “narrow,” what shall we say
of the professor’s notion which involves nothing but the
“unthinkable”—that is, nothing at all?

The professor proceeds to say that if a man is ignorant and stupid his
contemplation of divine things will reflect his own limitation. This is
a great truth; but he should have been loath to proclaim it in a place
where we find so many proofs of his own “limitation.” On the other hand,
it is not from the ignorant and the stupid that our philosophers and
theologians have derived their notion of God; and to confound the latter
with the former is, on the part of a “developed intellect,” a miserable
show of logic. The ignorant and the stupid, continues Mr. Youmans, “will
cling to a grovelling anthropomorphism,” and conceive of the Deity “as a
man like himself, only greater and more powerful, and as chiefly
interested in the things that he is interested in.” To which we answer
that the stupid and the ignorant of divine things are those who _do not
know_ God, and who maintain against the universal verdict of reason that
God is “unknowable.” We defy Mr. Youmans to point out a stupidity and an
ignorance of divine things which equals that of him who pretends to
think of the “unthinkable.” This is even worse than “to cling to a
grovelling anthropomorphism.” Of course our anthropomorphism is a poetic
invention of the “developed intellect,” and therefore we may dismiss it
without further comment.

    “The profound student of science,” he adds, “will rise to a more
    spiritualized and abstract ideal of the divine nature, or will
    be so oppressed with a consciousness of the Infinity as to
    reverently refrain from all attempts to grasp, and formulate,
    and limit the nature of that which is past finding out, which is
    unspeakable and unthinkable.”

To understand the real meaning of this sentence we must remember that he
who wrote it does not accept the God of theologians. Scientific men, as
he has told us, claim that their studies lead them “to higher and more
worthy conceptions” of the divine power than the conceptions offered by
theology. It is obvious, therefore, that the “spiritualized and abstract
ideal of the divine nature” to which the profound student of science is
expected to rise is not the ideal recognized by theology. This is very
strange; for if theology does not furnish the true ideal of divine
nature, much less can such an ideal be furnished by the science of
matter. Every science is best acquainted with its own specific object;
and since God is the object of theology, the ideal of the divine nature
is to be found in theology, not in natural science. Hence “the profound
student of science” may indeed determine the laws of physical and
chemical phenomena, speak of masses and densities, of solids and fluids,
and of other experimental subjects without much danger of error, but he
has no qualification for inventing a new ideal of divine nature. The
ideal of a thing exhibits the essence of the thing; and the study of
essences does not belong to the scientist, whose field is confined
within the phenomena and their laws. The best scientists confess that
they do not even know the essence of matter, though matter is the proper
and most familiar object of their study. Yet these are the men who,
according to Mr. Youmans, should know best the essence of God.

But we should like further to know how the “profound student” of
advanced science will be able to rise to a “spiritualized” ideal of
Divinity. The general drift of modern infidel science is towards
materialism. It teaches that thought is secreted by the brain as water
is by the kidneys, or, at least, that thought consists of molecular
movements, and that the admission of a spiritual substance in the
organism of man is quite unwarranted. How, then, can a science which
rejects spiritual substances lead its “profound student” to a
spiritualized ideal of Divinity? It is manifest, we think, that all this
talk is mere jugglery, and the professor himself seems to have felt that
it was; for he admits that the profound student of science may be “so
oppressed with a consciousness of the Infinite as to refrain from all
attempts to grasp and formulate and limit the nature of what is past
finding out.” This last expression shows that Mr. Youmans has no ground
for expecting that his profound student will rise to the ideal of the
divine nature, as what is “past finding out” will never be found, and is
not only “unspeakable,” as he declares, but also “unthinkable.” The
profound student of science is therefore doomed, so far as Mr. Youmans
may be relied on, to remain without any ideal of God. What is this but
genuine atheism?

Mr. Youmans will reply that his profound student will not be an atheist,
because he will feel “so oppressed with the consciousness of the
Infinite.” But we should like to know how the profound student can have
consciousness of what he cannot think of. And, in like manner, if the
Infinite is unthinkable, how can the profound student know that it is
infinite? These contradictions go far to prove that “ignorance” and
“stupidity,” far from being the characteristics of Christianity, find a
more congenial abode in the “developed intellects of the profound
students of advanced science.”

As all errors are misrepresentations of truth, we cannot dismiss this
point without saying a word about the truth here misrepresented. God is
incomprehensible; such is the truth. God is unthinkable; this is the
error. To argue that what is incomprehensible is also unthinkable, is a
manifest fallacy. There are a very great number even of finite things
which we know but cannot comprehend. For instance, we know gravitation,
electricity, and magnetism, but our knowledge of them is quite
inadequate. We know ancient history, though numberless facts have
remained inaccessible to our research. We know the operations of our own
faculties, but we are far from comprehending them. Comprehension is the
perfect and adequate knowledge of the object comprehended. If the
cognoscibility of the object is not exhausted, there is knowledge, but
not comprehension; and as our finite intellect has no power of
exhausting the cognoscibility of things, human knowledge is not
comprehension, though no one will deny that it is true and real
knowledge. In like manner, though we do not comprehend the infinite, yet
we conceive it, and we know how to distinguish it from the finite. We
know what we say when we affirm that the branches of the hyperbola
extend to infinity, that the decimal division of ten by three leads to
an infinite series of figures, that every line is infinitely divisible,
that every genus extends infinitely more than any of its subordinate
species, and the species infinitely more than the individual, etc. Thus
the notion of the infinite is a familiar one among men; and when Mr.
Youmans contends that the infinite is unthinkable, he commits a blunder,
and every one of his readers has the right to tell him that such a
blunder in inductive science is inexcusable.

Perhaps it may not be superfluous to point out, before we conclude,
another fallacy of the “developed intellect” of the professor. He
assumes that to form a conception of God is to limit the divine nature;
for he declares that the profound student of science oppressed with the
consciousness of Infinity ought reverently to refrain “from all attempts
to grasp, and formulate, and _limit_ the nature of that which is past
finding out.” We would inform Mr. Youmans that the notion of a thing
does not limit the thing, but simply expresses that the thing is what it
is, whether it be limited or unlimited. In all essential definitions
some notion is included, which expresses either perfection or
imperfection. When we say that a being is _irrational_, we point out an
imperfection, or a defect of further perfection; whereas when we say
that a being is _rational_, we express a perfection of the being. Now,
since all imperfection is a real limit, it follows that all denial of
imperfection is a denial of some limit, and therefore the affirmation of
every possible perfection is a total exclusion of limit. Thus
omnipotence excludes all limit of power, eternity all limit of duration,
omniscience all limit of knowledge, immensity all limit of space. We
need not add that all the other attributes of God exclude limitation, as
they are all infinite. It is evident, therefore, that we can “formulate”
our notion of God without “limiting” the divine nature; and that those
“profound students” of nature whose “developed intellect” is “oppressed
with the consciousness of Infinity” strive in vain to palliate their
atheism by “reverently (?) refraining from all attempts to grasp and
formulate” the nature of the Supreme Cause.

We may be told that Prof. Youmans, though he rejects the “God of
theology,” admits something equivalent—viz., Infinity, the consciousness
of which he feels so oppressive. He also admits that “religious feelings
may be awakened” in a mind so oppressed by the thought of Infinity, and
insists that “religious teachers ought in these days to have liberality
enough to recognize this serious fact, remembering that human nature is
religiously progressive as well as progressive in its other capacities.”
Would not this show that we cannot without injustice hold him up as a
professor of atheism? We reply that the accusation of atheism preferred
against the tendency of advanced science has been met by the professor
in such a manner as to give it only more weight, according to the old
proverb which says that


                 _Causa patrocinio non bona pejor erit_.


He does not believe in the God of theology. In what does he believe? In
the “unthinkable”! This is sheer mockery. But the unthinkable is said to
be infinite. This is sheer nonsense, as we have shown. Again, the
unthinkable is said to awaken religious feelings. This is written for
unthinkable persons. The professor, as we have already noticed, admires
the grandeur of nature, and holds it to be “boundless,” and therefore
infinite. This may lead one to suspect that the material universe—the
sun, the planets, the stars, heat, light, electricity, gravity, and
their laws—constitute the “Infinity” with the consciousness of which the
professor is oppressed. If this could be surmised, we might regard him
as a pantheist. This, of course, would not better his position, as
pantheism is, after all, only another form of atheism. But if nature (or
rather Nature, as he writes it) is his Deity, how can he affirm that
such a nature is “unspeakable” and “unthinkable”? If nature is
“unthinkable,” the science of nature is a dream; and if it is
“unspeakable,” all the talk of the _Popular Science Monthly_ is a fraud.

If Prof. Youmans wishes us to believe that “advanced” science does not
tend to foster atheism, and that its foremost champions are not
atheists, let him come forward like a man, and show that, after
rejecting the God of theology and of philosophy, another God has been
found, to whom “developed intellects” offer religious worship, and in
whom their religious feelings are rationally satisfied. Let him give us,
above all, his “scientific” reasons for abandoning the God of the Bible,
in whom we “ignorant blockheads” have not ceased to believe; and let him
state his “philosophic” reasons also, if he has any, that we may judge
of the case according to its full merit. We need not be instructed about
the “religious progressiveness” of mankind, or any other convenient
invention of unbelievers; we want only to know the new God of “advanced”
science, his nature and his claims. When Prof. Youmans shall have
honestly complied with this suggestion, we shall see what answer can
best meet his appeal to the “liberality” of religious teachers.


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


                          A LEGEND OF DIEPPE.

A gloomy three days’ storm has prevailed all along the French coast.
Dull gray clouds hide the blue vault of heaven and frown upon the
tossing waters beneath. The fresh, invigorating air, remembered with
delight by all who have ever been in Normandy, has given place to a
damp, chilly heaviness, broken occasionally by fierce gusts of wind and
rain. The fisher-boats are all in port, the small ones drawn up high on
the beach, the larger securely anchored. But this is not due only to the
storm. Even if it were the fairest of weather, no Dieppe fisherman would
set sail to-day. It is All-Souls’ day—the feast of the dead, the
commemoration of the loved and lost; and who is there that has not loved
and lost? But among these simple Catholic souls one feels that the loved
are never lost. The dead live still in the tender remembrance of those
left behind. Tears shed in prayer for the departed have no bitterness.

But the heartless and ungrateful man who fishes to-day will be
everywhere followed by his double—a phantom fisher in a phantom boat.
All signs fail him, all fish escape his net. Again and again he draws it
in empty. If he persist, at length he thinks himself rewarded. His net
is so heavy he nearly swamps his boat in the endeavor to draw it in; and
horrible to say, his catch is only grinning skulls and disjointed human
bones.

At night, tossing on his sleepless pillow, he hears the ghostly “white
car” rolling through the silent street. He hears his name called in the
voice of the latest dead of his acquaintance, and dies himself before
the next All-Souls’ day.

Spite of the bleak and rainy weather, all the good people of Dieppe, or
rather of its fisher suburb, Le Pollet, are gathered together in church.
Rude as it is, weather-beaten, discolored, gray-green, like the unquiet
ocean it overlooks, Notre Dame du Pollet is still grand and picturesque.
It has suffered both from time and desecration, as is seen by its broken
carvings, empty niches, and ruined tombs. The altars are plain, the
ornaments few and simple. On the wall of the Lady chapel hang two rusty
chains—the votive offering, it is said, of a sailor of Le Pollet, once a
slave to pirates. Miraculously rescued by Our Lady, he returned to his
native place only to sing a _Te Deum_ in her chapel and hang up his
broken fetters therein; then, retiring to a neighboring monastery, he
took upon himself a voluntary bondage which love made sweet and light.

It is the solemn Mass of requiem, and almost noon, though the sombre
day, subdued yet more by stained-glass windows, seems like a winter
twilight. The church is all in deep shadow, except the sanctuary with
its softly-burning lamp, and its altar decked with starry wax-lights.
Black draperies hang about the altar, black robes are upon the
officiating priests. The slow, mournful chant of the _Dies Iræ_, sung by
a choir invisible in the darkness, resounds through the dim, lofty
aisles.

Motionless upon the uneven stone pavement kneel the people, a dark and
silent mass, only relieved here and there by the gleam of a snowy cap or
bright-colored kerchief; for the fisher-folk, and, indeed, all the
peasantry of thrifty Normandy, dress in serviceable garb, of sober
colors. There is one little group apart from the rest of the
congregation; not all one family, for they are too unlike. They seem to
be drawn together by some common calamity or dread. First is an old
woman perhaps seventy years of age, and looking, as these Norman
peasants usually do, even older than her years. The full glow of light
from the altar falls upon her white cap, with the bright blue kerchief
tied over it. A string of large beads hangs from her bony fingers. Her
eyes, singularly bright for one so aged, are raised to the black-veiled
crucifix, and tears glisten upon her brown and withered cheeks. Her arm
is drawn through that of a slender young woman, and near them is a
little girl, round and rosy. All three are dressed nearly alike, and all
say their beads, though not with the same tearful devotion. Anxiety and
weariness are in the young girl’s pale but pretty face; and the child
looks subdued, almost frightened, by the gloom around her.

Behind them kneels a comely matron, a little child clinging to her gown;
near her two fishermen, one old and gray-haired. The other, who is
young, has an arm in a sling; he kneels upon one knee, his elbow on the
other, and his face hidden in his hand.

They are two households over whom hangs the shadow of a calamity,
perhaps all the greater because of its uncertainty. Two months ago
Jacques Payen and his son sailed for the fishery. Jacques Suchet and his
cousin, Charles Rivaud, completed the crew; for Jean Suchet, disabled by
a broken arm, remained at home with his grandmother and sister. The
season proved unusually stormy. Two fishing-boats of Le Pollet narrowly
escaped the terrible rocks of the Norman coast; and one of these
reported seeing a vessel, resembling that of the Payens, drifting past
them in a fog, with broken mast and cordage dragging over the side. They
hailed the wreck, but heard no reply, and concluded that the crew had
been swept overboard, or possibly had escaped in their boat.

Weeks had passed since this vague but terrible intelligence had reached
the stricken families. Old Mère Suchet had at once received it as
conclusive. She wept and prayed for the bold young fishers, the hope and
comfort of her old age. Not so Manon Payen. No one dared condole with
her, not even her old father, Toutain. Life hitherto had gone so well
with her! Her husband loved her; her son was her pride and delight; her
rosy Marie and little toddling Pierre filled her cottage with laughter
and sunshine. Grief was so new and strange and frightful. What! her
husband and son taken from her at one blow? No, it could not be! It was
too dreadful! God _could_ not be so cruel! Besides, there were no better
sailors than the Payens, father and son; none who knew the coast so
well, with all its perils, its hidden rocks, and dangerous currents.
Their vessel was new and strong; why should they be lost; they _alone_?
Jean Pinsard was not positive it was their vessel he had seen; how could
he tell in a fog? No; she was sure they were safe. They had put in to
one of the islands. They would not risk a dangerous journey in stormy
weather just to tell her, what she knew already, that they were safe.

To Mère Suchet’s Mathilde, the betrothed of Jacques Payen, how much
better and clearer was this reasoning than the submissive grief of her
pious old grandmother! Young people cannot easily believe the worst when
it concerns themselves. Mathilde _could_ not pray for the repose of the
souls of lover, brother, and cousin. With the passionate, impatient
yearning of a heart new to affliction, she besought the Blessed Mother
for their safe return. Her brother Jean did not try to destroy her
hopes, though he would not say he shared them.

As time passed on and brought no news of the absent, the hearts of these
two poor women grew faint and sore; but they refused to acknowledge it
to one another, or even to themselves. Their days passed in feverish,
and often vain, endeavors to be cheerful and busy; their nights in
anguish all the more bitter because silent and unconfessed. On
All-Souls’ day old Toutain and Mère Suchet had wished to have a Requiem
Mass offered for the lost sailors, but Mathilde wept aloud at the
suggestion, and Manon forbade it instantly, positively, almost angrily.

Manon had borne up well through the sad funereal services of the church.
She smiled upon her little ones, and returned a serene and cheerful
greeting to the curious or pitying friends who accosted her. All day she
had carried the burden of domestic cares and duties, while her heart
ached within her bosom and cried out for solitude. Now, at night, alone
with her sleeping babes, the agony of fear and pain, so long repressed,
takes full possession of her sinking heart. Mingled with the roar of the
treacherous sea she hears the voices of husband and son, now calling
loudly for help, now borne away on the fitful wind. She sees their pale
faces, with unclosed eyes, floating below the cruel green water, their
strong limbs entangled in the twisted cordage. Now great, gleaming fish
swim around them. Oh! it is too fearful. From her knees she falls
forward upon her face and groans aloud. But on a sudden she hears a stir
without—a sound of repressed voices and many hurrying feet. Hope is not
dead within her yet; for she springs to the window with the wild thought
that it is her absent returned. No, ’tis but a group of fishermen on
their way to the pier; but Pinsard stops to tell her, with a strange
thrill in his rough voice, that there is a fishing-boat coming into
port!

Manon screams to her father to watch the little ones—she must go to the
pier—then flies out into the night. It is not raining, and she returns
to snatch her wakened and sobbing babe, and wrap him in his father’s
woollen blouse. She does not know when Mathilde joins her; she is
scarcely conscious of the warm, exultant clasp of her hand. Jean is
there, too, agitated but grave.

As they turn the angle of the village street, before them lies the open
bay. It is past midnight, but the pier is crowded. There, truly, coming
on with outspread canvas, white in the struggling rays of a watery moon,
is _the missing ship_! They know it well. Upon the broken, pebbly shore
the two women kneel to thank God; but they can only lift up their voices
and weep.

“They are not safe yet,” says Jean shortly. “The wind takes them
straight upon the pier. They will need all our help.”

The crowd make way instantly for the breathless women. The light-house
keeper stands ready with a coil of rope. The fishermen range themselves
in line, tighten their belts, and wait to draw the friendly hawser.
Great waves thunder against the long pier, sending showers of spray high
above the pale crucifix at the end against which the women lean. Now the
moon, emerging from a light cloud, sends a flood of pale radiance upon
the vessel’s deck. It is they! Jacques Payen is at the helm; young
Jacques stands upon the gunwale.

The light-house keeper throws his rope; the fishermen raise their
musical, long-drawn cry. Jacques catches the rope, but in silence; and
silently the crew make fast.

“It is their vow!” cries Manon, darting forward among the wondering men.
“They will not speak until they sing _Te Deum_ at Notre Dame for their
safe return.”

Reassured, the men pull in vigorously, but to no effect. Again, and yet
again, but the ship does not move. A moment since it came on swift as
the wind; now it seems anchored for ever not fifty yards away. They can
see plainly every object upon the deck, where the silent crew stand
gazing towards the pier. Even Manon and Mathilde have seized the rope,
and draw with the strength of terror. Breathless, unsteady, large drops
of sweat standing upon their faces, they pause irresolute. Stretching
her arms towards her husband, Manon holds out her babe.

A white mist rises out of the sea and hangs like a veil between them.
Sad, reproachful voices rise out of the waves, some near at hand, others
far out. An icy wind lifts the mist and carries it slowly away, clinging
for a moment like a shroud around the crucifix. The cable falls slack in
the strong hands that grasp it. The ship is gone—vanished without a
sound; but far away echoes a solemn chorus, “Have pity on me, have pity
on me, at least you, my friends, for the hand of the Lord hath touched
me.”


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


  ROMANCE AND REALITY OF THE DEATH OF FATHER JAMES MARQUETTE, AND THE
                    RECENT DISCOVERY OF HIS REMAINS.

The bold and energetic exploration by the Canadian Louis Jolliet and the
French Jesuit James Marquette, in which, embarking in a frail canoe,
they penetrated to the Mississippi by the Wisconsin, and followed the
course of the great river to the Arkansas, gives them and their
important achievement a place in American history. It was an expedition
carried out by two skilled hydrographers familiar with the extent and
limit of American exploration, trained by education and long observation
to map and describe the countries through which they passed. Their great
object was to determine the extent of the river, its chief affluents,
and the nature of the tribes upon it, as well as to decide whether it
emptied into the Gulf of Mexico or the Pacific.

In New Mexico, the advanced outpost of the Spanish colonies, some
definite knowledge of the interior structure of the continent prevailed;
but to the rest of the world the great watershed of the Rocky Mountains,
with the valley of the Mississippi and Missouri to the east and a series
of rivers on the west, was utterly unknown. Marquette and Jolliet lifted
the veil and gave the civilized world clear and definite ideas. The two
learned explorers floated alone down the mighty river, whose path had
not been traced for any distance since the shattered remnant of De
Soto’s army stole down its lower valley to the gulf.

Father Marquette was not a mere scholar or man of science. If he sought
new avenues for civilized man to thread the very heart of the continent,
it was with him a work of Christian love. It was to open the way for the
Gospel, that the cross might enlighten new and remote nations.

No missionary of that glorious band of Jesuits who in the seventeenth
century announced the faith from the Hudson Bay to the Lower
Mississippi, who hallowed by their labors and life-blood so many a wild
spot now occupied by the busy hives of men—none of them impresses us
more, in his whole life and career, with his piety, sanctity, and
absolute devotion to God, than Father Marquette. In life he seems to
have been looked up to with reverence by the wildest savage, by the rude
frontiersman, and by the polished officers of government. When he had
passed away his name and his fame remained in the great West, treasured
above that of his fellow-laborers, Ménard, Allouez, Nouvel, or
Druillettes. The tradition of his life and labors in a few generations,
while it lost none of its respect for his memory, gathered the moss of
incorrectness.

Father Charlevoix, travelling through the West in 1721, stopped on Lake
Michigan at the mouth of a stream which already bore the name of “River
of Father Marquette.” From Canadian voyagers and some missionary in the
West he learned the tradition which he thus embodies in his journal:

“Two years after the discovery (of the Mississippi), as he was going
from Chicagou, which is at the extremity of Lake Michigan, to
Michilimackinac, he entered the river in question on the 18th of May,
1675, its mouth being then at the extremity of the lowlands, which I
have noticed it leaves to the right as you enter. There he erected his
altar and said Mass. Then he withdrew a little distance to offer his
thanksgiving, and asked the two men who paddled his canoe to leave him
alone for half an hour. At the expiration of that time they returned for
him, and were greatly surprised to find him dead. They remembered,
nevertheless, that on entering the river he had inadvertently remarked
that he would end his journey there.

“As it was too far from the spot to Michilimackinac to convey his body
to that place, they buried him near the bank of the river, which since
that time has gradually withdrawn, as if through respect, to the bluff,
whose foot it now washes and where it has opened a new passage. The next
year one of the two men who had rendered the last tribute to the servant
of God returned to the spot where they had buried him, took up his
remains, and conveyed them to Michilimackinac. I could not learn, or
have forgotten, the name this river bore previously, but the Indians now
give it no name but ‘River of the Black-gown’; the French call it by the
name of Father Marquette, and never fail to invoke him when they are in
any peril on Lake Michigan. Many have declared that they believed
themselves indebted to his intercession for having escaped very great
dangers.”

Father Charlevoix’s fame as a historian gave this account the stamp of
authority and it was generally adopted. Bancroft drew from it the
poetical and touching account which he introduced into the first
editions of his _History of the United States_.

Yet this was but romance. The real, detailed account of the missionary’s
labors, the details which let us enter the sanctuary of his pious heart,
were all the time lying unused in Canada. They were in the college of
Quebec when Charlevoix was teaching in that institution as a young
scholastic; but if he then already projected his history of the colony,
no one of the old fathers seems to have opened to him the writings of
the early founders of the mission. It was the same when he returned to
make the tour through the country under the auspices of the government
and with a view to its development.

The papers lay unnoticed, and when Louis XV.’s neglect of his American
empire neutralized all the genius of Montcalm and the gallantry of his
French and Canadian soldiery, the mission of the Jesuit Fathers was
broken up. The precious archives were plundered; but some documents
reached pious hands, who laid them up with their own convent archives,
till the Society of Jesus returned to the land where it could boast of
so glorious a career.

Among these papers were accounts of the last labors and death of Father
Marquette and of the removal of his remains, prepared for publication by
Father Dablon; Marquette’s journal of his great expedition; the very map
he drew; and a letter left unfinished when the angel of death sheathed
his sword by the banks of the Michigan River.

Father Felix Martin, one of the earliest to revive the old Canadian
mission, received these treasures with joy, and has since gleaned far
and wide to add to our material for the wonderful mission labors of the
Jesuit pioneers. He has published many works, and aided in far more.
With a kindness not easy to repay he permitted the writer to use the
documents relating to Marquette in preparing a work on “The Discovery
and Exploration of the Mississippi Valley.”

From these authentic contemporary documents we learn the real story of
Father Marquette’s last labors. As he was returning from his voyage down
the Mississippi, he promised the Kaskaskia Indians, who then occupied
towns in the upper valley of the Illinois, that he would return to teach
them the faith which he announced. His health, broken by exposure and
mission labor on the St. Lawrence and the Upper Lakes, was very frail,
but he had no idea of rest. Devoted in an especial manner to the great
privilege of Mary—her Immaculate Conception—he named the great artery of
our continent The River of the Immaculate Conception, and in his heart
bestowed the same name on the mission which he hoped to found among the
Kaskaskias.

To enter upon that work, so dear to his piety, he needed permission from
his distant superior. When the permission came he took leave of the
Mackinac mission which he had founded, and pushed off his bark canoe
into Lake Michigan. The autumn was well advanced—for it was the 25th of
October, 1674—and the reddening forests swayed in the chill lake winds
as he glided along the western shore. Before he reached the southern
extremity winter was upon him with its cold and snows, and the disease
which had been checked, but not conquered, again claimed the frail
frame. It could not quench his courage, for he kept on in his open canoe
on the wintry lake till the 4th of December, when he reached Chicago.
There he had hoped to ascend the river and by a portage reach the
Illinois. It was too late. The ice had closed the stream, and a winter
march was beyond his strength. His two men, simple, faithful companions,
erected a log hut, home and chapel, the first dwelling and first church
of Chicago. Praying to Our Lady to enable him to reach his destination,
offering the Holy Sacrifice whenever his illness permitted, receiving
delegations from his flock, the Kaskaskias, the winter waned away in the
pious foundation of the white settlement at Chicago.

With the opening of spring Marquette set out, and his last letter notes
his progress till the 6th of April, 1675. Two days after he was among
the Kaskaskias, and, rearing his altar on the prairie which lies between
the present town of Utica and the Illinois river, he offered up the Mass
on Maundy Thursday, and began the instruction of the willing Indians who
gathered around him. A few days only were allotted to him, when, after
Easter, he was again stricken down. If he would die in the arms of his
brethren at Mackinac, he saw that he must depart at once; for he felt
that the days of his sojourning were rapidly closing. Escorted by the
Kaskaskias, who were deeply impressed by the zeal that could so battle
with death, the missionary reached Lake Michigan, on the eastern side.
Although that shore was as yet unknown, his faithful men launched his
canoe. “His strength, however, failed so much,” says Father Dablon,
whose words we shall now quote, “that his men despaired of being able to
convey him alive to their journey’s end; for, in fact, he became so weak
and so exhausted that he could no longer help himself, nor even stir,
and had to be handled and carried like a child. He nevertheless
maintained in this state an admirable resignation, joy, and gentleness,
consoling his beloved companions, and encouraging them to suffer
courageously all the hardships of this voyage, assuring them that our
Lord would not forsake them when he was gone. It was during this
navigation that he began to prepare more particularly for death, passing
his time in colloquies with our Lord, with his holy Mother, with his
angel guardian, or with all heaven. He was often heard pronouncing these
words: ‘I believe that my Redeemer liveth,’ or ‘Mary, Mother of grace,
Mother of God, remember me.’ Besides a spiritual reading made for him
every day, he toward the close asked them to read him his meditation on
the preparation for death, which he carried about him; he recited his
breviary every day; and although he was so low that both sight and
strength had greatly failed, he did not omit it till the last day of his
life, when his companions excited his scruples. A week before his death
he had the precaution to bless some holy-water to serve him during the
rest of his illness, in his agony, and at his burial, and he instructed
his companions how to use it.

“On the eve of his death, which was a Friday, he told them, all radiant
with joy, that it would take place on the morrow. During the whole day
he conversed with them about the manner of his burial, the way in which
he should be laid out, the place to be selected for his interment; how
they should arrange his hands, feet, and face, and how they should raise
a cross over his grave. He even went so far as to enjoin them, only
three hours before he expired, to take his chapel-bell, as soon as he
was dead, and ring it while they carried him to the grave. Of all this
he spoke so calmly and collectedly that you would have thought he spoke
of the death and burial of another, and not of his own.

“Thus did he speak to them as he sailed along the lake, till, perceiving
the mouth of a river, with an eminence on the bank which he thought
suited for his burial, he told them that it was the place of his last
repose. They wished, however, to pass on, as the weather permitted it
and the day was not far advanced; but God raised a contrary wind, which
obliged them to return and enter the river which the father had
designated.

“They then carried him ashore, kindled a little fire, and raised a
wretched bark cabin for his use, laying him in it with as little
discomfort as they could; but they were so depressed by sadness that, as
they afterwards said, they did not know what they were doing.

“The father being thus stretched on the shore like St. Francis Xavier,
as he had always so ardently desired, and left alone amid those
forests—for his companions were engaged in unloading—he had leisure to
repeat all the acts in which he had employed himself during the
preceding days.

“When his dear companions afterwards came up, all dejected, he consoled
them, and gave them hopes that God would take care of them after his
death in those new and unknown countries; he gave them his last
instructions, thanked them for all the charity they had shown him during
the voyage, begged their pardon for the trouble he had given them,
directed them also to ask pardon in his name of all our fathers and
brothers in the Ottawa country, and then disposed them to receive the
sacrament of penance, which he administered to them for the last time.
He also gave them a paper on which he had written all his faults since
his last confession, to be given to his superior, to oblige him to pray
to God more earnestly for him. In fine, he promised not to forget them
in heaven, and as he was very kind-hearted, and knew them to be worn out
with the toil of the preceding days, he bade them go and take a little
rest, assuring them that his hour was not yet so near, but that he would
wake them when it was time—as, in fact, he did two or three hours after,
calling them when about to enter into his agony.

“When they came near he embraced them again for the last time, while
they melted in tears at his feet. He then asked for the holy water and
his reliquary, and, taking off his crucifix, which he always wore
hanging from his neck, he placed it in the hands of one of his
companions, asking him to hold it constantly opposite him, raised before
his eyes. Feeling that he had but a little while to live, he made a last
effort, clasped his hands, and, with his eyes fixed sweetly on his
crucifix, he pronounced aloud his profession of faith, and thanked the
divine Majesty for the immense favor he bestowed upon him in allowing
him to die in the Society of Jesus, to die in it as a missionary of
Jesus Christ, and above all to die in it, as he had always asked, in a
wretched cabin, amid the forests, destitute of all human aid.

“On this he became silent, conversing inwardly with God; yet from time
to time words escaped him: ‘_Sistinuit anima mea in verbo ejus_,’ or
‘_Mater Dei, memento mei_,’ which were the last words he uttered before
entering into his agony, which was very calm and gentle.

“He had prayed his companions to remind him, when they saw him about to
expire, to pronounce frequently the names of Jesus and Mary, if he did
not do so himself; they did not neglect this; and when they thought him
about to pass away one cried aloud, ‘Jesus! Mary!’ which he several
times repeated distinctly, and then, as if at those sacred names
something had appeared to him, he suddenly raised his eyes above his
crucifix, fixing them apparently upon some object, which he seemed to
regard with pleasure; and thus, with a countenance all radiant with
smiles, he expired without a struggle, and so gently that it might be
called a quiet sleep.

“His two poor companions, after shedding many tears over his body, and
having laid it out as he had directed, carried it devoutly to the grave,
ringing the bell according to his injunction, and raised a large cross
near it to serve as a mark for all who passed....

“God did not permit so precious a deposit to remain unhonored and
forgotten amid the forests. The Indians, called Kiskakons, who have for
nearly ten years publicly professed Christianity, in which they were
first instructed by Father Marquette when stationed at La Pointe du St.
Esprit, at the extremity of Lake Superior, were hunting last winter not
far from Lake Illinois (Michigan), and, as they were returning early in
the spring, they resolved to pass by the tomb of their good father, whom
they tenderly loved; and God even gave them the thought of taking his
bones and conveying them to our church at the mission of St. Ignatius,
at Missilimakinac, where they reside.

“They accordingly repaired to the spot and deliberated together,
resolving to act with their father as they usually do with those whom
they respect. They accordingly opened the grave, unrolled the body, and,
though the flesh and intestines were all dried up, they found it entire,
without the skin being in any way injured. This did not prevent their
dissecting it according to custom. They washed the bones and dried them
in the sun; then, putting them neatly in a box of birch bark, they set
out to bear them to our house of St. Ignatius.

“The convoy consisted of nearly thirty canoes in excellent order,
including even a good number of Iroquois, who had joined our Algonquins
to honor the ceremony. As they approached our house, Father Nouvel, who
is superior, went to meet them with Father Pierson, accompanied by all
the French and Indians of the place, and, having caused the convoy to
stop, he made the ordinary interrogations to verify the fact that the
body which they bore was really Father Marquette’s. Then, before they
landed, he intoned the _De Profundis_ in sight of the thirty canoes
still on the water, and of all the people on the shore. After this the
body was carried to the church, observing all that the ritual prescribes
for such ceremonies. It remained exposed under his catafalque all that
day, which was Whitsun Monday, the 8th of June; and the next day, when
all the funeral honors had been paid it, it was deposited in a little
vault in the middle of the church, where he reposes as the
Guardian-Angel of our Ottawa missions. The Indians often come to pray on
his tomb.”

We are not writing his life, and will not enter upon the supernatural
favors ascribed to his intercession by French and Indians. His grave was
revered as a holy spot, and many a pilgrimage was made to it to invoke
his intercession.

The remains of the pious missionary lay in the chapel undoubtedly as
long as it subsisted. This, however, was not for many years. A new
French post was begun at Detroit in 1701 by La Motte Cadillac. The
Hurons and Ottawas at Michilimackinac immediately emigrated and planted
new villages near the rising town. Michilimackinac became deserted,
except by scattered bands of Indians or white bush-lopers, as savage as
the red men among whom they lived. The missionaries were in constant
peril and unable to produce any fruit. They could not follow their old
flocks to Detroit, as the commandant was strongly opposed to them and
had a Recollect father as chaplain of the post. There was no alternative
except to abandon Michilimackinac. The missionaries, not wishing the
church to be profaned or become a resort of the lawless, set fire to
their house and chapel in 1706 and returned to Quebec. The mission
ground became once more a wilderness.

In this disheartening departure what became of the remains of Father
Marquette? If the missionaries bore them to Quebec as a precious
deposit, some entry of their reinterment would appear on the Canadian
registers, which are extremely full and well preserved. Father Nouvel
and Father Pierson, who received and interred them at the mission, were
both dead, and their successors might not recall the facts. The silence
as to any removal, in Charlevoix and other writers, leads us to believe
that the bones remained interred beneath the ruined church. Charlevoix,
who notes, as we have seen, their removal to Mackinac, and is correct on
this point, was at Quebec College in 1706 when the missionaries came
down, and could scarcely have forgotten the ceremony of reinterring the
remains of Father Marquette, had it taken place at Quebec.

Taking this as a fact, that the bones of the venerable missionary,
buried in their bark box, were left there, the next question is: Where
did the church stand?

A doubt at once arises. Three spots have borne the name of
Michilimackinac: the island in the strait, Point St. Ignace on the shore
to the north, and the extremity of the peninsula at the south. The
Jesuit Relations as printed at the time, and those which remained in
manuscript till they were printed in our time, Marquette’s journal and
letter, do not speak in such positive terms that we can decide whether
it was on the island or the northern shore. Arguments have been deduced
from them on either side of the question. On the map annexed to the
Relations of 1671 the words Mission de St. Ignace are on the mainland
above, not on the island, and there is no cross or mark at the island to
make the name refer to it. On Marquette’s own map the “St. Ignace”
appears to refer to the northern shore, so that their testimony is in
favor of that position.

The next work that treats of Michilimackinac is the Recollect Father
Hennepin’s first volume, _Description de la Louisiane_, published in
1688. In this (p. 59) he distinctly says: “Missilimackinac is a point of
land at the entrance and north of the strait by which Lake Dauphin
[Michigan] empties into that of Orleans” (Huron). He mentions the Huron
village with its palisade on a great point of land opposite
Michilimackinac island, the Ottawas, and a chapel where he said Mass
August 26, 1678. The map in Le Clercq’s _Gaspesie_, dated 1691, shows
the Jesuit mission on the point north of the strait, and Father Membré,
in Le Clercq’s _Etablissement_, mentions it as in that position. In
Hennepin’s later work, the _Nouvel Découverte_, Utrecht, 1697, he says
(p. 134): “There are Indian villages in these two places. Those who are
established at the point of land of Missilimackinac are Hurons, and the
others, who are at five or six arpens beyond, are named the Outtaouatz.”
He then, as before, mentions saying Mass in the chapel at the Ottawas.

The Jesuit Relation of 1673–9 (pp. 58, 59) mentions the “house where we
make our abode ordinarily, and where is the church of St. Ignatius,
which serves for the Hurons,” and mentions a small bark chapel
three-quarters of a league distant and near the Ottawas. This latter
chapel was evidently the one where Father Hennepin officiated in 1678
or, as he says elsewhere, 1679.

The relative positions of the Indian villages and the church thus
indicated in Hennepin’s account are fortunately laid down still more
clearly on a small map of Michilimackinac found in the _Nouveaux
Voyages_ de M. le Baron de La Hontan, published at the Hague in 1703.
Many of the statements in this work are preposterously false, and his
map of his pretended Long River a pure invention, exciting caution as to
any of his unsupported statements. But the map of the country around
Michilimackinac agrees with the Jesuit Relation and with Father
Hennepin’s account, and has all the appearance of having been copied
from the work of some professed hydrographer, either one of the Jesuit
Fathers like Raffeix, whose maps are known, or Jolliet, who was royal
hydrographer of the colony. The whole map has a look of accuracy, the
various soundings from the point to the island being carefully given. On
this the French village, the house of the Jesuits, the Huron village,
that of the Ottawas, and the cultivated fields of the Indians are all
laid down on the northern shore. In the text, dated in 1688, he says:
“The Hurons and the Ottawas have each a village, separated from one
another by a simple palisade.... The Jesuits have a small house, besides
a kind of church, in an enclosure of palisades which separates them from
the Huron village.”

The publication a quarter of a century ago of the contemporaneous
account of the death and burial of Father Marquette, the humble
discoverer of a world, excited new interest as to his final
resting-place. The West owed him a monument, and, though America gave
his name to a city, and the Pope ennobled it by making it a bishop’s
see, this was not enough to satisfy the yearnings of pious hearts, who
grieved that his remains should lie forgotten and unknown. To some the
lack of maps laying down the famous spots in the early Catholic missions
has seemed strange: but the difficulty was very great. Every place
required special study, and the random guesses of some writers have only
created confusion, where truth is to be attained by close study of every
ancient record and personal exploration of the ground. Michilimackinac
is not the only one that has led to long discussion and
investigation.[62]

Where was the chapel on the point? A structure of wood consumed by fire
a hundred and seventy years ago could scarcely be traced or identified.
A forest had grown up around the spots which in Marquette’s time were
cleared and busy with human life. Twenty years ago this forest was in
part cleared away, but nothing appeared to justify any hope of
discovering the burial-place of him who bore the standard of Mary
conceived without sin down the Mississippi valley. One pioneer kept up
his hope, renewed his prayers, and pushed his inquiries. The Rev. Edward
Jacker, continuing in the nineteenth century the labors of
Marquette—missionary to the Catholic Indians and the pagan, a loving
gatherer of all that related to the early heralds of the faith, tracing
their footsteps, explaining much that was obscure, leading us to the
very spot where Ménard labored and died—was to be rewarded at last.

A local tradition pointed to one spot as the site of an old church and
the grave of a great priest, but nothing in the appearance of the ground
seemed to justify it. Yet, hidden in a growth of low trees and bushes
were preserved proofs that Indian tradition coincided with La Hontan’s
map and the Jesuit records.

On the 5th day of May, 1877, the clearing of a piece of rising ground at
a short distance from the beach, at the head of the little bay on the
farm of Mr. David Murray, near the main road running through the town,
laid bare the foundations of a church, in size about thirty-two by forty
feet, and of two adjacent buildings. The Rev. Mr. Jacker was summoned to
the spot. The limestone foundation walls of the building were evidently
those of a church, there being no chimney, and it had been destroyed by
fire, evidences of which existed on every side. The missionary’s heart
bounded with pious joy. Here was the spot where Father Marquette had so
often offered the Holy Sacrifice; here he offered to Mary Immaculate his
voyage to explore the river he named in her honor; here his remains were
received and, after a solemn requiem, interred.

But Father Jacker was a cautious antiquarian as well as a devoted
priest. He compared the site with La Hontan’s map. If these buildings
were the Jesuit church and house, the French village was at the right;
and there, in fact, could be traced the old cellars and small log-house
foundations. On the other side was the Huron village; the palisades can
even now be traced. Farther back the map shows Indian fields. Strike
into the fields and small timber, and you can even now see signs of rude
Indian cultivation years ago, and many a relic tells of their occupancy.

The report of the discovery spread and was noticed in the papers. Many
went to visit the spot, and ideas of great treasures began to prevail.
The owner positively refused to allow any excavation to be made; so
there for a time the matter rested. All this gave time for study, and
the conviction of scholars became positive that the old chapel site was
actually found.

The next step towards the discovery of the remains of the venerable
Father Marquette cannot be better told than by the Rev. Mr. Jacker
himself:

“Mr. David Murray, the owner of the ground in question, had for some
time relented so far as to declare that if the chief pastor of the
diocese, upon his arrival here, should wish to have a search made, he
would object no longer. Last Monday, then (September 3, 1877), Bishop
Mrak, upon our request, dug out the first spadeful of ground. On account
of some apparent depression near the centre of the ancient building, and
mindful of Father Dablon’s words, ‘_Il fut mis dans un petit caveau au
milieu de l’église_,’ we there began our search; but being soon
convinced that no digging had ever been done there before, we advanced
towards the nearest corner of the large, cellar-like hollow to the left,
throwing out, all along, two to three feet of ground. On that whole line
no trace of any former excavation could be discovered, the alternate
layers of sand and gravel which generally underlie the soil in this
neighborhood appearing undisturbed. Close to the ancient cellar-like
excavation a decayed piece of a post, planted deeply in the ground, came
to light. The bottom of that hollow itself furnished just the things
that you would expect to meet with in the cellar of a building destroyed
by fire, such as powdered charcoal mixed with the subsoil,[63] spikes,
nails, an iron hinge (perhaps of a trap-door), pieces of
timber—apparently of hewed planks and joists—partly burned and very much
decayed. Nothing, however, was found that would indicate the former
existence of a tomb, vaulted or otherwise. Our hopes began to sink (the
good bishop had already stolen away), when, at the foot of the western
slope of the ancient excavation fragments of mortar bearing the impress
of wood and partly blackened, and a small piece of birch-bark, came to
light. This was followed by numerous other, similar or larger, fragments
of the latter substance, most of them more or less scorched or crisped
by the heat, not by the immediate action of the fire; a few only were
just blackened, and on one side superficially burned. A case or box of
birch-bark (_une quaisse d’escorce de bouleau_), according to the
Relation, once enclosed the remains of the great missionary. No wonder
our hopes revived at the sight of that material. Next appeared a small
leaf of white paper, which, being quite moist, almost dissolved in my
hands. We continued the search, more with our hands than with the spade.
The sand in which those objects were embedded was considerably
blackened—more so, in fact, than what should be expected, unless some
digging was done here _after the fire_, and the hollow thus produced
filled up with the blackened ground from above. Here and there we found
small particles, generally globular, of a moist, friable substance,
resembling pure lime or plaster-of-paris. None of the details of our
search being unimportant, I should remark that the first pieces of
birch-bark were met with at a depth of about three and a half feet from
the present surface, and nearly on a level, I should judge, with the
floor of the ancient excavation. For about a foot deeper down more of it
was found, the pieces being scattered at different heights over an area
of about two feet square or more. Finally a larger and well-preserved
piece appeared, which once evidently formed part of the bottom of an
Indian ‘mawkawk’ (_wigwass-makak_—birch-bark box), and rested on clean
white gravel and sand. Some of our people, who are experts in this
matter, declared that the bark was of unusual thickness, and that the
box, or at least parts of it, had been double, such as the Indians
sometimes, for the sake of greater durability, use for interments. A
further examination disclosed the fact that it had been placed on three
or four wooden sills, decayed parts of which were extracted. All around
the space once occupied by the box the ground seemed to be little
disturbed, and the bottom piece lay considerably deeper than the other
objects (nails, fragments of timber, a piece of a glass jar or large
bottle, a chisel, screws, etc.) discovered on what I conceived to have
been the ancient bottom of the cellar. From these two circumstances it
seemed evident that the birch-bark box had not (as would have been the
case with an ordinary vessel containing corn, sugar, or the like) been
placed on the floor, but sunk into the ground, and perhaps covered with
a layer of mortar, many blackened fragments of which were turned out all
around the space once occupied by it. But it was equally evident that
this humble tomb—for such we took it to have been—had been disturbed,
and the box broken into and parts of it torn out, after the material had
been made brittle by the action of the fire. This would explain the
absence of its former contents, which—what else could we think?—were
nothing less than Father Marquette’s bones. We, indeed, found between
the pieces of bark two small fragments, one black and hard, the other
white and brittle, but of such a form that none of us could determine
whether they were of the human frame.[64]

“The evening being far advanced, we concluded that day’s search,
pondering over what may have become of the precious remains which, we
fondly believe, were once deposited in that modest tomb just in front of
what, according to custom, should have been the Blessed Virgin’s altar.
Had I been in Father Nouvel’s place, it is there I would have buried the
devout champion of Mary Immaculate. It is the same part of the church we
chose nine years ago for Bishop Baraga’s interment in the cathedral of
Marquette. The suggestion of one of our half-breeds that it would be a
matter of wonder if some pagan Indian had not, after the departure of
the missionaries, opened the grave and carried off the remains _pour en
faire de la medicine_—that is, to use the great black-gown’s bones for
superstitious purposes[65]—this suggestion appeared to me very probable.
Hence, giving up the hope of finding anything more valuable, and
awaiting the examination by an expert of the two doubtful fragments of
bone, I carried them home (together with numerous fragments of the bark
box) with a mixed feeling of joy and sadness. Shall this, then, be all
that is left us of the saintly missionary’s mortal part?

“I must not forget to mention a touching little incident. It so happened
that while we people of St. Ignace were at work, and just before the
first piece of bark was brought to light, two young American
travellers—apparently Protestants, and pilgrims, like hundreds of others
all through the summer, to this memorable spot—came on shore, and,
having learned the object of the gathering with joyful surprise,
congratulated themselves on having arrived at such a propitious moment.
They took the liveliest interest in the progress of the search, lending
their help, and being, in fact, to outward appearances, the most
reverential of all present. ‘Do you realize,’ would one address the
other with an air of religious awe, ‘where we are standing? This is
hallowed ground!’ Their bearing struck us all and greatly edified our
simple people. They begged for, and joyfully carried off, some little
memorials. Isn’t it a natural thing, that veneration of _relics_ we used
to be so much blamed for?

“Some hundred and fifty or two hundred of our people witnessed the
search, surrounding us in picturesque groups—many of them, though nearly
white, being lineal descendants of the very Ottawas among whom Father
Marquette labored in La Pointe du St. Esprit, and who witnessed his
interment in this place two hundred years ago. The pure Indian element
was represented only by one individual of the Ojibwa tribe.

“On Tuesday our children were confirmed, and in the afternoon I had to
escort the bishop over to Mackinac Island. Upon my return, yesterday
evening, a young man of this place entered my room, with some black dust
and other matters tied up in a handkerchief. He had taken the liberty to
search our excavation for some little keepsake, taking out a few
handfuls of ground at a little distance from where the box had lain, in
the direction of what I presume to have been the Blessed Virgin’s altar,
and at about the height of the ancient cellar-floor. The result of his
search was of such a character that he considered himself obliged to put
me in possession of it. What was my astonishment when he displayed on my
table a number of small fragments of bones, in size from an inch in
length down to a mere scale, being in all thirty-six, and, to all
appearances, human. Being alone, after nightfall, I washed the bones.
The scene of two hundred years ago, when the Kiskakons, at the mouth of
that distant river, were employed in the same work, rose up before my
imagination; and though the mists of doubt were not entirely dispelled,
I felt very much humbled that no more worthy hands should have to
perform this office. So long had I wished—and, I candidly confess it,
even prayed—for the discovery of Father Marquette’s grave; and now that
so many evidences concurred to establish the fact of its having been on
the spot where we hoped to find it, I felt reluctant to believe it. The
longer, however, I pondered over every circumstance connected with our
search, the more I became convinced that we have found what we, and so
many with us, were desirous to discover. Let me briefly resume the train
of evidence.

“The local tradition as to the site of the grave, near the head of our
little bay; the size and relative position of the ancient buildings,
both in the ‘French Village’ and the Jesuits’ establishment, plainly
traceable by little elevated ridges, stone foundations, cellars,
chimneys, and the traces of a stockade; all this exactly tallying with
La Hontan’s plan and description of 1688—so many concurring
circumstances could hardly leave any doubt as to the site of the chapel
in which Marquette’s remains were deposited.

“The unwillingness of the proprietor to have the grave of a saintly
priest disturbed proved very opportune, not to say providential. Within
the three or four months that elapsed since the first discovery many
hundreds of persons from all parts of the country had the opportunity to
examine the grounds, as yet untouched by the spade. We had time to weigh
every argument _pro_ and _con_. Among those visitors there were men of
intelligence and historical learning. I will only mention Judge Walker,
of Detroit, who has made the early history of our Northwest the subject
of his particular study, and who went over the grounds with the English
edition of La Hontan in his hand. He, as well as every one else whose
judgment was worth anything, pronounced in favor of our opinion. The
balance stood so that the smallest additional weight of evidence would
make it incline on the side of certainty as absolute as can be expected
in a case like this.

“The text of the _Relation_, it is true, would make us look for a vault,
or small cellar (_un petit caveau_), in the middle (_au milieu_) of the
church. But if anything indicating the existence of a tomb in the hollow
towards the left side and the rear part of the chapel were discovered,
could we not construe those words as meaning ‘_within_ the church’?
Besides, it must be remembered that Father Dablon, who left us the
account, was not an eye-witness at the interment; nor did he visit the
mission after that event, at least up to the time of his writing.

“We know, then, that Marquette’s remains were brought to this place in a
birch-bark box; and there is nothing to indicate that, previously to
being interred, they were transferred into any other kind of receptacle.
In that box they remained under the _catafalco_ (_sous sa
representation_) from Monday, June 8, to Tuesday, 9 (1677), and in it,
undoubtedly, they were deposited in a vault, or little cellar, which may
have previously been dug out for other purposes. The box was sunk into
the ground on that side of the excavation which was nearest to the
altar, or, at least, the statue of the Blessed Virgin, the most
appropriate spot for the interment of the champion of Mary Immaculate.
An inscription, on paper, indicating whose bones were contained in the
box, might have been placed within it; of this the piece of white paper
we found among the bark may be a fragment. The poor casket rested, after
the Indian fashion, on wooden supports. It may have been covered with
mortar or white lime, or else a little vault constructed of wood and
mortar may have been erected over it. When the building was fired,
twenty-nine years after the interment, the burning floor, together with
pieces of timber from above, fell on the tomb, broke the frail vault or
mortar cover of the box, burned its top, and crisped its sides. Some of
the pagan or apostate Indians remaining in that neighborhood after the
transmigration of the Hurons and Ottawas to Detroit, though filled with
veneration for the departed missionary (as their descendants remained
through four or five generations), or rather for the very reason of
their high regard for his priestly character and personal virtues, and
of his reputation as a _thaumaturgus_, coveted his bones as a powerful
‘medicine,’ and carried them off. In taking them out of the tomb they
tore the brittle bark and scattered its fragments. The bones being first
placed on the bottom of the cellar, behind the tomb, some small
fragments became mixed up with the sand, mortar, and lime, and were left
behind.

“Such seems to me the most natural explanation of the circumstances of
the discovery. Had the missionaries themselves, before setting fire to
the church, removed the remains of their saintly brother, they would
have been careful about the least fragment; none of them, at least,
would have been found scattered outside of the box. That robbing of the
grave by the Indians must have taken place within a few years after the
departure of the missionaries; for had those precious remains been there
when the mission was renewed (about 1708?), they would most certainly
have been transferred to the new church in ‘Old Mackinac’; and had this
been the case, Charlevoix, at his sojourn there in 1721, could hardly
have failed to be taken to see the tomb and to mention the fact of the
transfer in his journal or history.

“Our next object, if we were to be disappointed in finding the entire
remains of the great missionary traveller, was to ascertain the fact of
his having been interred on that particular spot; and in this, I think,
we have fully succeeded. Considering the high probability—_à priori_, so
to say—of the Indians’ taking possession of the bones, the finding of
those few fragments under the circumstances described seems to me, if
not as satisfactory to our wishes, at least as good evidence for the
fact in question as if we had found every bone that is in the human
body. Somebody—an adult person—was buried under the church; buried
before the building was destroyed by fire; and buried under exceptional
circumstances—the remains being placed in a birch-bark box of much
smaller size than an ordinary coffin—who else could it have been but the
one whose burial, with all its details of time, place, and manner, as
recorded in most trustworthy records, answers all the circumstances of
our discovery?

“_Sept. 7th._—Went again to the grave to-day, and, after searching a
little while near the spot where that young man had found the bones, I
was rewarded with another small fragment, apparently of the skull, like
two or three of those already found. Two Indian visitors who have called
in since declared others to be of the ribs, of the hand, and of the
thigh-bone. They also consider the robbing of the grave by their pagan
ancestors as extremely probable. To prevent profanation and the carrying
off of the loose ground in the empty grave, we covered the excavation
with a temporary floor, awaiting contributions from outside—we are too
poor ourselves—for the purpose of erecting some kind of a tomb or
mortuary chapel in which to preserve what remains of the perishable part
of the ‘Guardian-Angel of the Ottawa missions.’

“I shall not send you this letter before having shown some of the bones
to a physician, for which purpose I have to go outside.

“_Sheboygan, Mich., Sept. 11._—M. Pommier, a good French surgeon,
declared the fragments of bones to be undoubtedly human and bearing the
marks of fire.”

The result is consoling, though not unmixed with pain. It is sad to
think that the remains of so saintly a priest, so devoted a missionary,
so zealous an explorer should have been so heathenishly profaned by
Indian medicine-men; but the explanation has every appearance of
probability. Had the Jesuit missionaries removed the remains, they would
have taken up the birch box carefully, enclosing it, if necessary, in a
case of wood. They would never have torn the birch-bark box rudely open,
or taken the remains so carelessly as to leave fragments. All the
circumstances show the haste of profane robbery. The box was torn
asunder in haste, part of its contents secured, and the excavation
hastily filled up.

The detailed account of the final interment of Father Marquette, the
peculiarity of the bones being in a bark box, evidently of small size
for convenient transportation, the fact that no other priest died at the
mission who could have been similarly interred, leads irresistibly to
the conclusion that Father Jacker is justified in regarding the remains
found as portion of those committed to the earth two centuries ago.

It is now for the Catholics of the United States to rear a monument
there to enclose what time has spared us of the “Angel Guardian of the
Ottawa Missions.”

                           JOHN GILMARY SHEA.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.


MISCELLANIES. By Henry Edward, Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster. First
   American Edition. New York: The Catholic Publication Society Co., 9
   Barclay Street. 1877.

The various papers contained in this assortment of miscellaneous
articles from the pen of Cardinal Manning consist of addresses before
several _Academias_ or other societies, contributions to the _Dublin
Review_, and short essays, most of which, we believe, have been before
published in English magazines or newspapers, or in the form of
pamphlets. They are on current topics of immediate interest, well
adapted to the times, and written in a plain, popular style. One general
tone of defence and explanation of the Catholic cause in respect to
matters now of conflict and controversy between the Catholic Church and
her opposers runs through them all, giving a real unity of purpose and
objective aim to the collection, various and miscellaneous as are its
topics. The most important and interesting papers, in which the force of
the whole volume, of all the cardinal’s principal works, of the efforts
of his entire career as a prelate in the church, is concentrated and
brought to bear upon the central point of anti-Catholic revolution, are
the first and last. The first one is entitled “Roma Æterna: a Discourse
before the _Academia_ of the Quiriti in Rome on the 2615th anniversary
of this city, April 21, 1863.” The last one is entitled “The
Independence of the Holy See,” and we do not know whether or not it was
published before it appeared in the present collection. It has always
been characteristic of the cardinal’s mind, and of the doctrinal or
polemic expositions of Catholic truth put forth by him, to perceive and
seize the principle of unity. While he was still an Anglican archdeacon
he embraced and advocated general principles of Catholic unity, so far
as he then apprehended them, with remarkable clearness and precision.
These principles led him into the bosom of Catholic unity, and their
complete and consequent development in all their conclusions and
harmonious relations has been the one great aim and effort of his
luminous and vigorous mind since he became a Catholic ecclesiastic, both
as an orator and as a writer. This clear, direct view of the logical
order and sequence of constitutive, Catholic principles made him one of
the most thorough and firm advocates of the spiritual supremacy of the
Holy See, before and during the sessions of the Vatican Council. The
Papacy, as the very centre and foundation of Christianity, and therefore
the principal point of attack and defence in the war between the
Christian kingdom and the anti-Christian revolution, has been the
dominant idea in the mind of Cardinal Manning. The indissoluble union of
the papal supremacy with the Roman episcopate, and therefore the
dependence of Christendom on the Roman Church as its centre, its head,
the great source of its life, is the topic to which at present his
attention is more specially directed. The Roman Church, and, by reason
of its near and close connection, the Italian Church, as the permanent,
immovable seat of the sovereign pontificate, is identified with the
prosperity of Christendom. The head and heart of the Catholic Church are
there, whereas other members of the great, universal society of
Christians are only limbs, however great and powerful they may be. The
logical and juridical mind of Cardinal Manning grasps in its full import
the whole Roman and Italian question of present conflict as the vital
one for all Christendom. And, as we have said, the first and last papers
in his volume of _Miscellanies_ are of permanent value and importance,
on account of his clear and masterly exposition of this great
controversy. We will quote a few salient paragraphs in illustration and
confirmation of our opinion on this head:

“It is no wonder to me that Italians should believe in the primacy of
Italy. Italy has indeed a primacy, but not that of which some have
dreamed. The primacy of Italy is the presence of Rome; and the primacy
of Rome is in its apostleship to the whole human race, in the science of
God with which it has illuminated mankind, in its supreme and world-wide
jurisdiction over souls, in its high tribunal of appeal from all the
authorities on earth, in its inflexible exposition of the moral law, in
its sacred diplomacy, by which it binds the nations of Christendom into
a confederacy of order and of justice—these are its true, supreme, and,
because God has so willed, _its inalienable and incommunicable primacy
among the nations of the earth_.... The eternity of Rome, then, if it be
not an exact truth, is nevertheless no mere rhetorical exaggeration. It
denotes the fact that Rome has been chosen of God as the centre of his
kingdom, which is eternal, as the depository of his eternal truths, as
the fountain of his graces which lead men to a higher life, as the
witness and guardian of law and principles of which the sanctions and
the fruit are eternal.... I shall say little if I say that on you, under
God, we depend for the immutability not only of the faith in all the
radiance of its exposition and illustration, and of the divine love in
all its breadth and purity and perfection; you are also charged with the
custody of other truths which descend from this great sphere of
supernatural light, and with the application of these truths to the
turbulent and unstable elements of human society.... You are the heirs
of those who renewed the face of the world and created the Christian
civilization of Europe. You are the depositories of truths and
principles which are indestructible in their vitality. Though buried
like the ear of corn in the Pyramids of Egypt, they strike root and
spring into fruit when their hour is come. Truths and principles are
divine; they govern the world; to suffer for them is the greatest glory
of man. “Not death, but the cause of death, makes the martyr.” So long
as Rome is grafted upon the Incarnation it is the head of the world. If
it were possible to cut it out from its divine root, it would fall from
its primacy among mankind. But this cannot be. He who chose it for his
own has kept it to this hour. He who has kept it until now will keep it
unto the end. Be worthy of your high destiny for His sake who has called
you to it; for our sakes, who look up to you as, under God, our light
and our strength” (“Rom. Ætern.,” pp. 3–23). These words were spoken
fourteen years ago, but they are reaffirmed now by their new
republication, and the similar language of the closing paper of the
volume.

In this last paper, on “The Independence of the Holy See,” the cardinal
speaks more particularly and definitely of the temporal sovereignty of
the Holy See. As the spiritual supremacy of the Pope, in his office as
Vicar of Christ and successor of St. Peter, is closely bound to his
Roman episcopate, and the unity of the church depends on the Roman
Church, the “mother and mistress of churches,” so the peaceful and
uncontrolled exercise of the supremacy depends on the freedom of the
Pope in Rome. This freedom is secured only by complete independence,
which requires the possession of both personal and political sovereignty
as its condition. This citadel of all Catholic and Christian interests
being now the very object of the most resolute and uncompromising attack
and defence—the Plevna of the war between the Catholic religion and the
anti-Christian revolution—the cardinal, as a wise leader and strategist,
directs his principal efforts to sustain and advocate the right and
necessity of the Pope’s temporal sovereignty. The spoliation of this
temporal sovereignty has for its necessary effect, says the cardinal,
“the disintegration and the downfall of the Christian world” (p. 860).
Consequently, as the cardinal continually affirms, the redintegration
and reconstruction of the Christian world require the restitution of
that same sovereignty. “There is one hope for Italy. It is this: that
Italy should reconcile itself to the old traditions of the faith of its
fathers, and should return once more to the only principle of unity and
authority which created it” (p. 848). “If the Christian world is still
to continue, what is happening now is but one more of those manifold
transient perturbations which have come through these thousand years,
driving into exile or imprisoning the pontiffs, or even worse, and
usurping the rightful sovereignty of Rome. And as they have passed, so
will this, unless the political order of the Christian world itself has
passed away” (p. 804).

In these last words is presented an alternative of the utmost
consequence and interest. Is the perturbation and disintegration final
or transient? If final, the church goes back to the state of
persecution, the reign of Antichrist is at hand, and the end of the
world draws near. _When Rome falls, the world._ If the Roman and Italian
people, as such, have apostatized, or are about to apostatize, then the
Roman Church, the foundation, sinking in the undermined and caving soil
beneath it, will bring down the whole crumbling fabric of Christendom
and of the universal world. If, therefore, there is any ground to hope
that this evil day is not yet, but that there is a triumphant epoch for
the church to be awaited, it is of the utmost consequence not to
exaggerate the present revolution in Italy and Europe into a national
and international apostasy, but to show that it is a revolution of a
faction whose power is but apparent and temporary. This is the
cardinal’s conviction, and a large part of his argumentation is directed
to its proof and support. “Why, then, is this gagging law necessary in
Italy? Because a minority is in power who are conscious that they are
opposed by a great majority who disapprove their acts. They know, and
are afraid, that if men speak openly with their neighbors the public
opinion of Catholic Italy would become so strong and spread so wide as
to endanger their power. And this is called _disturbing the public
conscience_. The public conscience of Italy is not revolutionary, but
Catholic; the true disturbers of the _public conscience_ of Italy are
the authors of these Italian Falck laws.... I know of nothing which has
imposed upon the simplicity and the good-will of the English people more
than to suppose that the present state of Italy is the expression of the
will of the Italian people” (pp. 842–47).

We cannot exceed the limits of a notice by adding more extracts or
giving the cardinal’s proofs and reasons. We trust our readers will seek
for them in the book itself. As there is no one more intelligently and
consistently Catholic and Roman in all his ideas than the cardinal, so
there is no one who can so well explain and interpret the same to the
English-speaking world. He is not only a prince of the Roman Church by
his purple, but an intellectual and moral legate of the Holy See, by his
wisdom, eloquence, and gentleness of manner, to all men speaking the
English language, a sure teacher and guide to all Catholics, whose words
they will do well to read and ponder attentively.

Before closing we cannot omit indicating one paper quite different from
anything we have before seen from the cardinal’s pen. It is the one on
Kirkman’s _Philosophy without Assumptions_, in which the eminent writer
shows how much he has studied and how acutely he is able to discuss
metaphysical questions. We may remark that this volume has been
republished in a very handsome style and form, and we cannot too
emphatically recommend it to an extensive circulation. The appendix,
containing in Latin and English the late splendid allocution of Pius IX,
whose thunder has shaken Europe, adds much to its value. This great
document is one of the most sublime utterances which has ever proceeded
from the Holy See. St. Peter never had a more worthy successor than Pius
IX. He watches by the tomb of the Prince of the Apostles, by God’s
command, as the angels watched by the sepulchre of Christ. What better
guarantee could we desire that the sovereignty and splendor of the
Papacy will come forth in glory from the tomb of St. Peter when the long
watch is ended?


BIBLIOTHECA SYMBOLICA ECCLESIÆ UNIVERSALIS. THE CREEDS OF CHRISTENDOM.
   With a History and Critical Notes. By Philip Schaff, D.D., LL.D.,
   Professor of Biblical Literature in the Union Theological Seminary,
   New York. In three volumes. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1877.

In respect to the literary and typographical style of execution, this is
a work worthy of commendation. Its intrinsic value for students of
theology is chiefly to be found in the contents of the second and third
volumes, where the author has collected the principal symbolical
documents of the Catholic Church, both ancient and modern, of the
Orthodox Orientals, and of the Protestant denominations classed under
the generic term “Evangelical.” The original text is given, with English
translations of documents from other languages. Among these documents,
those appertaining to the Eastern Christians have a special interest and
importance, because more rare and not so easily obtained as the others.
As a book of reference, therefore, the _Bibliotheca Symbolica_ deserves
a place in every Catholic theological library. The author is a scholar
of extensive erudition, and a very painstaking, accurate compiler, after
the manner of the Germans, and he has fulfilled a laborious and
serviceable task in gathering together and editing with so much
thoroughness and accuracy the collection of authentic documents
contained in these two bulky volumes, so well arranged and clearly
printed as to make them most convenient and easy for reading or
reference.

The first volume is not without some value as a historical account of
the origin and formation of the symbolical documents contained in the
other parts of the work, especially so far as relates to those emanating
from Orientals and Protestants. One important service his scholarly
accuracy has rendered to the cause of truth deserves to be particularly
noted—the distinct light in which he has placed the agreement of the
orthodox confessions of the East with the doctrine of the Catholic
Church, _exceptis excipiendis_, and their diversity from the specific
doctrines of Protestantism.

In his treatment of topics relating to the Catholic Church the partisan
polemic appears, as we might expect. The author professes to follow the
maxim that “honest and earnest controversy, conducted in a Christian and
catholic spirit, promotes true and lasting union. Polemics looks to
irenics—the aim of war is peace.” He expresses the wish to promote by
his work “a better understanding among the churches of Christ.” He
declares his opinion that “the divisions of Christendom bring to light
the various aspects and phases of revealed truth, and will be overruled
at last for a deeper and richer harmony of which Christ is the key-note”
(preface). This sounds very well in general terms; yet when the author
descends to particulars and practical questions, it is evident that
whatever meaning his terms have is only equivalent to the truism that
increase of knowledge is favorable to the cause of truth alone, and that
the prevalence of truth over error through genuine science, sincere
conviction, and conscientious obedience to known truth produces peace,
harmony, and charity by uniting the minds of men in one faith.
“Irenics,” in any proper sense, can refer only to parties who agree in
substantials, but, through mutual or one-sided misunderstanding, are not
aware of it, or to those who are in controversy about matters which do
not really break unity of essential doctrine between the contending
sides, but are carried on with too little moderation and candor by
vehement disputants. There is no “irenics” in matters essential and
obligatory between the right side and the wrong side, except the irenics
of combat, and no peace except that which follows the victory of the one
over the other. That an advocate of the truth of Christ should be honest
and candid in his argumentation against error, and charitable toward the
persons whose errors he attacks, is of course indisputable. Practically,
when Dr. Schaff finds himself in face of the Roman Church, he is obliged
to recognize that this view of the case is the only one possible. If the
Catholic hierarchy, and all the heads or representatives of the
different bodies of the so-called orthodox Christians, would consent to
meet together and adopt a confession in which all should agree as
embracing the essentials of Christianity, with a law and order which all
should likewise consent to establish, a visionary believer in progress
and the church of the future might with some plausibility argue that the
evolution of a higher form of Christianity would be the result. But Dr.
Schaff’s historical mind is too much accustomed to look at facts to be
deluded by such a chimera. “The exclusiveness and anti-Christian
pretensions of the Papacy, especially since it claims infallibility for
its visible head, make it impossible for any church to live with it on
terms of equality and sincere friendship.” We suppose that the view of
these pretensions which claims for them a divine origin and sanction,
and that which considers them “anti-Christian,” can hardly be called
“various aspects and phases of revealed truth.” The “exclusiveness” of
the claims is a point in which we both take the same view. The
ecclesiastical friendship to which the doctor alludes he justly regards
and proclaims an impossibility. While the Roman Church, and any other
church not in her obedience, co-exist, there must be polemics. Irenics
can succeed only when the Roman Church abdicates her supremacy, or any
other church or churches, refusing submission to it, yield to her
claims. The practical issue, therefore, is reduced to this: the old and
long-standing controversy between Rome and Protestantism. Dr. Schaff
comes forward as a champion of Protestantism and an assailant of what he
is too wary to call by its legitimate name of Catholicism, and therefore
nicknames after the manner of his predecessors in past ages, calling it
“Romanism” and “Vatican Romanism.”

We agree, then, on both sides, that the polemics and controversy must be
carried on. Yet, on the part of Dr. Schaff and those who fight with him,
it appears that a considerable part of the ground we have been
heretofore contending for is evacuated and given up to our possession.
“And yet we should never forget the difference between Popery and
Catholicism.” The issues, it appears, are a good deal narrowed, and that
will facilitate our coming to close quarters and to decisive, polemical
discussion, which we desire above all things. Dr. Schaff continues: “nor
between the system and its followers. It becomes Protestantism, as the
higher form of Christianity, to be liberal and tolerant even toward
intolerant Romanism” (p. 209). Probably the collective terms in this
clause are used distributively, as required to make it agree with the
preceding sentence. This is graceful and dignified in Dr. Schaff. Our
exclusiveness is indeed something hard to bear; we freely admit it. Our
apology for it is that we are acting under orders from above and have no
discretionary powers. Our own personal and human feelings would incline
us to open the doors of heaven to all mankind indiscriminately, and give
all those who die in the state of sin a purgatory of infallible efficacy
to make them holy and fit for everlasting beatitude. Yet as we have not
the keys of heaven, which were given to St. Peter with strict orders to
shut as well as to open its gates, we can do nothing for the salvation
of our dear friends and fellow-men, except to persuade them to take the
king’s highway to the gate of the celestial city, and not follow the
example of green-headed Ignorance in the _Pilgrim’s Progress_, who came
by a by-road to the gate, and, on being asked by the Shining Ones for
his certificate, “fumbled in his bosom and found none.”

We consider that we have not only the higher but the only genuine form
of Christianity. Dr. Schaff thinks Protestantism is the higher form
simply, and, therefore, that Protestants ought to be tolerant of our
intolerance. This is the most dignified attitude he could assume. On our
part, we agree with Ozanam that, in a certain sense, we ought to be
tolerant of error—_i.e._, in the concrete, subjective sense, equivalent
to tolerant of those who are in error, charitable, and, to those
especially who are themselves honorable and courteous in their warfare,
respectful.

Dr. Schaff himself evidently intends to act upon his own principles.
Toward individuals whom he mentions he is careful to observe the rules
of courtesy. In respect to his historical and polemical statements and
arguments on Catholic matters in his first volume, we presume he speaks
according to his opinion and belief; and if that were correct, his
strong expressions would be justifiable, even though they might
sometimes, on the score of rhetoric and good taste, lie open to
criticism. To call the Papacy “a colossal lie” is not very elegant or
even forcible, and is irreconcilable with the author’s own statements
regarding mediæval Catholicism, as well as with the views of history
presented by such men as Leo and other enlightened Protestants. All the
efforts of the Jesuits to bring back schismatics to their former
obedience to the Holy See are called “intrigues.” The author relies a
great deal on strong language, vehement assertion, and a vague style of
depreciation of the mental and moral attitude of Catholics, which is not
sustained by reasoning, and, in our view, indicates the presence of much
prejudice, as well as a want of adequate knowledge and consideration.
Men who have a great aptitude for history and what may be called
book-knowledge, among whom Dr. Döllinger is a notable instance,
frequently fail signally in treating of matters where logic, philosophy,
and accurate theology are required. Dr. Schaff seems out of his proper
line when he leaves his purely literary work and begins to reason. His
polemical argument against infallibility and the Immaculate Conception
is a pretty good _résumé_ of what has been said by others on that side,
and of what can be said. It is all to be found in Catholic theologies,
under the head of objections, and has all been answered many times over.
The author adds nothing to his own cause by his own reasoning, and
requires no special confutation. On the contrary, he weakens his cause
and detracts from its plausibility by the futility of his assertions. We
will cite one instance of this as an example. Speaking of the Immaculate
Conception, he says: “This extraordinary dogma lifts the Virgin Mary out
of the fallen and redeemed race of Adam, and _places her on a par with
the Saviour_. For, if she is really free from all hereditary as well as
actual sin and guilt, she is above the need of redemption. Repentance,
forgiveness, regeneration, conversion, sanctification are as
inapplicable to her as to Christ himself” (p. 111). This is one of the
most illogical sentences we have ever met with. Let it be given, though
not conceded as true, that the dogma places the Virgin Mary above the
need of redemption. The illusion that she is therefore placed _on a par
with the Saviour_ is illogical and false. Adam, before the fall, was
above the need of redemption, and the angels are above it. Are they _on
a par with the Saviour_? He is God, they are creatures. Whatever he
possesses, even in his humanity, he has by intrinsic, personal right;
they possess nothing except by a free gift. Moreover, it would not
follow that regeneration would be as inapplicable to her as to Christ
himself. By the hypostatic union the human nature of Christ shares with
the divine nature the relation of strict and proper filiation toward the
Father, for he is the natural and only-begotten Son of God. But angels
and men are only made sons by adoption, and by a supernatural grace
which in men is properly called regeneration, because the human
generation precedes, which merely gives them human nature. The Virgin
Mary received only her human nature by her natural generation, and
therefore needed to be born of God by spiritual grace to make her a
child of God, and a partaker with Christ in that special relation to the
Father which belonged to him as man by virtue of his divine personality.
Moreover, sanctification is not inapplicable even to Christ, whose soul
and body were made holy by the indwelling Spirit, and therefore, _à
fortiori_, not to Mary, on the hypothesis that she needed no redemption.
Repentance, forgiveness, conversion, are indeed inapplicable to her.
They are, likewise, inapplicable to the angels, were so to Adam and Eve
before the fall, and would have been so to their posterity, if the state
of original justice had continued, unless they sinned personally and
were capable of restoration to grace.

The freedom from original sin does not, however, imply that the Virgin
Mary was above the need of redemption. The covenant of the first Adam
was abolished, and therefore no right to grace could be transmitted from
him to his descendant, the Virgin Mary. The attainder by which he and
all his descendants were excluded from the privileges of children and
the inheritance of the kingdom of heaven was reversed only by the
redemption. If Christ had not redeemed mankind from the fall, the
kingdom of heaven could not have been open to Mary. She owes, therefore,
all her privileges as a child of God and an inheritor of the kingdom of
heaven to the redemption. Some of these are special and peculiar to
herself, and one of these special privileges is that she was prevented
from incurring the guilt of original sin by receiving sanctifying grace
simultaneously with her conception and the creation of her soul. She
was, therefore, redeemed in a more sublime mode than others, and is more
indebted to the cross and Passion of Christ and the free grace of God
than any other human being, and not at all on a par with Christ, who is
indebted to no one but himself. Let this suffice in respect to the
polemics of Dr. Schaff’s work. The reunion of all who profess
Christianity on a new basis is as far off as ever—as remote as the
discovery of a way of transit to the fixed stars. The learned doctor has
prepared a valuable collection of documents useful to the student, but
he has not proposed any substitute for the faith and law of the Catholic
Church which is likely to supplant them, or even to prove acceptable to
any large number of Christians under any name. Nevertheless, we regard
amicably both himself and his work, and we are confident that it will
have the good effect of promoting a wider and more catholic range of
investigation among Protestant students of theology.


THE STANDARD ARITHMETIC, FOR SCHOOLS OF ALL GRADES AND FOR BUSINESS
   PURPOSES. No. 1. By James E. Ryan. New York: The Catholic Publication
   Society Co.

Important changes have been made in arithmetical text-books within the
last twenty years. Each new series of books presented a special claim
for patronage. One contained several chapters previously omitted;
another divided the subject into mental and written arithmetic; others
followed the inductive to the exclusion of the analytic method. Each
series may have been an improvement in some respects; but the gain has
been theoretic and artistic rather than practical. The result has been
to separate oral from written arithmetic; to increase the average number
of books in a series to five; and to load the elementary works with
intricate detail and useless puzzles.

As a rule, a child spends an hour a day of school-life in the study of
arithmetic. This amount of time should suffice to teach the arithmetical
processes necessary in ordinary business. Yet the majority of pupils
never advance beyond the ground rules. This results from making the
text-book the guide. So general is this custom that few teachers desire
to run the risk of changing it, and the pupil is compelled to leave
school before fractions have been reached. He carries with him the
belief that there are two kinds of arithmetic, one mental, the other
written; and while he may be able to explain an oral example, he can
simply tell how the written example is done. The small number of pupils
who reach the higher branches suffer from an overdose of commercial
economy which can only be mastered when they come face to face with
business affairs.

The text-books prepared by Mr. James E. Ryan afford a remedy for most of
these defects. The elementary course contains all that can be taught to
the mass of pupils. It includes the fundamental rules, fractions,
decimals, denominate numbers, and percentage. Each division contains
oral and written work, the same analysis being used in both cases. The
mode of treatment is excellent. The book includes no more practice work
than is absolutely necessary to secure facility and accuracy in
calculation, while the analysis of each step is so clear that any pupil
can easily comprehend it.

The chapters treating of fractions are cleared of obscure subdivisions,
thereby dispensing with a mass of unnecessary rules for special cases.
In addition to this improvement the rules for common and decimal
fractions are made to correspond. Denominate numbers are treated with
marked ability. Obsolete weights and measures are excluded. The various
tables of the metric system are introduced in connection with the
English standards.

A close examination of Mr. Ryan’s treatise will convince the most
exacting teacher that it is an excellent arithmetic.


THE STANDARD ARITHMETIC, FOR SCHOOLS OF ALL GRADES AND FOR BUSINESS
   PURPOSES. No. 2. By James E. Ryan. New York: The Catholic Publication
   Society Co., 9 Barclay St.

This volume begins with simple numbers and carries the pupil through the
commercial rules. The amount of arithmetical knowledge requisite for
business purposes has grown with the enormous growth of insurance,
annuities, etc., so that it has become necessary to define the limits of
school instruction. The author includes percentage, interest, discount,
partial payments, exchange, profit and loss, commission or brokerage,
insurance, duties, taxes, equation of payments, proportion, involution,
evolution, mensuration, and progression in the regular course. The
discussion of the equation, mechanics, specific gravity, builders’
measurements, gauging, alligation, life insurance, annuities, stocks and
bonds, freights and storage, etc., is reserved for the appendix.

In the advanced portions of the work analysis and synthesis, or
induction, as it is now called, are combined. The treatment of each
subdivision is so unique that it is hardly fair to single out one for
special praise. Equation of payments, however, is made somewhat
conspicuous by the amount of condensation it has undergone. In six pages
we obtain the information which is usually spread over twenty. It is
safe to say that the best scholars leave school without a clear
comprehension of this subject, partly because of the senseless rules
laid down, but chiefly because of the number of them. The chapter on
mensuration is remarkable. By it the author proves that a student may
obtain all the knowledge of mensuration requisite for surveying without
studying geometry.

Oral and written exercises are given under every rule, and the examples
are so shaped as to test the pupil’s knowledge of principles. The
appendix contains a mass of important work of the highest value to
students qualifying themselves for active business. For this reason the
volume is well adapted to the wants of high-schools and academies.


RECUEIL DE LECTURES, A L’USAGE DES ECOLES. Par une Sœur de St. Joseph.
   New York: The Catholic Publication Society Co. 1877.

This is a very useful addition to the Catholic Publication Society’s
excellent series of school literature. There is probably no living
language from which so much pleasure and profit can be derived as the
French. Even if a person does not speak it with ease and fluency, it
requires no vast amount of study to be able to read it as readily as
one’s native tongue. The first requisite towards a knowledge of French
is a good text-book and grammar. The little volume before us answers
admirably the first of these requirements. It is interesting, clear, and
constructed on an intelligent plan. The instructions for pronunciation
at the beginning are short but excellent, and likely to rest in the
memory. The exercises begin in a very simple manner. They are always
sensible, and do not confuse words and phrases, and jumble them together
after the Ollendorff plan, although they effect the same end, so far as
the interchange of words, phrases, and ideas goes. As the lessons
proceed, they gradually increase in difficulty, as they do in interest,
the simpler exercises giving place to extracts from the best French
authors.

We think the book in every way well adapted for youthful students of
French who have a teacher.


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



                                  THE

                            CATHOLIC WORLD.

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

                  VOL. XXVI., No. 153.—DECEMBER, 1877.

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


              MR. FROUDE ON THE “REVIVAL OF ROMANISM.”[66]


“Why is Protestantism standing still while Rome is advancing? Why does
   Rome count her converts from among the evangelicals by tens, while
   she loses to them, but here and there, an exceptional and unimportant
   unit?” (“Revival of Romanism,” sect. i. p. 95).

These questions, asked by Mr. Froude in his latest-published volume, are
not new. They have been asked by many any time within the last quarter
of a century. They are being asked with more urgency, if not more alarm,
every day. They are questions worthy of an answer, if an answer can be
given to them; worthy, certainly, of all consideration from
serious-minded men. For, if founded in fact, they point towards a
reversal of the three centuries of Protestant history; to the failure of
Protestantism as a satisfactory system of belief; and, if not to a
general return of Protestant nations to the Catholic Church, at least to
the speedy and final approach to what keen writers and observers have
long seen coming—to wit, the general recognition that between
Catholicity and infidelity there stands no debatable ground for
Christian men.

The suspicion has been gradually growing up in the Protestant thinking
world—a suspicion that is fast hardening into a certainty—that
Catholicity is advancing with giant strides, while Protestantism is
surely, if sullenly, receding; worse still, that in spite of all
Protestantism can do, in the pulpit, in the press, in the government, in
the world at large, Catholicity is bound to advance, and the process of
damming it up and shutting it off seems hopeless. “How to compete with
the aggressions of Romanism” was, in various forms, one of the chief
subjects of debate before the Evangelical Alliance assembled a few years
back in this city. A similar subject excited the recent Pan-Presbyterian
assembly at Glasgow. Indeed, it is safe to say that, wherever a
Protestant assembly of any kind meets for amicable consultation and
discussion, that everlasting skeleton in the closet, “Romanism,” will be
exposed to view to remind the pleasant gentlemen assembled that they are
doomed to die.

This is only a sign of the times. The times were, half a century ago,
when such a sign was not visible; when Catholicity, as a real, living,
active power, was, so far as Protestant countries were concerned, dead
and damned beyond hope of redemption. There was a horror at the very
mention of the name of Rome; a universal Protestant shudder at the
thought of the pope; but Rome and the pope were things exploded with the
Gunpowder Plot and other dark horrors of a by-gone day. In England the
chief vestige of Catholicity and Catholic memories left showed itself in
the annual celebration of Guy Fawkes’ day and the loyal burning of the
pope in effigy.

To-day how changed is the position of Catholicity, not in England
only, but in all English-speaking peoples; not in all English-speaking
peoples only, but throughout the civilized world! Catholicity has
experienced a vast “revival,” to use Mr. Froude’s expression; and to
any one who has read Mr. Froude it will be easy to imagine how that
writer would handle such a theme. Mr. Froude dislikes many things in
this world, but of all things he dislikes Catholicity. It is hard for
him to write calmly on any subject; on this particular subject he
raves, even if he raves eloquently. His admirers, among whom for many
things—particularly for the good service his peculiarly violent temper
has done the Catholic cause—we beg to be numbered, will scarcely
accuse him of that passionless tone that is supposed to belong to
blindfolded and even-balanced justice. It is not passing beyond the
bounds of fair criticism, but simply stating what ought now to be a
sufficiently-established fact, to say that whenever Catholicity or
anything belonging to it crosses Mr. Froude’s vision that vision is
seared; the man is at once attacked by a species of literary
insanity—a _Popomania_, so to say—that renders him incapable of cool
judgment, and leads him to play havoc with all the instincts of good
sense, the laws of logic, the impulses of good nature, and, we are
sorry to add, the rules of honesty. Indeed, no man better than he
affords an example of the remark of a keen French writer that “it is
the happiness and the glory of Catholicity to be always served by its
adversaries; by those who do not believe in it; ay, by those who
pursue it with the bitterest animosity.”[67]

These, however, are only so many assertions on our part. Mr. Froude will
afford us ample opportunity of justifying them.

We have no desire to be unjust to Mr. Froude. Indeed, he is so unjust to
himself that an avowed enemy could wish for no better weapons of attack
than those supplied by Mr. Froude against himself. It is singularly true
that Mr. Froude is generally the best refutation of Mr. Froude. Still,
to a man of his way of thinking, the questions set at the head of this
article, which he so boldly puts and honestly attempts to face, must be
in the last degree not only exasperating but seriously alarming. To a
man who can see nothing more fatal in this world than Catholicity, the
confessed advance of Catholicity, in face of, in spite of, and over all
obstacles, must seem like the spread of a pestilence of the deadliest
kind—a mental and moral pestilence: a darkness of the understanding, a
deadening of the heart, a numbing of all man’s fine, free, and ennobling
qualities, a wilful renouncing of


                 “The mighty thoughts that make us men.”


Of course we laugh at so preposterous an idea; but Mr. Froude has
persuaded himself that Catholicity is all this, and we are trying our
best to regard him honestly and as being honest. Nor does he stand alone
in his persuasion. There are many who go with him in his estimate of
Catholicity, and we have them in view quite as much as he in whatever we
may have to say. And the first thing we have to say is this: Is there
really a “revival of Romanism”? In what and where is it reviving? Of
course we reject the term Romanism, as applied to Catholicity. Still, a
wilful man may as well have his way, especially where his wilfulness
costs nothing. We have a more important controversy with Mr. Froude than
a quarrel over names and a haggling over words. If Romanists we must be
from his point of view, why Romanists, in the name of peace, let us be,
to the extent at least of an article. Some statisticians estimate us at
200,000,000. We can afford to be called names once in a while.

Surely Mr. Froude is mistaken. If it be true, as a very high
authority[68] assured us a few years ago, that “in the kingdom of this
world the state has dominion and precedence,” Catholicity, as a whole,
fares very badly in the kingdom of this world, however high it may rank
in the next. And strange as it may appear to Mr. Froude and to Prince
Bismarck, Catholics have a singular liking for their own place in this
world; they lay claim to at least as lawful a share of the things of
this world as do Protestants; and they utterly and stubbornly refuse to
live on sufferance. The attempt to make Catholics exist on sufferance,
go a-begging for their lives, so to say, and eat and drink, and work and
sleep, and play and pray by the gracious favor of certain princes of
this world, occasions all the trouble between Catholics and the states
governed by such princes. So when a “revival of Romanism” is talked
about we naturally look to see how Catholics stand in the world; and the
look is not encouraging.

The “kingdoms of this world” are all, or mostly all, dead-set against
Catholicity. The Catholic Church is proscribed in Germany; proscribed in
Russia; tied down in Austria and Italy; hounded in Switzerland; vexed
and tormented in Spain and the states of South America. Looked at with
the eyes of ordinary common sense, and from a merely worldly
standipoint, the Catholic Church, under these governments, which are so
strong and powerful, and play so large and important a part in the
world, is in about as bad a condition as its worst wisher could desire.
By the governments mentioned, with some inequality in the degree of
severity, Catholicity is regarded and treated as at once a secret and an
open foe, whom it requires every device and strain of the law and the
resources of government to put down. What Emerson, in one of his latest
and best utterances, has said of the assertion of “moral sentiment” is
here exactly true of Catholicity: “Cities go against it; the college
goes against it; the courts snatch at any precedent, at any vicious
forms of law to rule it out; legislatures listen with appetite to
declamations against it, and vote it down. Every new assertion of the
right surprises us, like a man joining the church, and we hardly dare
believe he is in earnest.”[69]

The press is not only against it of its own accord, but is suborned to
be against it. Its supreme Pastor has literally scarcely a roof to cover
him in the states that through almost all the centuries of the Christian
era belonged to the church, and such a roof as he has hangs on the word
of a royal[70] robber, who, in turn, holds what he has and what he has
so ill-gotten by the slenderest of tenures—the breath of a mob. The city
that witnessed the divinization of paganism, its awful and just
overthrow, the long agony of the Catacombs, the building up of
Christendom on the pagan ruins, the glories of the “ages of faith,” is
to-day one of the chief centres of the new paganism, which has for its
deity nihilism. In all the world to-day no royal crusader is to be found
to draw his sword for Christ and Christ’s cross. The race of Charles
Martel, of Pepin, of Charlemagne, of Pelayo, of Godfrey de Bouillon, of
St. Louis of France, of Scanderbeg, of Sobieski, of Don Juan of Austria,
the race of heroes whose swords wrought miracles at Poitiers, at
Jerusalem, at Acre, at Rhodes, at Malta, at Vienna, at Lepanto, seems to
have died out, though a foe as terrible to Christianity as was ever the
old pagan North and the Moslem South and East besieges and threatens now
the citadel of the city of God. It is, perhaps, characteristic of the
age that the only one to assume the title of royal champion of the cross
should be the present Russian emperor. It is, perhaps, equally
characteristic of the wicked assumption that it should have met with so
fearful and unexpected a response at the hands of the wretched remnant
of a power that true Christianity had crippled, and would have smote to
the dust had not the division of Christendom lent allies from within the
camp to the ancient foe. Does it not look like a just retribution?

The Catholic Church stands between two revolutions—the revolution from
above and the revolution from below. Both alike have decreed its death.
The Herods, the Pilates, and the rabble, foes in all else, are friends
in this. _Delenda est Roma Catholica!_

This is no fancy picture. We are not speaking now of the church in
herself—that consideration will come later—but of the church as she
stands towards governments, or rather as they stand towards her. Even
where some comparative freedom is allowed her it is doled out gingerly
and grudgingly, or given under silent or open protest. The erection of a
free Catholic university in France—that is, a university independent of
the government: a government accused, too, of “clericalism”—is the
signal for the French “republicans,” as writers on this side of the
water insist on calling them, to be up in arms. Men laugh to-day at the
English Ecclesiastical Titles Act and the turmoil created by it. Yet it
moved liberal England in 1850 till the country rocked with the tumult of
it. Its author was a liberal leader. He is still living, we believe,
though it is hard to think of Earl Russell living and not using his
well-remembered voice. At all events he was living a few years ago, and
we heard him then—liberal as ever. He had promised to preside at a
meeting at Exeter Hall, London, to express sympathy with Prince Bismarck
and the German government in their contest with the Catholic Church—a
contest that we shall have occasion to refer to in another place. At the
last moment Earl Russell “caught a bad cold” and could not appear, but
his place as chief speaker was nobly taken—by whom? By a free American
citizen, the Rev. Joseph P. Thompson, D.D., formerly of the Church of
the Tabernacle in this city; and his closing advice to Prince
Bismarck—an advice thrice repeated—was to “stamp out” Catholicity.

These individual instances are only straws, but straws that betoken a
great deal of wind somewhere. Such liberty as the Catholic Church has is
only conceded to it when and where the very character and stability of
the governments necessitate its concession. Under such circumstances,
then, does it not sound strange and startling to be alarmed at a
“revival of Romanism”?

So much for the dark side of the picture; and there is no denying that
it is dark indeed. There is light, however, and the light is very strong
and lovely. If the race of royal men and heroes whose swords were ever
ready to be drawn in the cause of Christ seems to have quite died out,
the race of true Catholics has not died with them. Royalty, at its best
even, was generally and almost necessarily a treacherous ally to the
church. The kings have gone from the church, but the people remain. In
face of this universal, protracted, bitter, and resolute opposition to
Catholicity on the part of so many great states, we find the church, as
in the days of the apostles, adding daily to her number “those that
should be saved.” Here, too, we find, as in all Christian history, the
greatest and sharpest contrasts—those contrasts that it baffles human
ingenuity to explain. The Catholic Church is to-day strongest where,
according to human calculation, she ought to be weakest, and weakest
where she ought to be strongest. She flourishes best in what three
centuries of almost total estrangement have made to her foreign soil.
This it is that so puzzles Mr. Froude.

    “The proverb which says that nothing is certain but the
    unforeseen was never better verified than in the resurrection,
    as it were out of the grave, during the last forty years of the
    Roman Catholic religion. In my own boyhood it hung about some
    few ancient English families like a ghost of the past. They
    preserved their creed as an heirloom which tradition rather than
    conviction made sacred to them. A convert from Protestantism to
    Popery would have been as great a monster as a convert to
    Buddhism or Odin worship. ‘Believe in the Pope!’ said Dr.
    Arnold. ‘I should as soon believe in Jupiter’” (p. 93).

This is undoubtedly, in the main, a true picture of the result of three
centuries of apostasy in England. As for Dr. Arnold, that learned
gentleman probably understated his belief. He would, if anything, much
sooner have believed in Jupiter than in the Pope. It would be
interesting to know what he thought of, say, George IV., as the supreme
head of the church of which Dr. Arnold was so distinguished an ornament,
or of Queen Victoria. He is as good an example as any of modern refined
and intellectual paganism, and his distinguished son is but the natural
outcome of the influence of such a man’s character and teachings, as in
another way was John Stuart Mill of _his_ father.

“The singular change which we have witnessed and are still witnessing,”
pursues Mr. Froude, “is not due to freshly-discovered evidence of the
truth of what had been abandoned as superstition” (p. 93). In this, of
course, we quite agree with Mr. Froude, though, perhaps, not exactly in
the manner he would wish. The truth is the same to-day as it ever was.
Superstition is the same to-day as it ever was. Without going into the
matter very deeply just here, we merely hint that Mr. Froude’s “singular
change” may not be quite so singular as he imagines. The change to which
he alludes is the return of a great body of the English-speaking people
to or towards what for three centuries England and England’s colonies
had been educated to consider superstition, darkness, idolatry even.
Certainly Rome has not changed within this period, as it will be seen
Mr. Froude, with passionate vehemence, insists. We only throw out the
hint, then, that possibly what was abandoned as superstition turns out
on closer inspection not to have been superstition at all. Truth may be
slow in coming, but once come it is very hard to close one’s eyes to it.
For men who have eyes there is no exercise so healthy and manful as
honestly to face a great difficulty. The modern keen spirit of
investigation we are far from considering an unmixed evil, if, indeed,
it be an evil at all. The closest inquiry is compatible with the firmest
and most whole-hearted faith. The objections of sceptics to the
doctrines of the church are, when not borrowed from the objections of
the doctors of the church, puny in comparison with them. On men,
however, who do not believe at all, the spirit of inquiry, when united
to earnestness of purpose, is working good. Many nowadays, who have
every whit as profound a distrust of Catholicity as Mr. Froude, are not
content with taking for granted all that they have been taught to
believe of Catholics and Catholicity. They go to Rome; walk about in it,
read it, study it, much as they would enter upon the investigation of a
disputed question in science; and, having examined to their hearts’
content, many of them stay in Rome, while most come back with at least
respect for what they formerly detested and abhorred.

It is impossible even to mention a few of the names of distinguished
Catholics within the century, many of them converts, and not be struck
by their mental and moral eminence. The world cannot afford to sneer at
men like Görres, Count von Stolberg, Frederic Schlegel, Hürter, Ozanam,
Lacordaire, Montalembert, Louis Veuillot, Balmez, O’Connell, Brownson,
Ives, Anderson, Bayley, Wiseman, Newman, Manning, Faber, Ward, Marshall,
Allies, Mivart, and a host of others almost equally eminent, who were
born leaders of men or of thought, who came from many lands, who filled
every kind of position, and who, led by many different lights,
traversing many stormy and dark and difficult ways, came at last to
Rome, to rest there to the end as loyal and faithful children of the
church. It is men like these who ennoble the human race and who leave a
rich legacy of thought and act to all peoples and to all time. To say
that such men, most of whom came from without, went deliberately over to
the old “superstition” because it was superstition will not do. They
found what they had esteemed darkness to be light.

This modern spirit of investigation has done and is doing another great
service to the Catholic cause: it is helping to unravel the tangled
skein of history, to explore dark places and drag buried truth to light.
Lingard’s _History of England_, for instance, really worked, or more
properly began, a revolution in English thought—a revolution which,
unconsciously, Scott’s novels and poems helped greatly to popularize.
The work set on foot by Lingard and the method adopted have been well
followed up by others, and by non-Catholics. Men came to try and look at
things dispassionately and fairly. The result was that certain rooted
English opinions and prejudices began slowly to give way. The “glorious
Reformation,” for instance, and the “great Reformers” in England
appeared on closer inspection to be neither quite so “glorious” nor
quite so “great” as before. It requires very exceptional mental, not to
say moral, courage nowadays to present Henry VIII. as a reformer of
religion, or “good Queen Bess” as really good, or as one whose “lordly
nature was the pride of all true-hearted Englishmen.”[71] And like in
character to the leaders were those who went with them in their measures
of reform. The Reformation itself has come to be regarded by all
intelligent minds, whatever be their estimate of Catholicity, as at
least not an unmixed good. “The religious reform,” says Guizot,[72]
“which was the revolution of the sixteenth century has already been
submitted to the test of time, and of great social and intellectual
perils. It brought with it much suffering to the human race, it gave
rise to great errors and great crimes, and was developed amidst cruel
wars and the most deplorable troubles and disturbances. These facts,
which we learn both from its partisans and opponents, cannot be
contested, and they form the account which history lays to the charge of
the event.” The constant revelations coming to light through the
publication of secret papers and such like make it perfectly plain that
reform, to have been at all effectual, should have begun with the
“Reformers” themselves. As an evidence of how thoroughly the sham and
rottenness of the Reformation have been exposed, we find Sanders’
much-derided _Rise and Growth of the Anglican Schism_ now accepted on
all sides as only too true.

Certain it is that a great idol of English Protestantism, if not quite
overthrown, has been very much battered and bruised of late by
iconoclasts who in other days would have knelt and worshipped before it.
Protestant England is built on the Protestant Reformation; but if that
turns out to have been on its religious side so very bad an affair, what
becomes of those who pinned their faith to it? That is a thought that is
working in men’s minds, and working good. That reform was needed in the
church and kingdom of England prior to the Reformation no man will
dispute. But real reformation should not be a sweeping out of one devil
to introduce seven more unclean.

While the truth of history was thus slowly forcing its way out, there
came a sudden shock to the mind of the English people—a shock so severe
and stunning in its first effects as almost to lead to a reaction and a
turning again into the old ruts. This was the deliberate desertion of
all pretensions to alliance with the early church by some of the
leaders—“the ablest” Mr. Froude styles them—of the Tractarian movement.
These became converts to the Catholic faith, and, in the slang of the
day, “went over to Rome.”

The falling away of these men from the Anglican Church can only be
likened to a revolution, a yielding of some buttress of the British
Constitution, which was thought to be as impregnable, as solid, as
lasting as England itself. And yet “the intellect which saw the
falsehood of the papal pretensions in the sixteenth century sees it only
more clearly in the nineteenth,” says Mr. Froude. Possibly enough; a
distinction, however, is to be drawn at “intellect.”

“More than ever the assumptions of the Holy See are perceived to rest on
error or on fraud. The doctrines of the Catholic Church have gained only
increased improbability from the advance of knowledge. Her history, in
the light of critical science, is a tissue of legend woven by the devout
imagination.”

We have thus far only quoted from the first of fifty-four pages, and
already we pause to take breath. Mr. Froude has a peculiar manner of
putting things. Such wholesale and sweeping assertions are only to be
answered in a volume or by a simple denial. Of course, if the Catholic
Church _is_ all that Mr. Froude unhesitatingly sets her down to be,
there is an end of the whole question. In that case the “revival of
Romanism” is really a grave danger to the world; nay, the very existence
of “Romanism”—_i.e._, of Catholicity—is a menace to human society. If
the “papal pretensions” are “falsehood”; if “the assumptions of the Holy
See” “rest on error and fraud”; if “the doctrines of the Catholic Church
have gained only increased improbability from the advance of knowledge”;
and if “her history is a tissue of legend,” men who commit themselves to
the defence of such a monstrosity set themselves at once beyond the pale
of civilization. Were Mr. Froude writing of the Turks or of the Mormons
he could scarcely use language more strongly condemnatory. It is
probable that, with his generous impulses, he would find “extenuating
circumstances,” did he think any needed, for Mormon or Turk, which he
could not concede to a Catholic.

When Mr. Froude visited this country recently on his ill-judged and, to
him, disastrous mission—for a mission he called it—a critic (in the New
York _World_, we believe) described his style, very happily it seemed to
us, as feminine. Women are not supposed to sit down to serious questions
of wide and general import as calmly and judiciously as men. They argue
from the heart rather than the head. They like or they dislike, and woe
betide the person or the cause that they dislike! Argument is thrown
away on them. They make the most astounding statements with the easiest
confidence; they have a happy faculty of inventing facts; they
contradict themselves with placid unconsciousness, and everybody else
with scornful rigor; for logic they have not so much a disregard as a
profound contempt, and take refuge from its assaults in thin-edged
satire. This, of course, is only true of them when they are out of their
sphere and dealing with matters for which they have a constitutional
incapacity.

Mr. Froude, however, is just this. Take any one sentence of those last
quoted; look at it calmly; weigh it in the balance, and what do we find?
Take this one: “The doctrines of the Catholic Church have gained only
increased improbability from the advance of knowledge.” With this
confident statement he leaves the matter. There is no doubt, no
hesitation, no reservation at all on his part. A reasonable man will ask
himself, however: “Is this stupendous statement true?” “The doctrines of
the Catholic Church! What! all of them?” Apparently so; Mr. Froude, at
least, makes no exception. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty,
Creator of heaven and earth,” is the primary article of the Catholic
Creed. Has that only “gained increased improbability from the advance of
knowledge”? Mr. Froude would hardly say so; indeed, in more places than
one he takes occasion to sneer at the modern scientific gospel. Even if
Mr. Froude himself said so, his Protestant readers who make any
pretensions to Christian faith would scarcely agree with him. Belief in
the Trinity of God is another doctrine of the Catholic Church; in Jesus
Christ the God-Man, the Redeemer of the world; in the Holy Ghost; in the
resurrection of the body and life everlasting. All these are doctrines
of the Catholic Church. Does Mr. Froude pretend to say that they have
all been swept away by “the advance of knowledge”? If he did not mean to
say this—as, indeed, we believe he did not—why did he say it? What are
we to think of him? Is this sober writing and a right manner of
approaching a serious question? In p. 93 he tells us that “the doctrines
of the Catholic Church have gained only increased improbability from the
advance of knowledge.” In p. 95 he has already forgotten himself, and
tells us that “the Protestant churches are no less witnesses to the
immortal nature of the soul, and the awful future which lies before it,
_than the Catholic Church_,” which is the strongest kind of concession
of what he had just before denied; and forgetting himself again, he
tells us in a third place (p. 141) that the Protestant ministers “are at
present the _sole_ surviving representatives of true religion in the
world.” This is only one of a multitude of instances in which Mr. Froude
allows himself to run away with himself. Passion and prejudice narrow
his mental vision, until at times it becomes so diseased as to result in
moral as well as mental obliquity.

The same thing is observable in the sentence immediately following the
passage last quoted: “Liberty, spiritual and political, has thriven in
spite of her [the Catholic Church’s] most desperate opposition, till it
has invaded every government in the world, and has penetrated at last
even the territories of the popes themselves” (p. 94).

Even Mr. Froude cannot absolutely blind himself to facts; at least, he
cannot alter them. He may hate the Catholic Church as much as he
pleases—and it pleases him to hate her very much—but the fact of his
hatred cannot convert the persecution of her children into “liberty,
spiritual and political.” Nor are we at all begging the question in
giving the name of persecution to the treatment that Catholics are
receiving at the hands, if not of “every government of the world,” at
least of those previously enumerated. It is the word, as we shall show,
applied to the anti-Catholic legislation in Germany by candid
Protestants, countrymen of Mr. Froude, too, who hate the church and the
Pope just as resolutely as he, but with more apparent show of reason. It
is too late in the day to argue about this matter. There is no longer
question to an honest mind as to whether the Catholics in Germany are or
are not persecuted. There may still be question as to whether or not the
persecution be necessary, but there is no dispute as to the fact. To
talk of the “spiritual liberty” of Catholics in Germany to-day is simply
to talk nonsense. But, lest there should be any possible doubt regarding
the matter, it may be as well to freshen men’s memories a little on a
point that is intimately connected with our whole subject; for what
covers Germany covers every land where the struggle between the Catholic
Church and the state is being waged.

The organs of English opinion have been very faithful in their
allegiance to Prince Bismarck, who is such an experienced cultivator of
public opinion. They are the bitter foes of the Papacy and the Catholic
Church. Nevertheless, they have some pretensions to principle, and, when
there is no escape out of the difficulty, call white white, and black
black. At all events they do not always call black white. In Germany,
then, according to Mr. Froude, “liberty, spiritual and political, has
thriven in spite of the Catholic Church’s most desperate opposition.”
While the struggle of the German government with the Catholics had as
yet not much more than half begun the English _Pall Mall Gazette_
discovered that

    “There is no parallel in history to the experiment which the
    German statesmen are resolutely bent on trying, except the
    memorable achievement of Englishmen under the guidance of Henry
    VIII.... Like all these measures, the new law concerning the
    education of ecclesiastical functionaries, which is the most
    striking of the number, will apply to all sects indifferently,
    but, in its application to the Roman Catholic priesthood, it
    almost takes one’s breath away.”

It may be only natural to find the apologist of Henry VIII. and
Elizabeth describing the revival in modern times of “the memorable
achievement of Englishmen” under Henry VIII. as “liberty, spiritual and
political.” Yet the same “experiment” takes away the breath, not only of
so cool a journal as the _Pall Mall Gazette_, but of a much cooler and
more influential journal still.

    “The measures now in the German Parliament, and likely to become
    law,” says the London _Times_, “amount to a secular organization
    so complete as not to leave the Pope a soul, a place, an hour,
    that he can call entirely his own. Germany asserts for the civil
    power the control of all education, the imposition of its own
    conditions on entrance to either civil or ecclesiastical office,
    the administration of all discipline, and at every point the
    right to confine religious teachers and preachers to purely
    doctrinal and moral topics. Henceforth there is to be neither
    priest, nor bishop, nor cardinal, nor teacher, nor preacher, nor
    proclamation, nor public act, nor penalty, nor anything that man
    can hear, do, or say for the soul’s good of man in Germany,
    without the proper authorization, mark, and livery of the
    emperor.”

Mr. Froude is perfectly correct in saying that such measures have been
carried “in spite of the church’s most desperate opposition,” but
whether he is equally correct in styling the same thing “liberty,”
spiritual or political, we leave to the judgment of honest readers. The
London _Spectator_, writing at the same period, was in sore trouble as
to the event.

    “Is an age of the world,” it asks, “in which few men know what
    is truth or whether there be truth, one in which you would ask
    statesmen to determine its limits? We suspect that a race of
    statesmen armed with such powers as Prussia is now giving to her
    officials would soon cease to show their present temperance and
    sobriety, and grow into a caste of civilian ecclesiastics of
    harder, drier, and lower mould than any of the ecclesiastics
    they had to put down.... To our minds the absolutism of the
    Vatican Council is a trifling danger compared with the growing
    absolutism of the democratic temper which is now being pushed
    into almost every department of human conduct.”

We shall have occasion to show the results of the work of these
“civilian ecclesiastics” on the Protestant Church in Germany,
particularly in Prussia. Even at this early stage of the struggle the
London _Times_ confessed:

    “We do not anticipate any retrogression in the development of
    Prussia, but it seems inevitable that there should be some check
    in the progress of change, some slackening in the audacity of
    legislation, some disposition to rest and be thankful.”

Of the same measure the Prussian correspondent of the London _Times_
wrote:

    “The Catholic dignitaries are not the only ecclesiastics opposed
    to the bill. The new measures applying not only to the Catholic
    Church, but to all religious communities recognized by the
    state, the Ober-Kirchenrath, or Supreme Consistory of the
    Protestant Church in the old provinces, has also thought fit to
    caution the crown against the enactment of these sweeping
    innovations.”

    “The official papers openly accuse the Protestant clergy of
    becoming the allies of the Ultramontanes,” says the _Pall Mall
    Gazette_ (April 12, 1873). “Herr Von Gerlach no longer stands
    alone as a Protestant opponent of the chancellor’s policy.”

    “This rough-and-ready method of expelling Ultramontane
    influences ‘by a fork’ can hardly fail to suggest to a looker-on
    the probability that, like similar methods of expelling nature,
    it may lead to a reaction. Downright persecution of this sort
    (we are speaking now simply of the Jesuit law), unless it is
    very thorough indeed—more thorough than is well possible in the
    nineteenth century—usually defeats itself,” says the _Saturday
    Review_.

But why multiply quotations? Surely those given are enough to show that
the leading organs of English opinion, representing every stripe of
thought, are quite agreed as to what name should be given to what Mr.
Froude calls the “liberty, spiritual and political,” in Germany. We
leave the case confidently in their hands; and Mr. Froude apparently
thinks the verdict has gone against him. He deplores the fact that “free
England and free America ... affect to think that the Jesuits are an
injured body, and clamor against Prince Bismarck’s tyranny. Truly, we
are an enlightened generation” (p. 136).

What is here true of Germany is true also of Russia, Austria (in great
measure), Italy, Switzerland, and other lands. So that if Catholicity is
really reviving, as Mr. Froude alleges, it is reviving under the very
shadow of death, and in face of the combined opposition of the most
powerful governments. A revival under such circumstances ought to extort
the admiration of Mr. Froude, who is as true a hero-worshipper as
Carlyle, even if he be about equally happy in his selection of heroes.
In the “Preliminary” to _The English in Ireland_ Mr. Froude propounds
his theories of might and right:

    “A natural right to liberty, irrespective of the ability to
    defend it, exists in nations as much as, and no more than, it
    exists in individuals.... In a world in which we are made to
    depend so largely for our well-being on the conduct of our
    neighbors, and yet are created infinitely unequal in ability and
    worthiness of character, _the superior part has a natural right
    to govern; the inferior part has a natural right to be
    governed_; and a rude but adequate test of superiority and
    inferiority is provided in the relative strength of