VIII.

Each letter seeming with a ruddy hue―― Won from His Passion who is Perfect Love―― To glow the whiteness of thy robe above, Thy own heart staining red thy raiment through. What though thy hands are fettered as they lift The blessing of the cross? They still can guide, Like Israel’s cloud, thy children scattered wide; Still are they warning to lost flocks adrift On mist-enshrouded slopes; still can they bless Thy faithful ones who, weeping, peace implore, Who, striving, spread thy realm far countries o’er. Still rulest thou while kings, as shadows, pass; And still the weary, craving love and home, Peace in thy bosom seek, Eternal Rome!

CHALDEAN ACCOUNT OF THE CREATION.

In no portion of the world will the adventurous traveller feel himself more impressed by a sense of mystery and of awe than in that vast plain which rises from the Persian Gulf and stretches away northwestwardly along the mountains of Kurdistan until it reaches those of Armenia. From the rivers which water it the Greeks called one portion of it Mesopotamia. Other portions are known as Chaldea and Assyria. In this plain it was that the Lord God planted the Garden of Eden, bringing forth all manner

“Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit. Blossoms and fruit at once of golden hue Appeared, with gay enamel’d colors mixed, On which the sun more glad impress’d his beams Than in the fair ev’ning cloud or humid bow, When God shower’d the earth; so lovely seemed That landskip.”――_Par. Lost_, b. iv.

Here still How the Euphrates and the Tigris, named in Holy Writ as two of the rivers of Eden. Their waters still fertilize a soil which, desolate and accursed though it now seems, will yield, even to rude and imperfect culture, a harvest of an hundred-fold. Here our first parents spent their too brief hours of innocence. Here, too, driven for their disobedience from Eden, they wandered in sorrow, and tilled the earth in the sweat of their brow.

On this plain, when the waters of the Deluge had passed away, did the children of Noe, as yet of the same tongue, assemble together, and, forgetful of the power of God, say to each other: “Let us make a city and a tower, the top of which may reach to heaven; and let us make our name famous before we be scattered abroad into all lands” (Gen. xi. 4). From this centre, when the Lord had confounded their speech and humbled their pride, did they go forth to people the whole earth.

Here walked Nimrod, the mighty hunter before the Lord, ruling his fellow-men. Here he built Babylon, afterwards so renowned in history. On this plain, too, across the Tigris, were founded Resen and Calah and Ninive, cities of power in the earlier days of history.

For more than fifteen centuries this plain was the most favored spot of the ancient world. As the Assyrian, the Babylonian, the Mede, the Persian, and the Greek succeeded each other on the throne, the tributes and the spoils of surrounding nations were brought hither, and were here lavishly squandered in every mode that could display the magnificence or perpetuate the memory of mighty sovereigns. Each monarch seemed, with the land, to inherit the ambitious desires of the builders of Babel. Each strove to found cities, to erect towers, to build walls, and to raise structures which neither man nor time nor the hand of Heaven should destroy. All through those centuries the work was carried on, each age striving to excel in grandeur and strength of work all that had gone before. Neither time nor wealth nor skill was spared; nothing that man could do was left undone.

How vain and futile is man’s mightiest effort! The decree went forth that Ninive should be laid waste, and that Babylon should be as when God overthrew Sodom and Gomorrha.

This fertile plain, once filled with gorgeous cities and countless villages, checkered with fruitful groves and cultivated fields, has become a wild, deserted, treeless waste, over which the wandering Arab drives his flock in search of a precarious pasturage, and from which even he is forced to flee as the grass withers under the burning heats of summer. The towers and temples and palaces, rich with statuary and painting, and whose sides, glistening with gold and shining brass, reflected the dazzling rays of the sun for leagues around, have all disappeared. In their stead a few mud-walled and thatch-roofed cottages, pervious to wind and rain, may be seen clustering around some ancient Christian shrine, or are falling to fragments since the last raid of the pasha or the rapacity of the Arabs drove the miserable tenants from even such humble abodes. It is only at Mosul and Bagdad, seats of Turkish civil rule――such as it is――and at a few other points, that anything to be called a town can be found. And even there little more is to be seen than an accumulation of many such huts around a few rude stone dwellings and churches. For ages the inhabitants have been ground to the dust by Turkish misrule. Long since stripped of everything, they are the poorest of the poor. He holds life and property by a frail tenure indeed whom the greedy pasha suspects of possessing aught that can be seized. So thoroughly have the glories of old and the outward traces of ancient grandeur passed away that for a long time antiquarians disputed where on this plain Ninive, and where Babylon, stood.

It is a vast, treeless, uncultivated, arid blank on the surface of the earth. Stern, shapeless mounds rise like low, flat-topped hills from the parched plains――rude, unsightly heaps, whose sides, here and there stripped of earth by the rains of winter, disclose within masses of brickwork and fragments of pottery. Desolation meets desolation on every side. The traveller sees no graceful column still standing erect in solitary beauty, no classic capital or richly-carved frieze fallen to the earth, and half-appearing, half-hidden amid the luxuriant growth of the soil; nothing that charms in its present picturesque beauty, nothing that he can rebuild in imagination. He travels on, day after day, over the parched plain, amid these sombre mounds, and feels that in truth this is a cemetery of nations accursed for their sins. The ever-recurring sameness of the dreary prospect around him, before him, behind him, impresses even more deeply on his mind the grand truth that, do what man may, God reigns and rules and conquers. Every step shows him how completely are fulfilled the threats made of old, in the days of their luxury and pride, against the sensual and sinful peoples who dwelt here. The words of the messengers of God have indeed come true.

For the last third of a century a fresh interest has drawn the minds of men to this plain. The silence of twenty-five centuries has been broken, and these old mounds are lifting up their voices, as it were, and telling us of the glories of ancient times, and how men then lived and battled, what arts they practised and what knowledge they possessed, in what gods they believed and how they worshipped. The tale is a wondrous one.

The French government, which still claims throughout the Levant the right of protecting the Catholic Christians of every rite, under the rule of the Moslems, who are united to the Holy See, had stationed in Mosul in 1841, as French consul, M. Botta, a ripe scholar, enthusiastically devoted to Oriental studies. Across the Tigris, and in sight of Mosul, stood a huge mound. The natives called it _Kouyunjik_, and had vague traditions of carved stones and figures having been found in or about it from time to time. M. Botta bethought him of excavating the mound to test the truth of such tales. For a time his labors were without any satisfactory result. He was induced to leave Kouyunjik for a time, and to work instead on the mound of Khorsabad, some fifteen miles distant. Here his very first attempt at excavation brought him down to a thick brick wall. Digging down by its side, he saw that it was lined with slabs bearing sculptures in bass-relief, and inscriptions in some unknown language. Continuing his trench, he groped his way along the wall, until it broke off, with a face at right angles to the face he had followed. A few feet further on the wall commenced again as before. He had evidently passed a doorway. Pursuing his course steadily and eagerly, and turning corner after corner, he at length came to the point whence he had started. He had completed the inner circuit of a room. Then, going through the door already discovered, he led his trenches along the walls of a second chamber lined, like the first, with slabs bearing illegible inscriptions and bass-relief figures. In six months six halls, some of them 115 feet long, were fully explored, and over 450 feet of sculptures and inscriptions were accurately copied. The copies, with an able report, were sent to the Academy of Inscriptions at Paris.

These startling discoveries were hailed with enthusiasm by the antiquarians of France and of Europe generally. The French government at once supplied M. Botta with ample funds, and sent to his assistance M. Flandin, an able draughtsman. The work was vigorously pushed on until the entire mound of Khorsabad had been thoroughly investigated. On an original elevation or mound of earth, either natural or artificial, a vast platform of brick-work had been laid. On this rose the building itself, evidently a magnificent royal palace, over 1,200 feet in front and 500 feet deep. Within, it was divided by thick walls of masonry into numerous halls or rooms, many of them more than 100 feet long, but few of them exceeding 35 feet in breadth. The external walls and these party-walls were from twelve to twenty feet in thickness, and were evidently intended to bear a heavy superstructure of upper stories. These, however, have all perished; nothing remains but the walls on the ground-floor. In fact, they rise only about ten or fifteen feet. Within and without they were lined with limestone slabs ten feet high, bearing inscriptions and bass-relief figures. The same subject often occupied many slabs in succession. Thus, the entire panelling of one long front, of 1,200 feet, seemed to be occupied by a single subject――the triumphant procession of a king returning victorious from some war――the whole presented in a long succession of figures above the natural size. Winged human figures with the heads of eagles――the deities of Assyria――led the way, each bearing the sacred pine-cone in one hand and a basket in the other. To them succeeded priests leading victims for the sacrifice. Then came the monarch in his richest robes, attended by his chief ministers, his eunuchs, and his courtiers. Other officials in a long line bore the various insignia of royalty. Soldiers came next, escorting the tribute-bearers, laden some with miniature representations of the cities and towns and castles that had been conquered, others with the tribute itself and with the spoils of the conquered nations. Lastly, groups of captives, with fettered limbs and drooping heads, closed the long array which proclaimed to men the prowess and grandeur of the monarch who reared this palace. Within the palace the walls were lined with still other inscriptions and sculptures of battles, of sacrifices, processions, of royal audiences, and of lion hunts in the forests and mountains.

MM. Botta and Flandin copied as accurately as possible all these inscriptions and figures as soon as found. It was well they did so. The palace had been destroyed by fire. The limestone slabs had been overheated and calcined. A brief exposure to the weather was now sufficient to cause them to crumble into dust.

In 1845 Mr. (now Sir) Austin Henry Layard commenced excavations first in a different mound――that of Nimroud, some twenty miles distant from Mosul in another direction――and then at Kouyunjik, which M. Botta had abandoned; and afterwards at Karamles, at Birs Nimroud, and elsewhere. He was rewarded by the discovery of four other royal palaces, and of an immense amount of inscriptions, bass-reliefs, and curious Assyrian statuary, large shipments of all of which he sent to the British Museum in London.

We need not say with what astonishment and what interest men looked at this vast amount of Assyrian antiquities, so unexpectedly discovered, and now to be seen in London and in Paris; nor need we follow the steps of the various exploring expeditions that went forth in succession from Europe to delve yet again in those rich mines of archæology. In 1876 they were still at it, and doubtless the work will long continue; for there remains much to reward a search.

The first emotions of astonishment over, the scholars of Europe left aside for a time the sculptured figures, and turned to those multitudinous and inscrutable inscriptions as in truth the richest and most valuable portion of the find. In what language or languages, and by what system, are they written? Does each sign, or group of these curious signs, spell a word letter after letter, as modern writing does? Or do they give syllable after syllable, after the manner of some ancient people? Or does each group simply mean a word, as the Chinese characters do? Can we answer? Is it possible to ascertain the purport and meaning of these records?

These were the questions puzzling the scholars of Europe as they looked on the inscriptions placed before them. More puzzling questions, one would think, could scarcely be devised. How much or how little was already known about this style of inscriptions, these strange arrow-headed, nail-formed, wedge-shaped, claviform, or cuneiform letters, as men styled them?

They were evidently the “Assyrian letters” mentioned by Herodotus. But neither he nor any other ancient writer gave any aid whatever towards their interpretation.

The moderns could tell little of them. In 1620 Figueroa, the Spanish traveller and diplomatist, published some account of the inscriptions he had seen in Persepolis, and gave a fac-simile of one line of this arrow-headed writing. A year or two later Pietro Della Valle, who spent years travelling in Asia, published another specimen, and, from a general consideration of its appearance, decided that the writing, be it in what language it may, was to be read from left to right, as European languages are read, and not from right to left, as the Hebrew, Chaldee, Arabic, and other Semitic languages are to be read, nor from top to bottom, as the Chinese read their inscriptions. But beyond this he could not go.

Fifty years later a French traveller, M. Chardin, published drawings of the inscriptions he had copied in Persepolis. Other travellers gave further accounts of such inscriptions at Persepolis, Hamadan, and elsewhere in Western Persia. They spoke especially of the magnificent inscription of Bisutun or Behistun. Following the grand caravan route from Bagdad to Ispahan, the traveller finds himself in the beautiful valley of the Kerkha River. On his left rise rugged limestone cliffs. At one spot the road runs at the base of a gigantic perpendicular cliff, fully 1,700 feet high. In some ancient time workmen made their way up, by scaffolding, three hundred feet and more above the road, where they smoothed a large space of the face of the rock, cutting out weak and soft portions, and carefully plugging the cavities with firmer and stronger pieces of the same stone. On this smoothed surface they cut their figures of majestic stature. A monarch, armed and triumphant, stands erect, one foot pressing on a prostrate foe. Above his head floats the winged form of a heathen deity. Before him stands a line of nine other captives, united together by a cord passing from neck to neck. For the king and for each captive there is a short inscription. Below, on the face of the rock there are hundreds of lines of inscriptions, every letter, over an inch in length, being cut neatly and carefully into the smoothed and perpendicular face of the cliff. The whole was then floated, as the plasterers would say, with a wash of fluid glass, which in drying left a transparent, silicious crust or film, saving the work from the ravages of wind and rain and time. Much of this coating is still in place, more of it has flaked off, and fragments of it may be gathered from the debris at the foot of the cliff.

In 1765 Carsten Niebuhr visited those regions, and, after long study, came to the opinion that there were here three different styles of inscription, probably in three different languages. In this case one of them was probably the Persian. From that date on Niebuhr, Münter, Grotefend, De Sacy, Saint-Martin, Rask, and others pored over these strange letters, studied out the Sanscrit and the Zend or ancient Persian, and, devoting themselves laboriously to the simpler and presumed Persian portions of the inscriptions, finally succeeded in making out one letter after another, and discovered that this part, at least, was of course to be read alphabetically. They began to guess at the sense of some oft-recurring word or phrase, or of what were apparently royal names or titles. Great was their exultation when they were sure at last that a certain oft-recurring group of characters (which we have no type to print) was to be read “Khsháyathíya Khsháyathíyánám,” and meant “King of kings.” By 1836 Lassen, Burnouf, and Sir Henry Rawlinson claimed to be able to make out, at least in a general way, the sense of those Persian portions. Other scholars followed them, making still further advances. Those Persian inscriptions were found to commemorate the deeds of Cyrus, Darius, Xerxes, and other Persian monarchs of their epoch.

The inscriptions were, as Niebuhr had conjectured, in three languages. The second, called the Scythic or Turanian, was in characters more difficult and more complex than the Persian writing. The third, and still more difficult, portions were supposed to be in some ancient Assyrian language――perhaps even in several distinct forms or dialects of it. They had not yet been read when Botta and Layard made their discoveries in the mounds, and filled the museums of Europe with thousands of inscriptions, whole or fragmentary, all evidently of this third class. The task was taken up by the scholars of Europe with renewed ardor. If the difficulties were great, they had at least a fair starting point in the Persian portions already deciphered; but the difficulty was still great. Those groups of arrow-headed characters seemed to shift their meaning in a bewildering fashion. Sometimes they represented letters, sometimes syllables, sometimes words or monograms. Again, the same group sometimes seemed to represent one letter, and at another quite a different letter; while, as if to compensate this multiplicity of values of a single sign, it was evident that frequently several signs had the same identical value, and might be interchanged one for another. Add to all this the fact that they were not yet sure in what language or what dialect these inscriptions of Ninive were written, nor, even in a general way, what they treated of, and it will be clear that the task of deciphering them was in truth a puzzling one. The more clearly men saw what was to be done, the more difficult it appeared to do it. Progress could be made only by a series of tentative guesses. When one proclaimed that he had attained some result, however small, that result was attacked by others, and sometimes proved to be illusory. However, despite of thousands of failures, despite of ridicule and disbelief, progress was gradually made. In March, 1857, Mr. Fox Talbot selected the first cuneiform inscription which had been lithographed by the trustees of the British Museum, and proposed it as a test. Four of the chief students of this new literature were to make, each apart, and without consultation with the others, his own translation of it, to be sent under seal to the Royal Asiatic Society. When all had come in, the seals were to be broken and the several translations compared. In May, 1857, this was done. The following translations of one passage of the inscription will serve as a sample of how they agreed:

_Rawlinson_: “Then I went on to the country of Comukha, which was disobedient, and withheld the tribute and offerings due to Ashur, my lord. I conquered the whole country of Comukha. I plundered their movables, their wealth, and their valuables. Their cities I burned with fire, I destroyed and ruined.”

_Talbot_: “I then advanced against Kumikhi, a land of the unbelievers, who had refused to pay taxes and tribute unto Ashur, my lord. The land of Kumikhi throughout all its extent I ravaged. Their women, etc., I carried off. Their cities I burned with fire, destroyed, and overthrew.”

_Oppert_: “In those days I went to the people of Dummukh, the enemy who owed tribute and gifts to the god Ashur, my lord. I subdued the people of Dummukh; for its punishment(?). I took away their captives, their herds, and their treasures; their cities I burnt in fire; I destroyed, I undermined them.”

_Hincks_: “At that time I went to a disaffected part of Qummukh, which had withheld the tribute by weight and tale belonging to Assur, my lord. I subdued the land of Qummukh as far as it extended. I brought out their women, their _slaves_, and their cattle; their towns I burned with fire, threw down, and dug up.”

Such a wonderful agreement of those four translators in deciphering the text of this inscription was proof that the key had been found, and that ere long this vast cuneiform literature would emerge from the tomb in which it had lain buried for over two thousand five hundred years. The experiment was felt to have been eminently successful.

We need not follow the further labors of those and other Orientalists in this new field of research, as volume after volume appeared in French, in German, and in English, giving translations of texts, and rewriting the ancient history of those Eastern lands. For years it seemed that this would be the chief literary result of those discoveries. The lines of monarchs were established, gaps were filled up, broken links were restored, contested dates were settled. Much light was thrown on manners and customs, and on the religious systems of the peoples, their wars and conquests, and on the duration, successions, and vicissitudes of the various dynasties which ruled over them. A by no means small library might be formed of the works on these subjects published within the last quarter of a century.

As it became known that Orientalists were gradually obtaining the power of deciphering these Assyrian cuneiform inscriptions, and as the extent of the field thus opened to fresh researches was gradually developed, hopes that seemed extravagant were indulged as to the results soon to be reached, and not wholly without reason. These ancient Assyrians seemed to have been possessed with an extraordinary passion for recording anything and everything in their mysterious characters. Monarch after monarch had taken pride in putting up pompous inscriptions to perpetuate the memory of his victories and of the glorious events of his reign. From such monuments might we not obtain some record of their successive dynasties, and learn something of the history of their empires and kingdoms? Those grand bass-reliefs of marble or alabaster, representing deities, monarchs, sacred bulls, or other mysterious figures; every representation of a battle-scene, of a triumphal procession, of the building of a city, of the sailing of boats, or of what else you please, had each its own cuneiform lettering, now about to tell us its long-hidden meaning. Everywhere seals, cylinders, signets, or other small objects of value, whether of agate, of chalcedony, or of other hard and precious stone, or of terra-cotta, had its group of emblematic figures, often with an inscription in minutest characters, nicely cut with a lapidary’s skill. The very bricks used in building those huge walls, hundreds of feet long and ten or fifteen feet thick, bore nearly every one of them, in cuneiform characters, some name; perhaps that of the monarch who built the palace, or of the architect who planned and directed the work, perhaps that of the workman who made the brick itself and laid it in the wall.

And more than all this, all through the _débris_ of earth now filling chamber after chamber, and more abundantly towards the bottom, the explorers found countless fragments of terra-cotta or baked clay tablets, bearing generally cuneiform inscriptions on both sides. Some of those fragments were not an inch in length or breadth; others were even a foot square or larger. It was possible sometimes to fit a number of fragments together. They had been found lying near together, and had originally formed one piece, that was broken when it fell. A thorough examination of the character of the material and of the work, and their present condition, made it clear that originally they were slabs or tablets of fine clay, well kneaded and pressed into form. While still comparatively soft, they had received the inscriptions at the hands of skilled scribes. This the marks of the metal tool or style used in inscribing the letters on the yielding clay made quite evident. The tablets so inscribed were then hardened by baking, and were placed in upper rooms of the palace devoted to the purposes of a library. When at last the palace itself was destroyed by fire, the heat may have cracked or otherwise injured some of them. Their fall, as the rooms were destroyed and the slabs precipitated into a heated mass of ruins in the lower masonry chambers, must have broken most of them into fragments. The spade and mattock, as men overturned again and again this mass of _débris_ to recover gold and silver and jewelry buried in it, may have continued the work of destruction; and perhaps time has since done more than all these agencies. For the yearly rains of twenty-five centuries, sinking into this soil and taking up chemical agents from the mass on every side, would in turn react on these plates of clay, producing crystals in every minutest fissure or cavity, and slowly but surely dividing them into minuter and minuter fragments. However, the fragments are there, covered with writing. In the mound of Kouyunjik alone there may be, it is judged, twenty-five or thirty thousand of them. How many more may be found in other mounds of Ninive? And as to the mounds of Babylon and its vicinity, so little as yet has been done to them in comparison with the work at Ninive that we may say they are still almost untouched.

If the Assyrians had libraries, and if those libraries have come down to us, be it even only as tattered leaves and torn volumes, may we not yet gather together these fragments, or at least some portion of them, decipher what is written, and so become acquainted with something of this ancient Assyrian literature? What did men then know? What did they believe? What did they write? It was hoped that we were on the very eve of discoveries equalling, if not far surpassing, in extent and in importance, those made in the earlier half of this century by the discovery of how to read the ancient hieroglyphs of Egypt. We cannot say that these hopes have so far been fully realized. Far from it. We are still at the beginning of the work; but the work goes bravely on.

Attention was at first, and naturally, directed to the grander and more prominent public monuments and inscriptions. From them much has been learned of the series of Assyrian monarchs and concerning their deeds, and light has been thrown on many obscure points of chronology. The statements of the Holy Scriptures in reference to the relations of the Jewish people with Babylon and Ninive during the thousand years preceding Christ, and Biblical references to the character and customs of the Assyrians and Babylonians, have been wonderfully illustrated.

Other classes of inscriptions, on fragments of the terra-cotta tiles or tablets, gave accounts of the divisions of the empire, the character, and almost the statistics, of the provinces. The laws and usages then in force, and the peculiarities of their domestic life, are sometimes presented with a vividness that startles us.

Strange to say, and equally to the surprise and the delight of those now laboring in the work of deciphering this enigmatical writing, quite a number of tablets were found written for the special purpose of explaining to the ancient students of Assyria, in simpler and more legible, or rather more _pronounceable_, characters, the meaning and the sound of the more abstruse and ideographic characters so frequently occurring in the texts of the inscriptions. These supply us to-day with what we may call, and what is in reality, a dictionary of their hard words, giving their correct pronunciation and their meaning.

Still other tablets were devoted to astronomy, to astrology, to medicine, to sorcery, to hymns of religion and prayers of sacrifice, to history, to geography, to poetry, and to whatever might be embraced by the term Assyrian belles-lettres.

Acceptable as all this is, something more was expected. Was there nothing to illustrate the earlier history of mankind, nothing in relation to those earlier events which are narrated by Moses as having occurred in this very land? They are dear to us because intertwined with our religious and moral training. Was it possible that there was no trace whatever of them, not even an allusion to them, to be found in all this mass of Assyrian writings?

Berosus, a Babylonian priest of the time of Alexander the Great, about three hundred years before Christ, wrote a history of Babylon. The work itself has perished; but we have some accounts of it in sundry Greek writers. According to them, Berosus distinctly stated that accounts were carefully preserved in Babylon in which were recorded the formation of the heavens, the earth, and the sea, the origin of man, and the chief memorable events of the early history of the world. Why had we come across nothing of all this? Was it because Berosus spoke of ancient tablets at Babylon, and the tablets whose fragments we were scrutinizing are, for the most part, from Ninive, and, in their present form at least, date back generally only seven, eight, or nine centuries before Christ?

No other reason seemed assignable; and it appeared that, to obtain such tablets, we must wait until the mounds of Babylon shall be as carefully and as thoroughly excavated as those of Ninive. When will that be done? In the meantime let us be patient and make the most we can of what we have.

Things were in this condition in 1872. In that year Mr. George Smith, of the British Museum, a young and ardent Assyriologist, who has indeed proved himself worthy to continue the labors of Rawlinson, Hincks, Oppert, Lenormant, Talbot, and the other distinguished Oriental scholars of Europe, was occupied in the task of examining one by one the thousands of cuneiform terra-cotta fragments collected in the Assyrian department of that institution. He intended to divide them into classes, according to the subjects on which they seemed to treat, in order that each class might afterwards be more thoroughly studied by itself.

Taking up one day a fragment, of medium size, the middle lines of which were entire and could be plainly made out, he read as follows:

“To the country of Nizir went the ship; The mountains of Nizir stopped the ship, and to pass over it was not able; The first day and the second day, the mountains of Nizir, the same; The third day and the fourth day, the mountains of Nizir, the same; The fifth and the sixth, the mountains of Nizir, the same. On the seventh day, in the course of it, I sent forth a dove, and it left. The dove went and turned; A resting-place it did not find, and it returned. I sent forth a swallow, and it left. The swallow went and turned; and A resting-place it did not find, and it returned. I sent forth a raven, and it left. The raven went, and the decrease of waters it saw, and It did eat, it swam, and wandered away, and did not return.”

There could be no mistake about it. This was evidently a portion of a cuneiform inscription which gave an Assyrian version of the history of the Deluge. Could he pick out, from among the thousands and thousands of fragments, great and small, around him in the collection, the other pieces of the same tablet, so as to have the whole? or were they still lying buried in the mound of Kouyunjik, whence Layard had brought the fragment he is reading? That was the question before Mr. Smith. He set himself to the task of practically answering it. Month after month was spent in the labor of scrutinizing, matching, and deciphering fragments. Success rewarded this perseverance, almost beyond his expectation. In December he was able to electrify the literary world of London. He lectured on the “Chaldean Account of the Deluge,” and was able to present to his audience the greater portion of the cuneiform text. It corresponded wonderfully not only in the main points, but sometimes even in details, with the account of Genesis. It differed from it chiefly by the introduction of poetic and mythological imagery, and in a few minor details――such details as men will naturally vary in, while they retain the substance and general truth of an account.

About this time the New York _Herald_ had attained a world-wide and well-deserved celebrity by having sent Stanley on a bold and successful mission to find Livingstone in the heart of Africa. Other papers naturally wished to imitate, if not to rival, the great deed. The London _Daily Telegraph_ saw its opportunity, seized it at once, and sent out Mr. Smith to Mesopotamia, to make further excavations in the mound of Kouyunjik and elsewhere, and to obtain more of those interesting fragments. This he strove to do, though under many embarrassments from the opposition or the petulance of ignorant and arbitrary Turkish officials. He was forced to bring his work to a close just when he felt that he had entered well into it. The results, however, of that trip have since turned out to be greater and more important than he then thought. He soon went out again to resume and continue the work under the auspices of the British Museum, and he succeeded in obtaining for its collection still another large instalment of the much-coveted fragments, together with many other valuable articles. Since his return to England in June, 1874, he has given himself up almost entirely to the study of those fragments, classifying, comparing, and uniting them where possible, and deciphering the inscriptions.[137] In the work before us[138] he gives to the public some special results attained by a little over one year’s labor. We catch the words――if only the muttered and broken words――of this early Assyrian literature, yet words of highest importance, because they bear directly on the topics narrated in the earliest chapters of the Holy Scriptures. As we read them, we feel like one standing by the bedside of a sick man, and listening to his fitful and feverish utterances. You catch a word here and a word there, perhaps scarcely enough to guide you. Now and then a sentence is spoken out with startling distinctness, to be followed only by low, almost unintelligible murmurings. Still, if you know what the patient is speaking of, you may follow his train of thought, at least after a fashion.

We take up the special subjects of some of these deciphered tablets. Following the Biblical and historical order of events, we commence with

THE CREATION.

It is fortunate that the very commencement of the Chaldean legend on this subject――possibly the written account which Berosus mentions――is found on a comparatively large and legible fragment. We give it line by line as Mr. Smith has translated it, marking the missing portions by points. It will serve as a favorable sample of the condition of such fragments:

“WHEN ABOVE were not raised the heavens: And below, on the earth, a plant had not grown up; The abysses also had not broken open their boundaries. The chaos Tiamate [the abyss of waters] was the producing-mother of them. Those waters at the beginning were ordained: but A tree had not grown, a flower had not unfolded. When the gods had not sprung up, any one of them: A plant had not grown, and order did not exist. Were made the great gods, The gods Lahmu and Lahamu they caused to come … And they grew … The gods Sar and Kisar were made … The course of days and a long time passed … The god Anu … The gods Sar and …”

* * * * *

These fifteen lines, six of them imperfect, are all that we have of the inscription on the face or obverse of this tablet. Judging from the inscriptions on other fragments of similar tablets, there were probably fifty lines on the face of the tablet when entire, and perhaps thirty or forty of text on the back, or reverse of it, all missing as yet, except what we have given.

On the upper portion of the back, above the thirty or forty lines referred to as missing, and fortunately on the back of the fragment before us, was placed a curious and interesting inscription, serving both as title and preface, and throwing light on the history and character of the material fragments before us. The inscription reads as follows:

“First tablet of WHEN ABOVE Palace of Assurbanipal, King of Nations, King of Assyria, To whom Nebo and Tasmit [_Assyrian deities_] attentive ears have given: He sought with diligent eyes the wisdom of the inscribed tablets, Which among the kings who went before me, None those writings had sought. The wisdom of Nebo, the impressions of the god my instructor all delightful, On the tablets I wrote, I studied, I observed, and For the inspection of my people, within my palace, I placed.”

The Assyrians, we see, like the Israelites and other Eastern nations, frequently designated their books, not by the subjects treated of, but by the initial words. The book the commencement of which we see on this fragment of terra-cotta was known to them, and they subsequently refer to it, by the title, WHEN ABOVE.

We see also that the fragments which we possess are remnants of a series of tablets which were prepared and placed in his palace at Ninive by the Assyrian monarch Assurbanipal, son of Esarhaddon, the celebrated Sardanapalus of Grecian writers, renowned for his luxury and magnificence, and who, seeing his kingdom at length subverted and his capital taken, preferred to perish with his family in the conflagration of his own palace, rather than yield himself a prisoner into the hands of his enemies. He reigned from B.C. 673 to B.C. 625. From this inscription, and from many other notices, we learn that during his reign he followed up with ardor the literary work of his father and grandfather, and of several of their predecessors. He sought out the more ancient literary treasures of Babylon, Cutha, Erech, Akkad, Borsippa, Ur, Nipur, and other older cities then under his sway; caused them to be carefully copied out on fresh tablets of terra-cotta, and to be placed in his own Royal Library at Ninive. It is thus almost entirely to Assurbanipal and his patronage of learning that we owe what we now know, or hope soon to possess, of this oldest of all national literatures.

Reverting to our fragmentary tablet, and comparing the verbose text of this remarkable inscription with the brief account of Moses (Gen. i. 1, 2), we cannot but note the contrast between the clear and emphatic statement of the inspired writer, “In the beginning God _created_ the heavens and the earth,” on one side, and on the other the vague and undecided statement of the cuneiform writer, “Those waters [or chaos] at the beginning were _ordained_.”

It may be presuming too much on our present ability to translate with accuracy every individual word of these tablets for us to give much weight to a single word or isolated expression; but it would seem that the early Assyrians, even if they had lost, or at least were accustomed to leave in the background, the idea of the unity of God, and were commencing to indulge in mythological fancies, had not, however, gone as yet so far astray as to hold the primeval chaos to have existed of itself from eternity. On the contrary, they believed that at the beginning it was _ordained_. There is here a trace, at least, of the idea of creation by a superior Power.

The watery character of the abyss is an idea common to both narratives. Whence this agreement? Could the void and formless character of the original chaotic mass be conceived under no other condition than that of a watery mist?

Moses distinctly indicates the exercise of the power of the true and supreme God in the further progress of creation: “And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.” The inscription, leaving that out of sight, in this instance at least, gives us the primordial conceptions of mythology. The gods, who at the beginning “had not sprung up, any one of them,” soon commence to appear――“are made.” They are evidently personifications or deifications of the divisions or the powers of nature, perhaps poetic fancies in the beginning, to become in course of time mythological personages, and then heathen divinities, to be worshipped with altars and sacrifices.

Here _Lahmu_ and _Lahamu_ (masculine and feminine) represent the powers of motion and reproduction, the earliest forces recognized as originally existing, or made to exist, in the chaotic abyss. _Sar_ (or Assorus) and _Kissar_ are the upper and the lower heavens. _Anu_ represents the firmament, while _Elu_ and _Hea_――whose names (if we follow an excerpt from Berosus) probably followed that of _Anu_ in the broken line――stood for the earth and the sea.

The tablet to which this fragment belonged was evidently only a general introduction to a series of eight, or perhaps more, tablets, each one forming, as it were, a special portion or chapter or canto to the entire legend or book known by the name WHEN ABOVE, detailing the creation of the world.

Of the second, third, and fourth tablets we have as yet only two fragments. At least, those fragments are judged to belong here――probably to the third――as they both appear to treat of the formation of the firm, dry land:

“When the foundations of the ground of rock (thou didst make), The foundation of the ground, thou didst call … Thou didst beautify the heavens … To the face of the heaven … Thou didst give …”

* * * * *

We have here the poetic form of an address directed to the Creator, perhaps to the Supreme God. If this be so, the true idea of the Divinity stands forth more distinctly here than in the former fragment. But the address may have been to Elu, or to Hea, or to some other inferior god, now made and acting. Only the recovery of more of the tablet can decide the question.

The other fragment is longer, and contains portions of a greater number of lines. But it is so mutilated, and the words recognizable in each line are so few, that the meaning of the whole scarcely rises to obscurity. Some words are said about the “sea” and the “firmament,” and the “earth” “for the dwelling of man.”

We come now to another fragment of larger size and in a better condition. It speaks of the formation of the sun and the moon and the stars, and corresponds to Genesis i. 14-19:

“It was delightful, all that was fixed by the great Gods. Stars, their appearance (in figures) of animals he arranged. To fix the year through the observation of their constellations, Twelve months (or signs) of stars in three rows he arranged, From the day when the year commences unto the close. He marked the positions of the wandering stars (planets) to shine in their courses, That they may not do injury, and may not trouble any one.

* * * * *

“The god Uru [the moon] he caused to rise out, the night he overshadowed. To fix it also for the light of the night, until the shining of the day. That the month might not be broken, and in its amount be regular. At the beginning of the month, at the rising of the night, His horns are breaking through, to shine on the heaven. On the seventh day, to a circle he begins to swell, And stretches towards the dawn further, When the god Shamas (the sun) in the horizon of heaven in the east. … formed beautifully and … … to the orbit Shamas was perfected … the dawn Shamas should change, … going on in its path.”

* * * * *

On the back of this fragment, at the top, is found this inscription:

“Fifth tablet of WHEN ABOVE Country of Assurbanipal, King of Nations, King of Assyria.”

If, as we remarked above, the first tablet of WHEN ABOVE be looked on as a general introduction to the whole subject, the remarkable fact becomes apparent that the Assyrian writer followed precisely the same division and order of the details of the creation which we find in Genesis. Tablet II. would correspond with the work of the first day, and Tablet III. and IV. with that of the second and third day, as here Tablet V. clearly is occupied with the work of the fourth day. It is generally acknowledged that the word _day_ in the Mosaic account does not mean that the work there mentioned was done in the space of twenty-four hours. The term _day_ is understood by many to mean an undetermined and probably a long period of time. It may even be, that the term _day_ has been used by Moses not in an historical sense, as we ordinarily would take it, but rather in a liturgical or religious sense, paralleling and adapting the six divisions of the creative work, and the cessation from it, to the six days of labor and one day of rest which constituted the Jewish week. In this way Moses would give to the Jewish people an ever-recurring cycle of hebdomadal services, something like that still found in the Eastern liturgies, where on each day that day’s work is the chief and almost exclusive theme of religious service. Beyond this agreement in the mode of dividing the progress of creation――an agreement carried out in the tablets to follow――there are other points to be noted. In the first line of this fragment, as also on other fragments, we read an approval of what has already been done: “It was delightful, all that was fixed by the great gods.” In Genesis we find the oft-repeated statement, “And God saw that it was good.” Moses places this approbation at the conclusion of each day’s work. The cuneiform writer places it at the beginning of the next day’s work.

We see, too, in the continued use of the personal pronoun _He_, that the work is attributed to the true and Supreme God. The plural phrase, the _great gods_, does not militate against this view; for this form, it seems to us, is a parallel to the early Hebrew name of God, _Elohim_, likewise a plural form. This form was used to convey to their minds by the very mode of speech a deeper sense of the infinite power and majesty of God, and served as a fuller expression of their reverence for him. Even in our modern languages there is a trace of some such feeling. It is generally more respectful to address one in the plural form――_you_, _vous_, _sie_――than in the singular. If we thus take the phrase, “the great gods,” in our cuneiform texts to mean, as it certainly may in many places, the one true and Supreme God, the primitive doctrine of monotheism will be found to stand out in bold relief in these texts, perhaps the earliest we have of human writing.

Even the mention of several gods by name, in succession, may have been consistent with monotheism. On one tablet we have glosses informing the reader that the six names there given in succession are all names of the _same_ god; and another tablet speaks of the _fifty names_ of the Great God. They seem not to have been interchangeable. The use of one or of another depended, perhaps, on some special character or tone of the thought to be expressed.

It may be observed, also, that in our text the moon seems to be preferred to the sun as the more important orb of the two. The account of Moses is simpler, and, what is more to the purpose, is true, and has not had to be corrected by the advance of astronomical science in modern days.

The sixth tablet, referring probably to the work of the fifth day, is altogether absent. The fifth tablet bore at its conclusion the catchwords with which the sixth commenced. But they do not help us. The seventh tablet commences with the statement that “the strong monsters were delightful … which the gods in their assembly had created.” We may take it for granted, then, that the sixth tablet spoke of the creation of fishes and whales and monsters of the deep, and perhaps also of the birds of the air (Gen. i. 23).

The seventh tablet has fourteen lines, most of them mutilated. But it tells us that “the gods caused to be, living creatures,” … “cattle of the field,” “beasts of the field,” and “creeping things of the field” … and “creeping things of the city,” agreeing even in some of the terms used with the account of Genesis i. 24, 25.

Lower down on the fragment, where the lines are very much broken, mention is made of two … “who have been created, and of the assembly of creeping things … being caused to go” … somewhere or before somebody; of “beautiful flesh” and “pure presence.” It is unfortunate that these concluding lines are so shattered, and still more that of the thirty-five or forty other lines which must have followed, on the face of this tablet, not one letter has as yet been found. For this is the passage in which we should look for an account of the actual creation of the first man and the first woman, and of the bestowal on man of power and authority over the rest of creation. We may entertain the hope that some considerable portion, at least, of these missing fragments may yet be found. It will certainly be an interesting inquiry to ascertain how far they may, even in details, accord with the expressions of Moses on this subject.

This seventh tablet corresponded with the work of the sixth day. As the Assyrian writer does not follow a division by days, he does not give us another tablet answering to the seventh day of rest. His eighth tablet, and any others that may have followed, would naturally narrate subsequent events.

THE GARDEN OF EDEN.

Of the eighth tablet there exists only a single fragment bearing twenty-seven lines, whole or mutilated, on the face, and fifteen, all mutilated, on the reverse. The first is evidently an address to the newly-created man. The opening words are on the question of his eating something, though whether a command (Genesis ii. 16) or a prohibition (Genesis ii. 17) is not clear. The occurrence of the single word “evil” in one of the lines may probably indicate the latter. The text then goes on to instruct man as to his duty to God:

“Every day thy God thou shalt approach [or invoke]; Sacrifice, prayer of the mouth and instrumen’s … To thy God in reverence thou shalt carry. Whatever shall be suitable for divinity, Supplication, humility, and bowing of the face. Firs(t), thou shalt give to him, and thou shalt bring tribute, And in the fear also of God thou shalt be holy.”

* * * * *

In the fragmentary lines that follow further instructions seem to be given for religious worship and for moral life.

The other side of this fragment contains apparently a discourse to the newly-created woman. The commencement for many lines is entirely lost, as is also the termination, and what we have from the middle is exceedingly broken and indistinct. There is something about her sharing “the beautiful place,” evidently with the man, and her being with him or in his presence “to the end”; something apparently about his beauty and her beauty, and about her giving him drink. She is told:

“To the lord of thy beauty thou shalt be faithful; To do evil thou shalt not approach him.”

* * * * *

Perhaps the recovery of other fragments may tell us more of this “beautiful place” which the woman is to share with man. So far we do not find in the inscriptions any account of the Garden of Eden. But even before Mr. Smith had commenced deciphering them, Rawlinson had pointed out how the Tigris and Euphrates, the Ukni and the Surappi, were, in all probability, the four rivers designated by Moses, the two latter, under the more ancient names Phison and Gehon, as the streams of Eden; and how the garden itself might be placed in the district of Ganduniyas. Many circumstances unite in showing that among the Babylonians there did exist some religious tradition on this subject, although we cannot yet know its special form. They certainly spoke of a sacred grove of Anu, inaccessible now to man because it is guarded by a sword turning to all the four points of the compass.

The passage in the instruction to the man, in which he is commanded to offer sacrifice to God――even holocausts (for this is what is meant by “fire”)――is also worthy of remark. It is an additional argument showing that from the earliest ages, and in the earliest home of mankind, men believed that God had commanded our first father to offer sacrifice――a belief which passed with man from that home to whatever region he afterwards occupied, and which has led all nations to offer sacrifice, under some form or other, as a special homage to the Deity.

THE FALL.

Another fragment of a tablet is in the usually tantalizing condition. The upper half, if not more than half, is gone, as is likewise a portion at the bottom. On the front we count thirty-two lines, the first four and the last nine too mutilated to be intelligible. On the reverse are thirty-two lines, eight of them more or less incomplete. The beginnings and the terminations of both inscriptions are missing.

In the first inscription six gods are blessing and praising the newly-created man, who is “good” “and without sin,” and is “established in the company of the gods,” and “rejoices their heart.” Though six gods are named separately, glosses in each instance inform the reader that these are all titles of one and the same god.

On the other side of the tablet, in the second inscription, all is changed. Every line is a denunciation or an imprecation on man for some evil which, in connection with the dragon Tiamat, he has done. Tiamat also is to be punished. The lines referring to Tiamat are very defective; but the portion against the man is clear and strong:

* * * * *

“The god Hea heard and his liver was angry, Because man had corrupted his purity.

* * * * *

In the language of the fifty great gods, By his fifty names he called, and turned away in anger from him; May he be conquered and at once cut off. Wisdom and knowledge, hostilely may they injure him. May they put at enmity also father and son, and may they plunder. To king, ruler, and governor may they bend their ear. May they cause anger also to the lord of the gods, Merodach. His land, may it bring forth, but he not touch it. His desire shall be cut off, and his will be unanswered; The opening of his mouth no god shall take notice of; His back shall be broken and not be healed; At his urgent trouble no god shall receive him. His heart shall be poured out, and his mind shall be troubled; To sin and wrong his face shall come … Sc front …”

Perhaps the continuation might have softened what we have just read by some promise of a redeemer coming to rescue man and give him hope of pardon. The imperfection of the earlier lines, and the want of the many that preceded them, leave us without any precise account of the evil act that man had done, and of the motive that prompted him to its commission. That Tiamat was primarily concerned in it, is evident from the earlier portion of these lines referring to Tiamat, and also from another small fragment on which “Hea” called to the man he had made, and apparently warned him against “the dragon of the sea,” who was plotting to lead him to “fight against his father.” The part that wisdom and knowledge shall play in man’s punishment may indicate that his offence was somehow connected with an unlawful seeking after forbidden knowledge.

But the special details of the fall of man, according to these cuneiform legends, can only be known when, if ever, the full text shall be recovered. Then, it may be, we shall read in words the full story as indicated by the design on an ancient Babylonian cylinder taken from the mounds. In the middle stands a tree, laden with fruit. On either side are seated a man and a woman, stretching out their hands as if to pluck the fruit. Behind the woman a tortuous serpent raises his head aloft, as if to whisper in her ear.

In other designs the serpent is replaced by a monster or dragon. The name of the dragon is frequently written by signs, or ideographically, “the scaly one.” This might mean either a sea monster, a fish, or a serpent. The Assyrian idea of a dragon is not altogether alien to the primitive Scriptural conception; for in the Apocalypse (xii. 7-9) mention is made of “the great dragon, that old serpent, called the devil and Satan, who seduceth the whole world.”

THE REBELLION OF THE EVIL ANGELS.

Although in the account of the creation of all things, in the beginning, Moses makes no specific mention of the angels, nor of their rebellion against God, nor of the punishment which they incurred therefor, yet, as the subject is referred to by Isaias (xiv. 12-15) and Ezechiel (xxviii. 14-16), and by St. Peter (2 Ep. ii. 4) and St. Paul (Eph. ii. 2 and vi. 12) in the New Testament, we may properly introduce here what the cuneiform writings say on this subject. The Assyrians seem to have had quite a number of poems on such themes, various fragments of which are found in the collection before us. As might be expected, there is an exuberance of poetical imagery and of mythological fancies in their mode of treating such a subject. But the main points are salient and clear. We are told in the fragments of one poem of “the angels,” “the evil gods” “who were in rebellion,” who “had been created in the lower part of heaven,” of their “evil work” and “wicked heads,” and of their “setting up evil.” These “evil gods” “like a flood descend and sweep over the earth. To the earth like a storm they come down.” The fragments note the preparations of the great gods to overpower and punish them; but the conclusion is missing.

There are fragments of another remarkable poem giving an account of the revolt of the god _Zu_, apparently the greatest of those rebellious ones, and the leader, who “conceived the idea of majesty in his heart” and said:

“May my throne be established, may I possess the _parzi_, May I govern the whole of the seed of the angels. And he hardened his heart to make war.”

The father of the gods sends his sons (the angels) to combat and overpower Zu. His punishment is to be:

“Father, to a desert country do thou consign him; Let Zu not come among the gods thy sons.”

In all this we cannot but be reminded of the pride and ambition of Lucifer, who said in his heart: “I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne about the stars of God, I will be like the Most High”; of his overthrow by the archangel Michael; and of his punishment――perpetual exclusion from the companionship of the angels and saints, and from the beatific presence of God in heaven, and his condemnation for ever to hell, his abode of suffering for ever more.

We may here leave these legends, overwhelmed as they are with mythological fables, and with more satisfaction turn to other plainer words and more prosaic facts.

THE TOWER OF BABEL AND THE CONFUSION OF TONGUES.

One of the most striking events narrated by Moses is the attempt of the descendants of Noe to build a lofty tower at Babel; how the attempt displeased God, and how in his anger he confounded their speech, so that they could no longer understand one another. Thus their attempt was defeated, and they were scattered from that place abroad upon the face of all countries (Genesis xi. 1-9).

In none of the Greek writers who epitomize Berosus or make extracts from his _History of Babylon_ do we find any intimation of, or reference to, this event. Berosus seems to have been entirely silent on it. For years nothing relating to it had come to light in all the searching of inscriptions of any kind. But lately Mr. George Smith, with his usual good fortune, has come across several small fragments of a tablet which evidently gave the whole history. The fragments are small, and the inscriptions brief and more mutilated than usual. But we catch the sense. The gods in heaven are angry because of the sin of men on earth――the place specially mentioned is Babylon; there a strong place or tower which men all the day are building. “To their strong place in the night God entirely made an end.” “In his anger” “he confounded their speech,” “their counsel was confused.” “He set his face to scatter them abroad.”

Even should no additional portions of this text be recovered, these remarkable fragments will attest that the memory of the event narrated in Genesis was long preserved, as well it might be, at Babylon. It had its place in their national traditions. Should the full text be ever restored, it may likewise be seen that this is the very subject meant by those frequent representations seen on Babylonian cylinders, where men are depicted, after a very absurd and conventional style, busily employed in building some circular or cylindrical structure.

THE DELUGE.

We have inverted the Scriptural and chronological order of events in speaking of the Tower of Babel before treating of the Deluge. We did so, however, in order to be able to treat this latter important subject more at length. The Deluge was, as we have said, the subject of the fragmentary inscription the discovery of which led Mr. Smith into this special line of research. By singular good fortune this is the inscription which has been most fully recovered. Of the two hundred and ninety lines it contained, there is not one of which some words are not legible. By far the greater portions of the lines are perfect. This arises from the fact that in the library of Assurbanipal there were three copies, at least, of this legend, which seems to have been very popular. The _lacunæ_ or missing portions of one it has been generally easy to supply or fill up from the recovered portions of the others. The inscription filled the eleventh tablet in a series of twelve, which Mr. Smith calls “The Legends of Izdubar.”

Izdubar, as he warns us, is only a temporary makeshift name or sound, adopted by him for the present, and to be given up as soon as he shall be satisfied as to the proper sound to be given to the cuneiform characters in which the name stands written. Whatever the true sound of his name, he was a celebrated hero or king in the early days of Babylon. His name frequently occurs in other inscriptions, and his exploits are still more frequently figured on Babylonian cylinders. The peculiar cast of his countenance, and the very marked way in which his beard and his hair are ever made to fall in long rolls or curls, cause him to be recognized at a glance, even in the coarsest representations. We might almost call him the Babylonian Hercules. All that has been thus far learned concerning him tends strongly to identify this as yet nameless hero with “Nimrod the mighty hunter before the Lord” (Gen. x, 8, 9, 10).

The first ten tablets, which exist only in the usual thoroughly-mutilated condition, tell us of his adventures, wars, victories, and ultimate attainment of great power. At last, having lost his trusted friend and counsellor Heabani, and finding himself stricken with a foul disease, he sets out on a long and difficult journey to seek the sage _Hasisadra_, in order to be cured by him.

This Hasisadra, as the tablet calls him――or _Xisuthrus_, as the Greeks have the name――is no other than the patriarch Noe, whom the Chaldean legend supposes not to have died, but to have been translated from among men, as Henoch was, without seeing death, and to have been placed in some divinely guarded spot where, by a special favor from the gods, he enjoys immortality. To him, after surmounting many difficulties, Izdubar succeeds in coming; and their speeches to each other are commenced toward the close of the tenth tablet. On the eleventh Izdubar questions him about the Deluge, and he replies:

“Hasisadra after this manner also said to Izdubar: Be revealed unto thee, Izdubar, the concealed story, And the judgment of the gods be related to thee.”

In the course of the narrative, which he then gives, we are told of the anger of the gods, and their purpose to destroy the world because of its sin; of the command given to Hasisadra to build a ship after the manner they would show him, in order that therein “the seed of life might be saved”; of the building of the ship; of its size (different from the measures given in Genesis), the lining of it three times with bitumen, and the launching of it. Into this ship, at the proper time, there enter Hasisadra and all his family, and “all his male servants and his female servants,” as also “the beasts of the field and the animals of the field,” which God “had gathered and sent to him to be enclosed in his door.” Hasisadra brought in also “wine in the receptacle of goats,” which he had “collected like the waters of a river,” and “food” in abundance “like the dust of the earth,” “his grain, his furniture, his goods,” all his “gold,” and all his “silver.” Also, as the text reads, “the sons of the people all of them I caused to go up.” The number of persons saved would thus far exceed the number specially mentioned by Moses.

“A flood Shamas made, and He spake saying in the night: I will cause it to rain heavily; Enter to the midst of the ship and shut thy door. That flood happened of which He spake in the night, saying: I will cause it to rain from heaven heavily. In the day, I celebrated his festival; The day of watching, fear I had. I entered to the midst of the ship and shut my door. To close the ship, to Buzur-sadirabi, the boatman, The palace I gave with its goods.”

The heavy clouds rising from the horizon, the thunder, the lightnings, the rushing winds, the pouring torrents of rain, are vividly presented in a mythological garb:

“Of Vul, the flood reached to heaven; The bright earth to a waste was turned; The surface of the earth like … it swept; It destroyed all life from the face of the earth … The strong deluge over the people reached to heaven. Brother saw not his brother; they did not know the people.

* * * * *

Six days and nights Passed; the wind, deluge, and storm overwhelmed. On the seventh day, in its course was calmed the storm; and all the deluge, Which had destroyed like an earthquake, Quieted. The sea he caused to dry, and the wind and deluge ended. I perceived the sea making a tossing; And the whole of mankind turned to corruption, Like reeds the corpses floated. I opened the window, and the light broke over my face; It passed. I sat down and wept; Over my face flowed my tears.”

Hasisadra proceeds to narrate to his visitor the gradual lowering of the waters, the appearance of the mountains of Nizir, the waiting during other days, and the sending forth of the birds, as written on the first fragment, already given. After this they left the ship; he built an altar and offered sacrifice, the odor of which was pleasant to the gods; and finally a promise is made that a deluge shall not again be sent, but that henceforth man when guilty shall be punished in other modes.

This concludes the narrative proper of the Deluge. The conclusion of the eleventh tablet informs us of the healing of Izdubar and of his return home. Of the twelfth tablet only a few fragments remain. It evidently narrated subsequent adventures of the great national hero. One fragment contains the conclusion of the sixth and last column of this closing tablet. It presents a few lines from a lament over the death of some one, possibly of Izdubar himself, slain in battle. We give it, with its refrain, as a veritable and curious specimen of the poetry in which men delighted three thousand five hundred years ago. We might call it the poetry of pre-historic man:

“On a couch reclining and Pure water drinking, He who in battle is slain Thou seest and I see.

“His father and his mother carry his head, And his wife over him weeps; His friends on the ground are standing. Thou seest and I see.

“His spoil on the ground is uncovered; Of the spoil account is not taken. Thou seest and I see. The captives conquered come after; the food Which in the tents is placed, is eaten.”

There immediately follows the closing colophon, written by the scribe under Assurbanipal:

“The twelfth tablet of the legends of Izdubar; Like the ancient copy, written and made clear.”

When we place side by side this Chaldean account of the Deluge and that given by Moses, the minor discrepancies between them as to the size of the ship, and as to the duration of the rain and the deluge, sink, as it were, out of sight. These are such variations as would naturally arise in a case like this, where a legend, after having been transmitted orally from generation to generation, is at length reduced to writing, with, of course, careful corrections and supposed emendations, and where many centuries later it is again written out with other emendations, in order to “make it clear” for the benefit of those that would then read it. Some such discrepancies must necessarily creep in, even if the original form were supposed to have been without any error. This, however, can scarcely be taken for granted. Neither in its original form, nor in any later form which it may have had, does this legend enjoy the guarantee of divine protection which the inspired account of Moses possesses.

On the other hand, we are irresistibly startled by the wonderful agreement of those two accounts in the main and substantial facts of the narrative. We feel that this agreement is not factitious. The writers were too widely separated in time and in country, as also by education, to allow it. If they agree, it can only be because of the historical verity of the facts they both record.

What may have been the actual age of those “ancient tablets” which Assurbanipal caused to be copied and placed in his library, and of which we have treated, cannot at present be ascertained with any degree of precision. Sufficient data are not yet at hand to determine the points. Most probably they are not all of the same, or nearly the same, date. Perhaps light may be thrown on such questions by further decipherings of the mass of cuneiform writings. At present our judgment or our guesses must be based on two points: first, the occurrence, in the text deciphered, of certain local or historical references given as contemporary, or very recent, at the time when the inscription was written; and, secondly, such a minute knowledge on our part of the geography, history, and chronology of those regions as will enable us to decide accurately when and where such statements, allusions, or references can be verified. The difficulty is that, with all the progress made up to this in deciphering these inscriptions, we are still liable to mistakes, especially in such passing allusions and references as are for our purpose important data, but originally were to the writer almost _obiter dicta_. A second difficulty is found in the obscurity and uncertainty which still hang around the vicissitudes of early Chaldean history and the geographical divisions then existing.

Mr. Smith, however, after studying the matter and weighing all the data, thinks that none of the original tablets we are considering can have been written less than fifteen hundred years before Christ. Most of them, indeed, especially the legends of Izdubar and the account of the creation, he believes should be dated back as far as 2,000, or even 2,200, years before Christ.

How many Voltairean sneers, and how many crude utterances of crude criticism by the so-called “advanced thinkers” in Germany and elsewhere, against Moses and his narrative, are deprived of all their force, and have been made utterly ridiculous and nonsensical, by the discovery of this ancient and indisputable corroborative testimony! Verily, the men of Ninive have risen up in judgment against them, and have condemned them.

It has been a standard line of argument with the apologists and defenders of Christianity, from the second century down, to prove the truth of our divine religion, and of the primitive facts recorded in Scripture, by the general and substantial agreement of all nations on those points. This agreement, it was evident, could only spring from the fact that originally such truths were known by men, and had been retained by them ever since in some form. Such truths are still to be found in the common principles of morality, in the agreement or similarity of national traditions; and philosophic research will show that they generally constitute the central _nuclei_ around which mythological fables subsequently gathered or grew up. Many modern writers have devoted themselves to this theme. One of the latest is the Abbé Gainet. In his very full and learned work, _La Bible sans la Bible_, he seems almost to exhaust the subject. Leaving aside, for argument’s sake, the testimony of the Bible itself, and loading his pages with quotations and testimonies, heathen, infidel, or Mahommedan, taken from every quarter, he strives to establish, by this independent and non-Biblical line of proof, the truth, one by one, of the chief Biblical statements. What a splendid chapter would he not have added to those in his work had these discoveries been made when he wrote! To appeal to men two thousand years or more before Christ――witnesses living in the very region of the earth where man was created, and which after the Deluge became, as it were, a second birthplace to him――to receive from such witnesses this clear, unimpeachable testimony as to the creation of man, the fall, the punishment, the Deluge, the Tower of Babel, and the confusion of tongues, would indeed supply him with another irrefragable argument in support of divine revelation, in addition to those he had already collected. With our limited space, however, we can only take a simpler view.

Compare those Chaldean legends, fragmentary as they are, often turgid and verbose, with their poetic forms and Oriental license, and with the variations which are sometimes exhibited in different versions of the same legend――compare them, we say, with the clear, straightforward, and almost tame narrative of Moses. Need one ask which is the simple narrative of truth, and which seeks to wear the adornment of human fancy?

Other questions on this matter call for an answer: How came it that Moses, born in Egypt, and trained in all the knowledge of the Egyptians, should, when undertaking to write his history in the desert, so utterly cast off all the ideas of Egypt, and write a simple narrative in absolute contradiction to all the science of Egypt in his day? Above all, how comes it that the truth of his narrative should be so unexpectedly and so strongly supported three thousand years later by the resurrection of long-dormant testimony from a land he had never visited and a people with whom he never had any communication?

Obviously, Moses wrote, not as the Egyptians or any other men taught him, but as the God of all truth inspired him to write.

[137] Since this article was written we regret to have received the announcement of Mr. Smith’s death. In 1876 he made a third trip for the purpose of further explorations, and on his way homeward died at Aleppo, August 19, of fever, or, as some suspect, of foul play at the hands of the Turkish officials, in revenge for his published censures of them.

[138] Chaldean Account of Genesis.

LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER.

FROM THE FRENCH.

SEPTEMBER 12, 1868.

René has sent you a minute account of our 8th of September, to which I will add nothing, except that I understand better than ever the words of the Gospel, “Mary has chosen the better part!”

Since then we have seen Lizzy and Isa’s mother, who is marvellously consoled, and is recovering the activity of her youth, in order to occupy herself with the works of her daughter. How truly does God order all things well! “O blessed journey!” repeated Isa. “O well-inspired friend!” Dear Kate, it is _you_ to whom all thanks are due. You it is who ever taught me to occupy myself in making others happy. But this is already a thing of the past, and another case for self-devotion presents itself. Edith L―――― has come back from Australia with three children. The establishment set on foot by her husband did not succeed, and she returns a widow and poor. Her first thought was of us. With what eagerness I received the poor exile! How she has expiated her fault――that marriage, contrary to her aunt’s wishes! I was young then, but I still seem to hear your exclamation of sorrowful astonishment at Paris on hearing the news, and of the departure for a land then almost unknown. Poor Edith! I have installed her at the _châlet_; our numbers made her afraid. Her children also are a little wild, and it required all the amiability of the _Three Graces_ to persuade them to speak. What shall we do? I do not at all know as yet; inspire me, dear Kate. Edith is grave and sad, she has suffered so much! I have surrounded her with every possible comfort. Only think: she arrived here on the 8th, and was received by Marcella, who had the greatest difficulty in the world to induce her to remain. Her son, the eldest child, is eight years old; he is very tall and strong, and of an indomitable nature. The two little girls are like wild fawns, and cling together at a distance from their mother, who seems to me severe towards them. René has been very kind and compassionate, and has left me free to act as I think well. Edith is embarrassed with me. Why are you not here to console this dear, afflicted one? She ought not to reckon upon her Scotch relations, who have entirely cast her off; and she is utterly without resources. Ah heavens! what distress. She sold her jewels to pay her passage: “But I would not die without seeing Ireland again!” Poor, poor Edith, whom my mother loved! I wish to stand towards her in the place of my mother and of you, dear Kate.

SEPTEMBER 22, 1868.

Beloved sister, your kind letter is here before my eyes, and I will answer it before this day ends. Edith fell ill on the 13th. A fictitious energy sustained her up to that time, and then she had a fainting fit which lasted two hours. Marcella was alone with her; I was in the park with the dear _Australiennes_, as Picciola calls them. I heard a cry of anguish. My first impulse was to hasten to send for the doctor. He came. Edith, returning to animation in a state of delirium, made our hearts bleed by her sorrowful revelations. She was in this condition for three days. Now she is better, but so pale! The good doctor has pronounced the terrible verdict of an affection of the lungs. She needs constant care, and that her mind should be interested and free from any anxieties.

Your intentions are the same as mine, dear Kate. I give Edith an indefinite freedom of the _châlet_, where nothing will be wanting to her. Reginald will be her steward, Arabella and Françoise will be in her service; and as she needs a companion to whom she can entrust the education of her girls, Mistress Annah offered herself of her own accord, and Margaret has consented. And thus everything is settled, and Edward will accompany us to France. Edith breathes again, and thanks me so fervently that I weep with her. Admirable simplicity, nobleness of soul, and great tenderness of heart――this is her portrait. She has accepted my offers with the same generosity with which I made them. I told you that I thought her severe towards her children; I ought to have said towards her daughters only, and this, she has owned to me, because she has learned by experience how much harm it does children to spoil them. Our good priest has promised me to watch over his new parishioner; but, thank God! I myself will watch over her also, for we shall wait until November before returning to Brittany. My mother desires whatever pleases me. René approves of all our arrangements. He has had a sort of miniature park made round the _châlet_. Edward already loves him, and follows him about without speaking. Strange child! I can discover nothing in him but an intense love for his mother, and fear, therefore, that we shall not be able to take him away. René, to whom I am talking while I write, proposes to leave him here, where the priest will attend to him, and so also will the wise Mistress Annah. How grateful I am to the dear old lady! Margaret is a little displeased at not giving the half of _Edith’s dowry_. Lord William has promised to appease her. You know how ardent she is.

Write to us again, dear Kate. It is in _your name_ that I have been

## acting. You are the good angel of Ireland.

SEPTEMBER 30, 1868.

We had such an alarm yesterday! There was a _grande battue_: René and Lord William at the head, with our brothers and all the gentry of the neighborhood. We were in carriages: my mother with Lucy and Gertrude; Berthe and the _Three Graces_; Johanna and her girls; Marcella, Edith and I; Margaret with Mary and Ellen. We were quietly following the chase, which became more and more distant, when a cry from Edith made us start. Edward had just passed like lightning, proudly seated on a large horse. Only think――a child of eight! Profiting by the absence of the grooms, he had managed matters all by himself. He looked beautiful thus, but it was frightful. Edith trembled. We took her home and sent off the coachman for the child; but his search was fruitless, and Edward did not return until evening, when he came in breathless, but proud and happy. “Only see,” said Edith, “how he is already master! This child will be the death of me!” René gave him a moral admonition, but this son of Australia is for liberty. His black eye sparkled, and when René said to him, “Your mother might die in consequence of any strong emotion,” some tears fell, but not a word escaped from his compressed lips. You see that your first plan was the best. Impossible to leave him with Edith――the poor mother feels this; we shall therefore place him with the Jesuits. You would say he was twelve years old. He is accustomed to the free life of the woods; he has constantly to be scolded, and never yields.

Margaret is sent for by her mother-in-law, who is keeping her room with the gout. She takes with her Marcella, Anna, Lucy, and Edouard. We shall all go and take leave of her before quitting Ireland. O Kate! if you were not in France, I could not leave my mother’s house for any place but heaven.

Margaret _has stolen_ a poor woman from me, to _revenge_ herself, she says. It is old Ludwine, a stranger from we know not whence, and who has all the appearance of a saint. She knows very well how to rock a cradle, and it is under the title of cradle-rocker that Margaret has persuaded her to accompany them. Kind Margaret!

Lord William admires his wife as much as he loves her. They are going to found a hospital, a _crèche_ or day-nursery, and an _ouvroir_ (to provide work for women and girls). What would not riches be worth, if they only helped always to do good!

We are now in comparative solitude; for Margaret is to every one like a ray of sunshine.

God alone――he alone suffices to the soul. It is in him that I love you.

OCTOBER 8, 1868.

Long walks with René all this week among our good farmers. Made presents everywhere. Held at the font a little flower of Ireland whom I named Kate. Old Jack is very ill, without any hope of cure. All the tribe of Margaret send us most affectionate letters almost daily. In the evenings, under the great trees, Adrien reads to us _St. Monica_, by the Abbé Bougaud, while the children play at a little distance. What say you to this page: “The perfection of sacrifice, and the extremity of suffering, is to give up the life of those whom one loves. The greatest martyrdom, to a mother, is not to sacrifice herself for her child: it is to sacrifice even the very life of her child; it is so highly to prize truth, virtue, honor, true beauty of soul, the eternal salvation of her child, that, rather than see these holy things fade and wither in his soul, she would see him die.” Edith listened nervously to these words, and then said: “This sacrifice may be required of me!” Poor mother! “St. Augustine,” writes M. Bougaud, “passionately loved his mother, and constantly spoke of her. Almost all the writings which have issued from his pen are embalmed with the memory of her. More than twenty years after her death, when he had become aged by labors yet more than in years, and had attained the time when it seems that the love of God, having broken down every embankment and inundated the heart, must have destroyed within it every other love, the name and memory of his mother never recurred to him, even when preaching, without a tear mounting from his heart to his eyes. He would then abandon himself to the charm of this remembrance and allow himself to speak of it to his people of Hippo, and even in the sermons where one would scarcely expect to find them we meet with words of touching beauty in which breathe at the same time the faith and grateful piety of the son and the double elevation of the genius and the saint”――noble and beautiful words which delight me. To love one’s mother――is not this one of the happinesses of this earth, where so few are true? M. Bougaud is admirable, whether in defining eloquence, “the sound given by a soul charmed out of herself by the sight of the good and true,” or in speaking of the complaint of Job, “this song of death which we all sing, and which makes us better, even when we have but wept its first notes――this song of two parts, the first sad, where all passes, all fades away, all dries up from the lips of those who wish to drink and slake their thirst; the first song which does good to the soul, even when we know but this one note, and cast on the world only this sorrowful look. What is it, then, when we rise to a loftier height, to the second part of this song of death, where sorrow is absorbed in joy? Yes, everything passes away, but to return; everything fades, but that it may bloom again; everything dies, to return to life transfigured.” Kate, in the beauty of this book there is to me incomparable splendor. Would you like a few more fragments from it――precious pearls which I would enshrine in my heart and memory, there to ruminate upon and enjoy them? I will send you the definition of Rome: “That delectable land full of holy images and tranquil domes, whither one goes in order to forget the world and rest the soul in the memories and associations which are there alone to be found.” Again, this about the second age of life: “In which, after having tasted every other love, we return to that of our mother; and seeing the years which accumulate upon her venerable head, not venturing to contemplate the future, desiring still to enjoy that which remains of a life so dear, we feel in ourselves the renewal of an indescribable affection which rises in the soul to something akin to worship.” Or this portrait of Plato: “There was in ancient times, in the palmiest days of Greece, a young man of incredible loftiness of mind, and of a beauty of speech which has never been surpassed; the disciple of Socrates, whom he immortalized by lending him his own wings; and the master of Aristotle, whose power he would have tripled could he have communicated to him some of his own fire!”

A letter from Isa, a _Nunc Dimittis_. She would like us to be present when she takes the veil. Will it be possible? Oh! how much it will cost me to quit my own Ireland――our lakes, mountains, and mists, all the poetry of our green Erin. Where shall I find it in France?

Adieu and _à Dieu_, dear sister of my life.

OCTOBER 12, 1868.

Margaret’s mother-in-law is better, and all the dear tribe will arrive this evening. Impossible to live apart when the ocean is not between us!

The expectation and preparations please the twins, who are placing bouquets everywhere. Poetry, youth, and flowers go together. I did not tell you that René had brought Margaret the volumes which have appeared of the _Monks of the West_. Dear Kate, all our memories of Ireland there find a voice. Do you recollect the touching manner in which our mother used to relate the story of St. Columba? I have been this week with René on a pilgrimage to Gartan. “The love of Ireland was one of the greatnesses and one of the passions of Columba. Even in the present day, after so many centuries, they who fear to be unable to do without their native air ask help from him who required special assistance from God to be able to live far from Ireland, her mountains and her seas.” These are the words of a French writer quoted to me by René. And we looked at the salt sea and the sea-gulls, and spoke of the stork, which is not forgotten by the sailors of the Hebrides.… Delightful journey! My mother had advised us to take it alone. However much I enjoy the lively gambols of the children, I have still more enjoyed this, our intimate solitude, together. Thus I am delivered from the fear of nostalgia. It was this terrible home-sickness which undermined the health of Edith. Thanks to prompt treatment, we shall save her, I trust. Already she is less pale, more cheerful and resigned. She has been making some projects on the score of her talents as an artist, but all her scruples of _obligations_ have been forced to yield to my solicitations. She is not and cannot be here otherwise than as my mother’s friend, and as such she ought to be treated.

The two _Australiennes_ are gradually becoming civilized, and consent to take part in the lessons with the twins. The good _abbé_ herborizes with great enjoyment, takes long walks, makes acquaintances among the clergy of the country, makes himself a doctor to the poor, and announces his intention of settling near Gartan, against which we protest loudly.

Let me quote you a few more pages from _St. Monica_, this perfectly beautiful book, which you will not read, since it is for mothers; but the passages I take from it are good for all souls possessed by the only veritable love.

When, immediately after his conversion, St. Augustine retired to Cassiacum with his mother and so select an assemblage of friends, it was at the close of summer. “The autumn sun shed its warm rays over the campagna. The leaves were not yet falling, but they were already beginning to take those glowing tints of red and yellow which in the month of September give the country so rich a splendor. It was the moment when the whole of nature appeared to clothe itself in something more grave and almost sad, as though preparing to die. There are certain states of soul in which one finds an infinite charm in contemplating nature at such a time.” Have we not felt this charm, dear Kate, a hundred times in our own Ireland, and also in the Roman Campagna and at Sorrento?

Listen to this admirable comparison between the disciple of Socrates and the son of St. Monica: “Plato and Augustine are two brothers, but of unequal ages. The first, at the dawn of life, in his sweet and poetic spring, has more flowers than fruits; he dreams of more than he possesses. He has glimpses of a sublime ideal, which fill him with enthusiasm, but he does not attain it. He seeks the way, he sees and describes it, but knows not how to enter; and he dies without bearing in his soul the fruit of which his youth had the flowers. The second, after painful struggles, after years of toil and courage, enters resolutely on the road which the former had pointed out. Plato had said: ‘To be a philosopher is to learn to die’; and again: ‘What is needful in order to see God?――to be pure and to die.’ Augustine studied this great art; he put it in practice at Cassiacum, and the light, like a river whose embankments have been broken down, flooded his vast intellect. What Plato hoped for and conjectured he saw. That which passed in the rich imagination of the philosopher as a confused though sublime presentiment existed with clearness and precision in the luminous intelligence of the saint, and sprang forth from his heart in accents such as Plato never imagined. He who would know Augustine when first trying his wings, before his full strength of flight, should study the conversations and conferences of Cassiacum. There is in these a first flower of youth which is not to be found again; something softened in the light, like that of the dawn of day; a freshness of thoughts and sentiments, a tranquil enthusiasm, and a gentle gayety. His mind, imprisoned until then, had recovered its powers, and with a joyous elasticity mounted upwards to the true, the good, and the beautiful.”

May God keep you, my best beloved!

OCTOBER 23, 1868.

Margaret, René, and Marcella have written to my dear Kate, and Georgina has been absorbed in her cares as mistress of the house. We shall certainly not leave before December. Isa is to take the veil on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. My mother forgets herself for us. Adrien and Raoul set out at once for Brittany, where they will act on behalf of all, and return here to fetch us.

Edith and Mistress Annah get on together as well as possible. Dear Edith laments her own helplessness. Our worthy friend replaces her everywhere and for everything. The handsome little _savages_ (is there a feminine?) are become radiant with health, and are greatly in love with Margaret, who loads them with presents. Marcella pays frequent visits to Edith. No need to say that old Homer is sadly neglected. We prefer the poetry of Ireland!

Anna had another of her feverish attacks while with Margaret. The air of Ireland suits her better. Oh! what eyes she has.

René and Lord William have decided on an excursion into Scotland, declaring that the French owe this to the memory of Mary Stuart and the noble royal family which sheltered its misfortunes beneath the sombre, vaulted roofs of Holyrood. A thing decided is a thing accomplished. Every one is ready, and we set out to-morrow. Reginald is amazed at this perpetual movement, the coming and going of our colony. We have persuaded Edith that this journey would be of use to her children, so we shall form a veritable caravan. Before starting I will once more give you a quotation from M. Bougaud.

Notice how well he comments upon these beautiful words of Adeodatus: “No soul is truly pure but she who loves God and attaches herself to him alone.”

“Nothing human, nothing terrestrial, suffices to the soul. She can only be happy in the possession of God; and the only means of possessing him here below, as well as above, is to love him. For love laughs at distance and makes light of space; unites souls from world to world, and, in uniting, beatifies and transfigures them. Moreover, if it be true that, even in attaching itself to finite beings, love renders the soul indifferent to fatigue, pain, and privation; if it communicates to it a peace, security, and strength invincible; if it fills the soul not only with joy, but even with ecstasy――what, then, must be the love which attaches itself to God? Thus the saints have always been happy, even upon the cross; and if the world sees their joy without comprehending it, the reason is that it does not know what it is to love. Purity and love have, towards God, lofty flights which genius would envy. The works of God have all proceeded from his heart. They who love most will understand them best. St. Augustine said: ‘The soul is made for God. The soul is an open eye which gazes upon God. The soul is a love which aspires after the infinite. God is the soul’s native land.’ Deep and noble words! And this cry which he was constantly repeating: ‘Let us live here below in an apprenticeship for our immortal life in heaven, where all our occupation will be to love.’ St. Augustine called death ‘the companion of love――she who opens the door by which we enter and find Him whom we love.’”

Dearest Kate, I have given you here the fairest flower in the basket, but the whole basketful is superb. Good-by for the present, dearest; you will hear next either from the Highlands or the Lowlands, or the borders of the lakes. How much I enjoy travelling! My mother is delighted at the idea of making acquaintance with Scotland; and I sing her its ballads.… Send us the angel Raphael, my Kate!

OCTOBER 31, 1868.

We are, then, in Scotland――a beautiful country, picturesque and charming, full of old memories and legends, and where the mountaineers have a very noble air, proudly draped in their many-colored plaids. Yesterday we met with a MacGregor. The shade of Walter Scott seemed to rise at our side. This brave Highlander did the honors of the country, and expressed himself with an antique grace that is indescribable. On leaving us he kissed the hands of the ladies, pressed those of the _lords_, and kissed all the young _misses_. Was it not fine? But we found better still――a white-haired bard, “with trembling gait and broken voice,” who gave us his benediction with all the majesty that could be desired. Every rock has its legend, every ruin its tradition, every lake its spectre. But there is no need for me to describe Scotland to you, my learned sister; you know its exact portrait better than I. This wandering life, these encampments in the woods, these steeple-chases, have their charm, and are of great interest to Edith. I fear she may miss us too much later on. Dear Kate, Reginald sent your last letter after me. I enjoyed reading it in the country of Mary Stuart.

Quick!… I slip this note into Réne’s packet. Always union of prayers.

I have still a few minutes. We are seeking here the traces of the martyr-queen, the beautiful and unfortunate Mary Stuart. There was, then, no more pity in France? Was the chivalrous enthusiasm which breathes in the old songs of the _Gesta_ merely a poet’s dream, or was it crouching in the _oubliettes_ of the past when England’s axe severed that royal head on which had shone the crown of France?

Who, then, will sing as they deserve the youthful victims cut off in their flower――Stuart, Grey, the gentle Jane who did not wish to be made queen, Elizabeth of France, Joan of Arc, Mme. de Lamballe, Marie Antoinette, and all the legion of martyrs whose blood cries for vengeance?

_Where are the snows of Antan?_ where are the personages of Walter Scott? where are Rob Roy, Flora MacIvor, and so many others? Marcella just now pointed out to me a singular individual who must be, she insists, _my father’s son_.

Will the day ever come when the triumphant cross of the Coliseum will surmount, with its beauty and its love, the crown of the United Kingdom? O my own Ireland! what heart could forget thee?

Let us pray for her, dear sister of my life, dear daughter of Erin!

NOVEMBER 5, 1868.

Our All Souls’ day was sad and sweet. We all have losses to deplore. My mother loved her Brittany at this anniversary. How maternal this mother of my René is towards your Georgina! How gracious and tender her daily greetings! All our friends feel the charm of her elevated nature. Edith loves to be with her. Dear Edith! She said to me yesterday: “Thus far all is well; how I trust that it may so continue! In the depth of my soul I have that inexorable sadness of which Bossuet speaks; I feel it hourly. For a time I thought that I should die of a broken heart, but you have revived me. I feel that in Heaven alone all sorrows will be for ever consoled, and, like the Alexandrine whom you have described to me, I love, hope, and wait!” Oh! how sweet it is, dear Kate, to belong to God. How could we live without feeling that we were of use, without giving ourselves up, devoting, spending ourselves in the service of God and of souls? Isa writes to Margaret: “M. l’Abbé Lagrange speaks admirably of virginity in his _St. Paula_; it is like reading a page of Mgr. Dupanloup: ‘How beautiful in the church are those forms of devotedness to which the Christian virgin is called, whether she silently immolates herself in solitude and prayer, consumed by the flames of the noblest love which a creature can possess, a pure victim whose sacrifice is profitable to us, whatever we are, by the communion of saints of which we are taught by the church; whether she gives a sister to the sick, a daughter to the aged, a mother to orphans, or a friend to the poor, the consoler here below in every neglect and every infirmity, and taken for these works in the spring-time of her life and the flower of her youth――taken away from all maternal sweetnesses, from the joys of home, from future hopes, for ever! Doubtless the mother also devotes herself; does Christianity ignore it? But it must be allowed that the devotion of a mother is at the same time her duty and her happiness, whilst these sublime sacrifices of themselves for the relief of every kind of ignorance and sorrow are entirely voluntary and disinterested, without other compensation here below than the love of God; and it is true that this is worth all the rest.

“‘Christian virginity is a state of intimate union with Jesus Christ, in which, in spotless love and the perfection of purity, souls here below consume themselves for God, whom they call into themselves, and are the fragrance of earth and the delight of heaven. The Gospel, knowing human nature, makes not a precept of this celestial ideal, since it would surpass the ordinary strength of mankind; but it gives a counsel for those who have the courage to follow it, because it feels that there are chosen souls who have this strength, and because this marvel of virtue, this life of angels in a mortal frame, while it embalms the world, is, in the church, one of the most evident and touching marks of her divine origin.’”

How beautiful it is! What a pen of gold! Dear Kate, all this is very suitable for you!

Met Lady Cleave and her nice children at Edinburgh. Spoke of Kate――a thing as natural to me as singing is to the bird. Had a delightful conversation yesterday evening with Margaret and Marcella, both of whom are as clever as they are saintly, and love each other like old friends, keeping for me, they say, a throne of honor in their hearts. No one appreciates more than I do the charm of a pure and intellectual friendship. This will assuredly be one of the joys of eternity, since on high all souls will be united in the plenitude of intelligence, purity, and love.

It is very cold. We are making some happy people. Picciola is charming in the exercise of charity.

Good-night, dear Kate, it is eleven o’clock.

NOVEMBER 18, 1868.

From the window of an ancient Scottish castle I am watching for the return of the _abbé_ and his pupils from a _walk of beneficence_. But, like “Sister Anne” in the old story, I see nothing come, and have not even the compensation of beholding the “sun’s golden sheen and the grass growing green,” any more than I am in the same peril as that inquisitive _châtelaine_. We are intending simply to do honor in Scotland to my mother’s _fête_, one of her names being Elizabeth. It was René’s idea, and applauded by all. Edith herself, with her fairy fingers, has made a charming bouquet from the flowers in the conservatories. Marcella is practising on the piano, Edouard singing; Lucy has undertaken to keep Mme. de T―――― out of the way for a few hours. I hear joyous voices; goodby until this evening.

_Evening._――Superb, dear Kate! A scene of ancient times, and, moreover, in a romantic dwelling, where Walter Scott has been, and where kings have displayed their splendor. The effect produced by the voices of René, Edouard, Marcella, and Margaret is unique. Our mother, surprised and touched, was only able to answer by her tears; and just now, when I was accompanying her to her room, she said: “Dear Georgina, I regretted Hélène!” Ah! this is the ever-open wound, the ineffaceable regret!

God keep you, my Kate! Your spirit accompanies me everywhere, my beloved companion, my invisible guardian; and how sweet a nest your love has made me!

This will be the last sheet that I shall date from Scotland; we are far from the post. I shall not send it until the moment of our departure.

_November 25._――News from Paris, and of every kind; the best comes always from you. Adrien and Raoul will arrive in Ireland at the same time as we do.

It will be a day of rejoicing to me to return to our own house. Long live home, my country, the place of many memories! I have taken some views, and bought quantities of things for Lizzy, Fanny, and all our friends there. These good mountaineers regret our departure. O Ireland, Ireland! Marcella has set to music the poetry of the sweet and terrible Columba; impossible to hear it without tears. Decidedly, I must go on another pilgrimage to Gartan.

The _Three Graces_, dressed in the tartans of which I have made them a present, have a Scottish appearance which is charming. They send kisses to Mme. Kate.

A thousand loving messages to you, my beloved sister. May all the blessed angels be with you!

DECEMBER 9, 1868.

Dear Kate, with what joy we find ourselves in Ireland again! Adrien and Raoul have brought with them quantities of books. I must give you some quotations from the _Life of the Saints_ by MM. Kellerhove and de Riancey――a splendid volume, presented by Gertrude to Margaret――and a remarkable work by the Comtesse Olympe de Lernay: “Born with the century, and dying on the 30th of March, 1864, she realized in her admirable life the high ideal of the truly Christian woman. Her existence wholly of faith, labor, and love was visited by the heaviest trials, but her resignation was profound. She said: ‘The triumph of self-renunciation over enthusiasm will not be without fruit with reference to the eternal future; and when God’s day of reckoning shall come, I will say to him, Father, I wished to labor at thy vine with my golden pruning-knife, but this was not thy will; and therefore is it that, instead of adorning its summit, I have remained at its foot.’” Do you not find in this a finished beauty? “To glorify God and gain hearts to him was the supreme desire of this saintly and amiable woman, who, endowed with artistic, poetic, and literary talents, as varied as they were remarkable, worked as one prays, and prayed as one sings.”

Adrien is reading us fragments of the _Mahâbhârata_――“the book of the people which has meditated most.” How much more sublime than ever does the Bible appear after this reading! No; outside of the love of God there is nothing completely beautiful or great.

_Immense_ party this evening; _sixty invitations_! The preparations are complete, except that much is still going on in the region of the kitchen. And I, the happy giver of the invitations, tranquilly seated at my writing-table of island-wood, am chattering like a school-girl in the holidays. Dear Kate, it is because I have been making all diligence, and because I have before me your thrice welcome pages, so charming and affectionate, and which appear to me to breathe a perfume of our native land. Yes, truly, the sweetest is there――this fragrance of delightful and unalloyed affection which comes to me from you!

Jack is still in a distressing state, suffering incessantly. He yesterday received our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament, the sovereign Comforter, and, resting lovingly on the adorable Heart which gave itself for him, he has promised to love the cross. Poor old man! His children have the evil of the age――the loss of respect. René prepared him for the visit of his Saviour, and I went later to arrange everything; on entering I heard the sick man speaking with animation, and paused involuntarily. “I suffer too much, your honor.” “My friend, say with me: O Life of my soul, O most sweet and merciful Saviour, put into my heart much indulgence, patience, and charity.” “But then I am so often thrown back! Ten years of suffering; and what have they brought me? Oh! how my loneliness weighs upon me. I am left so much alone!” “My poor brother, dear privileged one of our Lord, say with me: My God, I accept these sufferings in union with thy Agony and Crucifixion. Pardon me my involuntary murmurings; accept my daily torments as an expiation. Eternity is near! My God. I will all that thou willest.” Jack repeated the words with docility.

After communion he appeared happy. The doctor wonders that he can endure so much suffering and live. “Will the good God grant me to die before you go?” the poor man asked of René. Oh! how sad it is to die thus――to become the _outcast_ in the home of which one had been the life.

Kate dearest, let us pray for all in their agony.

TO BE CONTINUED.

TESTIMONY OF THE CATACOMBS TO THE PRIMACY OF ST. PETER.

In our former article[139] the evidence which we adduced as to the testimony of the Catacombs on a disputed point of Catholic doctrine was drawn almost exclusively from their inscriptions; and that evidence was very abundant, because the doctrine in question was precisely that on which we should look to tombstones for information. It was only natural that, in writing the last earthly memorial of their departed friends, the survivors should spontaneously――one might almost say unconsciously――give utterance to the thoughts that were in their mind as to the present condition and future prospects of those to whom they had now paid the last offices. The subject now before us is of a very different kind. We are going to inquire of the Catacombs whether they can tell us anything as to the idea entertained in primitive times about the position held in the Christian hierarchy by St. Peter and his successors; and we think most persons would consider it very strange indeed if we should elicit any answer to this inquiry from the inscriptions upon gravestones. Mr. Withrow, however, is of a different opinion; he thinks that if in those early days the bishops of Rome enjoyed any superior dignity over other bishops, it ought to have been, and probably would have been, mentioned on their epitaphs; and, accordingly, he chronicles as items worthy of being noted in the controversy such facts as these: that “the tomb of the first Roman bishop bore simply the name _Linus_” (p. 507), and that in the papal crypt, or chamber where the popes of the third century were buried, they are only honored with the title of bishop, and even that appears in a contracted form, ΕΠΙ or ΕΠΙΚ (p. 508). The Dean of Chichester seems to entertain a somewhat similar opinion; only, as he has formed a higher estimate of the episcopal dignity, this opinion shows itself in him in a different form. He thinks the extremely “curt and unceremonious” character of these papal epitaphs almost a conclusive argument against their authenticity.

Mr. Withrow further adds (p. 509), that the word _Papa_ or pope does not occur in the Catacombs till at least the latter part of the fourth century, when it is found, applied to Pope Damasus, in the margin of an inscription by that bishop in honor of one of his predecessors, Eusebius. Even with reference to this, however, he insinuates that, as this inscription in its present condition is “admitted” by De Rossi to be a badly-executed reproduction, of the sixth or seventh century, of a previous inscription, “this title may very well belong to that late period.” Our first impression upon reading this was a grave doubt, which we cannot even now altogether suppress, whether Mr. Withrow had ever read either what De Rossi or his English epitomizers have written on the subject of this monument. Certainly, he cannot have appreciated the curious and interesting story they have told of this stone; or, if we may not call in question his intelligence, we shall be obliged to accuse him of wilful misrepresentation. One of the most striking features in the story, now _lippis et tonsoribus notum_, is that the ignorant copyist, so far from being capable of forging a link in the chain of evidence for the papal supremacy, was only able to transcribe the letters actually before his eyes, and even left a vacant space occasionally where he saw that a letter was missing from the mutilated inscription before him, which, however, he was quite incompetent to supply. We are afraid, therefore, that Mr. Withrow must be content to acknowledge that this obnoxious title of pope was certainly given to a Bishop of Rome before the close of the fourth century. At the same time we offer him all the consolation we can by pointing out that it was given to him only by an artist, an _employé_ of his, and one of his special admirers――he calls himself his _cultor atque amator_――and perhaps, therefore, Mr. Withrow may suggest that the title was here used in a sense in which he is aware that it was originally employed――viz., as an expression of familiar and affectionate respect rather than of dignity.

But we must go further, and, in obedience to the stern logic of facts, we must oblige Mr. Withrow to see that the title was used of the Bishop of Rome some seventy or eighty years before Damasus. If he had ever visited the cemetery of San Callisto, he might have seen the original inscription itself in which the title is given to Pope Marcellinus (296-308); and this time not by a layman, an artist, but by an ecclesiastical official――in fact, the pope’s own deacon, the Deacon Severus, who had charge of that cemetery:

_Cubiculum duplex cum arcisoliis et luminare Jussu PP. sui Marcellini Diaconus iste Severus fecit.…_

Observe that the title is here abridged into the compendious formula PP., as though it were a title with which Roman Christians were already familiar, just as in pagan epigraphy the same letters stand for _præpositus_ or _primopilus_, and those words are not written at full length, because everybody interested in the matter would know at once from the name and the context what was to be supplied.[140] So, then, it seems impossible to determine when the title was first used of the bishops of Rome; it is at least certain that it occurs in the Catacombs a century earlier than Mr. Withrow imagined, and that even then it was no novelty. However, we do not care to dispute the facts, to which he attaches so much importance, that the title of pope was in those ancient days neither “peculiar to the Bishop of Rome,” nor, so far as we know, _first_ applied to him. Moreover, we cannot even accept, what Mr. Withrow in his ignorance is ready to concede, that “the name of the Bishop of Rome was used as a note of time in the latter part of the fourth century”――a distinction, however, which he contends “was also conferred on other bishops than those of Rome.”

Again, we must observe that this remark seems to indicate an entire ignorance in its author of all that De Rossi has written on the same subject. Of course Mr. Withrow is referring to the two epitaphs which conclude with the words _sub Liberio_ _Episcopo, sub Damaso Episcopo_; but he gives no sign of being acquainted with the history of those pontiffs, and with the reasons which De Rossi has so carefully drawn out,[141] wherefore there might have been special mention of their names on the tombs of persons who died during their pontificates.

We have now noticed, we believe, all Mr. Withrow’s observations upon the testimony of the Catacomb inscriptions with reference to the papal supremacy; it remains that we ourselves should make one or two observations upon it which he has _not_ made. And, first, it seems to have escaped his notice that there _is_ a title given to the popes by one of themselves on three or four of these monuments――a title stronger and of more definite meaning than _Papa_, and quite as unwelcome to Protestant ears. Pope Damasus calls Marcellus, one of his predecessors, _Veridicus Rector_, or the truth-speaking ruler or governor, in the epitaph with which he adorned his tomb. Two others of his predecessors, Eusebius and Sixtus II., he simply calls _Rector_, without any qualifying epithet at all. And next we would ask Mr. Withrow and all who sympathize with his objection what title they would suggest as possible for the tombstones of the earliest bishops of Rome, even supposing their position in the Christian hierarchy to have been at that time as clearly defined and fully developed as it is now. Do they think it would have been either seemly or possible for a Christian bishop in the first three centuries to assume the highest official religious title among pagans, and to be addressed as _Pontifex Maximus_? It is true, indeed, that this title has been given to them in modern epigraphy since it was moulded on the classical type――_i.e._, ever since the Renaissance. But nobody could dream of such a title as compatible with the relative positions of paganism and Christianity during the period that the Catacombs were in use for purposes of burial. Nevertheless, it is well worthy of note that even at a very early period of the third century, when Tertullian wished to jeer at a decree which he disliked, but which had been issued by the pope, he spoke of him in mockery, as though he were _Pontifex scilicet maximus et episcopus episcoporum_, thereby intimating pretty clearly what position in the Christian hierarchy the bishops of Rome seemed to assume.

And now, taking our leave of all discussions about mere titles and verbal inscriptions, let us inquire whether any other evidence can be produced from the Catacombs bearing upon the question before us――the question, that is, of St. Peter’s position under the New Law. Let us inquire of the paintings and sculpture, and other similar monuments, as explained and illustrated by contemporary writings. And we ask our adversaries to deal fairly with the evidence we shall adduce; not to weigh each portion of it apart from the rest, but to allow it that cumulative weight which really belongs to it, interpreting each separate monument with the same spirit of candor and equity which they claim on behalf of any evidence which the Catacombs afford for doctrines which they themselves accept. Take, for instance, the doctrine of the Resurrection. We saw in our last article that Mr. Withrow’s assertion that this doctrine was everywhere recorded throughout the Catacombs rested virtually upon the existence of certain oft-recurring paintings there――paintings of the story of Jonas and of the raising of Lazarus; that it was not supported by any contemporary sepulchral inscriptions, but that certain more explicit inscriptions of a later date undoubtedly contain it. In other words, Mr. Withrow (and we might add Mr. Burgon, Mr. Marriott, and the whole race of Protestant controversialists who have entered this arena at all) can recognize, when it suits his purpose, the justice of reading ancient monuments in the light of more modern and explicit statements of Christian doctrine, and of interpreting the monuments of Christian art in one age by their known form and meaning in another. Let them not deny the privilege of this canon of interpretation to others besides themselves. We shall use it as occasion may require in our examination of the monuments which to all Catholic archæologians seem to bear testimony to the exceptional position of St. Peter in the Apostolic College.

A subject represented from very early times, and frequently repeated both in paintings and in sculpture, is that of Moses striking the rock in the wilderness, and the waters gushing forth for the refreshment of the children of Israel in their passage through the wilderness. What does this subject mean? The stories of Jonas and of Lazarus were meant, we are told, as types of the Resurrection, and are to be admitted as proofs of the belief of the early Christians in that great doctrine. What part of their belief is typified in this incident from the life of Moses? Let us first see how it was understood by the Jews themselves.

The Royal Psalmist refers to it more than once in accents of fervent gratitude as for a signal act of God’s mercy towards his people, and also of lively hope, as having been typical and prophetic of further mercies. Isaias, in that magnificent prophecy wherein he recounts the marvels that shall happen in the world when “God shall come and save it,” recalls the memory of the same event, and makes use of it as a fitting image of the spiritual graces that should then be poured forth on the children of men. “God himself,” he says, “will come and will save you. Then shall the eyes of the blind be opened; and the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped. Then shall the lame man leap as a hart, and the tongue of the dumb shall be free: for waters are broken out in the desert, and streams in the wilderness. And that which was dry land shall become a pool, and the thirsty land springs of water.”[142] At length the period so long looked for, so frequently promised, “in the fulness of time” arrived; Jesus was born and manifested among men, and, standing in the Temple on a great feast-day, he offered himself to all men as “a fountain of living waters.” “He stood, and cried, saying: If any man thirst, let him come to me and drink. He that believeth in me, as the Scripture saith, out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water.” And St. John, who has preserved to us this history, immediately adds, for the more certain interpretation of his words, that Jesus “said this of the Holy Spirit, whom they should receive who believed in him.” Finally, St. Paul comes to complete the explanation, and, in that chapter of his Epistle to the Corinthians which one may almost call the key to the history of the children of Israel, gives more clearly than any before him the mystical interpretation of the prodigy of the rock. Taking the first and last links of the long chain of inspired writing about it, he couples the original physical fact with its far-distant spiritual interpretation in those words with which we are so familiar: “Our fathers all drank the same spiritual drink: and they drank of the spiritual rock that followed them: and _the rock was Christ_.”

It cannot be disputed, then, that the water represented as flowing from the rock struck by Moses in the wilderness was intended to be typical of the spiritual blessings which flow to the church from Christ. Was there anything typical also in the _person_ striking the rock? Or was this a mere historical accessory of the scene, represented of necessity in order to the completeness of the story, but having no particular meaning of its own――merely the historical Moses, and nothing more? It might very well have been so; and everybody who suggests a mystical interpretation is bound to produce substantial reasons for departing from the literal sense. De Rossi then leads us into a chapel in the Catacomb of San Callisto, and bids us notice the marked difference between the two figures of Moses painted side by side on the same wall――in the one scene taking off his shoes before going up to the holy mountain; in the other, striking the rock. They cannot both be meant to represent the historical verity; it looks as though the distinction between them was intended to point out their typical or symbolical character, and we almost fancy we can discern a resemblance between one of the figures and the received traditional portrait of Peter. But we advance further into the same cemetery, and enter another chapel in which the same scene is again represented. This time there is no room for doubt: the profile, the features, the rounded and curly beard, the rough and frizzled hair――are all manifest tokens of the traditional likeness of St. Peter, and we are satisfied that it is he who is here striking the rock. The same studied resemblance may be noted also in the figure of the man striking the rock on several of the sculptured sarcophagi. Still, we are not satisfied; we should be loath to lay the stress of any important argument upon any mere likeness which we might believe that we recognize between this and that figure in ancient painting or sculpture. It would be more satisfactory if we could find an inscription on the figure putting its identity beyond all question. And even this, too, is not wanting. In the Vatican Museum there are two or three specimens of this same subject on the gilded glasses that have been sometimes found affixed to graves in the Catacombs, and on them the name of PETRUS is distinctly engraved over the scene. It is true that these glasses were probably not made till the fourth century; neither were the sarcophagi. But we argue with Mr. Marriott that “the existence of these later monuments can hardly be accounted for except on the supposition of their being reproductions of still older monuments.” In fact, in the present instance, these older monuments still exist; only their interpretation might have been disputed, had not the later monuments been found with the interpretation engraved upon them. With these glasses in our hands, showing indisputably that the Christians of the fourth and fifth centuries looked upon Moses in the act of striking the rock as a type of St. Peter, we feel confident that the Christians of the second and third centuries, who continually represented the same scene, did so with the same idea. In a word, the evidence for the identification of St. Peter with Moses in the conceptions of the ancient Christian artists seems to be complete and convincing. Such, at least, is our own conclusion; we subjoin Mr. Withrow’s:

“In two or three of the gilded glasses which are of comparatively late date, the scene of Moses striking the rock is rudely indicated, and over the head or at the side of the figure is the word PETRUS. From this circumstance Roman Catholic writers have asserted that in many of the sarcophagal and other representations of this event it is no longer Moses but Peter――‘the leader of the new Israel of God’――who is striking the rock with the emblem of divine power: a conclusion for which there is absolutely no evidence except _the very trivial fact above mentioned_” (p. 292).

Mr. Withrow’s observations suggest one or two additional remarks. First, he calls St. Peter “the leader of the new Israel of God,” but he omits to mention from whom he borrows this title or description of the apostle. They are the words of Prudentius, the Christian poet of the fifth century, who thus becomes an additional witness to the truth which we have been insisting upon――that the position of St. Peter under the New Law was analogous to that of Moses under the Old. Prudentius was in the habit of frequenting the Catacombs for devotional purposes, and he has left us a description of them. Perhaps in the line which we have quoted he was but giving poetical expression to a fact or doctrine which he had seen often represented in symbols and on monuments.

But, secondly, Mr. Withrow speaks of the rod in the hands of Moses as “the emblem of divine power.” And here it should be mentioned that this rod is never seen on ancient monuments of Christian art, except in the hands of these three: Christ, Moses, and Peter――or should we not now rather say of two only, Christ and St. Peter?――and that these two hardly ever appear without it. Either in painted or sculptured representations of our Lord’s miracles he usually holds a rod in his hands as the instrument whereby he wrought them. Whether he is changing the water into wine, or multiplying the loaves and fishes, or raising Lazarus from the dead, it is not his own divine hand that touches the chosen objects of the merciful exercise of his power, but he touches them all with a rod. Even when he is represented not in his human form, but symbolically as a lamb――_e.g._, in the spandrels of the tomb of Junius Bassus, A.D. 359――the rod is still placed between the forefeet of the mystical animal, its other end resting on the rock, the water-pots, or the baskets. In one of the sarcophagi, belonging probably to the year 410 or thereabouts, we almost seem to assist at the transfer of this emblem of power from Christ to his Vicar. In the series of miracles in the upper half of the sarcophagus to which we refer it appears three times in the hand of Christ; in the lower series it occurs the same number of times in the hand of Peter. In the last of these instances, indeed, it may be said that it was necessary, as it was the scene of striking the rock; but in the other two it can hardly be understood in any other sense than as an emblem, and, if an emblem at all, we suppose all would admit that it can only be an emblem of power and authority. In the first of these two scenes we are reminded, by the cock at his feet, that our Lord is warning his apostle of his threefold denial, whilst we are assured by the rod in the apostle’s hand that his fall would not deprive him of his prerogative, but that after his conversion it would be his mission to “confirm the brethren.” In the second scene the firmness of faith foretold or promised in the first is put to the test by persecution, which began from his first apprehension by the Jews and still continues, yet the rod or staff remains in his hands, no human malice having power to wrest either from himself or his successors that authority over the new Israel which he had received from his divine Master.

We are told that there was an ancient Eastern tradition that the rod of Moses, the ministerial instrument of his great miracles, had originally belonged to the patriarch Jacob, from whom it was inherited by his son Joseph; that upon Joseph’s death it was taken to Pharao’s palace, and thence was in due time given by the daughter of Pharao to her adopted son, Moses. Moreover, the same author mentions that in like manner when our Lord said the words, “Feed my lambs, feed my sheep,” he gave to Peter a staff significative of his pastoral authority over the whole flock; and that “hence has arisen the custom for all religious heads of churches and monasteries to carry a staff as a sign of their leadership of the people.” We do not in any way vouch for the authenticity, or even the antiquity, of this tradition. The only authority we have found for it does not go further back than the first years of the fifteenth century; but it aptly expresses the same truth which (we maintain) was clearly present to the minds both of Christian writers and Christian artists in the early ages of the church. We have seen how it was illustrated by symbol in the monuments of the Catacombs; we have heard the language of Prudentius, calling St. Peter the leader of the new Israel; to these we must add the testimony of an Eastern solitary, the Egyptian St. Macarius, who lived some fifty years earlier, and who states the same thing more distinctly, saying that “_Moses was succeeded by Peter_,” and that “to him [St. Peter] was committed the new church and the new priesthood.”

We are far, however, from having done justice to the idea as it existed in the mind of the ancient church, if we separate the notion of Peter being a second Moses from that particular act in the life of the Jewish leader which we have seen specially attributed to the apostle――viz., the striking of the rock; and in our interpretation of this act we must be careful to take into account all that the ancient Fathers understood by it. Let us listen to the commentary upon it preached in a public sermon somewhere about the middle of the fifth century. Speaking in Turin on the feast of SS. Peter and Paul, St. Maximus uses these words:

“This is Peter, to whom Christ the Lord of his free will granted a share in his own name; for, as the Apostle Paul has taught us, Christ was the rock; and so Peter too was by Christ made a rock, the Lord saying to him: ‘Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church.’ For as water flowed from a rock to the Lord’s people thirsting in the wilderness, so did the fountain of a life-giving confession come forth from the mouth of Peter to the whole world wearied with the thirst of unbelief. This is Peter, to whom Christ, when about to ascend to his Father, commends his lambs and sheep to be fed and guarded.”

The doctrine which is here taught is plain and undeniable. Allusion is clearly made to a twofold idea: first, Christ in his own nature is the shepherd of the sheep, and the rock whence flows the fount of living water in the desert; but by an act of his own sovereign will, by his own special appointment, when about to leave the world, he assigns the office of chief shepherd to Peter, and he communicates to Peter a share in his own attributes, so that he too from henceforth becomes a rock whereon the church is built, and from him flows the fount of heavenly doctrine and life-giving faith which was first revealed to him by the Father, and then by him proclaimed and preached throughout the whole dry desert of the world.

Did this thought originate with the Bishop of Turin? Was it a conceit of his own fancy, the fruit of a lively imagination? Or are his words only a link in the chain of ancient tradition, handing on to others the same truth which he had himself received from his forefathers?

One thing is certain: that the pope was preaching the very same thing in Rome about the same time. Each year, as the feast of SS. Peter and Paul――which was also the anniversary of his own consecration――came round, Pope Leo exhorted the bishops and others who heard him to lift up their minds and hearts, to consider the glory of the Prince of the Apostles, who was inundated (he said) by such copious irrigations from the fount of all graces that whereas there were many which he alone received, none passed to anybody else without his having a share in them. “The divine condescension,” he says again, “gave to this man a great and wonderful participation in his own power, so that, though he chose that some things should be common to him with the other apostles, yet he never gave except through him what he did not withhold from the rest”; and then he goes on to interpret the words of Christ to Peter in this manner; he says: “The formation of the universal church at its birth took its beginning from the honor of Blessed Peter, in whose person its rule and its sum consist; for _from his fountain the stream of ecclesiastical discipline flowed forth into all churches_.” Twenty years earlier Pope Innocent praises an African council for having referred some question to Rome, “knowing what is due to the Apostolic See, since all we who occupy this place desire to follow the apostle himself, from whom the very episcopate and all the authority of this title spring; that nothing, even in the most distant parts of the world, should be determined before it was brought to the knowledge of this see; … that so all waters should flow from their parent source and the pure streams of the fountain should well forth uncorrupted throughout the different regions of the whole world.”

It may be said, perhaps, that these are mere figures of speech and rhetorical illustrations, and that there is no proof that the writers intended any reference whatever to the miraculous stream from the rock in the desert.

We cannot, in reply to this question, undertake to trace back an unbroken catena of authorities, from the fifth century to the first, clearly expressing the same idea; but we can say with truth that it is continually recurring in all writings which have occasion to speak of the unity of the church, especially in the controversies of the third century against the Novatians; that the types of the rock and the fount, symbols of the origin and unity of the faith, of baptism, and of the church, seem then to have been inseparable in the minds of writers and preachers from the mention of St. Peter, on whom Christ had founded that origin and that unity; that those who impugned the validity of baptism administered by heretics considered that they urged an irrefragable argument against their adversaries as often as they invoked the prerogative of Peter and the undoubted unity of the rock whence alone all pure waters flowed; finally, that the earliest writer in whom we find the waters of baptism spoken of as flowing from the rock (Tertullian) was a frequent visitor at Rome about the very time when some of the most remarkable paintings in which they are so represented――those in the so-called sacramental chapels in the Catacomb of San Callisto――were being executed; _i.e._, at the very commencement of the third century.

We conclude, then, that the paintings and other monuments of ancient Christian art belonging to the Catacombs, when placed side by side with the language of contemporaneous and succeeding Christian writers, mutually explain and confirm one another; and that it is impossible not to recognize in the perfect agreement of these important witnesses the faithful echo of a primitive tradition――to wit, that to St. Peter was given the authority to draw forth the true living waters of sacramental grace from the Rock of ages, and to distribute them throughout the whole church.

There is yet one more incident in the life of Moses which ancient Christian art has reproduced, and with a distinct reference to St. Peter――viz., the receiving of the law from the hand of God. This is a subject very commonly repeated on the sarcophagi of the fourth and fifth centuries, but there is not, so far as we know, any emblem attached to these sculptured representations which obliges us to refer them to the apostle. Other monuments, however, of the same or an earlier date, supply what is wanting. We find both paintings and ancient gilded glasses in which St. Peter receives from our Lord either a roll or volume, or sometimes (as if to make the resemblance more striking) a mere tablet with the inscription _Lex Domini_, or _Dominus legem dat_. Now, in pagan works of art the emperors were sometimes represented in the act of giving the book of the laws or constitutions to those officials whom they sent forth to govern the provinces, and the magistrates receive the book, for greater reverence, not in their bare hands, but in a fold of their toga. Compare with this a Christian sarcophagus, belonging to an early part of the fourth century, and published by Bosio. In it we see Christ, already ascended and triumphant, having the firmament under his feet, giving the book of the New Law to Peter, who in like manner has his hands covered with a veil, that he may receive it with due reverence. It is as though Christ were visibly appointing him his Vicar and representative upon earth, and making him the expounder and administrator of his law. And the same scene is represented, without any essential alteration, in a number of monuments of various kinds, frescoes, sculpture, glasses, and mosaics. By and bye, in some artists’ hands, it lost something of its precise original signification; at least, in two of the later monuments (one of them undoubtedly by a Greek artist) it is St. Paul who receives the law, instead of St. Peter. But then there is, of course, a certain sense in which this might be as truly predicated of St. Paul, or of any other member of the Apostolic College as of St. Peter himself. Sometimes, also, all the apostles appear together with St. Peter when he receives the law――only he receives the volume opened; they stand each holding a closed roll in his hand. In some monuments, as in the mosaic of Sta. Costanza, the legend is _Dominus dat pacem_ instead of _legem_. This, however, is hardly an essential difference. It is only through his law that Christ gives peace, and peace or unity of the church is a primary dogma of his law. Hence this interchange of the two words: the substitution of one for the other, or occasionally even their union, as on the cover of a Book of the Gospels at Milan, which is inscribed _Lex et pax_.

But it is time to draw this paper to a close. Let it be remembered that it is not an attempt to prove the papal supremacy by means of inscriptions or other monuments from the Catacombs, but an answer to an oft-repeated challenge upon one point at least which lies at the root of that subject; and incidentally it throws light upon some other points also, more or less closely connected with it. And we claim to have established against these controversialists that there is evidence to be gathered from these subterranean cemeteries; that those who made and decorated them were conscious of a special pre-eminence belonging to St. Peter over the rest of the apostolic body; that they knew him to be in a certain singular manner the representative of his divine Master, whose rod of power or staff of rule he alone was privileged to bear; that it was his prerogative to be the head of the Christian church, its leader and its teacher, having received the law from the hands of Christ, and the commission to feed and govern his flock; that he had the special guardianship of the fountain and river of living waters, only to be found within the church, and special authority to draw them forth and distribute them throughout every region of the thirsty world.

[139] “Testimony of the Catacombs to Prayers for the Dead and the Invocation of Saints,” THE CATHOLIC WORLD, Dec., 1876.

[140] _R. S._, ii. 307.

[141] _Inscr. Christian._, i. 80, 100.

[142] C. xxxv. 4-7.

MODERN THOUGHT IN SCIENCE.

When we were informed that Professor Huxley, during his visit to America, was to give a few scientific lectures, we could easily anticipate that from a man of his character nothing was to be expected so likely as a bold effort to exalt science at the expense of religion. The three lectures on the _Evidences of Evolution_, which he delivered in New York on the 18th, 20th, and 22d of September last, are an evident proof that we had guessed right. These lectures, though free from open and formal denunciations of religious faith, are deeply imbued with that spirit of dogmatic unbelief which pervades other works of the same professor, and especially his _Lay Sermons_. His aim is always the same: he uniformly strives to establish what Mr. Draper and other modern thinkers have vainly attempted to prove, that _science conflicts with revelation_; and he labors to impress upon us the notion that _none but the ignorant can believe in revealed truth_. Such is the main object which the professor has had constantly in view since he preached the first of his _Lay Sermons_. A friend of ours, who happened to be in England when this first lay sermon was delivered, disgusted at the arrogance and levity displayed by the lay preacher, hastened to write a short popular refutation of that sermon. This refutation, owing to some unforeseen accident, was brought over to America without being published, and it is now in our hands. Believing, as we do, that, although written some years ago, it is by no means stale, and that its perusal will effectually contribute to expose the gross fallacies of the scientific lecturer, we offer it to our readers as an appropriate introduction to the direct criticism of the lectures themselves, which we intend to give in an early number. The manuscript in question reads as follows:

The _Fortnightly Review_ (Jan. 15, 1866) has published “A Lay Sermon delivered at St. Martin’s Hall on Sunday, January 7, 1866, ON THE ADVISABLENESS OF IMPROVING NATURAL KNOWLEDGE, _by Prof. T. H. Huxley_.” The lay preacher thinks that the improvement of natural knowledge, besides giving us the means of avoiding pestilences, extinguishing fires, and providing modern society with material comfort, has produced two other wonderful effects: “I say that natural knowledge, seeking to satisfy natural wants, has found the ideas that can alone still spiritual cravings”――this is the first. “I say that natural knowledge, in desiring to ascertain the laws of comfort, has been driven to discover those of conduct, and to lay the foundation of a new morality”――this is the second. Though Mr. Huxley is a great professor, or rather because he is a great professor, we make bold to offer him a few remarks on the subject which he has chosen, and especially on the manner in which he has treated it. The reader, of course, will understand that when we speak of Mr. Huxley we mean to speak, not of the man, but of the preacher.

That natural knowledge is a good thing, and its improvement an advisable thing, is universally admitted and requires no proof. Hence we might ask: What is the good of a _lay sermon on the advisableness of improving natural knowledge_? Does any man in his senses make sermons on the advisableness of improving one’s purse, or health, or condition? A student of rhetoric would of course take up any unprofitable subject as a suitable ground for amplification or declamation; but a professor cannot, in our opinion, have had this aim in view in a lay sermon delivered at St. Martin’s Hall. Had Mr. Huxley been under the impression that natural knowledge is nowadays, for some reason or other, in a deplorable state, every one would have seen the advisableness of remedying the evil, if shown to be real. Had he proved in his sermon that natural knowledge nowadays is superficial, sophistical, or incoherent with other known truths, the opportunity of talking about the advisableness of improving it would have struck every eye and stirred every soul. But this was not the case. Natural knowledge is assumed by the lay preacher to be in a splendid and glorious state; our scientific men are accounted great men, our conquests in science admirable, and our uninterrupted progress unquestionable.

“Our ‘mathematick,’” says he, “is one which Newton would have to go to school to learn; our ’staticks, mechanicks, magneticks, chymicks, and natural experiments, constitute a mass of physical and chemical knowledge, a glimpse at which would compensate Galileo for the doings of a score of inquisitorial cardinals; our ‘physick’ and ‘anatomy’ have embraced such infinite varieties of being, have laid open such new worlds in time and space, have grappled, not unsuccessfully, with such complex problems, that the eyes of Vesalius and of Harvey might be dazzled by the sight of the tree that has grown out of their grain of mustard-seed” (pp. 628, 629).

Such being the state of things, we might have expected a sermon _on the means of diffusing and promoting natural knowledge_; but a sermon laying stress on such a triviality as _the advisableness of improving natural knowledge_, when natural knowledge is quite flourishing and dazzling, seems to us to have no object at all. Unfortunately, the lay preacher did not see that it was a triviality, or, if he saw that it was, thought that his own way of dealing with it was so new and untrivial that the merit of his novel conceptions would redeem the triviality of the subject. Let us see, then, what such novel conceptions are.

That natural knowledge may help us to keep back pestilences and to extinguish fires is not a discovery of the lay preacher; we all knew it. His first discovery is that pestilences are not punishments of God, and that fires have little to do with human malice.

“Our forefathers had their own ways of accounting for each of these calamities. They submitted to the plague in humility and in penitence, for they believed it to be the judgment of God. But towards the fire they were furiously indignant, interpreting it as the effect of the malice of man, as the work of the republicans or of the Papists, according as their prepossessions ran in favor of loyalty or of Puritanism. It would, I fancy, have fared but ill with one who, standing where I now stand, in what was then a thickly-peopled and fashionable part of London, should have broached to our ancestors the doctrine which I now propound to you――that all their hypotheses were alike wrong; that the plague was no more, in their sense, a divine judgment than the fire was the work of any political or of any religious sect; but that they were themselves the authors of both plague and fire, and that they must look to themselves to prevent the recurrence of calamities to all appearance so peculiarly beyond the reach of human control――so evidently the result of the wrath of God or of the craft and subtlety of an enemy” (pp. 626, 627).

We think that natural knowledge will not be much improved by this Huxleyan discovery. God’s existence and providence are notoriously a most substantial part of natural knowledge; so the relegation of Deity out of the world, and the suppression of his providence over it, is no less a crime against science than against God himself, and shows no less ignorance than impiety. We cannot admit that pestilences “will _only_ take up their abode among those who have prepared unswept and ungarnished residences for them,” nor that “their cities _must_ have narrow, unwatered streets, foul with accumulated garbage,” nor that “their houses _must_ be ill-drained, ill-lighted, ill-ventilated,” nor that “their subjects _must_ be ill-washed, ill-fed, ill-clothed” (p. 630). Our reasons for denying such conclusions are many. To cite one only――of which we think that Mr. Huxley will not fail to appreciate the value――we read in one of the most authentic historical books the following:

“The word of the Lord came to Gad the prophet and the seer of David, saying: Go, and say to David: Thus saith the Lord: I give thee the choice of three things: choose one of them which thou wilt, that I may do it to thee. And when Gad was come to David, he told him, saying: Either seven years of famine shall come to thee in thy land: or thou shalt flee three months before thy adversaries: or for three days there shall be a pestilence in thy land. Now therefore deliberate, and see what answer I shall return to him that sent me. And David said to Gad: I am in a great strait: but it is better that I should fall into the hands of the Lord (for his mercies are many) than into the hands of men. _And the Lord sent a pestilence upon Israel_, from the morning unto the time appointed, and there died of the people from Dan to Bersabee seventy thousand men. And when the angel of the Lord had stretched out his hand over Jerusalem to destroy it, the Lord had pity on the affliction, and said to the angel that slew the people: _It is enough: now hold thy hand_” (2 Kings xxiv.)

This fact is as historical as the London plague; nor is it the only one that could be adduced. Hence we are at a loss to understand how natural knowledge can be _improved_ by a theory which is annihilated by the most positive facts.

The next discovery of the lay preacher is no less remarkable: “I say that natural knowledge, seeking to satisfy natural wants, has found the ideas which can alone still spiritual cravings” (p. 632). What great ideas has natural knowledge introduced into men’s minds? 1st. That the earth is but an atom among atoms, whirling no man knows whither, through illimitable space (p. 634); 2d, that what we call the peaceful heaven above us is but that space, filled by an infinitely subtle matter, whose particles are seething and surging like the waves of an angry sea (_ibid._); 3d, that there are infinite regions where nothing is known, or ever seems to have been known, but matter and force (_ibid._); 4th, that phenomena must have had a beginning, and must have an end; but their beginning is, to our conception of time, infinitely remote, and their end is as immeasurably distant (_ibid._); 5th, that all matter has weight, and that the force which produces weight is co-extensive with the universe (_ibid._); 6th, that matter is indestructible (p. 635); 7th, that force is indestructible (_ibid._); 8th, that everywhere we find definite order and succession of events, which seem never to be infringed (_ibid._); 9th, that man is not the centre of the living world, but one amidst endless modifications of life (_ibid._); 10th, that the ancient forms of existence peopling the world for ages, in relation to human experience, are infinite (_ibid._); 11th, that life depends for its manifestation on particular molecular arrangements or any physical or chemical phenomenon (_ibid._); 12th, that “the theology of the present has become more scientific than that of the past; because it has not only renounced idols of wood and idols of stone, but begins to see the necessity of breaking into pieces the idols built up of books and traditions and fine-spun ecclesiastical cobwebs, and of cherishing the noblest and most human of man’s emotions by worship, ‘for the most part of the silent sort,’ at the altar of the Unknown and Unknowable” (p. 636).

It appears that Mr. Huxley assumes that these ideas have been of late “implanted in our minds by the improvement of natural knowledge,” that they suffice to “still spiritual cravings,” and that they alone suffice, as “they alone _can_ still spiritual cravings.” Now, the indestructibility of matter is not a new idea implanted in men’s minds by modern science. The ancient and the mediæval philosophers knew it as well as Mr. Huxley, and, if we may be allowed to state a simple truth, even better, as they could give a very good reason of the fact――a thing which would probably puzzle those great men who despise “the products of mediæval thought,” and dedicate themselves exclusively to the acquirement of the so-called “new philosophy.” That life depends for its manifestation on particular molecular arrangements is, in substance, an old story, as physicists and philosophers of all times taught that not only the manifestation, but also the very existence, of life in the body required a particular organization of matter; so that, to judge by this test, the improvement of knowledge would here consist in the suppression of the soul――that is, in a mutilation of knowledge. That phenomena must have had a beginning is an axiom as old as the world, though some pagan philosophers denied it; and that phenomena must have an end is but an assumption which modern men have hitherto failed to prove. But let this pass.

What a refreshing thought for “stilling spiritual cravings” to know that phenomena must have had a beginning and must have an end! What a consoling idea to think that the earth is but an atom among atoms, whirling no man knows whither! What a subject of delicious contemplation――the infinite regions, where nothing is known but matter and force! And then what a happiness to know that what we call “heaven” is but space filled by an infinitely subtle matter; to know that all matter has weight; to be certain that all matter is indestructible! At such thoughts, surely, the heart of man must wax warm, and spiritual cravings be stilled! Is not this a very strange discovery?

With regard to the idea that “man is not the centre of the living world, but one amid endless modifications of life,” we must confess our ignorance. We thought that such a view had been ere now peremptorily condemned as absurd by all competent men. But if Mr. Huxley, in a future lay sermon, is able to show that natural knowledge obliges him to reckon crabs, monkeys, and gorillas among his own ancestors, we do not see how much “our spiritual cravings” will be gratified at the thought of such a noble origin. In any case, we shall leave to Mr. Huxley the privilege of enjoying personally all the glory of a bestial genealogy.

And now we must say a word on “the theology of the present, which has become more scientific than that of the past.” The improvement of knowledge, according to our lay preacher, led theology first to renounce the idols of wood and the idols of stone. Very good; yet we may observe that such an improvement of knowledge had its origin in divine revelation, not in experimental science, and that the sect which now preaches the progress of natural knowledge has had no part in breaking the idols either of wood or stone. Then the improvement of knowledge must lead theology to break into pieces――What? “Books, traditions, fine-spun ecclesiastical cobwebs”! And men――that is, Mr. Huxley’s friends――“begin to see the necessity” of breaking all such things. This is but natural. As the outlaw detests the police and the army, and “begins to see the necessity” of breaking both into pieces, so these lovers of matter detest books and traditions on higher subjects, and their “spiritual (!) cravings” cannot be stilled unless they break traditions and books into pieces. At this we do not wonder; but as for “ecclesiastical cobwebs,” what are they? Does Mr. Huxley know any cobwebs but his own――and those, too, not very “fine-spun?”

Next comes “the worship, ‘for the most part of the silent sort,’ at the altar of the Unknown and Unknowable.” This is the last degree of the climax; and this gives us the measure both of the “new philosophy,” and of the acute mind of the lay preacher. Our “spiritual cravings” cannot be stilled until we have done away with that portion of knowledge which concerns our Lord and Creator. Our scientific Titans do not want a Master and a Judge. The improvement of knowledge must lead us back to the time when a few fools worshipped at the altar of an unknown God; and, since the absurdity of this pretension had not the merit of being modern, it became necessary to show the high degree of ignorance which may be united with the _improved_ natural knowledge by proclaiming that the noblest and most human of man’s emotions is cherished by a worship which is a moral, not to say physical, impossibility.

We have now reached the bottom of the “new philosophy”; we are edified about the _improvement_ of natural knowledge; we know what is aimed at in the lay sermons on the _advisableness_ of improving natural knowledge; and we thank Mr. Huxley, not without a deep sense of melancholy, for his open profession of infidelity, which will very likely make harmless all lay sermons which he may venture to preach henceforward. At one thing only we are astonished; that is, that the champion of such a cause――a professor――has not been able to deal with his subject except by a strain of whimsical assertions. Is it necessary for us to teach a professor that mere assertions are good for nothing in science? A professor like Mr. Huxley should have understood that, in the case of new theories, the absence of proof makes men suspect the intellectual poverty of the orator. Still, the fact remains: the lay-preacher asserted much, and proved nothing. The only excuse which we think he can offer may be that a layman has no special vocation and no special grace for preaching; or, perhaps, that _nemo dat quod non habet_; or, lastly, that the _improvement_ of natural knowledge is in no need of proof, the assertion of any professor being considered as a sufficient demonstration. And this leads us to the third of Mr. Huxley’s discoveries.

Let us hear him. He asks: “What are among the moral convictions most fondly held by barbarous and semi-barbarous people?” And he answers:

“They are the convictions that authority is the soundest basis of belief; that merit attaches to a readiness to believe; that the doubting disposition is a bad one, and scepticism a sin; that when good authority has pronounced what is to be believed, and faith has accepted it, reason has no further duty. There are many excellent persons who yet hold by these principles, and it is not my present business or intention to discuss their views. All I wish to bring clearly before your minds is the unquestionable fact that the improvement of natural knowledge is effected by methods which directly give the lie to all these convictions, and assume the exact reverse of each to be true.”

Then he adds:

“The improver of natural knowledge absolutely refuses to acknowledge authority as such. For him, scepticism is the highest of duties, blind faith the one unpardonable sin. And it cannot be otherwise; for every great advance in natural knowledge has involved the absolute rejection of authority, the cherishing of the keenest scepticism, the annihilation of the spirit of blind faith; and the most ardent votary of science holds his firmest convictions, not because the men he most venerates hold them, not because their verity is testified by portents and wonders, but because his experience teaches him that, whenever he chooses to bring these convictions into contact with their primary source, nature――whenever he thinks fit to test them by appealing to experiment and observation――nature will confirm them. The man of science has learned to believe in justification, not by faith, but by verification” (pp. 636, 637).

This language is undoubtedly clear, and its meaning unmistakable. All Englishmen who have any disposition to believe on good authority, from Queen Victoria down to the meanest of her subjects, are to be ranked among barbarians or semi-barbarians. And as Mr. John Stuart Mill has already decided, in his high wisdom, that barbarians can be justly compelled (for their own good, of course) to bear the yoke of a tyrant, we can, by a genial union of the views of these two great men, substantiate the result of their combined teaching. “Barbarians, for their own good, can be subjected to tyranny”――this is the major proposition drawn from Mr. Mill. “But Englishmen who respect authority and believe are but barbarians”――this is the minor of Mr. Huxley. The consequence is brutal but evident, and gives us the measure of the liberality of a certain class of liberals. Fortunately, Prof. Huxley is a very amiable man, and perhaps he does not hold without limitation the aforesaid principle of his philosophical friend. He even condescends to declare that “there are many excellent persons who yet hold those convictions of barbarous people,” and says that “it is not his present business or intention to discuss their views.” Still, we are sorry that these “excellent persons” are condemned without a hearing; and as for discussion, our impression is that Mr. Huxley is much afraid of it, at least “for the present.” We should prefer that our views were discussed before we are insulted on account of them. Who knows whether the issue of such a discussion would not show that the true barbarians, after all, are those very worshippers of “scepticism” or of the “Unknown” and of the “Unknowable”?

But let us abstain from retaliation; we are barbarians, and our word is worth nothing as long as we continue to hold that “authority is the soundest basis of belief.” And yet we fancy that the London plague could only be believed because the authority of a great number of eye-witnesses was the soundest basis of belief. Mr. Huxley will say that we are mistaken, as “the improver of natural knowledge _absolutely refuses_ to acknowledge authority as such”; but he has forgotten to tell us on what grounds he himself believes the London plague. Is it perchance because “his experience teaches him that, whenever he chooses to bring his convictions into contact with their primary source, nature――whenever he thinks fit to test them by appealing to experiment and observation――nature will confirm them”? We are exceedingly anxious to know the truth. Will the lay preacher, who is so kind, enlighten us by a clear answer?

We have just said that a little discussion would very likely show that Mr. Huxley’s remarks apply to his equals rather than to those whom he endeavors to stigmatize. And as we do not belong to the school or sect of which Mr. Huxley is the representative, and accordingly do not enjoy the privilege of boldly asserting what cannot be proved, so we are obliged to show what are the reasons of our conviction.

Mr. Huxley believes that “man is not the centre of the living world, but _one amid endless modifications of life_.” Whence does this conviction come? The learned professor cannot be ranked among _civilized_ people unless he be able to show that his conviction is _not_ grounded on authority, but on scepticism, which is “the highest duty” of an improver of knowledge. He must be prepared to show that “he holds it, not because the men he most venerates hold it, not because its verity is testified by portents and wonders, but because _his experience teaches him_ that, whenever he thinks fit to test it by appealing to experiment and observation, nature will confirm it.” Unfortunately for him, and in spite of his uncommon power of making broad assertions, he cannot have recourse to such an answer, inasmuch as it would be received with loud peals of laughter even by his devout flock of St. Martin’s Hall. In conclusion, he has caught himself in his own trap, and we are afraid he must declare himself to be (horrible to say!) a _barbarian_, and an awful barbarian too; for it is with open eyes, and with other aggravating circumstances, that he has done what, according to him, only “barbarous people” do.

This being the case, no one needs to ask why Mr. Huxley informs us that it is not his present business or intention to discuss the views of those “excellent persons” who still believe. He believes himself more than they believe. They believe “when _good_ authority has pronounced”; the lay preacher believes even without good authority. Those “excellent persons” smile with the “keenest scepticism” at his theory of the Unknown and of the Unknowable; but the lay preacher believes in his theory without proof and against proof, and thinks that “reason has no further duty.” And it is remarkable that he does not content himself with believing what may appear to be a view of the present or a fact of the past. This would be too little for him; he believes a great deal more: he believes in what may be called a dream of the future. Yes:

“If these ideas be destined, _as I believe they are_, to be more and more firmly established as the world grows older; if that spirit be fated, _as I believe it is_, to extend itself into all departments of human thought, and to become co-extensive with the range of knowledge; if, as our race approaches its maturity, it discovers, _as I believe it will_, that there is but one kind of knowledge, and but one method of acquiring it――then we, who are still children, may justly feel it our highest duty to recognize the advisableness of improving natural knowledge” (p. 637).

Who would have thought or imagined that a man could be so ill-advised as to condense three professions of blind faith in the very lines in which he intends to conclude in favor of scepticism?

The consequence of all this is appalling. For how now can Mr. Huxley again present himself to his devout congregation of St. Martin’s Hall? What can he say in his defence? The best would be to dissemble, if possible, and to ignore with a lofty unconcern his numerous blunders; but men are shrewd, and the expedient might seem an implicit confession of failure. As for “discussing the views of those excellent persons” who still hold the principles of faith, there can be no question. This would be too much and too little: too much for the man, too little for the purpose. And, in fact, since Mr. Huxley is himself guilty of that of which he accuses others, he cannot strike others without wounding himself. The only practical thing would be, in our opinion, an explicit, generous, and humble confession of guilt. Why not? The lay preacher is not the first professor who has spoken nonsense, nor will he be the last. We are all liable to error and sin; and recantation and repentance are a right of humanity. On the other hand, he is not the only man who is guilty of believing――he is in very good company; for “there are many excellent persons who still believe,” though undoubtedly he goes further than they do. Still, we apprehend that a lay preacher may find himself a little embarrassed in a subject of this sort; and as we have already shown what a deep and sincere interest we feel in lay sermons, and have gained, perhaps, a title to a special hearing on the part of the lay preacher, so, to relieve him, at least partially, from the heavy burden, we venture to offer him the following plan of a new _Lay Sermon to be delivered at St. Martins Hall on a day not yet appointed_.

The exordium might contain the following thoughts: “My friends, a sorrowful duty calls me to speak unto you. On January 7, 1866, a professor from this very place preached a sermon on the improvement of natural knowledge by unbelief, and maintained that to believe on good authority was a principle of barbarous or semi-barbarous people.… That professor, alas! was myself.… Well, it is my painful duty to tell you to-day that you have been humbugged.… (Cheers from the audience.) Do not cheer; have pity on me, my dear brethren. I have sinned against myself, against you, and against mankind. This is the distressing truth of which I am now ready to make the demonstration.”

The confirmation would have three parts. In the first he might say: “I have sinned _against myself_ in two ways: First, because I uttered assertions calculated to show that I am more credulous than those whom I reprehend. Now, if men are condemned by me on the ground that they believe ‘on _good_ authority,’ what will be the sentence reserved for me, who believe on bad authority and on no authority? Secondly, because I put myself in an awkward position as a scientific man. The distance of the earth from the sun I hitherto admitted on authority; the specific weight of most bodies on authority; the discovery of certain geologic curiosities on authority; the ratio of the circumference to the diameter on authority, etc., etc. Verification would have taken too many years of work; and this seemed to me a good excuse for assuming that there was no harm in believing. But now, as I have declared ‘scepticism to be the highest of duties,’ to be consistent, I shall be obliged to appeal without intermission to experiment and observation, and even to calculation; ‘for the man of science has learned to believe in justification not by faith, but by verification.’ And so good-by to my lay sermons! It will be quite impossible for me, while calculating anew the basis of the Napierian logarithms or the circumference of the circle, or while testing Faraday’s discoveries by actual experiments, or travelling to verify the assertions of geological writers, to dream of popular eloquence.”

After developing these or similar thoughts, he would pass to the second part and say: “I have sinned _against you_; for the principal aim of my sermon was _to make you believe_ what I was then saying. How is it possible, dear friends, that I should have taken pleasure in thus treating you as barbarians or semi-barbarians? Civilized men, according to the theory which I then advanced, ‘refuse to acknowledge authority as such.’ ‘Scepticism,’ according to the same theory, ‘is the highest of duties,’ and ‘blind faith an unpardonable sin.’ Such was my doctrine on January 7. Yet this very sin, this unpardonable sin, I suggested to you on that same day, and you committed it! In fact, you have _believed_ me.… Now, for this no one is more responsible than myself. I have been your tempter; I did my best to extort your belief; I caused you to believe on my authority, to believe as barbarians believe! I plead guilty. Still, as you are so kind, I hope that you will excuse me. I admitted, after all, that ‘there are many excellent persons who yet hold the principle that merit attaches to a readiness to believe,’ and therefore both you and myself, in spite of all that you have believed, may be excellent persons. Another very good reason in my favor is that the subject of that sermon was ‘the advisableness of improving natural knowledge’; now, our common fault is a very good demonstration of such an advisableness. I might add a third reason. I told you, and I trust that you have not forgotten it, that ‘we are still children.’ Now, children, when they err, deserve indulgence, etc., etc.”

In the third part he would say something like the following: “I have sinned _against mankind_; for my sermon was calculated to create the impression that those who believe ‘when _good_ authority has pronounced what is to be believed’ are all barbarians or semi-barbarians. This, I must be allowed to say, was a very great mistake, and perhaps an ‘unpardonable sin.’ The London plague is believed ‘on _good_ authority,’ by all Englishmen at least, and yet――let me frankly say it――Englishmen are not all barbarians. All civilized nations believe that there has been a king called Alexander the Great, a mathematician called Archimedes, a woman called Cleopatra, an emperor called Caligula, and they believe it only ‘on _good_ authority’; and how could this be, if belief were the lot of barbarous or semi-barbarous people? What I say of profane history must be said of the Biblical also, and even of the ecclesiastical. No doubt, dear brethren, there has been a man called Moses, who was a great legislator and prophet; there has been a man called Solomon, who was wiser than you and myself; there has been a man called JESUS, who wrought miracles in the very eyes of obstinate unbelievers, and rose from death (a thing which we, men of progress, have not yet learned to do), thereby showing that he was no mere man, but man and God. To say that this God is ‘unknown’ or ‘unknowable’ is therefore one of the greatest historical blunders. Men have known him, have loved him, and have obeyed him. Those who have believed in him became models of sanctity, of charity, and of generosity; millions among them were ready to die, and really died, for his honor, and many of them were the greatest and most cultivated minds that have enlightened the world. We scientific infidels, as compared with them, ‘are still children.’ Our Newton believed, Galileo believed, Leibnitz believed, Volta believed, Galvani believed, Ampère believed, Cauchy believed, Faraday believed. These were men; these have created modern science. But what are we unbelievers? What have we done? Where are our creations?――creations, I say, not merely of modern time, but of unbelievers? ‘We are children’――I am glad to repeat it. We have invented nothing. We, in our capacity of unbelievers, are only parasitic plants which suck the sap of a gigantic tree――Christianity――and live upon it, and yet we have been so ill-advised as to call ourselves ‘improvers of natural knowledge,’ and, worse still, we have attached the name of barbarians to ‘excellent persons,’ even though we are no better than they, etc., etc.”

In the _peroration_ he might say: “And now we come to our conclusion. The conclusion evidently is that true barbarians are not those who believe ‘on _good_ authority,’ but those who endeavor to ‘still spiritual cravings’ with purely material objects. No, dear brethren, spiritual cravings cannot be stilled by knowledge of material things alone. Spiritual cravings imply the existence of a spiritual soul: and a spiritual being cannot be satisfied with the knowledge of matter alone, etc. etc. As for the idea of drawing ‘a new morality’ from the improved natural knowledge, I need scarcely tell you that it was only a joke. You know too well that morality transcends the physical laws, and cannot come out of matter; and you know also that a ‘new’ morality is as impossible as a new God, etc.” And here the orator might give way to the fulness of his feelings, according to the penitent disposition of the moment.

Hitherto we have addressed ourselves to the lay preacher exclusively; we will now address a word to the man. We trust that Professor Huxley will not feel offended at our remarks and suggestions. It is true that unbelievers, whilst ready, and even accustomed, to attack all mankind, are often very sensitive when they themselves are either unmasked or criticised. But we feel persuaded that Professor Huxley will not be angry with us. Our reason is, first, that we might have smiled in secret at the lay sermon on the advisableness of _improving_ natural knowledge by unbelief; and if we did it the honor of a lengthy refutation, we have given the orator a greater importance than he himself would have expected. On the other hand, we have been attacked; and, accordingly, we would have been cowards had we been afraid of answering. Moreover, we have treated him not only fairly, but with great indulgence. What we have said is only a small part of what we might have said. We made no remark on his proposition that “whether these ideas (which alone can still spiritual cravings) are well or ill founded, is not the question” (p. 636); and yet this assertion on account of its neutrality between truth and error, would have supplied abundant matter for criticism; but we abstained. We could have animadverted on the very phrase “natural knowledge,” which he takes as meaning the knowledge of physical laws, and yet it is presented by him as comprehensive of all possible knowledge; whereas it is evident that natural knowledge extends far beyond physical things. We might have objected to the captious expression “_blind_ faith,” on account of the latent assumption that faith is not prompted by reasonable motives and has no reasonable grounds. We might have pointed out the recklessness of the proposition: “There is but one kind of knowledge and but one method of acquiring it”――a proposition which, considering the general spirit of the sermon, would mean that philosophy, theology, and religion are a heap of impostures. We might have dwelt on the assertion that “verities testified by portents and wonders” are not to be admitted on this ground by the votary of science; as if portents and wonders were not facts, or as if the votary of science were obliged by his profession to blind himself to the natural evidence of supernatural facts.

It appears, then, that we had copious materials for further criticism; but we have not found it necessary to dwell upon them. What we have said is, in our opinion, sufficient for the defence of those principles which every enlightened man most cherishes as the very foundations of human society. We have remained, therefore, within the limits of a fair and equitable reply; and if we have laughed at the ignorance of the unbeliever, we have respected as far as possible the person of the professor.

A CHRISTMAS LEGEND.

’Twas midnight, and the Christmas bells were chiming loud and clear: Peal after peal glad tidings bore to Christians far and near. Those throats of metal seemed to chant in solemn tones and slow: _En puer nobis natus est: laus Jesu Domino_. The night winds heard, and thereupon took up the holy song First learned by them when angel hosts surprised the shepherd throng. The very river caught the strain, and whispered as it ran: “Glory to God in heaven above; on earth be peace to man.” The ocean from the river took the tidings glad and good; Like monks white-cowled its crested waves in mighty chorus stood; Then, hastening on with joyous shout, cried loud from shore to shore: The Christ is born: let all the world its King and God adore. Floating flakes of fleecy snow fell fast o’er frozen earth, Just as they fell that winter night that saw the Saviour’s birth; Through painted casements all ablaze with saintly forms and fair Streamed light that tinged the drifted snow with color here and there; The mighty organ loudly pealed and mingled in accord With holy voices chanting high the anthems of their Lord: “_Venite Adoremus_” sang the choristers that night Within the old cathedral church, which shone with many a light; “_Et Verbum Caro factum est_,” thus sung the chant again, While clouds of fragrant incense rose and floated through the fane. Many a frocked and cowléd monk and many a hooded friar, Many a knight of high degree and many a faithful squire, Many a youth and many a maid and many a lady fair, Knelt side by side, and, kneeling, prayed upon the pavement bare. But, lo! beside a pillar’s base where scarce the taper’s ray Could light the gloom that hung around or pierce the shadows gray; There knelt a son of Israel’s creed, whose dark and swarthy face, Black raven hair, and liquid eyes bespoke his Jewish race. What did he there, that Hebrew boy, that scion of the East? Why knelt he there ’mid Christian souls to keep a Christian feast? Why were his eyes devoutly fixed upon an image fair? Why prayed that unbaptizéd child, why sang, why knelt he there?

* * * * *

Of wealthy Jewish parents born, young David oft had heard The boys of that old city tell of Jesus Christ the Word, Who, of a Jewish Virgin born, came down on earth to dwell, To save mankind from sin and death; and oft had heard as well How Mary, God’s dear Mother, loved all Christians great and small, And how she never failed to hear a contrite sinner’s call. So he, too, learned to love her well, and each and every day That Jewish lad would clasp his hands and most devoutly say “O Mary of the Christians, who wast born of Israel’s race! Take pity on a Hebrew boy who longs to see thy face.” Thus day by day and month by month young David ever cried, And more to learn of Christian truth with fondest ardor sighed. On Christmas Eve he heard the bells ring sweetly from the spire, And of one Mark, a chorister, did earnestly inquire: “Dear Mark, why chime thy church’s bells so joyously to-night, While all the painted windows shine with such unwonted light?” “O David!” quick his friend rejoined, “the bells are ringing clear. In greeting to the holiest feast throughout the Christian year; For on this night, long years agone, was born our Blessed Lord, By Mary in a manger laid, by angel hosts adored. But see, dear friend, I cannot now to speak with you delay; For swiftly to the sacristy I needs must haste away. I am a chorister, you know,” he said with honest pride; Then added, as he turned to leave his young companion’s side: “My voice to-night in holy song to faithful souls shall tell How Jesus Christ, the Son of God, came down on earth to dwell. Good-night, good-night,” at last he said, and then away he ran. Poor David’s eyes were filled with tears, his cheeks were pale and wan; But as he listened to the chimes that quivered on the air, From out his inmost heart the boy sent up his simple prayer: “O Mary of the Christians, who wast born of Israel’s race! Take pity on a Hebrew boy who longs to see thy face.” While thus he prayed he turned his steps towards the sacred fane, Nor paused until he gained the porch, where such a wondrous strain Of holy music greeted him that, trembling, half with fear And half with joy, he hid himself, and there saw passing near A noble rank of men and boys in wonderful array, With flambeaux in their hands which made the church as light as day. First came a fair-haired Christian boy, of figure tall and slight, A smoking censer in his hand, and clad in robe of white. Then came two acolytes, who bore two candlesticks of gold, With tapers tall of perfumed wax of costliness untold. A young subdeacon slowly marched these acolytes between; A massive silver cross he bore aloft with reverent mien. Then, two and two, came choristers in linen fair and white; The younger first, in order due, each holding to the light His psalter, silver-clasped, and all in vellum richly bound. Here David gazed intently, and, so gazing, quickly found His little friend, the chorister, who walked with steady pace, Whose silvery voice in ringing tones filled all the holy place. The bishop then with lordly train walked last of all the band, A golden mitre on his head, a crosier in his hand. His vestments ’broidered were with pearls, and rays of green and red From emeralds fair and rubies bright on every side were shed. When all had passed, poor David crept from out his hiding-place, And slowly followed up the throng with soft and stealthy pace. Then, fearing lest his Jewish dress might some attention draw, He sank down at the pillar’s base where first his form we saw. Then, as the holy service rose to God, and voice of prayer, And hymns and canticles of praise filled all the listening air, The Hebrew lad fell prone upon his face, and there adored, Whilst once again to Mary he the oft-said prayer outpoured: “O Mary of the Christians, who wast born of Israel’s race! Take pity on a Hebrew boy who longs to see thy face.” “Thou seest it!” cried at David’s side a clear and heavenly voice, Whose very tones, though soft and low, made David’s heart rejoice. He raised his face, and forthwith saw a vision standing nigh, Around whose head there brightly shone the glory of the sky. ’Twas Mary’s self, and thus she spoke in accents sweet and mild: “Fear not. Arise and come with me, my well-belovéd child.” The lad arose; Our Lady dear then grasped his trembling hand, And led him to the chancel gates unseen by all the band. Just as they stood beneath the Rood loud rang the sacring-bell, Which did to all the holy time of Consecration tell. This when she heard, our Mother knelt upon the marble floor; For Mary’s Son is Mary’s God and Lord for evermore. She then arose and stood unseen till Holy Mass was o’er, Then forward stepped, and, with the lad, the prelate stood before. “Behold,” she said, and as she spoke the church was filled with light, And all fell down upon their knees in wonder at the sight. “Behold. I bring you here a soul who, though he knew me not, Has ever called upon my name, and aye bewailed his lot Because he knew not as he wished the true, the Christian creed: I bring him that he may become an Israelite indeed.” She spoke, and bright the radiance gleamed around her saintly head, And odors most celestial were throughout the building shed. Then, as the whole assembly gazed on all with mute surprise, She vanished in a silver cloud from ’fore their wondering eyes. The holy bishop first found voice, and thus devoutly said: “Mother of God, thy blest command shall be at once obeyed. Divine behests brook no delay; so here, before the night Doth older grow, let me bestow the laver’s saving rite.” The water brought, redemption’s stream o’er David flowed that hour, And sparkled on his forehead white like dewdrops on a flower. “_Te Deum laudamus_” chanted then the choristers with joy, And rushed to give a kiss of peace unto the happy boy. But what is this? He does not stir nor lift his bended head! David, his white robe yet unstained, was kneeling calm and dead. On that _Te Deum’s_ outstretched wings his soul had upward soared To keep in heaven its Christmas morn with Mary and his Lord.

SIR THOMAS MORE.

_A HISTORICAL ROMANCE_

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.