I.

We are approaching Florence by rail from Pisa, a dismal, dripping February morning. It is twelve years since I first saw that famous Duomo of Santa Maria del Fiore. I came suddenly upon it, as I was trying to find my way alone to the opera at the Pergola, the first night I got to Florence. I shall never forget the impression it made on me--an honest, original impression, for I had never read or heard of the Piazza and its wonders. I only knew Giotto by his "O." Orgagna, Arnolfo, Brunelleschi, were names utterly unknown. But the beauty and immensity of that mighty square, asleep in the starlight, overwhelmed me. It was like a step, unawares, from time into eternity. No Pergola that night for me. I crept back to the hotel, bewildered and awed into something like earnestness; for the Lord seemed enthroned in that consecrated place, and I was afraid of him as he sat there, stern, conscious, omnipotent.

But I was younger then; disposed to go into raptures over everything artistic, especially Italian art. The decade between thirty and forty diminishes one's enthusiasm dreadfully. I am almost afraid to meet my old favorite now, lest the spell of a fine remembrance should be broken for ever. But the train is rushing on, the road curves, and there's the same Duomo, looking as if Our Lady of Flowers herself had settled down on the city, with Giotto's campanile, like an archangel, standing guard beside her. There she sits in her gray mantle, grayer through the mist and snow, queen of all the landscape--grander, lighter, lovelier than ever.

Here we are at the station, and now driving past the baptistery; but, far or near, that cupola ever full in view like a guardian presence. You do not wonder here, as before Saint Peter's, what has become of the cupola; you are not obliged to fall back a league to see what is nearly overhead. Nave, transept, and tribune go swelling up, with buttress and demi-cupola diminishing as they ascend, and all converging into one enormous drum from which springs the central dome. Dante could see it from his chair in its very shadow. Arnolfo and Brunelleschi may see it from their seats of marble scarce twenty yards from the foundation-stone. Angelo may see it from his home in Santa Croce. The masons of Fiesole can see it from their hills, the peasants of San Casciano from their vineyards; and, far down the Arno, the boatmen from Pisa look up to it as they plod wearily along.

I am domesticated in Florence; the slow Tuscan spring is passing into summer; and, from being simply a joy, this great cathedral has become a study. Arnolfo, son of Lapo, or Cambio, was the great stone-poet who traced that ground-plan, itself an epic. He was commissioned by those wonderful republicans to construct a church, as worthy as man could make it of the glory of God and the dignity of the city of Florence. {480} The inclination of Arnolfo's genius was toward the Gothic; but he was a many-sided and myriad-minded man. His walls of Florence suggest the Egyptian, his court of the Bargello the Saracenic, his Palazzo Vecchio a perfectly new idea. He has all the versatility of Shakespeare. Arnolfo's first conception of Santa Maria del Fiore may still be seen in fresco, copied from the last wooden model, in the Spanish Cloister of Santa Maria Novella. Up to the first cornice, the cathedral, as it now stands, is almost as purely Gothic as the campanile; and, by reference to the fresco, you will perceive that Arnolfo's original idea was to carry this Gothic treatment up to the very cross that crowns the lantern. For instance, the lantern in the fresco is without either ball or scroll, the clerestory buttressed, and with pointed instead of circular lights, the windows of the cupola pointed. Yet, as it is certain that Arnolfo lived to finish the clerestory, and to unite (_serrare_) the smaller cupolas and tribunes, it is clear these variations in his plan, these departures from the pointed, these approximations to the round, were deliberately made by Arnolfo himself, or by his direction. As the work advanced, he felt that something more must be conceded to the coming cupola. It was not enough to have it octagonal instead of spherical, and enrich its eight marble ribs with Gothic tracery; the antagonism between the two styles must be met and softened from the start. See how gradually this is done, and at what an early stage these concessions begin. In the fresco, the blind arches, both over the lower tribunal windows and just under the lower tribunal cornice, are slightly pointed; in the building itself they are round; the niches above the cornice, also, are pointed in the picture and round-topped in the stone. It is more than probable that these concessions were dictated by the greater prominence which the cupola was assuming in Arnolfo's new vision of his temple. Now is it impossible, that he might have nearly anticipated the exact plan of the heir of his inspiration and partner of his glory? The tendency is that way. But, with the completion of the clerestory and the unification of the smaller cupolas, Arnolfo departs, and, after an interval of a century and a quarter, Brunelleschi enters.

There they are, seated side by side in marble, close to the stone that marks where Dante, too, sat gazing at their Duomo. Arnolfo looks more like a dreamer than a doer, although he was both; in Ser Brunelleschi's face there is more of the mathematician than the poet. He could never have traced that ground-plan, never have dreamed that shining archangel called the campanile; but he did what neither the pupil of Cimabue nor the son of Cambio could perhaps have managed as well, he built that matchless cupola. Brunelleschi had his one great dream, the solution of a vast and novel architectural difficulty. What Arnolfo had hinted became his grand ideal. He nursed his dream for years at Rome, communing with the spirit of classic art; at last he told his dream in Florence, and with infinite difficulty got leave to act it out. Since that noble _carte blanche_ to Arnolfo, Florence had declined; she was no longer up to the proud standard of that earlier day. The superintendents are slippery and slow in engaging Filippo; and Filippo himself must _finesse_ more than a little to secure the engagement. {481} There is this difference, to be sure, that the Duomo was the culmination of Arnolfo's professional career and but the beginning of his successor's; that the latter, like all gallant adventurers, had to win his spurs before he could be fully trusted. Still, the two inseparable elements of self and gain are more conspicuous here than in the purer Christian ages, whose architects disdained or forbore to register their names; whose works preserve no personal memorial of their masters; "so that," says Vasari, "I cannot but marvel at the simplicity and indifference to glory exhibited by the men of that period." There is, unfortunately, no such simplicity to marvel at now.

As early as 1407, Filippo submitted an opinion to the superintendents of the works of Santa Maria del Fiore, and to the syndics of the guild of wool-workers, (powerful gentlemen in those days,) that the edifice above the roof must be constructed, not after the design of Arnolfo; but that a frieze, thirty feet high, must be erected with a large window in each of its sides. This suggestion, together with the additional thirty feet for the gallery, comprised the single, sublime conception to which the Duomo owes its crowning beauty; the rest of the task is chiefly mechanical. But such immense mechanics require immense genius. Filippo had supplied the idea, but there was no one found wise enough to execute it. The wardens and syndics were much perplexed; and Filippo, after laughing at them in his sleeve, returned to Rome. He had hardly gone before they wrote him to return. He came; and after patiently listening to the long array of difficulties which mediocrity always opposes to the inspiration of genius, admitted that the most enormous dome of ancient or modern times must present certain difficulties in its erection, like other great enterprises; that he was confounded no less by the breadth than by the height of the edifice; that if the tribune could be vaulted in a circular form, one might pursue the method adopted by the Romans in erecting the Pantheon; but that following up the eight sides of the building to a convergence, thus dove-tailing, and, so to speak, enchaining the stones, would be a most difficult and novel undertaking. "Yet"--and this touch is worthy of Arnolfo's age or any other--"yet, remembering that this is a temple consecrated to God and the Virgin, I confidently trust that, for a work executed in their honor, they will not fail to infuse knowledge where it is now wanting, and bestow strength, wisdom, and genius on him who shall be the author of such a project." Nothing can shake Filippo's joyous trust in himself; he acts as if he carries a divine commission in his pocket to finish what Arnolfo began, and can therefore afford to laugh at all human appointments or interference. With amazing confidence and magnanimity, he concludes his interview with their worships by exhorting them to assemble, on a fixed day within a year, as many architects as they can get together; not Tuscans and Italians only, but Germans, French, and all other nations, "to the end that the work may be commenced and intrusted to him who shall give the best evidence of capacity." The syndics and wardens liked Filippo's advice, and would also have liked him to prepare a model for their edification. But with all his piety and self-reliance, Ser Brunelleschi was a Florentine like their worships, and therefore keen enough to keep his model to himself. It then suddenly occurred to these grave gentlemen that money might be an object to Filippo, as it occasionally is to other men; and so they voted him a sum, not stated by Vasari, but not large enough to justify his remaining in Florence. So back to Rome once more marches the Ser Brunelleschi.

{482}

Meanwhile that noble city of Florence has ordered her merchants resident abroad to send her at any cost the best foreign masters. In the year 1420, these best foreign masters, and best Italian masters besides, and the syndics and superintendents, and a select number of distinguished citizens, and little Filippo himself, just returned from Rome, are all assembled in the hall of the wardens of Santa Maria del Fiore. After listening to a hundred absurd plans, Brunelleschi unfolds his own at full length. Whereupon the assembled syndics, superintendents, and citizens, instead of being at all edified by his remarks, proceeded to call him a simpleton, an ass, a madman, and bade him discourse of something else. Which he, instead of doing, stuck to his point, and finally lost his temper and flew in their faces. Whereupon they called him a fool and a babbler; and considering him absolutely mad, arose against him as one man, and incontinently turned him out of doors by the head and heels. Imagine the rage of Arnolfo the Goth, after such treatment; or Angelo the mighty, stalking down the Via Romana; or Dante, wandering ghost-like into eternal exile! The indomitable, practical Filippo did none of these things, but prudently shut himself up at home lest people in the streets should call out, "See where goes that fool!" "It was not the fault of these men," says the sympathetic Vasari, "that Filippo did not break in pieces the models, set fire to the designs, and in one half-hour destroy all the labors so long endured, and ruin the hopes of so many years." But Filippo was less a poet, enamoured of an inward vision of beauty, than an architect determined to solve an architectural problem. Plainly enough, since Arnolfo had set the example in the clerestory, the windows of the cupola were also to be circular instead of pointed. His inventive faculties were therefore restricted to the organization of that vast dream, to the determination of the ascending curves and the conception of the lantern. It was not the offspring of his soul, but of his mind, that Filippo had offered the syndics and superintendents; and the inventor of new combinations and possibilities of matter is apt to possess a more elastic temperament than the creator of new forms of beauty. Instead of fretting himself to death or cultivating the princely revenge of silence, Filippo, strong in his mission and calculating on the proverbial caprice of his native Florence, began to experiment on individuals instead of assemblies; so successfully, too, that another session was soon convened. Profiting by discomfiture, Filippo modified his tactics. He salutes the superintendents as "_magnificent_ signors and wardens," and condescends to be more explicit about his still hidden model. He even goes so far as to prove the dome-within-a-dome, which had so enraged their excellencies, a possibility. He spoke with such emphasis and confidence, that "he had all the appearance of having vaulted ten such cupolas." In a word, they surrendered at discretion; and, rather in despair than hope, made him principal master of the works. The man of talents was victorious where a mere man of genius would have been badly beaten. But--in these artistic complications there is always a but--Lorenzo Ghiberti, just famous for his doors of Paradise, was a favorite in Florence; so Florence resolved to associate Lorenzo with Filippo. This was a bitter pill to Ser Brunelleschi, but he swallowed it; and for two years they worked together at the twelve braccia to which their labors were limited by the wardens. {483} But--there was also a 'but' on the right side--when the closing in of the cupola toward the top commenced, and the masons and other masters were wailing in expectation of directions as to the manner in which the chains were to be applied and the scaffoldings erected, it chanced on one fine morning that Filippo did not appear at the works. On inquiry, it turned out that he had tied up his head, called for hot plates and towels, and gone to bed complaining bitterly. An attack of pleurisy. Most inopportunely; for at this most critical moment in the enterprise the whole burthen fell on Lorenzo. Lorenzo was besieged by practical questions; Lorenzo was persecuted with a thousand interrogatories; Lorenzo waded completely out of his depth into a sea of troubles; the masons and stone-cutters came to a stand, and finally the work stood still. At this juncture, the syndics and wardens resolved to pay the sick man a visit. They condoled with him in his illness and also lamented the disorder which had attacked the building. "Is not Lorenzo there?" asked the sufferer. "He will not do anything without you," replied the wardens. "_But I could do well enough without him_," murmured the invalid. The wardens withdrew, and sent Filippo a prescription in the shape of an announcement of their intention to remove Lorenzo. Filippo instantly recovered, but only to find his rival still in place and power. Whereupon he made one more prayer to their worships, namely, to divide the labor as they divided the salary, and give each his own separate sphere of

## action. This was granted: the chain-work assigned to Lorenzo, the

scaffolding to Filippo. The scaffolding proved a miracle of success, the chain-work a monument of failure. The wardens, and syndics, and superintendents, and influential citizens, fairly driven to the wall, made Filippo chief superintendent of the whole fabric _for life_, commanding that nothing should be done in the work save by his direction. How much richer the world would now be in every department of art, had half its men of genius but possessed a tithe of Brunelleschi's elasticity and determination.

Left to himself, Filippo worked with so much zeal and minute attention, that not a stone was placed in the building which he had not examined. The very bricks, fresh from the oven, are said to have been set apart with his own hands. So conscientious were the builders of those days when art was supreme and religion a practical inspiration. The energy and resources of this model architect are inexhaustible. Nothing escapes him. Outlets and apertures are provided, both in security against the force of the winds, and against the vapors and vibrations of the earth. Wine-shops and eating-houses are opened in the cupola. High over Florence, Filippo is undisputed lord and master of a small town of his own.

And so, for twenty-six years, they wrought under his eyes at this architectural miracle. He lived to see the lantern carried to the height of several braccia: it was not finished till fifteen years after his death. He left plans for the gallery, which were either lost, stolen, or destroyed. That great, broad belt of dingy brick and mortar clamoring to earth and heaven for completion, ruins the effect of the dome and gives the whole edifice a shabby appearance. Only one of the eight sides is finished. {484} This was done in Carrara marble by Baccio d'Agnolo, and would have been carried all around the dome but for the interference of Michael Angelo, then omnipotent in Italy, who denounced it as a mere cage for crickets; adding that he himself would show Baccio what he _ought_ to do. The old art-dictator made a model accordingly, which, after long debate, was rejected. So our Lady of Flowers still lacks her girdle. It is much to be regretted, since Michael could suggest nothing better, that he did not hold his peace. The present model may not be faultless, but it is infinitely better than nothing; and no one else has suggested anything as good. It was condemned, not as defective in itself, but unequal to the magnificence of the building; and, also, because it seemed to violate some secret purpose of Brunelleschi's in cutting off, as it did, the line of stones which he had left projecting. Be this as it may, Filippo's purpose has never been divined and never can be; all the plans of the great masters are lost; and there seems to be small use in continuing the interdict of a much over-estimated authority till doomsday. That cestus of alternate head and garland just under the colonnade is abominable, but it is difficult to see how the present design could otherwise be improved. It harmonizes with all the windows, and niches, and arches in the tribune; it relieves the blankness of the perforations, and is in sympathy both with the windows of the lantern and the upper window of the campanile. It is the sub-dominant without which the blended Gothic and classic is a discord. Arnolfo might have done it better, but no one else. It is a poem which Baccio was as well qualified to trace as any of the rest of them.

Apart from his glorious consummation of the Duomo, I do not like Brunelleschi. He did more than any other man to repel the Gothic influences, which, under Arnolfo and others, were penetrating Tuscany; he insured the triumph of the round arch over the pointed, and paved the way to the monstrosities of the Renaissance. But his cupola of Santa Maria del Fiore is the supreme miracle of architecture. It exceeds the cupola of the Vatican, both in height and circumference, by eight feet; and although supported by eight ribs only, which renders it lighter than that of Saint Peter's, which has sixteen flanked buttresses, is nevertheless more solid and firm. Unlike the Roman dome, it has stood unassisted and unstrengthened from the first; so firmly grounded by the forethought of Arnolfo, so closely knit by the energies of Filippo, that it has not sunk or swerved an inch in four centuries. The noblest speech that Buonarotti ever made was, that he would not copy, but could not surpass it; the finest compliment ever paid by one man of genius to another was his dying wish to be buried where he might arise, not in sight of his own Pantheon in the air, but in full view of the vaulted tribune of Santa Maria del Fiore. Another name, however, is associated with the growth of the Duomo--a name not inferior to either Arnolfo or Filippo. Just beside the vast cathedral is the wondrous bell-tower Giotto reared--his solitary, or only conspicuous architectural feat. Before Giotto's time, the modern painters copied nature about as closely as most actors and orators now do; that is, their men and women bore only a weak, conventional resemblance to humanity. The son of Bondone inaugurated the naturalistic movement which culminated in Da Vinci and Raphael; unquestionably a most honorable distinction. But what can all he ever painted, judged as a living fact, amount to when weighed against the startling splendor of this divine campanile? {485} I have seen something of Giotto, far from all, but enough to know that, save as undeveloped germs and hints, his pictures are little more than crudities belonging to the infancy of art, amazing at his time, but not more than curious at ours. But this campanile, into which he suddenly ascended without an effort, is the transfiguration of architecture--the product of an art at its best and highest. Architecture never had advanced, never has advanced a step beyond it. It might be added, never can advance; for beyond a certain recognized point in the realization of beauty, human genius is not permitted to push its way. Vasari devotes thirty pages to the consideration of Giotto's pictures, and but one to the campanile. Yet these pictures are mouldering in convents or shrouded in chapels, or buried in dim galleries, scattered far and wide over the world; and, save over some ambitious student or patient virtuoso, they no longer exist as a spell or a power. But this lofty campanile is a perpetual influence; an influence as indestructible as the Iliad--a joy as unceasing as the joy of sunrise--the joy of a work that is perfection of its kind. So fair, so frail, and yet so firm! It does not need the glass case suggested by imperial condescension. It knows how to take the lightning and the storm. It knows how to bear the weight and thunder of its mellow bells. Its beautiful head is at home in the skies, and seems to belong to heaven as much as the flowers belong to earth.

Giotto's plan would have crowned it with a spire of a hundred feet; but, whether for true artistic considerations, or because it was Gothic, or because it was too expensive, succeeding architects have always advised its omission.

Besides its own independent loveliness, this bell-tower exercises an important influence over the group to which it belongs, not only by the development of form, but also by the subtler qualification of style. But for the pure Gothic of Giotto, the predominance of the round in the tribunes and cupola would overwhelm Arnolfo's pointed witchery beneath the clerestory. As it is, the supremacy of the classic at one end of the stately pile is balanced by the ascendency of the Gothic at the other. High up in air the pious rivalry between the two great styles is continued, each lifting its choicest offering to the very footstool of the Padre Eterno, each doing its best in honor of our Lady of Flowers.

The facade of Santa Maria is wanting, like her girdle. Giotto is said to have finished two thirds of it, subsequently torn down _to be restored in a more modern style!_ The fresco in the cloister of San Marco gives only part of it, and I could make but little of that. As I remember the fresco of Arnolfo's facade, it was meant to be composed of statues, niches, and pillars--something as deep and rich as the façade at Pisa. Whoever may finish it, let us trust that the shallow mosaic of Santa Croce will be avoided. The baptistery completes this memorable group; faded, unattractive without, sombre and majestic within.

The interior of Santa Maria is a disappointment. Glorious stained glass, splendid arches, but none of the light, the joy, the shining paradise of Saint Peter's. If we may believe Vasari, the interior, like the exterior was to have been crusted with Florentine mosaic, even to the minutest corners of the edifice. But the days are dead when such a deed was practicable. {486} Instead of colored marbles, we have a pale olive overspreading all the edifice; instead of the mosaic for which Filippo had provided iron supports, the lack-lustre frescoes of Vasari and his successors, which Florence ought to have summarily whitewashed, as suggested in Lasca's madrigal. Fortunately, these frescoes are the only pictures. Pictures in large churches are distracting and insignificant; and moreover, you can rarely more than half see them, try your best. Least of all, has a picture any business in a Gothic church. For my own part I would as soon see the pyramid of Cheops hung with pictures as the Duomo. In a church, you want all the superhuman you can get--nothing human but human souls. Angels and dragons and effigies are more in keeping there than the best statues; those ghostly groups and faces in the old stained glass look better than if they were a thousand times more natural. The old mosaics harmonize because they are not only typical, but imperishable as the structure itself. The decisive objection to a picture in a church is its apparent fragility.

The outer robes of our Lady of Flowers are dull with the dust and wear of five centuries. See how those new bits of marble which the workmen are inserting, green, white, and red, flash and sparkle in the sun! What a celestial vision it must have been when all that world of mosaic was fresh and stainless! But even as she is, faded and unfinished, what an invaluable possession! What would Florence be without it? It is a central magnet that holds together her present, past, and future; that unites all her children in one vast family, making her, in the truest sense of the word, a community. It stands before her everlastingly, a memorial of her youthful wealth and power; a monument of present greatness, a protest against decrepitude to come. It binds her fast to her renown, her honor, and her faith; it is the solemn, visible bond between her and God. The Duomo belongs not only to Florence, but to all the hills and valleys around, to the villas of Morello, to the cloisters of Fiesole, to the huts on the Apennines. Every peasant within sight of its cupola, within sound of its campanile, has a share in its daily benediction. For four centuries, the generations that people that fair amphitheatre have found it the most unchanging feature in their landscape. It is as much the portion of their lives as the stars, their river, or their own vineyards. In the first blush of every morning, it rises before the sun; and when the stars and moon are shining, the lantern of Santa Maria del Fiore takes its place amongst them as part of the pageantry of the skies.

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{487}

The Condition and Prospects of Catholics in England.

By An English Catholic.

Surrounded as we are on all sides by apostles of progress, ever ready to taunt and ridicule those who linger in the shadows of the past, it would be distressing indeed to Catholics in general, and especially to English Catholics, if they could with justice be reproached as stationary or retrograde. Happily they are of all men least open to the charge. They advance on a double line. They share in the common march of society; they adopt every latest improvement; they fully accept and reciprocate the blessings of civilization; but their religion also, which is in itself progress, increases and multiplies throughout the globe, and particularly in the British empire. It has derived strength from the world's social and political changes; it is inspired more than ever with the breath of freedom; and the very means which accelerate science and commerce supply it with wings and coat it with mail. It not only advances on a double line, but it has likewise a twofold nature and a duplex power. This wonderful religion is both old and new; it unites the weight and authority of age with the freshness and vigor of youth. To the English it is both ancient and modern. It _was_ the venerable faith of their ancestors, and it is, by a gracious revolution in the moral world, the old religion revived, with all the charms of novelty--a second spring revisiting the long desolate and wintry land. It comes back to us with all its time-honored appliances; with its sacred symbols and solemn rites; its orders, congregations, and retreats; its colleges, institutions, poor schools, homes, orphanages, almshouses, hospitals, and libraries--but it comes, moreover, with means and advantages proportioned to its difficulties, and such as in old times it could not boast. It has now in its hands the mighty machinery of the press, with the Scriptures, the Missal and Church Offices in the vulgar tongue. It flourishes amid liberal institutions, and acquires no little vigor from free discussion, persuading where once it ruled. It affiliates to itself all physical truths, all discoveries in science, as affording fresh evidence of the power and wisdom of God. It engages in historical research with impartiality formerly unknown, relying on documentary proofs, and scrutinizing all that is legendary. It joyfully accepts and utilizes the steamship, the railroad, and the telegraph. It finds in them fresh instruments of good, new links to knit nations together in a common faith, swift convoys of Christian missions, and electric tongues of flame to spread the gospel of Christ.

During the last forty years the Catholic _renaissance_ in England has been rapid beyond all that could have been expected or was even hoped. It is not to the emancipation act of 1829, to the increase of the episcopate in 1840, nor to the creation of the hierarchy in 1850, that this surprising growth is mainly to be ascribed. {488} The removal of political disabilities gave Catholics in England, no doubt, a respectability and courage which they had not before; but they would still have continued, on the whole, a despised and scattered remnant--mere "pebbles and _detritus_" as Newman says, [Footnote 103] "of the great deluge"--if there had not arisen in the very heart of the Established Church a little band of learned and pious men, who, strong in genius and in prayer, valiantly defended many distinctively Catholic doctrines, and ended by professing openly or virtually their adhesion to our entire system of faith and morals. This it was which caused English Catholics, when they emerged, as it were, from the catacombs, [Footnote 104] to lift up their heads, to challenge a new investigation of the grounds of their belief, and to submit them confidently to every test that history, Scripture, reason, and experience could apply. The Tractarian movement infused fresh blood into the church's veins, and it has, during a period of thirty years, swollen our waters with a confluent stream.

[Footnote 103: _Sermons on Various Occasions_, p. 232.]

[Footnote 104: Card. Wiseman's _Address to the Congress of Malines_, p. 9.]

The tide thus set in a right direction does not cease to flow, and it is fed by sources external to ourselves. Scarcely a week passes but some persons knock at the gates of the church for admittance, who have learned the elements of Catholicism from alien teachers. Several high-church periodicals, widely circulated, such as the _Union Review_ and the _Church News_, lay down, with extraordinary boldness and precision, doctrines which the so-called reformers labored to explode. Rumors are ever afloat of important conversions about to take place, and thus Catholics in England are constantly encouraged, while Anglicans are proportionally unsettled and alarmed. The Establishment is dying by the hands of its own pastors. Three hundred of them have quitted its pale, forfeited their position in society, forsaken a thousand comforts, prospects, and endearments, to follow the church in the wilderness and the pillar of fire. The largest-minded and the largest-hearted man Anglicanism ever produced, has long since taken his seat among the doctors in the true temple, and one whom Anglicans esteemed for his piety from boyhood upward, is now the primate of the English Catholic Church, and regarded among its bishops as _facile princeps_ for learning and ability, both as a speaker and writer. The talents which were employed in promoting schism are thus turned into a healthier channel; and a multitude of able and ingenious converts in every literary guise operate beneficially on the public mind. The loud demand for unity of doctrine, a fixed standard of belief and morals, authority in matters of faith, primitive antiquity, asceticism, symbols, sacraments, and aesthetics, is being supplied. Catholic missionaries are covering the face of the land, and they are welcomed wherever they pitch their tent. Thirsting souls, weary of broken cisterns, gather round them, and ask eagerly for living water from deeper wells. Abbeys are raised on ancient sites; convent-walls crown the hills; church-bells tinkle in secluded vales; and in the towns and cities, fanes richly adorned and well served invite with open doors the docile to be taught and the penitent to be shriven. The genius of the two Pugins, the father and the son, has revived the love of mediaeval architecture; and the new churches vie with each other in majestic structure and ornate detail. The winter is now past, the rain is over and gone. {489} The flowers have appeared in our land; the voice of the turtle is heard. The fig-tree hath put forth her green figs; the vines in flower yield their sweet smell. [Footnote 105]

[Footnote 105: Canticles, ii, 11-13.]

What a contrast within forty years! then the heavenly dove flying over England scarcely found where her foot might rest. The waters were abroad on the whole land, and she returned into the ark. In 1830 only 434 priests ministered through the entire country; and these were attached, for the most part, to obscure chapels in low quarters of the town, or to gloomy, old-fashioned houses in the country. Four hundred and ten unsightly buildings were then called churches; and England (which in the olden time, before the Reformation, owned 56 convents of the Dominican order alone [Footnote 106]) could not at that date claim a single religious house consisting of men. Sixteen scanty communities of nuns there were, who sighed and prayed in secret, being but the skirts of the garment of the Lamb's Bride. A change has come over the scene; and how great that change is, the following table will in some degree show:

In 1854. 1864. 1867. Catholic clergy in England 922 1267 1438 Catholic clergy in Scotland. 134 178 201 Churches, chapels, and stations in England 678 907 1082 Churches, chapels, and stations in Scotland 134 191 201 Communities of men in England 17 56 67 Convents in England. 84 173 210 Convents in Scotland. 0 13 17 [Footnote 107]

[Footnote 106: _Fr. Palmer's Life of Cardinal Howard._ Introd. 41-58.]

[Footnote 107: _Statesman's Year-Book for 1867_, p. 238. _Catholic Directory_, p. 267.]

In the Diocese of Westminster alone there are more than twice as many religious communities of women as there were in the whole kingdom (Ireland excluded) forty years ago. The population, it is true, multiplies rapidly and in an ever increasing ratio, but the spread of Catholicism does far more than keep pace with this advance. It outstrips it in a striking degree, and gives continual promise of further increase. The distance between churches lessens; the means of grace are more copiously supplied; the discipline of the church is more fully carried out; the prejudices of our foes are partly dispelled; their attacks become less violent; the press is more civil; the state more conciliating. In many localities, such as Bayswater, Notting-Hill, Kensington, Brompton, and Hammersmith, in the West of London, the number of Catholic churches, convents, and charitable institutions is greater than would be found over an equal area in many countries where the church is supreme. The number of persons attached to the congregation of the Oratory in Brompton exceeds 8000, and upwards of 13,000 attend the services of St. George's Cathedral in Southwark. The English "Reformation," happily, did only half its work, and the tap-roots of Catholicism have never been thoroughly eradicated from the popular mind. New suckers are ever springing up, and persistent culture soon obtains its reward.

The vast metropolis is not all included in one diocese. The Archbishop of Westminster and the Bishop of Southwark both reside in London, and divide the pastoral care of the great city between them. One hundred and sixty priests, secular, regular, and unattached, minister under Dr. Grant, while 221, including Oratorians and Oblates of St. Charles Borromeo, serve under the primate. The average attendance of children at the poor schools of the Diocese of Westminster was, in the year 1857-8, 8648; and nine years later, in 1866-7, it amounted to 12,056. {490} This increase sufficiently proves that great efforts are made to instruct the Catholic poor children in London. Many of them, especially those of Irish extraction, pass their days in rags, filth, and beggary, living like little "Arabs," as they are familiarly called. In 1866 it was estimated that from 7000 to 12,000 Catholic children were thus wandering through the streets of the capital; but the exertions of Cardinal Wiseman and Archbishop Manning have produced the happiest results, and diminished the evils which want of funds and the difficulties of the case leave for the present without adequate remedy. It is certain that the poor children of Catholics have in the English bishops most able and tender-hearted advocates, and that numerous monastic bodies of men and women are ready to second their efforts with devotion truly heroic. It is on the lambs of the flock that the hopes of Catholic England depend, and just in proportion as they are educated or uneducated, will they be ornaments or disgraces to the religion they profess. Nothing but superstition and vice can be built on ignorance; and the clergy in England are everywhere earnest in promoting the culture of the mind. It is almost as vain to teach religion without secular knowledge, as it would be presumptuous and profane to impart secular knowledge without religion. Nature and grace alike ordain that they should go together, and on this principle the Poor School Committee, or Council of Catholic Education, invariably acts.

There is in England, at the present moment, a strong tendency to compulsory education. The leading thinkers of the day incline to this plan, and press on the legislature the expediency of providing a state system of education, of which all the poor, Catholics as well as Protestants, should avail themselves. The secular instruction would, in this case, be common to all the children, while the religious instruction would be in the hands of the ministers of the several religions which the parents might profess. The Catholic bishops and clergy look with fear and suspicion on such a project, believing it impossible safely to separate secular and religious instruction. They are of opinion that the system would work badly, and prove a failure; that non-Catholic teachers would insensibly instil false doctrine and wrong views into the pupils' minds, and that the denominational system, which provides separate schools for each section of professing Christians, is the best, and, indeed, the only good one for Catholic interests. They point to Ireland, where the "national" education is regarded as a national grievance. They bid you remark how, in that valley of tears, both Catholics and Protestants separate their children if they can. They prove to you that, in national schools with Presbyterian masters, thousands of Catholic children are taught the Protestant religion from the lips of Protestant teachers. [Footnote 108] They complain that while the English receive from the state important help toward denominational education, to the Irish all such help is persistently refused.

[Footnote 108: Archb. Manning's _Letter to Earl Grey_, 1868, p. 22.]

It remains to be seen how far their remonstrances will be attended to, and how far the national education in Great Britain can be made to harmonize with Catholic. Happily, there is no disposition on the part of the state to force on any portion of the people a measure obnoxious to them; and the scheme of national education introduced into Ireland under the auspices of the Catholic and Protestant Archbishops of Dublin, (Drs. Murray and Whately,) having proved abortive, it is the less likely that Catholics in England will be obliged to accept any conditions to which they may be decidedly adverse.

{491}

There is, however, great difficulty in adjusting state concessions to Catholic wants and demands. It is almost impossible for Protestant rulers to understand our feelings, and they often run counter to them, even when they are trying to satisfy them with the best intentions. Thus, for instance, though the government has thrown open the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge to Catholics, allowing them to matriculate and proceed to the degree of Bachelor of Arts, difficulties have recently been raised by ecclesiastical authority respecting their availing themselves of this opening. The Catholic bishops, in fact, have recommended parents and guardians not to send their sons and wards to Oxford and Cambridge; and though their advice does not amount to a prohibition, it has, nevertheless, a deterrent effect. Catholic noblemen and gentlemen of large property have, at present, no other means of giving their sons an education suited to their rank, and such as will form their minds and manners for parliamentary and diplomatic service, except by sending them to these universities, where science is, so far as they are concerned, entirely divorced from religion, and their personal faith is in great danger of being compromised. The Catholic colleges at Oscott, Ushaw, Stonyhurst, and the like, though admirable for ordinary purposes, do not meet these exceptional cases. They have not, they do not, and they cannot produce men equal to the times--men who carefully get up subjects, read much and study deeply, write and speak in public with authority, and leave deep "footprints on the sands of time." [Footnote 109] Such laborious and efficient servants of their country are not likely to be formed by any _régime_ less strict and comprehensive than that of our universities; and the consequence is that, at this moment, there are about a dozen Catholic young men studying at Oxford (not to mention Cambridge) in spite of episcopal discouragement.

[Footnote 109: _Dublin Review_, October, 1867, p. 398.]

The principle of mixed education being absolutely condemned by the church, the want of a Catholic university in England is felt more and more. But it can only be the result of time, since the cost of endowments and professorships, not to speak of buildings, would, as yet, be out of proportion to the number of Catholics in England and the means they possess. The matter, however, is now under consideration at Rome, and it is expected that means will be devised shortly to meet the existing want. Before the Reformation, sixty-six universities covered Europe, and most of them sprang from small beginnings, and were built amid difficulties quite as great as any we shall have to encounter. [Footnote 110]

[Footnote 110: See _Christian Schools and Scholars_, vol. ii. chap. i. and ii.]

In the mean time, the government of Mr. D'Israeli favors, to a certain extent, the denominational system, and proposes [Footnote 111] to charter the Dublin Catholic University, to endow it from the public treasury, and to grant it the right of conferring degrees.

[Footnote 111: March, 1868.]

This plan, if carried into effect, will materially aid the Irish portion of the church, but will not supply the want of university education which is felt in England. Already the benefits resulting from the state endowment of Maynooth College for priests are clearly manifest, and the present race of ecclesiastics in Ireland differs entirely, in several important

## particulars, from that of the past generation.

{492} They are less Galilean than they were when educated in France, less disposed to accept of state pensions, improved in manners and appearance, more priestly, and perhaps more firmly attached to the Holy See. The old-fashioned "hedge-priest" has disappeared, and if one of our bishops now dines at the Castle in Dublin, he has not, as was sometimes the case in days of yore, to borrow a pair of episcopal small-clothes for the occasion.

The system of mixed education has not taken root in Ireland, though backed by all the influence of the state. The following table will prove that neither Catholics nor Protestants there approve it, and that, though they sometimes submit to it as a kind of necessity, they avail themselves of it as little as possible. The table exhibits the entire number of schools in Ireland under the control of the National Board, and it ought to be remembered that in these it is not allowable to teach the Catholic religion, to use Catholic emblems, to talk of the holy father, use the sign of the cross, or set up a crucifix or an image of Our Lady. [Footnote 112] The schools are, in fact, secular, so far as Catholic children are concerned, and their religious instruction is left to the zeal and labor of their own pastors.

[Footnote 112: Speech of Card. Cullen.]

Catholic Protestant Children. Children. Schools. 2,454 with Catholic teachers. 373,756 none 2,483 with Catholic teachers. 321,641 24,381 1,106 with Protestant teachers only. 29,722 114,726 184 with Protestant teachers only. none. 18,702 131 with mixed teachers. 13,690 13,305 [Footnote 113]

[Footnote 113: _Report of National Board of Education_, 1866. _Report of Meeting of Clergy of Dublin_, 18th Dec. 1867, p. 14.]

In England, grants are made from time to time by the Privy Council of the Queen toward defraying the expenses of Catholic poor-schools, for it is only in a hobbling way that public opinion in this country moves toward religious and political equality. The oppression of minorities by majorities has been in vogue so many centuries, that the Houses of Parliament can with difficulty be induced to administer even-handed justice to all. The Poor-School Committee, composed entirely of Catholic noblemen and gentlemen, conducts the affairs of Catholic poor-schools with the concurrence of the bishops and clergy. The schools which are subsidized by government are subject also to government inspection. But this causes no inconvenience, because the inspectors are Catholics, approved by the bishops, and comfortably salaried by the state.

The reformatory schools are most useful and interesting institutions. They date from 1854, when a law was passed to the effect that juvenile offenders should, after a few weeks of imprisonment, complete their term of punishment in a reformatory approved by the secretary of state for the Home Department. By the exertions of Cardinal Wiseman and others, reformatories were established for Catholic children, in order that they might be kept separate from those of other religions, and be duly instructed by Brothers of Mercy, or other pious and charitable persons, under the direction of a priest. Reformatory schools have been followed by schools of industry, to which magistrates send vagrant children, found by the police in the streets without shelter or home. These schools also are recognized by the secretary of state, and the members of the Conferences of St. Vincent of Paul watch over the children's interests and provide, as far as may be, for their welfare.

{493}

Allied to these are such schools as St. Vincent's Home for destitute boys, at Hammersmith, [Footnote 114] where eighty poor boys are boarded, clothed, and educated for four shillings a week each, with thirty shillings on entrance for outfit, etc. The Catholics of England do not wait till they become a rich and powerful body before they engage in extensive works of charity. On the contrary, the number of their charitable institutions is immense, considered in proportion to their means.

[Footnote 114: Now removed to Fulham.]

During the Crimean war the want of Catholic chaplains in the army was felt painfully. Soldiers and sailors are, of all men, most careless about their souls, and Catholic soldiers were doubly abandoned in the hour of sickness and death, having no minister but a Protestant one to attend them, while in his ministrations they had no faith. A few volunteer chaplains were therefore allowed to accompany the troops, and this has led to their being regularly appointed, and to such chaplains being placed on an equality with the Protestant in rank, salary, and retiring pensions. Vessels, also, are moored in the great harbors and prepared for Catholic worship. A chaplain is specially appointed to the service of such ships, and to provide for the Catholic sailors' spiritual wants. The spirit of the Irish tar is no longer vexed with the thought that he must live, fight, and perhaps die for a government which abhors his religion, and deprives him of its consolations. The captains of men of war in the neighborhood of the floating churches just spoken of, are obliged to see that the Catholic seamen attend Mass, and are not now, as formerly, compelled to assist at the Church of England prayers. The field of labor of Catholic army chaplains gradually extends; besides being attached to many home stations, such as Aldershot, Chatham, Portsea, Woolwich, etc., they are found in foreign stations also, such as Bermuda, Halifax, Mauritius, New-Zealand, St. Helena, and Malta. The Catholic chaplains, it may be added, live on the best terms with the officers and with the Protestant clergymen in the same barracks. "We never interfere with each other," said one of the former a few days since to the writer; "indeed, for my part, I would not think of trying to convert the Protestants; I would rather spend all my time in striving to convert the Catholics. I am sure that, out of every hundred of our own men, there are eighty that need to be converted."

The prisons and union work-houses also, which used to be the scenes of so much injustice toward Catholic prisoners, paupers, and children, [Footnote 115] have now assumed a more liberal and Christian aspect.

[Footnote 115: _The Workhouse Question. Lamp_, Aug. 19, 1865.]

Chaplains are appointed to the larger houses of correction to minister to Catholic inmates, and Catholic children in the workhouses enjoy the benefits of instruction in the religion of their parents. There is in the _Catholic Directory_, which appears annually, a list of the charitable institutions in each diocese, and nothing can be more cheering and hopeful than the view it presents. Thus, in the _Directory_ for 1866, we find in the Diocese of Westminster alone 3 Almhouses; 1 Asylum for Aged Poor; 1 Home for Aged Females; 1 Hospital served by Sisters of Mercy; 1 House of Mercy for Servants out of Place; 1 Night Refuge; 1 St. Vincent of Paul's Shoe-Black Brigade; 2 Refuges for Penitents; 1 Reformatory School for Boys; 7 Industrial Schools for Boys, and 11 for Girls. {494} The impression made on society by these admirable institutions is very great. They receive much countenance and support from non-Catholics; they instruct and console the ignorant and afflicted members of our own body; they call forth an abundance of self-denying labor and charity on the part of our own people, and tend more powerfully than any arguments to propagate the ancient faith. They prove that our religion emanates from a God of love, that we are not mere political schemers nor superstitious devotees, but sober-minded, practical Christians, battling with sin, and relieving misery in every shape. The English public is peculiarly alive to the services of Sisters devoted to works of Charity. You cannot walk through the streets now, or travel by railway, without meeting them, and everywhere they are respected. Their costume provokes no ridicule, their youth and good looks (if such they have) are secure from insult. Their crucifix and beads are badges of which all know the import, and involuntary blessings attend their steps. They are, in their way, the apostles of England. Their devotion to the sick and wounded in the Crimea won for them the favor even of their foes. Few will refuse them alms when they ask it for the poor. They are types of self-sacrifice, daughters of consolation, angel visitants. They impersonate the Gospel. Many of them come from abroad, from France, Italy, and Belgium, impelled by an invincible desire for the conversion of England. Their looks bespeak their mission no less than their garb. They are calm, collected, gentle. Children yearn toward them with instinctive fondness, and vice itself is shamed by their silent purity. The names of their several orders tell plainly on what their hearts are fixed. They belong to the "Good Shepherd;" they are the "Faithful Companions of Jesus;" they are handmaids of the "Holy Child Jesus," of "Notre Dame de Sion," of "Jesus in the Temple," of "Marie Reparatrice." They are "Sisters of Mercy," of "Providence," of "the Poor," of "Nazareth," of "Penance," of the "Holy Family," of "St. Joseph," of "St. Paul," of "the Cross." They address themselves to the heart rather than to the understanding, but they are not on that account less powerful instruments in the work of social improvement. They have broken down many of the barriers which prejudice had raised against the Catholic religion, and helped more than any logical triumph to subdue the hostility and soften the language of the press.

That mighty engine is, on the whole, an auxiliary to the Catholic cause in England. If it promulgates many falsehoods respecting us, it is almost always ready to publish their confutation also. It reproduces our primate's pastorals and all other documents of public interest that emanate from our bishops. It helps us, in the main, in the battle we are fighting for the attainment of equal political privileges, and employs the pens of many Catholic writers. No respectable periodical taboos a contributor because he is a Catholic, nor excludes him from its staff if his writing be up to the required mark, and his conduct in reference to controversial matters be discreet. Many non-Catholic journals are edited or sub-edited by Catholics, and this accounts in part for the altered tone of the press toward us of late.

{495}

Our own literature has recently been marked by fewer controversial books and pamphlets than it was some twenty years ago. Then, every convert of distinction, when admitted into the church, thought it incumbent on him to publish those reasons which had influenced him most powerfully in so momentous a change. The library tables in Catholic families were covered by the writings of Wiseman, Newman, Faber, Renouf, Lewis, Dodsworth, Northcote, Allies, Ward, and Thompson. Each presented his plea for Catholicism from a different point of view, and each added something to the aggregate of arguments derived from Scripture and antiquity. The controversy is now taking another turn. The church's historical ground is less violently contested, and she is drawing from her inexhaustible armory weapons to meet subtler foes. She faces the sceptic; she probes liberalism with Ithnriel's spear; she establishes from the very nature of things the necessity of an infallible standard of faith and morals. She draws up her line of arguments with a more compact front and extended wings. She appears at the same time more unbending and more liberal. She recognizes more freely and joyfully than ever the workings of the Holy Spirit in communions external to her pale, while she insists with extraordinary earnestness on her exclusive possession of the entire and incorrupt deposit of the faith. Such was the purport of a remarkable letter addressed to the Rev. Dr. Pusey by Dr. Manning, now Archbishop of Westminster, in 1864. Never were orthodoxy and liberality more happily united than in this pamphlet. Never did a Catholic prelate and divine make larger admissions without sacrificing a particle of Catholic theology. It is marked by the charity of an apostle and the accuracy of a logician. The same remarks apply to the archbishop's work on _England ana Christendom_. "We will venture to say that there is no one Roman Catholic writer of eminence in the world who has spoken more emphatically than he--we doubt if there is one who has spoken with equal emphasis--on the piety and salvability of persons external to the visible church." [Footnote 116]

[Footnote 116: _Dublin Review_, July, 1867, p. 110]

The life of Catholicism in England is evinced by its numerous associations. In every place where it has taken root, Catholics enrol themselves in societies, confraternities, or institutes for social, intellectual, and religious purposes. In no diocese do these flourish more than in that of Westminster. The Archbishop personally promotes social intercourse by throwing open his drawing-rooms every Tuesday evening, during the London season, to such gentlemen as may think proper to attend his receptions. There, may be met, from time to time, prelates from distant countries, ambassadors, members of parliament, noblemen, heads of colleges, artists, men of science, converts, and old Catholics, with now and then a non-Catholic guest, whom curiosity, respect for the primate, or yearning toward a calumniated church, draws into company to which he is little used. The Stafford Club is another centre of union, comprising about 300 members, and including among them a large part of the titled and moneyed Catholics of England, Wales, and Scotland. The archbishops and bishops of England and Ireland are _ex-officio_ honorary members, and they frequently avail themselves of the privilege. A middle class club has lately been opened in the city under the primate's patronage, and at this lectures are delivered, to which, as well as to all other advantages, non-Catholic members are admissible. {496} The only condition required of such members is, that they shall observe the rules of courtesy, and abstain (together with Catholic members) from unbecoming controversy on religious and political questions. Lecturing is not so popular a form of instruction in England as in the United States, yet it is much more generally in vogue than it was, and it is destined, we believe, to exert a wide influence hereafter in propagating anew the Catholic faith through the British empire.

What we need and hope for is the reaction of Catholic Ireland on Catholic England. Centuries of cruel misgovernment have retarded the civilization of that unhappy country, and the loss which it sustains is not its only, but also ours. In knowledge, education, manners, commerce, industry, liberty, in all that constitutes national maturity, it is behind England. Reading, lecturing, mental activity, in Ireland are all in the back ground; and consequently the church, which there keeps alive the faith in the heart of a peasant and small farmer population, does not act indirectly on English Catholic society with that force which would belong to it under more favorable circumstances. "The centuries which have ripened England and Scotland with flower and fruit, have swept over Ireland in withering and desolation;" [Footnote 117] she has therefore little to give us, much to receive from us. If England had been bountiful to her, she would, in return, have been bountiful to England. If we had shared with Ireland our material prosperity, she would now be imparting to us more spiritual blessings, communication between the two churches would be more brisk, and their relations would be marked by more complete unity of feeling and purpose.

[Footnote 117: Archbishop Manning's Letter to Earl Grey. p. 17.]

The time is probably drawing near when this healthy and reciprocal action of the Irish and English Catholic Church will be fully restored. If England is to retain Ireland at all as a part of the empire, it must be by establishing equal laws, repealing all penal enactments against Catholics and their religion, resolving the national system of education into denominational schools, disestablishing and disendowing the Protestant Church, and placing on Irish landlords such restrictions in the tenure of land as will secure the tenant from misery and hopeless serfdom. She must stanch the bleeding wounds of emigration, and wipe away the tears of ages. Then, and then only, can we hope to see Ireland a prosperous nation, her people thrifty and happy, her civilization raised to a level with other Christian countries of Europe, and her church putting forth all its native might to console and instruct its own congregations, and to aid in the work of recovering England to the faith of the Apostles. Political and social degradation, such as that which afflicts Ireland, is incompatible with a free and flourishing church, with a high moral tone, religious zeal, and exemplary lives on the part of its victims. Cottiers, and "tenants at will" of absentee landlords, having no security that their outlay is their own, and that they will ever reap the advantage of it; barely earning their potatoes and buttermilk by the sweat of their brow, and looking wistfully across the Atlantic to the comparative wealth and luxury enjoyed by five millions of their fellow-countrymen in America; liable at any moment to be evicted for political motives, or that their rent may be raised; galled and maddened by the remembrance of 50,000 evictions in one year; [Footnote 118] such persons, we say, deprived of the protection of the law, must be more than human if they do not in many instances prove themselves lawless. But the day of redress is at hand, we trust. May the day of retribution be averted!

[Footnote 118: 1849. _Butt's Land Tenure in Ireland_, p. 34.]

{497}

It is, perhaps, matter for regret that English Catholics have now no political leader. Since the voice of Daniel O'Connell was hushed by death, no representative of their interests in parliament has appeared gifted with genius and eloquence of a commanding order. Mr. Pope Hennessy has been excluded from the House of Commons by his Irish constituents in consequence of his conservative principles, which are not popular among them, and has accepted the governorship of Labuan. His talents are thus almost lost to the Catholic cause; and though there are more than thirty Catholic members in the Commons, their influence is not what it should be. It is neutralized by the many Irish Protestant members who represent landed interests; and valuable as are the services of Mr. Maguire, Mr. Monsell, Mr. Blake, and Major O'Reilly, it is to Protestant rather than to Catholic champions that we look now for advocacy of Irish tenant claims, and the redress of Irish wrongs. In the House of Lords we are most feebly represented. Out of twenty-six Catholic peers, seventeen only have seats, and none of these are distinguished as debaters. [Footnote 119]

[Footnote 119: See _Lord Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. i. p. 16.]

In the time of Charles II. the Catholic peerage was more numerous than it is now in proportion to the commoners. Long after that period, also, the lords and gentry held a higher position than was in harmony with the scanty number of their poorer co-religionists. Indeed, we have not yet recovered the blow which was inflicted on us by the expulsion of the peers [Footnote 120] under the rule of a sovereign who was even then a Catholic by conviction, and avowed himself such on the bed of death. But though the heads of old Catholic families in England do not, as a rule, shine as public characters, they have a title to respect which none others can claim. They represent those who suffered a long period of banishment for conscience' sake, treasuring in their hearts a faith more precious than courtly splendor. For this they were outcasts and pariahs, bowed beneath invidious disabilities and penal laws, deprived of all the material advantages which spring from good education, brilliant careers, and fine prospects. Despair of this world had become a part of their inheritance, and it is no wonder that their successors to this day are somewhat rustic and unskilled in the ways of cabinets and courts.

[Footnote 120: _Flanagan's English and Irish History_, p. 665.]

The Catholic revival, in short, in England--a revival of whose reality and strength we daily see the proofs--is not to be ascribed to external causes. No zealous autocrat, no lordly oligarchy, no foreign invasion, no laws, no concordats, have brought it about. Everything was against it, and everything seems now to favor it. Penal statutes, as decided and almost as deadly as those of the Caesars, forbade it; the Revolution of 1688 excluded from the throne any sovereign professing it; George III. fought against it as stoutly and more successfully than he did against the American Colonies; Pitt succumbed in his efforts to obtain for it some measure of justice; Fox abandoned its cause politically as hopeless; [Footnote 121] and the Grenville cabinet, with all the talents, was dismissed, because it planned a trifling concession to Catholic officers in the army and navy.

[Footnote 121: Pellew. _Life of Lord Sidmouth_, ii. 435. _Jesse's George III_. iii. 476.]

{498}

George IV., like his father, frowned on Catholic emancipation, and yielded to it only under the pressure of a threatened rebellion. But though political privileges were granted to Catholics, it was deemed impossible that their dark, decrepit superstition should ever regain its footing in England. The book of common prayer witnessed against it; the preface to the Protestant Scriptures called its head antichrist; a thousand and ten thousand pulpits thundered against it Sunday after Sunday; dissenters scorned and trampled on it as the worn-out garments of the Babylonish harlot; millions of tracts and volumes pointed out its supposed errors, and cart-loads and ship-loads of Bibles were dispersed through the land as antidotes to its poison. Yet it spread. It triumphed over obloquy. It appealed in its defence to that very Bible which was believed to condemn it. It courted inquiry. It asserted its own divinity. It baffled the law, bent the will of kings and parliaments, scattered the arguments of its enemies like chaff, and advanced steadily as the tide, sapping every dam, and levelling every breakwater that opposed its flow. In the bosom of the adverse church it found advocates, and in almost every family it made converts. New concessions are made to it in every session of parliament; higher and higher offices in the state and in the magistracy are entrusted to its members; the paltry restrictions which yet remain in force will soon be swept away, and having once obtained social and political equality, we have not the remotest doubt that it will obtain, also, superiority approaching as near to supremacy as will be consistent with the liberty of every other portion of society.

There is an increasing disposition among sectarians in England to make common cause with Catholics on a variety of grounds. One of these grounds has already been mentioned. They would willingly see national education everywhere made purely denominational, and many of those among them who are strongly attached to their own

## particular form of belief would concur with the Catholic primate

in asking that the schools endowed by the state may, in each place, be given over to the majority, whether Catholic, Anglican, Presbyterian, or Dissenting, and that schools required by the minority may be supported on the voluntary system. [Footnote 122] There is, however, a difficulty in this proposal which would give rise to endless jangling. In some places there is no majority, religious persuasions are equally divided. In others the majority is small and fluctuating. What is the majority this month may be the minority in the next. How could their rival claims to endowment be adjusted in such cases?

[Footnote 122: Letter to Earl Grey, p. 20.]

But again, there is a growing disposition among religious men of all denominations to make common cause with the Catholic Church in her warfare against infidelity and social crime, particularly drunkenness. Their ministers now are constantly coming in contact with our priests, sitting with them on committees, and speaking side by side with them on platforms on subjects affecting the general weal. They are beginning to recognize the great fact that our war with infidelity is not of yesterday, that we have from age to age maintained the fundamental truths of revelation in the face of a world of scoffers, and that if the banner of the cross could fall from our hands, it would lie in the dust. {499} Ritualists imitate our solemn rites; sedate churchmen have a friendly feeling toward us because we hold the apostolic succession; Biblical scholars in all sects defer to us as the mediaeval guardians and copyists of the Bible; Low-Churchmen endorse our doctrines of grace; Dissenters hold out to us "the right hand of fellowship," because we also are non-conformists as regards the Established Church; and even Quakers [Footnote 123] see in us some hopeful features when they hear us declare that we are affiliated in spirit to all who desire to know and obey the truth, and who err only through invincible ignorance.

[Footnote 123: See speech of Mr. Bright in the House of Commons, March 13th, 1868.]

As time goes on, they will give us more credit for spiritual acumen. They will see how justly we have estimated the claims of each successive pretender to religious inspiration and knowledge of divine mysteries. They will ratify our decision on the _isms_ of this as of former centuries. They will admit, for example, that we have divined the true nature of animal magnetism, with all those extraordinary phenomena which perplex so many minds in England and elsewhere. To some persons these manifestations appear wholly impostures, to others they seem real and useful, and to others again, indifferent, absurd, and unworthy of attention. The church, on the contrary, after sifting the evidence adduced concerning them, pronounces them real in many instances, useless, unlawful, and Satanic. Theologians like Perrone and Ballerini have devoted long attention to them, and laid bare their wickedness in its most deadly aspects. Under a mask of mingled absurdity and terror, they reveal just so much of the invisible world as may deceive and ruin souls. They are horrible mimicries of the angelic and spiritual economy of the church. In all these phases of mesmerism, somnambulism, clairvoyance, table-turning, table-rapping, and evocation of spirits, they testify to the truth of divine revelation in respect to the spiritual world. So far they are of some advantage, for the evil one is always rendering involuntary homage to the Gospel which he seeks to pervert. But in exchange for this, they draw deluded multitudes away from the true and lawful way of holding communion with the dead, piercing the mysteries of the world unseen, obtaining divine guidance, mental illumination, cure of bodily infirmities, signal answers to prayer, visions, ecstasies, and knowledge of future events. From none of these things are the faithful debarred in the church, but in spiritism, or demon-worship, they are attracted to them in ways which are generally fatal to their morals and their faith. We have heard from an intimate ally of Mr. Home, now a convert to the Catholic Church, that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred those who put themselves in communication with spirits by means of table-speaking, lose their belief in the Christian religion and adopt a loose mode of life. The political grievances of which English and Irish Catholics have still to complain, are of old not of recent origin. They belong to a system now virtually exploded, and if our statute-book were a _tabula rasa_ they could not be written in it again. There is full proof of this in the fact that Great Britain legislates for her colonies more justly than for Ireland, or even for England. In Sydney and Melbourne, in Australia, there are Catholic colleges endowed by the government, and in Canada there is an endowed Catholic University. Yet Ireland, with 4,500,000 Catholics, has hitherto asked in vain for the like favors. {500} The colonies, moreover, are not burdened with a Protestant establishment, but lie open to the exertions of Catholic and Protestant missionaries alike, who receive from the state equal encouragement and occasional subsidies. The consequence is, that in almost every colonial dependency of Great Britain the true church is in full activity, and gives ample proof of her divine mission. The following table of our episcopate will show how wide is the field of action afforded to it by the tolerant system which England has pursued of late years. If she had not at the Reformation fallen from the faith, there would not perhaps at this moment be an idol temple in the world. If she should ever return as a nation to the fold of Christ, her mighty influence may, with the help of other Christian people, suffice to break in pieces every fetish and exorcise the races possessed by demons. The figures here given are of the year 1867; and it may be observed that in all the twenty vicariates of India, Burma, and Siam there was an increase of the Catholic population over the preceding year, with the exception only of those which are under the Portuguese Archbishop of Goa. In his province there was a small decrease. [Footnote 124]

[Footnote 124: _Catholic Directory_ 1868, p. 19 to 26.]

Archbishops Bishops Vicars Apostolic

England 1 12 ...

Ireland 4 24 ...

Scotland ... ... 3

Malta | Gozo | ... 2 1 Gibraltar |

Quebec | Halifax | Oregon | British Columbia | 2 17 2 Harbor Grace | St. John's, | Newfoundland |

West-Indies 1 1 2

Africa ... 1 4

India, Burma, ... ... 20

Australia 1 10 ...

New Zealand ... 2 ...

Total 9 69 32

From this it appears that there are now no Catholics in the British empire invested with the episcopal office. The number is little short of that of the Anglican Bishops, with all the power and influence of the state, and a vast Protestant population to give effect to their exertions. Yet, poor and comparatively unaided as our bishops are, the results of their labors in the colonies and among the heathen far exceed anything which rival missionaries can boast. As to the Russian clergy, their torpor in regard to idolatrous nations has often been commented on, and they are strictly forbidden by imperial edicts to endeavor to make converts among them. [Footnote 125] It is therefore with Protestant missionaries only that we have to vie, and these, through their disunion, lose, in great measure, the fruits of their zeal. The two millions sterling _per annum_, which their societies in the British isles alone expend, [Footnote 126] do not enable them to make head against the rapid extension of the Catholic faith. In China, India, Ceylon, the Antipodes, Oceanica, Africa, the Levant, Syria, Armenia, and America, they have signally failed in converting the heathen, and in rivalling the happy results of Catholic missions. [Footnote 127]

[Footnote 125: Wagner's _Travels in Persia_, vol. il. 204.]

[Footnote 126: _The Times_, April 19, 1860]

[Footnote 127: Marshall's _Christian. Missions_, vol. i. 9-15.]

Every Catholic nation is a vast missionary society, and if England had been such to this day, her Indian possessions would be basking in the full light of the gospel. But, alas! how awfully has she betrayed her trust. The speeches of Burke, the lives of Clive and Hastings, bear witness against her. Rapine and cruelty marked the earlier stages of her Indian government. {501} During long years she left the Indians to their idols, and then recruited her treasury by a tax laid upon them, and commanded her troops to pay homage to the demons of the land. Her efforts for their conversion, if they can be called hers, are feeble and unsystematic, while Catholic missions in every part of British India are steadily conducted on a uniform plan. Eleven years ago there were about a million Catholics in the wide territory, and the spirit which guided S. François Xavier, Robert de' Nobili, John de Bretto, and Laynez, prospered the work of their hands. Since that time the Madras Catholic Directories show that constant progress has been made. In some dioceses from 500 to 1000 souls are reclaimed annually from Hindooism, Mohammedanism, and Armenian sects. The lives of the converts are often most edifying, and though much ignorance and superstition has to be weeded out of them, they show forth on the whole the glory of Him who has called them out of darkness into marvellous light. Registries of adult baptisms being kept at each of the stations, it is easy to ascertain the progress made. In 1859, 2614 adults in the province of Madura were received into the church, and the native college of Negapatam, frequented by young men of high caste only, had produced seven priests, eight theological students, a large number of catechists and school-masters, with several government officers. The Jesuit fathers had founded five orphanages and three hospitals, beside convents of Carmelite and Franciscan nuns, where Hindoo women, under the constraining influence of divine grace, led devout and austere lives. [Footnote 128] It has hitherto been the policy of our rulers to avoid interfering with the religion of the natives, [Footnote 129] but the time, we may hope, is at hand when more righteous and merciful principles will prevail in the councils of state.

By promoting schism, England delays the conversion of the heathen. Friends and foes alike testify to the inefficacy of English Protestant missions. They can destroy faith, but never inspire it; and those who desire to read the true records of the triumph of the cross in heathen lands, and especially in the dominions of Great Britain, must seek them, not in the publications of London Missionary Societies, but in the Annals of the Propagation of the Faith, and the writings of Mr. Marshall and Father Strickland. [Footnote 130]

[Footnote 128: _Mission de Madurt_, par L. Saint Cyr, S.J. (1859.)]

[Footnote 129: Marshall's _Christian Missions_, vol. i. 412-419.]

[Footnote 130: _Catholic Missions in Southern India_ to 1865.]

The present Earl Grey, though an Anglican, once said to a gentleman from whom we heard it, that he wished, for his part, that Catholic bishops only were supported in the colonies by the English government; for that they alone, in his opinion, were actuated by pure motives and self-sacrificing zeal. Earl Grey does not stand alone in his truly liberal sentiments. Indeed, it is wonderful how generous and enlightened many of our statesmen have become suddenly, since the Fenians have threatened their English homes. Impossible as it is for us to defend their conspiracy, it seems to bear out the assertion that no people ever obtained their rights by mere remonstrance and petition. The injustice of maintaining a Protestant establishment in Catholic Ireland now flashes upon our rulers like light from heaven, though they have been told of it before a thousand times. Now they are as eager for its destruction as they were for its support. Now they see the matter as all Europe, all the civilized world except themselves, saw ft long ago. {502} Now they quote with approval the question proposed by Sir Robert Peel: "This missionary church of yours, with all that wealth and power could do for her, can she in two hundred years show a balance of two hundred converts?" Now they endorse the opinion of Goldwin Smith, that "No Roman Catholic mission has ever done so much for Roman Catholicism in any nation as the Protestant establishment has done for it in Ireland." [Footnote 131] It has, to use Mr. Bright's words, "made Roman Catholicism in Ireland not only a faith, but absolutely a patriotism." It has made the Irish "more intensely Roman than the members of their church are found to be in almost any other kingdom in Europe." [Footnote 132] "Don't talk to me of its being a church!" exclaimed Burke. "It is a wholesale robbery." "It is an anomaly of so gross a kind," said Lord Brougham, just thirty years ago, "that it outrages every principle of common sense. ... It cannot be upheld unless the tide of knowledge should turn back." "Irish Toryism," wrote John Sterling, in 1842, "is the downright proclamation of brutal injustice, and that in the name of God and the Bible!" All this English statesmen, who long obstinately resisted truth and justice, now see and acknowledge from a conviction too prompt to have been inspired by anything but fear. Terror has been known to turn the hair gray in a night, and to fill the mind with wisdom in a day. In saying this, however, we do not mean to express any approval of Fenianism, knowing it, as we do, to be a detestable conspiracy, secret, unlawful, and condemned by the church.

[Footnote 131: Letter in _Morning Star_, March 30, 1868.]

[Footnote 132: Speech in the House of Commons, March 31.]

The disestablishment of the Irish Protestant Church will directly affect the condition of the Catholics in England. It will place their Irish brethren on a social level with Protestants, and thus add to the respectability of the entire body of Catholics in the three kingdoms. It will diminish the number and influence of those Irish Protestant clergymen who cross the channel year by year to declaim on the platforms of our halls and assemblies against the supposed corruption of the Church of Rome. It will remove ten thousand heart-burnings from the people of Ireland, and enable them, though differing in religion in some districts, to live together in peace and harmony. It will increase self-respect in both sections of the community--in the Protestant, because they will no longer be grasping oppressors; in the Catholic, because they will no longer be fleeced and oppressed. The relative merits of their creeds will then have to be discussed on even ground, and no weapons but those of the sanctuary will avail in the fight. The voluntary system by which their ministers will be supported will throw them entirely upon their moral resources, and every adscititious aid in propagating their belief will be happily rescinded. The settlement of the Irish Church question will soon be followed by legal improvement in the condition of tenants as regards their landlords; and thus the two crying evils of our Irish administration being redressed, speculation will be encouraged, commerce will thrive, fortunes will be made, emigration will be arrested, and emigrants recalled. The church of Catholics will share in the general prosperity, and chapels now little better than mud hovels will be razed to the ground to make room for buildings stately and fair as the collegiate churches of Windsor, Middleham, and Brecon, in the olden time, or as the Priory of Stone, the Orphanage of Norwood, and the College of St. Cuthbert, near Durham, at the present day.

{503}

There is at this moment a concurrence of events favorable to the Catholic religion in the British empire, such as never was seen before since the Reformation. No fires of Smithfield, no renegade queen like Elizabeth, no Spanish Armada, no Gunpowder Plot, no Puritan ascendency, no despotic house of Stuart, no Pretender, no Titus Oates, no French or other foreign invasion, no Lord George Gordon, no rebellion like that of Robert Emmett and Lord Edward Fitzgerald, is looming in the distance, marring the prospect, and nearing us to turn hope into despair. Even Fenian outbreaks are, we believe, anticipated and virtually undone. Every sun that shines is ripening the harvest, and were it not that the enemy is more busy than ever in sowing tares, we might expect that within a century the whole, or at least the larger part, of the population of the three kingdoms would be included in the domain of the church.

What we have most to dread is the spread of unbelief in its subtlest and most engaging form. It comes among us with stealthy tread, and with the smile of hypocrisy on its face. It professes respect for the Christian religion, but with homage on its lips carries contempt in its heart. It regards all religions as superstitious, and the Christian as the best among bad ones. It pervades every branch of our non-Catholic literature, and offers fruit slightly poisoned to every lip. It combats dogma and the supernatural in every shape, appeals in all things to the senses, sets up humanity as its idol, and studiously confounds the distinction between right and wrong. It maintains the authority of Scripture, provided all that is supernatural and miraculous be eliminated. It reveres Jesus Christ when placed by the side of "the mild and honest Aurelius, Cakya Mouni, [Footnote 133] and the sweet and humble Spinoza." [Footnote 134] It cites as examples of men "most filled with the spirit of God," Moses, Christ, Mohammed, Vincent of Paul, and _Voltaire_. [Footnote 135] It inscribes the name of Christ on volutes in tapestried drawing-rooms, [Footnote 136] together with those of Socrates, Columbus, Luther, and Washington. It affirms that "_we can never be sure that the opinion we are endeavoring to stifle is a false opinion,_" [Footnote 137] and that "no one can be a great thinker who does not recognize that, as a thinker, it is _his first duty to follow his intellect to whatever conclusions it may lead._" [Footnote 137 (sic)] It approves of "hearty good-will evinced toward all persistence of endeavor, whether the object of that persistence be _good or evil_ according to moral or religious standards," and it is drawn strongly into sympathy with such poets as Robert Browning in their "keen love for humanity as such, a love which is displayed toward _weakness and evil_ as much as toward strength and goodness, provided only the attribute be human." [Footnote 138] Such sympathy with all that is human it accounts "divine." It worships, in short, the creature more than the Creator; it feels no need of grace, and still less of atonement. It relapses, consciously or unconsciously, into the frozen zone where Comte reigns supreme master of a system of icy negatives called philosophy--negatives the more specious because veiled under the term positivism--where all but facts attested by the senses must be renounced, and all final causes, all supernatural intervention, scattered to the wind. [Footnote 139]

[Footnote 133: The fourth Buddha.]

[Footnote 134: Renan. _Vie de Jesus_]

[Footnote 135: _Autobiography of Garibaldi_. Edited by Alexandre Dumas.]

[Footnote 136: In Victor Hugo's House in Guernsey. See his _William Shakespeare_, p. 568.]

[Footnote 137: John Stuart Mill on _Liberty_, p. 19.]

[Footnote 138: John T. Nettleship's _Essays on Robert Browning_. Preface.]

[Footnote 139: _Cours de Philosophie Positive_, 1839. _Politique Positiviste_, 1851-4.]

{504}

Toward this the Protestant mind in England is daily tending with increasing proneness, that portion only excepted which looks upward toward Catholic ritual and dogma. Its presence is more and more apparent among educated men, in Parliament, the universities, the learned professions, the reviews and journals of the day. It is an enemy that meets us in every walk, and is more difficult to grapple with than any definite form of error. It objects not merely to this or that part of our Creed, as Lutheran s and Calvinists did on their first appearing, but it meets us _in limine_ with doubts which pagans would have been ashamed to profess. Even writers on the whole Christian, like Samuel Taylor Coleridge, have aided in forming it; but Neology, Strauss, Comte, Mill, Carlyle, Sterling, Hugo, have brought it in like a flood. Mazzini propounds it openly in _Macmillan's Magazine_, while the _Saturday Review_ and the _Pall Mall Gazette_ adapt it weekly and daily to the palate of the million. Not that the free-thinkers are agreed together; they often jeer at each other. "Singular what gospels men will believe," cries Carlyle, [Footnote 140] "even gospels according to Jean Jacques." But _this_ is the language of each, "Adieu, O church; thy road is that way, mine is this. ... What we are going _to_ is abundantly obscure; but what all men are going _from_ is very plain." [Footnote 141]

[Footnote 140: Thomas Carlyle's _French Revolution_, ii. 70.]

[Footnote 141: Carlyle's _Life of Sterling_, p. 286.]

These, then, are the two great antagonists, the Catholic Church and Infidelity in its last and most popular shape of Positivism. People in England are choosing their sides, and drawing nearer and nearer to one or the other of these champions. Minor differences are merging into the broad features which distinguish the two. To the positivism of Comte there stands opposed the positivism of the Church. She alone speaks positively, authoritatively, uniformly, and permanently, respecting the invisible world, the First Cause, the revelation of God in Christ, in the Gospel, the Scriptures, and the Church. She bears witness at the same time of God and of herself, and even those who cannot accept her testimony admit that of all the enemies of infidelity her presence is the most imposing, and her language the most unwavering and distinct. None can accuse her of hostility to science, for the Holy See in this, as in all past ages, has repeatedly declared with what favor it looks on really scientific labors. "It is _impudently_ bruited abroad," wrote Pius IX. to M. Mahon de Monaghan, [Footnote 142] "that the Catholic religion and the Roman pontificate are adverse to civilization and progress, and therefore to the happiness which may thence be expected." "Rome," says the _Dublin Review_, [Footnote 143] "does not aim directly at material well-being; she does not teach astronomy or dynamics; she propounds no system of induction; she invents neither printing-press, steam-engines, nor telegraphs; but she so raises man above the brute, curbs his passions, improves his understanding, instils into him principles of duty and a sense of responsibility, so hallows his ambition and kindles his desire for the good of his kind and the progress of humanity, that, under her influence, he acquires insensibly an aptitude for the successful pursuit even of physical science, such as no other teacher could impart.

[Footnote 142: See _Rome et la Civilisation_. Paris, 1863.]

[Footnote 143: April, 1866, pp. 299, 301.]

{505}

.... It is manifest to all whose thoughts reach below the surface of things, that the services which Lord Bacon rendered to philosophy, and Newton to science, were indirectly due to the Catholic Church."

If the Catholic Church is ever to be rebuilt among us in anything like its ancient power and splendor, it must be raised on a broad basis. We do not mean that its real foundations admit of change or extension. They are the same from age to age. But they must, to meet the wants of the age, be made to appear as comprehensive as they really are. Happily, tolerant maxims now prevail in religion, and liberal views in politics. The divine right of hereditary kings is exploded, and persecution is no longer held up as a sacred duty. The Catholic Church, rightly understood, is the most liberal of all institutions. It is the source and security of true freedom, and it is only when perverted that it can serve the cause of despotism. It has everything to gain from liberty, and everything to lose by adopting tyrannical principles. Its best friends in England are those who labor to develop and exhibit its alliance with all that is true in science and good in mankind, and who rely more upon its heavenly powers of persuasion than on any excommunications and anathemas, who conciliate to the utmost without compromise, and relax rules without ever breaking or warping them. Anti-catholic writers have labored hard to prove that our religion is the enemy of progress, and it is therefore our duty and interest to show by word and deed how utterly false their assertions on this subject are. It will be a greater triumph for the church to have demonstrated her superior philosophy after fair discussion, than it would have been to suppress that discussion or to shirk it. We have really nothing to fear. Catholicism lies at the root of all sciences, and it alone makes progress possible.

Such are the views of the wisest and best of those English Catholics who work in the literary hive. They heartily adopt the words of M. Cochin, in his speech at Malines. "Christianity is the father of all progress, of all discoveries." "Every science is one of God's arguments, and every progress one of God's instruments." Modern science is but an offshoot of the Gospel, a result of the Incarnation. It redeems our bodies from a thousand disabilities and discomforts, as the Cross has redeemed our souls. The discovery of America, the art of printing, the telescope, the microscope, the clock, the mariner's needle, the steam-engine, superseding the slaves who were once the machinery of the world, gas, telegraphic wires, what are they but minor gospels and temporary redemptions for the toiling and weary sons of men? The Church views such improvements with delight, and sees in them the means, when rightly employed, of restoring the broken alliance between earthly and heavenly blessings. Is this what you call material progress? No, no; it is all moral improvement. You might as well call the press a material improvement as the railroad and the telegraph. As the one brings thought into immortal life, so the others redeem man from the sorrows of intervening distance. The Church affiliates them gladly to herself, and traces a moral advance in every material gain, a development of redemption by Christ in the progress of agriculture, improved machinery, in chloroform, in short-hand, lithography, photography, the respirator, and ever implement and utensil which makes labor less irksome and pain less poignant.

{506}

In the science of political economy especially, English Catholics are anxious to rectify prevalent mistakes, and place that delightful study on its proper basis. The writings of Ricardo and Adam Smith, of McCulloch, Senior, and Mill, have familiarized persons' minds with the subject, but they have failed to show how every principle and statement of sound political economy rests on some maxim of the Gospel or of the church.

The Utilitarian doctrines of Jeremy Bentham were as bald and selfish as those of Malthus on Population were immoral and absurd. Self-restraint and self renunciation are the soul of thrift, the source of wealth, the element of labor, the main-spring of exertion, the corner-stone of the social edifice, the health of the community, the rectifying principle which keeps the whole machinery of society in active and harmonious operation. It would make the rich poor in spirit, and the poor comparatively rich. It would place a happy limit to the extremes of wealth and indigence. It is, or should be, the fundamental principle of the production and distribution of wealth. If duly carried out, it would promote solidarity in all its branches to a wonderful extent, and secure liberty as the condition requisite for the very existence of property and the only possible sphere of mutual exertion. M. Perin [Footnote 144] has shown with admirable force and precision how Catholicism establishes self-renunciation as "the corner-stone of all social relations," and guarantees "the greatest freedom to man, and the greatest security to property." The _Dublin Review_ [Footnote 145] also has done good service in popularizing M. Perin's arguments and supplying an antidote to the defective teaching of John Stuart Mill, and other non-Catholic political economists.

[Footnote 144: _De la Richesse dans les Sociétés Chrétiennes_.]

[Footnote 145: April, 1866. _Christian Political Economy_.]

The Academia of the Catholic Religion, founded by Cardinal Wiseman in 1861, continues to be productive of happy results. Its main design was to exhibit, in the lectures delivered at its meetings and published afterward, the alliance between sacred and secular science. It is affiliated to the Academia in Rome, and two volumes of essays read before it have already appeared in print. [Footnote 146] The rich and varied learning of Cardinal Wiseman, the clear, incisive style of Dr. Manning, the minute mediaeval lore of Dr. Rock, the calm and affectionate tone of Mr. Oakeley, the acumen and exhaustive faculties of Dr. Ward, render these publications very attractive to Catholics who are fond of argumentative writing. They keep up active thought and speculation in a highly influential circle, and are valuable landmarks in the history of the Catholic revival in England. The meetings of the Academia are held at the Archbishop's residence in York Place, London.

[Footnote 146: First Series, 1865. Second Series, 1868. Longmans.]

It is a remarkable fact that at this moment [Footnote 147] there are two political parties in the state, each of which is bent on advancing Catholic interests, though in different ways.

[Footnote 147: April, 1868.]

Mr. Disraeli and Mr. Gladstone, the heads respectively of the Conservative and Liberal parties, are seeking to redress one of the great evils of Ireland, the former by _levelling up_ and the latter by _levelling down_. The government would, if it were able, raise the Catholic church in Ireland to a footing with the Establishment by endowing a Catholic University and the Catholic priesthood, while the opposition proposes simply the disestablishment and disendowment of the Irish Protestant church. {507} In both cases the result would be religious equality in Ireland, though there can be no doubt that the plan suggested by the Liberals is the more rational and feasible one. It is the one, moreover, which is sanctioned by the Cardinal Archbishop of Dublin and by the Archbishop of Westminster. On Sunday, the 12th of April, the faithful in London signed a petition in favor of Mr. Gladstone's resolutions by the Archbishop's express recommendation. It is pleasant to see the Catholic Primate and the future Prime Minister of England thus cooperating in the interests of the Catholic religion, especially when we remember that they are old friends and were at college together.

The Easter of 1868 has been marked by great increase of spiritual

## activity in the churches of large towns. Numbers of Catholics who

had neglected the sacraments have been restored to the use of them, and Protestants come Sunday after Sunday to hear the sermons delivered in our churches. [Footnote 148]

[Footnote 148: _Weekly Register_, April 11, 1868.]

The public mind is stirred on the subject of our religion, and curiosity in very numerous instances ends in conversion. A recent clerical convert has placed £5000 in the hands of a prelate for the good of his diocese, and a whole community of Anglican Sisters of Mercy have yielded to the direction of clergymen who are priests indeed. The Ritualist parsons are busy fraying the way for Roman missionaries. Their altars are draped in colors according to the season, acolytes bend before them and serve, water is mingled with their sacramental wine, lights are burning at their communions, the host is elevated, their robes are gorgeously embroidered, and dense clouds of incense mount before their shrines, as if they were dedicated to the God of unity under the patronage of Catholic saints. Many of their flock are deluded by this empty pomp, but many also are led by it to the true springs of faith and the observance of a better ceremonial. During the first half of the present century 260 religious houses and colleges have been raised in England to repair the loss of 681 monasteries of men and women uprooted at the time of the Reformation. If we continue and end the century with equal exertions--and it is probable we shall exceed rather than fall short of them--we shall by that time have nearly as many religious institutions as our forefathers could boast after the sway of the church in England had lasted 800 years under royal protection.

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

{508}

Sketches Drawn From The Abbé Lagrange's Life of St. Paula.

In Three Chapters.

## Chapter II.

God had given great compensation to Paula in the rare natures of her children. The eldest, and perhaps the most gifted, Blesilla, combined with delicate health an ardent soul, quick wit, and a charming mind. Her penetration astonished even St. Jerome. She was full of those characteristics that make one hope everything and fear everything. She was but fifteen when she lost her father, and seventeen when St. Jerome first knew her, in the first bloom of her youth and beauty. She spoke Greek and Latin with perfect purity, and the elegance of her language was remarkable, as well as the quickness of her intellect.

Paula, full of anxiety for such a nature, sought to give her the counterpoise of solid piety. But Blesilla, though capable of exalted virtues, was intoxicated by the splendors of the sphere in which she was born and educated. Like all young girls of her rank, she loved dress, luxury, and entertainments, and neither the death of her father nor her mother's example had detached her heart from the world, neither did her early widowhood; for Paula had given her in marriage to a young and rich patrician of the race of Camillus, who died in a short time after, leaving Blesilla a widow and without children. But even this blow did not suffice, and, after the usual time given to mourning, the worldly and frivolous tastes of the young widow again rose to the surface. She passed many hours before her glass, busy in adorning herself, surrounded by her slaves occupied in dressing her hair and waiting on her, and entertainments of all sorts were her delight.

Paulina, the second daughter of Paula, was, as we have already said, a great contrast to her sister. Less brilliant, but not less agreeable, great good sense was her chief attribute, with sweetness of disposition. Less captivated by the world than Blesilla, she was more inclined to be pious. The equilibrium in her nature was excellent. But there was nothing in any way uncommon about her. She seemed born for the ordinary destiny of woman. She was now sixteen, and Paula, with an instinct truly maternal, felt that what she had to do for her child was to give her a protector worthy of her, in a husband of sound character and amiable disposition.

But the pearl of Paula's children was her third daughter, Eustochium, who was sweetness and candor itself, and all innocence and piety. Her distinguishing feature was her love for her mother, whom she never for a moment quitted. Marcella kept her with her for some time, and when the child returned to Paula, she clung more than ever to her mother, like a young vine. Her only wish was to follow in the footsteps of Paula and to be like her, and to consecrate herself also to the service of God with her young virginal heart. Soft and silent, but hiding under this veil of timidity a remarkable mind, Eustochium was formed for high purposes. She was not fourteen when St. Jerome came to Rome.

{509}

Rufina was then only eleven or twelve years of age, and the time had not yet come for anxiety about her. It was, however, different with Toxotius, who was younger still, but had not received baptism, his father's family having assumed his guardianship; and they were pagans, which grieved Paula, who hoped to make her son a fervent Christian.

Such was the family of Paula. Her many duties to them had excited the interest of the austere monk, who, together with Marcella, wished to do everything possible to aid Paula in her cares. Blesilla at once filled the mind of St. Jerome with the ardent wish to save her from the career of worldliness on which she seemed bent; but in vain did he try to bring her to grave thoughts. Paulina was easier to guide, for Providence aided the pious efforts of her friends in the husband chosen for her by her mother, who was Pammachius, of whom St. Jerome has said that he was "the most Christian of the noble Romans, and the most noble of the Christians." He was also the old and tried friend of St. Jerome, to whom this marriage gave great happiness, as well as to Paula and Marcella.

As for Eustochium, she continued to expand and bloom under the influence of her mother. In vain were the rich dresses of her sisters and their shining jewels spread out before her. Her taste for religious life was becoming more and more decided every day. Notwithstanding her great youth, none of the maidens of the Aventine surpassed her in prayer, or in following St. Jerome in his laborious studies of the Scriptures. She had learnt Hebrew, and, like her mother, had inspired St. Jerome with singular devotion and interest. The increasing vocation of Eustochium aroused opposition in her father's family; for it was not possible that the progress of monastic tendencies among the patrician women should be allowed to take root without resistance in Rome, where opposition was made by law to anything like celibacy for men, with open advocacy of matrimony and the honors of maternity for women.

St. Jerome undertook to modify these ideas with his powerful pen, and, in his answer to the attack of one named Helvidius, came off the field completely victorious.

It was about this time, 384 A.D., that Blesilla fell ill of a pernicious fever, which for a month threatened her life. This illness brought her wisdom. The following is the story of her conversion, from St. Jerome: "During thirty days," he says, "we saw our Blesilla burning with a devouring fever. She lay almost bereft of life, panting under the struggle with death, and trembling at the thought of the judgments of God. Where then was the help of those who gave her worldly counsels? of those who prevented her from living for Christ? Could they save her from death? No. But our Lord himself, seeing that she was only carried away by the intoxication of youth and the errors of her century, came to her, touched her hand, and cried out to her, as to Lazarus, 'Arise, come forth and walk!' She understood this call, and she arose and knew that she owed the boon of life to him who had given it back to her." She was then but twenty years of age, when she shone in her new-born beauty of holiness. {510} She, who formerly passed long hours at her toilet, now sought only to find God; and, instead of the ornaments in which she had liked to appear, she now covered her fair head with the veil most becoming for a Christian woman. All the money that had been spent for adorning herself now went to the poor. And this ardent soul, once consecrated to God, gave itself up entirely, and, passing with a great flight beyond ordinary natures, at once reached the summit of human virtue and perfection.

Eustochium and Paula had not more ardor. Jerome was admirable in his manner of seconding this generous enthusiasm. He now instructed her in the Scriptures, and she studied first Ecclesiastes, then the gospels, and Isaiah. She learned Hebrew to read the Psalms. Her energy was wonderful, for her steps still tottered from illness, and her delicate neck drooped under the weight of her young head. But the divine book was never out of her hands.

How shall we paint the joy of Paula at this change in her beloved child! Her dearest wishes had been granted. This, too, was a fruitful conversion; others imitated such an example; and Paula's house soon became a sort of monastery, which Jerome would call the _fireside church_. He gives a most beautiful description of Paula and her children at this period, when the blessing of God was so visibly on her household. Her fervor increased. She determined on a complete sacrifice of her worldly goods, and, in the words of St. Jerome, "being already dead to the world, though still living, she distributed all her fortune among her children," thereby entirely initiating herself into the holy poverty of Christ. Notwithstanding all the consolations God had sent her, she was still uneasy and dissatisfied; her life was not yet all that she sighed for. A great disgust toward Rome filled her mind, and the descriptions Epiphanius had given her of the East rose up for ever in her, making her soul long for the monastic life of the desert. The example of Melanie was then to increase this longing, for Melanie had now been for some years realizing her dreams in her convent on the Mount of Olives.

There was now nothing to prevent Paula from going. Blesilla, as well as Eustochium, wished to follow their mother in her pilgrimage, and many of their friends desired to join them. St. Jerome, the veteran pilgrim, was to be their pilot to holy places. He had strengthened them all in the love of God and nourished them with the Holy Scriptures. His letters to Eustochium at this time were exquisite. What could be more touching than the friendship uniting the austere old monk and this sweet young maiden? "O my Eustochium! O my daughter! O my sister!" he wrote to her, "since my age and charity alike permit me to give you these names, if you are by birth the noblest of Roman virgins, I beseech you guard zealously your own heart and keep it from evil. Imitate our Lord Jesus Christ, be obedient to your parents, go out rarely, and honor the martyrs in the solitude of your chamber. Read often and you will learn much. Let sleep surprise you with the holy book in your hands, and, if your head drop down with fatigue, let it be on the sacred pages."

Eustochium was grateful to him for his wise counsels, and, wishing to express her appreciation of his letters to her, she gathered courage to send him a little offering of a basket of cherries, with several of those bracelets called _armillae_ and some doves. The whole was accompanied by a sweet, girlish letter, full of affection. The cherries, she said, were a symbol of purity, to remind him of his letters; the bracelets were such as were given to reward brilliant deeds, and were to put him in mind of his own victories in controversy; and, lastly, the doves were emblematic of his tenderness to her from her childhood.

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St. Jerome received with great kindness the little offerings of his spiritual daughter, and thanked her for them in a letter full of affection, mingled with the grave counsels which ever flowed from his pen.

The time was approaching for the departure of Paula for the East. It was in the autumn of 384 A.D., when Blesilla suddenly fell ill of the same fever which had once before laid her so low. The news of her illness filled her friends with consternation, for Blesilla was tenderly loved by them. She sank so rapidly that there was soon no hope left of her recovery. This was but four months after her conversion, and God already judged her ready for a better life, and called her to himself.

She was but twenty, and was going to die. Her mother, her sisters, her relations, her friends, Marcella and St. Jerome, all gathered around her death-bed in tears. Blesilla alone did not weep. Though the fever was consuming her, a ray of celestial light illuminated her countenance with a beauty not of earth, and transfigured her. Her only regret was, that her repentance had been so short. She turned to those who were around her: "Oh! pray for me," she cried, "to our Lord Jesus Christ, to have mercy on my soul, since I die before I have been able to accomplish what I had in my heart to do for him." These were her last words; every one present was moved to tears by them. Jerome eagerly offered consolation. "Trust in the Lord, dear Blesilla," said he; "your soul is as pure as the white robes you have worn since your consecration to God, which though but recent was so generous and complete that it came not too late." These words filled her soul with peace. And shortly afterward, to use the words of St. Jerome, "freeing herself from the pains of the body, this white dove flew off to heaven!"

Her obsequies were magnificent, followed by all the Roman nobles. Such was the custom of the patricians. A peculiar interest and sympathy were felt in the fate of this brilliant young woman, as well as universal compassion for the sorrow of her venerable mother. The long procession walked through the streets, followed by the coffin covered with a veil of gold. St. Jerome, though not approving of this display, dared not interfere to prevent it, as it seemed a sad consolation to Paula to see the honors paid to the child so tenderly loved. She undertook to accompany Blesilla to her last resting-place; but her strength failed, and, having taken but a few steps, she fainted away and was brought back to her house insensible.

The days that followed the funeral only increased her grief. She was crushed by it. In vain did she try to submit to the divine will, her heart failed her, and Jerome felt that he must make an effort to give her strength, or else she would succumb to the pressure. The effort was great on his part, for Blesilla was his beloved pupil, and this death annihilated all his own cherished hopes of her. He never found the courage to conclude a commentary, begun expressly for her, on Ecclesiastes. But feeling it a duty to help Paula, he wrote to her a letter filled with true delicacy of feeling and Christian faith. He commenced by weeping with her over the lost Blesilla, for he said: "While wishing to dry her mother's tears, am I not weeping myself?" {512} He continued this noble letter in these words, alike reproachful and sympathizing: "When I reflect that you are a mother, I do not blame you for weeping; but when I reflect also that you are a Christian, then, O Paula! I wish that the Christian would console the mother a little."

He reminded her of the children she had left, and with all the authority of his holy office bid her take care lest, "in loving her children so much, she did not love God enough." "Listen," he says, "to Jesus, and trust in him: 'Your daughter is not dead, but sleepeth.'"

Then Jerome would picture to Paula her daughter in all her celestial glory. He would suppose Blesilla calling upon her mother in these words: "If you have ever loved me, O my mother! if you have ever nourished me from your bosom, and trained my soul with your words of wisdom and virtue, oh! I conjure you, do not lament that I have such glory and happiness as is mine here! What prayers does Blesilla not now offer up for you to God!" And St. Jerome adds, "She is praying for me also, for you know, O Paula! how devoted I was to her soul, and what I did not fear to brave, that she might be saved."

St. Jerome's letter awoke new Christian strength and resignation in the broken spirit of Paula. The tears ceased to flow, but the wound bled inwardly and never healed. The void left by Blesilla in her mother's heart must ever make it desolate. Rome became insupportable to her, and the pilgrimage to the East, so long thought of, seemed now the only thing that could interest her. About this time Pope Damasus died. He was a great loss to St. Jerome, for his successor had not the same moral courage, and dared not sustain the old monk in advocating monastic life, which so enraged the patricians.

Finally, worn out by persecution, and perhaps longing to return to that solitude he had never ceased to regret, Jerome determined to leave Rome. This was in the year 385 A.D. His friends were only waiting for his signal to accompany him in numbers, and many were the tears shed by his gentle pupils in Rome at his departure. His farewell letter to them all was addressed to the venerable Asella, through whom he sent his last greetings to Paula, Eustochium, Albina, Marcella, Marcellina, and Felicity, "his sisters in Jesus Christ." Many of these he was destined to see no more. But the decision of Paula was irrevocable. She had no longer any earthly tie to detain her. Her son, moved by the example of his mother and sisters, had received Christian baptism, and was soon to marry a young Christian maiden, the cousin of Marcella. Rufina was to remain during her mother's absence with her sister Paulina and Pammachius, and also with Marcella, her second mother.

Eustochium was to accompany her mother, as well as a large number of the pious community of the Aventine. They left Rome in the autumn of 385 A.D. Paula courageously bid farewell to her children, and the friends who had followed in troops to see her embark. Leaning on the arm of Eustochium, she was seen on the deck of the vessel, her eyes averted, that her strength might not fail her as she witnessed the sorrow of her loved ones whom she was leaving. For St. Jerome tells us, "Paula loved her children more than any other woman."

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The voyage was favorable, the vessel touching at many places of classic interest. When they finally reached Salamines in the Island of Cyprus, what was her joy on finding her venerable friend, St. Epiphanius, waiting on the shore to receive her, happy in being able to return the hospitality he had enjoyed under her roof in Rome three years before.

The Island of Cyprus was filled with monasteries and convents founded and protected by Epiphanius, which were a great attraction to Paula. Holy hymns were sung where Venus but lately had reigned supreme; and the grave of the holy patriarch Hilarion stood near the ruins of the ancient temple of the heathen goddess.

After leaving Cyprus, Paula went to Antioch. There Jerome and the priests and monks who had accompanied him from Rome were awaiting her with Paulinus, the bishop. They wished to detain her; but since her feet had touched land her ardor to reach Jerusalem had so increased that nothing could stop her. To follow the footsteps of Christ, to see where his precious blood was shed, then to visit the anachorites of the desert, such was Paula's thought. Eustochium and her companions shared this desire. No time was lost. A caravan was organized, Jerome and his friends on dromedaries, Paula and her suite on asses, and they began their journey together. The road from Antioch to Jerusalem was long and fatiguing for women so delicately bred. A journey in those days was full of perils of which we now have no idea. But Paula was indefatigable, deterred by no dangers and complaining of no inconveniences, as she crossed the icy plains at this most trying season of the year. St. Jerome tells of the cities that she saw, and of the emotions that she felt as her knowledge of Scripture and of holy books brought up recollections and associations either of Jewish or of Christian history wherever she went. Besides, Jerome was there, with his prodigious memory and knowledge, to throw light on every step.

As Paula approached Jerusalem, her soul was more deeply moved, than it had yet been. The view of the landscape around the city was desolate, even as early as the fourth century. She entered by the Gate of Jaffa, also called the Gate of David and the Gate of the Pilgrims. The proconsul of Palestine had sent an escort to meet her, to receive her with honor; but with that sentiment which later made Godefroi de Bouillon refuse to wear a golden crown where God had worn one of thorns, Paula refused to lodge in the palace offered for her convenience, and she and her whole suite staid at a modest dwelling not far from Calvary; then she started at once to visit the Holy Places. Who can describe her feelings as she entered the church of the Holy Sepulchre? In the fourth century, the stone which closed the entrance to the tomb of our Lord was still to be seen by the faithful pilgrims. To-day it is covered by a monument of marble. As soon as Paula saw it, with great emotion she embraced it; but when she entered into the sepulchre itself, and went up to the rock on which had laid the body of our Lord, she could no longer restrain her tears, and, falling on her knees, sobbed and wept abundantly. All Jerusalem saw these tears, and were edified at the great piety of this noble Roman lady, the daughter of the Scipios.

St. Jerome tells us that, while she was in Jerusalem, "she would see everything," and that "she was only dragged away from one holy place that she might be taken to another."

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After having visited Jerusalem, the pilgrims travelled all over the Holy Land, commencing with Bethlehem and Judea, then visiting Jericho and the Jordan, Samaria and Galilee as far as Nazareth, and finally, reorganizing the caravan, they set out for Egypt; not, however, before paying a visit to Melanie, in her convent on the Mount of Olives, whence they returned to Jerusalem.

Paula would now have fixed herself at Bethlehem but for this longing to visit the fathers of the desert. They started on this, the longest and most fatiguing part of their journey, and were sixteen days in going from Jerusalem to Alexandria. This city was the Athens of the East. In such an atmosphere of learning, there had been great intellectual development among the Christians, and the school of Christian philosophers of Alexandria was renowned throughout the world. This was what detained Paula and Eustochium, and particularly Jerome, some time at Alexandria, where they were received with great hospitality by the bishop, Theophilus. But even the most interesting studies could not make Paula forget the principal object of her voyage to Egypt, and her desire to see and to know the ascetics, that wonderful class of men, who voluntarily exiled themselves from the world and from all human ties, and astonished mankind by incredible austerities, and by consecrating their lives entirely to spiritual things and to a future existence. At this time the number of these anachorites had so multiplied, that it was said that in Egypt the deserts had as many inhabitants as the cities. Monastic life was then in all its glory. The great anachorites, Paul, Antony, Hilarion, and Pacomius, were dead; but their disciples lived, as celebrated as themselves. A great work of organization had been accomplished among them. The first men who came to the desert lived alone in caves or cells, each following his individual inspiration. Paul had lived forty years in a grotto, at the entrance of which was a spring and a palm-tree, drinking the water of the spring and eating the fruit of the tree, being his only nourishment. Antony's life had been more extraordinary still. But when the number of the hermits increased, they felt the necessity of community life being established, and the cenobites began to take the place of the anachorites, though there remained many of the latter, dividing, as it were, the hermits into two kinds, the Anachorites and the Cenobites. Large convents spread out along the banks of the Nile to the furthest extremity of Egypt.

It was not easy to visit these establishments. In going there, many years before, Melanie and her companions had been lost for five days, and their provisions being exhausted they had nearly died of hunger and thirst in the desert. Crocodiles, basking in the sun, had awaited with open jaws to devour them, and numberless other dangers had beset them.

But this did not discourage Paula, and her route being happily chosen, she accomplished her journey safely to the mountain of Nitria, where five thousand cenobites lived in fifty different convents, under the rule of one abbot. The news of her coming had preceded her, and the Bishop of Heliopolis had come to welcome the noble lady. He was surrounded by a great crowd of cenobites and anachorites. As soon as they perceived the caravan, they came forward singing hymns. Paula was soon surrounded. She declared herself most unworthy of the honors accorded her, and at the same time glorified God, who worked such marvels in the desert. The bishop first conducted the pious band to the church situated on the summit of the mountain, and there, with that hospitality for which the monks of the East were ever remarkable, the travellers were given the best rooms attached to the convent and intended for the use and convenience of strangers. {515} Fresh water was brought to them to wash their feet, and linen to dry them, and the fruits of the desert to refresh their palates; after which they were allowed to visit the convents and the hermits, whose life was very simple and very free, at the same time holy and austere. Ambitious of reducing the body to servitude, and to penetrate the secrets of things divine, they united action with contemplation. Their days were passed between work and prayer. Some were to be seen digging the earth, cutting trees, fishing in the Nile, or perhaps plaiting the mats on which they were to die. Others were absorbed by the reading of, or meditation on, the Holy Scriptures. The monasteries swarmed like bee-hives.

After having witnessed the cenobitical life, Paula went to the desert of cells to see the anachorite life, which there was carried out in all its austerity and all its poetry. These monks had no walls built by man, but had retired to the mountains as to the most inaccessible asylums. Caverns and rocks were their dwellings, the earth their table, their food roots and wild plants, and water from the springs their refreshment. Their prayers were continual, and all the mountain hollows rang with God's praises. These grottoes did not communicate with each other, and the isolation of the anachorites was complete. Once a week, on Sunday only, they left their cells, and, dressed in robes made of palm-leaves or of sheepskin, they went to the church of Nitria, where they saw one another, and also met the cenobites. Paula wished to know and listen to these pious men. She therefore visited all the grottoes, one by one, talking always of the things of God to their inmates.

Paula's next visit was through a still more savage country to see those called by St. Jerome "the columns of the desert." She cared not for dangers nor fatigue, so that she could contemplate such men as _Macarius_--the disciple of Antony and Pacomius--a man so austere that he had astonished Pacomius himself, who had watched him during the whole of one Lent plaiting mats in his cell, without speaking to any one, all absorbed in God, and only eating once a week, on Sunday, a few raw vegetables. None could surpass this great ascetic. He permitted the pilgrims to penetrate into his grotto, and delighted Paula with his holy conversation and instruction.

Jerome admired likewise the prodigies of this pure and austere life; but more occupied than Paula with the doctrines he heard discussed, he had perceived that some of the monks were less enlightened than others. It seems, as it afterward was proved, that the theories of Origen were already beginning to trouble the inhabitants of the desert.

There remained now, to complete Paula's insight into the life of the hermits, but to visit the convents founded by Pacomius, which she hesitated not to do. There were six thousand monks living in them, governed by the venerable Serapion. Their rule divided each monastery into a certain number of families. Their frugal lives enabled them to extend their charities far and wide. Their fasting and abstinence lasted all the year round, becoming only more strict in Lent. Paula enjoyed their hospitality greatly, learning much from Serapion that delighted her about this well-organized monastic life which realized her ideal.

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She thought for a moment of establishing herself in the desert, and of requesting Serapion to admit her colony under the rule of Pacomius; but the love of the Holy Places prevented her from carrying out this plan. She said "her resting-place was not in these deserts, it was in Bethlehem." Already had she lingered too long! She had now learned all that she wished to learn, enough for her own guidance. She therefore embarked with her entire caravan for Maioma, a sea-port of Gaza; and from there, without stopping on her way, she returned to Jerusalem, and thence to Bethlehem, with as much rapidity, says St. Jerome, as if she had had wings.

Here the news awaited her of the death of her daughter Rufina. The blow was terrible to Paula, but her mind was strengthened by all she had seen, and the voice of God reached her heart and comforted her, and gave her stronger hope than she had ever had in reunion hereafter with her beloved children. She sought to make herself worthy of immortality, and her faith and her good works brought her consolation and peace. She resolved to found two monasteries: one for herself, Eustochium, and her friends from the Aventine; the other for Jerome and his followers. This was done without delay, and they at once began the life which they longed for--a life of labor, of study, and of prayer.

To Be Continued.

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To The Count De Montalembert, With A Copy Of "Inisfail." [Footnote 149]

[Footnote 149: From a forthcoming volume of Poems, by Aubrey de Vere, now in press by the Catholic Publication Society.]

Your spirit walks in halls of light: On earth you breathe its sunnier climes: How can an Irish muse invite Your fancy thus to sorrowing rhymes?

But you have fought the church's fight! My country's cause and hers are one: And every cause that rests on Right Invokes Religion's bravest son.

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The Legend of Glastonbury.--A D. 62.

Down in the pleasant west of England a river--the copious Brue--follows its course to Bridgewater Bay, between the Sedgemoors and other rising grounds. Somersetshire farmers now drive their ploughs and graze their cattle where I am going to describe water: thanks to those Benedictine monks whom they have so clean forgotten. But at Christmas-tide, some sixty years after the first Christmas the world ever saw, there were no monks at Glastonbury; for the simple reason, there were no Christians there. No one had banked out the waters of the Bristol Channel, and converted a brackish and unwholesome swamp into fine arable or pasture land. The Brue had it all its own way, to make islands, pools, and treacherous bogs with its unrestrained waters; until it had got so far west as to struggle with the advancing tide of the bay.

Glastonbury has the holiest memories of any place in England; and they date from the first moment when the faith was planted there. The sacred name of our Lord was brought to this marshy district in a far-off heathen land by one of his own disciples, Saint Joseph of Arimathea.

Who has not heard of the Glastonbury thorn? A history of Somerset would be incomplete which did not mention its blossoming every Christmas that comes round. It was fair and fragrant for fifteen hundred winters, while all around was sapless and dead. People try to account for this standing miracle by something peculiar in the soil, as they would explain away the freedom of Ireland from snakes and toads, or the healing virtues of St. Winifred's Well. There were probably Sadducees in Jerusalem who thought the Pool of Bethesda was all nonsense, or a mere chalybeate. Anything you like about the powers of nature, but nothing of the marvels of grace. Chemistry to any extent, but of miracle not one jot. Thorns blooming at Christmas? It is all a question of earth, soil, stratum, and the lay of the ground, with those who are "of the earth, earthy."

But we are now on our way to Glastonbury as Christian pilgrims, staff in hand. And it is very fit that we should regard the old thorn (or such suckers and cuttings of it as may be found) with reverence. For that thorn is a Christian tree, planted by Christian hands. More than this: it was planted by the hands whose unutterable privilege it was to unfasten and take down from the cross, and bear with adoring reverence to the tomb, the body of God, separated from his soul, united ever with his divinity.

We are accustomed, in our meditations on the passion, to contemplate the emaciated, agonized form of our Lord stretched and racked upon the cross; or, after the _Consummatum est_, when eventide was come, laid stark and bloodless in the arms of the Queen of martyrs, his most desolate Mother. Naturally we lose out of sight, by comparison, other agents and events in what followed his expiring cry. Yet look again. In the growing dusk of that first Good Friday, at the foot of the cross, and in the group of five or six persons to whom the eternal Father seems to commit the lifeless body of his Son, there is the saint of Glastonbury. {518} With the dolorous Mother, and the beloved disciple, and the saintly, penitent Magdalene, and the other holy women, and Nicodemus, St. Joseph of Arimathea also bears his part.

To come back to Glastonbury; we must pass over some thirty years from that sacred paschal eve. Pentecost soon followed it, with its fiery tongues on the apostles' brows. They were illuminated and strengthened to preach the faith over the earth lying in darkness. So they separated on this world-wide mission, each on the path whereon the guidance of God's Spirit led him. "Their sound went over all the earth, and their words unto the ends of the whole world." St. Philip went into Phrygia, and, by some accounts, was martyred there. Others make him to have preached the gospel in what is now France, and that St. Joseph was one of his companions. A better supported tradition has it that St. Joseph, with St. Lazarus and his two holy sisters, Martha and Mary, landed at Marseilles from Judea. Anyhow, here comes St. Joseph of Arimathea to Britain, with a faithful band of eleven disciples. He has reached the distant region of tin-mines which the old Phoenicians had discovered and worked in Cornwall, Scilly, and, perhaps, the Mendip Hills. He is come not for precious metals, but to bring the priceless word of life.

So, rather more than sixty years after the Incarnation, and while Saints Peter and Paul are still alive in Rome, though the day of their martyrdom draws near, we find ourselves on the brow of Weary-All Hill, a mile or so south-west of the spot where Glastonbury Abbey will be built.

Weary-All Hill! the name it has been known by for generations back. But not a likely name to be given it by St. Joseph and his eleven companions, as they stood on it for the first time, eighteen centuries ago; as they looked on the marshy plain, dotted with islands, in and out of which the glassy stream is winding. Weariness, at least lassitude of spirit, was unknown to those apostolic men. Had they not come all this way to bring the everlasting gospel? Had not their feet been "beautiful upon the mountains" as they crossed them, bearing this message of heavenly love?--mountains deep in snow, yawning with frightful clefts and precipices, gloomy with impenetrable forests, to which this Weary-All is scarcely a mole-hill?

"At length, then," said St. Joseph, when the twelve had paused on the brow of it to recover breath; for few of them were young, and it was rather a pull for a Somersetshire hill--"at length we have reached the end of our pilgrimage."

As he spoke, he pointed with his long staff to the little group of islands already noticed. A cheery December sun lingered on the scene, and, though it was evening, still cast a gleam upon the wide-spread water. The Brue was winding along, noiseless and limpid, sprinkled with its dark islets, as the shining coils of a snake are variegated with the spots upon its skin. There was no ice yet, though it was already the Christmas season. Perhaps the sea-water that mingled with the marsh from the Bristol Channel prevented its formation. The leafless thickets that fringed the slopes of West Sedgemoor, and clothed both islands and marshland in irregular clumps, allowed a more distinct view of the mirror of waters than when shaded with summer foliage. There was a kind of grave and sober animation over the whole scene.

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A short distance further off, to the east, rose a solitary peaked hill, perhaps even _then_ called the Tor. It has several scarped lines, or passes, drawn around it, denoting that the Romans had fortified it as a stronghold, which they occupied from time to time. Years after, a little chapel in honor of St. Michael the archangel will be built on its summit. Years later, again, that little chapel will be enlarged into a stately church, the tower of which still remains. And nearly fifteen centuries after St. Joseph first stood on Weary-All, the last abbot of the stately Benedictine monastery, as Glastonbury had become, was martyred there with two of his monks. His crime was, that he rendered to Caesar _only_ those things that were Caesar's, and refused to acknowledge the tyrant Henry VIII. as head of God's church in England.

Northward of where we stand, at the distance of five miles and more, the abrupt range of the Mendip Hills caught at that moment almost the last beams of the declining sun, as it sank, fiery red, toward the western ocean.

"The end of our pilgrimage," said St. Joseph again, slowly, and gazed down on the peaceful spot. "These are the islands of which the heathen king spoke:--how are we to name him?"

"Arviragus," answered one of his companions, nay, it was the saint's own nephew, called Helaius.

"Permitting us to set up there a Christian altar, and to proclaim the names and the praises of Jesus and Mary."

"May the kindness be returned a hundred-fold into his own bosom," ejaculated Theotimus.

"Amen," answered St. Joseph fervently. And Joseph his son, and Simeon and Avitus, and the rest, responded.

Then all knelt there on the brow of the hill; all but Hoel, their poor pagan guide to the spot. And with Christian psalms, and the Gloria Patri, and invocations to the court of heaven to assist them in their praises, they poured out thanksgivings to him who had permitted their long wanderings to cease, and their missionary life in this heathen land to begin.

Hoel stood near, leaning on his shepherd's crook. He guessed in general what it was about; but he understood neither Hebrew nor Greek.

He is a true Briton of that date, is Hoel; and he might literally be called "true blue," for he is painted all over in blue patterns with the juice of the woad, like his northern cousins, the Picts. His scanty garments are dyed the same hue with the same plant, which yields its juice plentifully in this part of Britain.

He looks at the saint, and thinks he is inquiring the name of that principal island in the group to which his staff points.

"Iniswytryn," cries Hoel, in explanation. "You're Latin scholars, gentlemen; so I suppose you know what that means--_Glassy Island_." [Footnote 150]

[Footnote 150: _Insula Vitrea_, the Roman and therefore the British name (by a slight corruption) of what was afterward called Glastonbury. _Glas_ is the Celtic word for grayish blue, [Greek text] and enters into numerous local names in Ireland, Wales, and the Highlands. Its affinity with our word _glass_ is probably more than a coincidence of sound, the ancient glass being mostly of the same neutral tint. Others derive the name of the place from the woad-plant, _glaisn_, which grows abundantly in this watered district.]

Glass, in those days, imported by the Romans into Britain, sorry stuff as the best of it would now be reckoned in the Birmingham or St. Helen's foundries, was thought a wonder of rarity and beauty. So Glassy Island was a name equivalent to our calling _another_ island that we love very dearly the

"First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea."

{520}

Hoel now spoke again in the same strange jargon as before, composed of British, or what we should call Welsh, and a little Latin. It was the dialect of those parts of Britain where the Romans had established their colonies and introduced their tongue. Be it noted, we are at this moment near the Roman colonies of Uxella, or Bridgewater, Ad Aquas, or Wells, and Ischalis, or Ilchester.

"So you are going to settle down there," remarked Hoel. "Won't you offer some sacrifice on first sighting the place?"

"We have no means of sacrificing this evening, friend," answered St. Joseph calmly, "nor to-morrow morning, I fear, unless we obtain materials, which at present we lack."

"Means!--materials!" said Hoel, musing with himself. "Well, every nation, I take it, has its own customs. But I know those who would not be long without providing the materials."

St. Joseph wished to ascertain what was passing in the man's mind. The zeal which urged St. Paul to become all things to all men, that he might save all, burned in the holy missionary's bosom. It made him seek out all that might serve the purpose of his coming. He had everything to learn: language, habits of thought, customs of social life, and the very observances of British heathenism.

"And how," he asked, "would you offer a sacrifice, good friend, when you had nothing to offer it with?"

"I? Nay, _I_ could not. What good would a sacrifice be from a peasant like me?"

"To pray is to make an offering, is it not?"

"Yes; but I don't mean that. You know I mean something more; why, something really sacrificed--consumed, to make the gods favorable. Have you no such sacrifice in your religion? Then it can't be the true one, _I'm_ sure!"

"Certainly," said St. Joseph, "we have the one true and adorable Sacrifice, of which all others are mere shadows, and some of them very dark, distorted shadows. Every morning we offer to the true and living God that spotless Lamb who alone can take away sin, or be a worthy thank-offering to his majesty and his mercy."

"A lamb?" said Hoel, still musing; "why, that's not to be had at this season. But would nothing else do instead? For example, now, I've a nice--"

"Do not concern yourself," answered St. Joseph, and smiled again, kindly. "We shall be able to provide ourselves in a few days, when we have made acquaintance with the neighborhood. I suppose they grow wine in these parts?"

"Wine?" repeated the peasant, opening his eyes. "Oh! yes, to be sure." Then, after a pause: "You're fond of wine, then, after all, like our own Druids? Well, I should hardly have thought--"

Helaius could hardly repress a smile at his mistake.

Hoel looked at him; then, as if he had hit on the cause of his amusement, laughed his loud clownish laugh, too.

"Wine? Ah! the very best, if you can buy it of those gray-bearded gentlemen; and old mead, and metheglin; or cider from our apples hereabout. We grew a mortal sight of 'em." [Footnote 151]

[Footnote 151: Glastonbury was afterward called by the Saxons _Avalon_, or the Island of Apples.]

Then he broke out into singing, and a kind of war-dance, to please his companions, as he deemed:

"All under yon oaks, and the mistletoe sprouting. When victims have bled in the circle of stones. We drink down the sunset with sword-play and shouting, And he that refuses, we'll raddle his bones: His bones! And he that refuses, we'll raddle his bones!"

{521}

It was difficult not to smile at his extravagant tones and gestures.

"Gently, gently," said St. Joseph to his companions, "or we shall be misleading him, and doing harm."

"Oh! never mind, ancient sir," remarked Hoel encouragingly, though he had not understood what was said. "All quite right--why shouldn't one? Only, it strikes me, you've no place to lay in a stock of it at present. Now, our Druids burrow out caves, 'tis thought, somewhere under their cromlechs--"

"Listen!" interrupted St. Joseph, laying his hand on the other's arm. He looked into Hoel's face, and gained his attention in a moment. "Listen, while I say a thing to you. Bread and wine, the ordinary food of man in our native land, have been appointed by him whom we serve, as the materials of that true sacrifice which he will accept. He requires, and will admit, no other. Animals were sacrificed to him of old, before he appointed this new and better way; but now--"

"You spoke of a lamb," interrupted the peasant, growing rather sulky, "so I just took the liberty of informing you as we'd none at your service."

It was not the moment to pursue such high and mysterious truths with him any further. But Hoel himself would not be let off, nor would he let off St. Joseph. Something seemed to be working in his mind.

"A lamb is a lamb," persisted he doggedly, though he seemed to mean no disrespect; "and a sacrifice is a sacrifice; and bread is bread, I hope; and wine, I'm sure, is wine."

"All things are what they have been created by God," answered St. Joseph very gently, "until it is his holy will and pleasure to change them in any way, or even to change them into other things."

Hoel looked at him, but said nothing. His look, though, meant inquiry, and this St. Joseph perceived.

"Is not a tree changed into something very different from what it was before," he went on, "when the warm air of spring breathes upon it, and the sap rises into it, and it puts forth green buds, and they swell, and burst, and afterward come leaves and fruit?"

"True," answered he; and then was silent, thinking.

"Did you ever see one of the trees down yonder blossom at this season?"

For all answer, Hoel laughed, and pointed to the leafless boughs on the island, and the shores around them.

"Could the gods whom you worship cause them to do so?"

"Not one of 'em all," answered he, with a somewhat scornful gesture.

"Then, _who_ makes winter pass and spring return; the bud burst forth, and the fruit ripen?"

A pause. The poor pagan was not prepared to answer.

"Now," continued St. Joseph, "my God, the one living and true, not only has appointed the laws by which seasons come round with their produce, and the sun rises and sets. He sometimes, moreover, changes these things, according to his own all-perfect will, so that the sun stays motionless in the heavens above, and the tree blooms in mid-winter on the earth below."

Hoel mused, and mused again, while his eyes wandered from the speaker to the rest, in whose looks he read confirmation of the words. Then he turned to take a sweep over the wintry scene that lay beneath and around. Woods and thickets skirting the slopes of Sedgemoor, the osiers lining the banks of the Brue, the few apple-trees that were even then on Iniswytryn--all without sign of a leaf.

{522}

He bent his eyes to the ground, knit his brows, seemed determined to hear no more, and to believe nothing of what he _had_ heard.

Still the gentle, persuasive voice of the saint sounded in his ears:

"What is that, friend, you have in your hand?"

"My shepherd's crook," was the brief and surly answer.

"And see, my pilgrim-staff, that has aided my steps so far. Yours was cut from a British sapling, out of your moist soil, I dare say, no longer ago than last autumn. Mine, under a burning sky, long years since, in Judea, a land you never heard of. It came from a thorn-brake that had furnished thorns for a crown of which you know nothing. Which of these two staves would bud the quickest, if they were planted side by side?"

Hoel looked up, pleased to find something he understood. "Mine would, of course," he grinned out. "'Tis a right slip of mountain-ash, and would have leaves next spring, if I struck it into the ground."

"And what if mine now budded before you could count ten?"

"You jest with me where I see no jest," exclaimed the countryman, disposed now to be angry, "or you speak as one of the unwise."

"There is no jest here," answered St. Joseph with unruffled look. You say truly. By no power of mine could the seasons alter, or the effects of them. My Master has said: 'All the days of the earth, seed-time and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, night and day, shall not cease!' But what if his power and his will unite to make some wonderful change in all this?"

"His power is great in the summer," answered Hoel, casting a look at the declining sun; "but in the winter time he seems further off, or feebler. He cannot melt the ice, nor draw up the dew, nor warm my fingers while I stand watching my sheep."

It was plain he was speaking of his deity, then sinking in the west, lower every moment.

"Ah!" said Avitus, "is it even such darkness as this into which the land is plunged? Would we had pushed on sooner from Gaul!"

"Courage, brother," whispered Simeon in answer. "There has been no time lost, Man can do but little, except pray and obey. If he does these well, he does good all around him. What says the holy text? 'Well done, good and faithful servant; because thou hast been _faithful in a little_.'"

Meanwhile St. Joseph had been in silent prayer. By some inspiration he felt moved to ask for power to work the first miracle ever wrought in Britain. Our Lord had promised: "These signs shall follow them that believe. In my name they shall cast out devils, they shall speak with new tongues, they shall take up serpents, and if they shall drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them: they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover." "Amen, amen, I say to you, he that believeth in me, the works that I do, he shall do also; and greater than these shall he do, because I go to the Father. And whatsoever you shall ask the Father in my name, that will I do; that the Father may be glorified in the Son."

And even while St. Joseph prayed, it seemed as if witnesses of the miracle, and disciples of the truth, were being given him; for, stealing up the ascent from various directions, knots of the wild Britons, in threes and fours, converged on the summit of Weary-All Hill. {523} I do not suspect Hoel of treachery, or that he had meant to lead the foreigners into a snare. It is likely the rude inhabitants had perceived them from afar as they stood there, their forms traced on the hill-top against the red sunset sky. But these new-comers seemed to have no friendly intention. Most of them held in their hands the rude weapons of ancient British warfare. The bare arms of some were stained blue with the juice of the woad; others were tattooed; they had the wild and savage look we have seen in prints of the Sandwich Islanders. So, with threatening aspect and gestures, on they came, brandishing their lances and _celts_, or bronze hatchets, and beginning a sort of war-cry.

Yes; the moment was come, and the sovereignty of the true Lord both over nature and grace was to be manifested in one and the same moment.

St. Joseph told his companions how strongly the thought had come into his mind. It had, indeed, guided much that he had already said to Hoel. As by one impulse, they all knelt again, and besought our Lord to remember now his promise; so that the soul that had remained impervious to his word might see his work.

St. Joseph then approached the peasant, who by this time was surrounded by his countrymen. In a mild voice, yet with an authority not to be resisted, he said:

"Plant your staff here, upright in the ground."

Hoel was startled, looked at him, then slowly obeyed.

The multitude still gathered, their gestures more threatening every moment.

"Call now, if you will, on your gods, that the staff may bud and blossom."

The peasant turned by a kind of instinct to the setting sun; clouds were mantling round it; its form was veiled; nothing seen but a dull and rusty stain of sunset fast paling into twilight. Hoel shook his head.

"You will not call on it to hear, to help you?"

He was answered by a gesture which implied that the power of Hoel's god was set for that night.

Then St. Joseph, with another ejaculation of prayer, struck his thorny staff into the ground beside the other. He made over it the sign of the cross, saying:

"By the grace of him who for us men hung on the tree on Calvary, wearing the thorny crown, I bid thee be as thou wert wont to be in the bloom of spring!"

There was still light enough to see how, here and there on the length of the staff, the shrivelled rind began to swell and to break, how the green buds shot forth and lengthened into twigs; how these ramified out again, branch from branch, sucker after sucker; how the old staff expanded into a shapely trunk of thorn-tree, crowned with a pollard head of rustling leaves.

And then through the keen wintry air was wafted such a fragrance as had never saluted the senses of shepherd, or of dreaming bard, wandering through the brakes and thickets of leafy May. The seasons had been reversed at the strong prayer of the just. He who enabled Josue to command the greater and lesser light in the firmament, "Move not, O sun, toward Gabaon, nor thou, O moon, toward the valley of Ajalon," now honored the name of the true Josue, the Captain of salvation, by the "things that spring up in the earth," [Footnote 152] which obey their Lord as perfectly as sun, and moon, and stars.

[Footnote 152: _Benedicite omnia germinantia in terrâ Domino_.--Dan. iii. 76.]

{524}

What cries of astonishment broke from the rude men who crowded round! How they came trembling to the feet of St. Joseph; how they kissed the hem of his robe, and adored him as a god! They thought he was Baal himself; they shrieked out that the sun had set in clouds because Baal had come in person to take the place of his representative. And though St. Joseph and his companions testified by signs of abhorrence and earnest words how much the rude impiety disturbed them, yet, "Speaking these things, they scarce restrained the people from sacrificing to them." [Footnote 153]

[Footnote 153: Acts xiv. 17.]

But this reverence, misguided and idolatrous at first, soon found its true channel, and was directed to the Giver of every best gift. And so the gospel was preached in Glastonbury, and grew, and flourished, and breathed out its fragrance like the thorn itself.

Then, after nearly fifteen hundred years, came a winter more killing than any Christmas during which the thorn had bloomed; and "a famine, not of bread, nor a thirst of water, but of hearing the word of the Lord." The decree of spoliation went forth; the royal commissioners, with a warrant from Henry VIII., thundered at the gates. The choir of Glastonbury, as of numerous other shrines in England, was desecrated; treasures of literature in the library and scriptorium were torn in shreds and scattered to the winds, with the relics of innumerable saints. The abbot, and two of his brethren, were drawn on a hurdle to the Tor, and martyred on its summit; the community dispersed, and the ruins, covering many acres, were given over to strangers, as a stable for their cattle.

But this was long after St. Joseph and his companions had been gathered to the saints.

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

The Sun. [Footnote 154]

[Footnote 154: This lecture was delivered by M. Secchi to the scholars of the school of Saint Genevieve, on the 28th of July last, at a scientific _soirée_, presided over by Mgr. Chigi. It occupied two hours in the delivery, during the whole of which time the lecturer held captive the attention of his distinguished audience, who testified their appreciation of its scientific and literary merits by warm applause. The lecture will speak for itself. But in publishing it, there is one thing which cannot be reproduced; that is, the deep interest which necessarily attaches to the hearing a learned man himself explain his experiments and his discoveries. A number of figures were necessary for the illustration of certain parts of the lecture; and these, prepared from M. Secchi's designs by M. Duboscq, optician, were projected on a screen, by the aid of the electric light, thus enabling the spectators to follow the learned astronomer with greater ease. Of these designs, etc., only the most essential have been given in the published lecture.]

Gentlemen: From the beginning of my stay in Paris, I was invited by persons to whom I owe great deference to lecture to you on some of the subjects which are studied at the Observatory of the Roman College. This invitation I felt to be in the nature of a command, which I would readily have obeyed long before, had I not been prevented by numerous and incessant cares. I cannot, however, leave France without discharging the debt; and it is for this purpose that we have met together, on the present occasion. I propose to speak to you of the sun, and to show you what science teaches us of its physical constitution. {525} For eighteen years I have studied the sun, and observed all that passes over its surface. I hope, also, to interest you in acquainting you not only with the fruit of my own labors, but also with the discoveries of my learned contemporaries.

What is the sun? Such is the question which has been frequently asked me. I confess it has always perplexed me to reply to it. I should not be pardoned, perhaps, if I should say I know nothing of the matter; nevertheless, it is impossible for me to give a complete and satisfactory answer. You yourselves have addressed this question to me with an eagerness which I appreciate as a

## particular honor; and, in responding to your desire, I am going

to place before you the very interesting results which we have obtained in the study of this luminary, to which, after God, its creator, we owe all the physical blessings we enjoy here below.

To deal with this vast subject in something like an orderly form, let us speak first of the new means of observation with which modern science has furnished us; after which we shall see what advantage we have derived from them, and in what way they have served to make us better acquainted with the sun.

Astronomers, gentlemen, are not privileged beings. Like simple mortals, they are dazzled by the sun. Far from sharing the penetrating sight which poets accord to the eagle, they cannot fix their gaze on the bright orb of day without exposing their eyes to the greatest danger; and this danger becomes more serious if they employ their instruments for this purpose without taking proper precautions. Until recently, two means have been employed to protect the eyes of the observer: first, the reduction of the objective aperture of the glasses; and second, providing strongly-colored glasses. These two expedients present the most serious inconveniences. The first deprives the observer of the advantages which he would gain from the large apertures, and the confusion of the image is greatly augmented by the diffraction which the small diaphragms cause the light to undergo; while the second will not permit of our distinguishing the different colors which may meet in the sun; and on this account the observer is liable to fall into very grievous errors. The means now in use effectually obviate this double inconvenience, inasmuch as they allow of the use of the entire aperture of the glasses, and leave to the different parts of the sun their natural color. The first means consists of the employment of the reflective glass. A rectangular prism of crystal is disposed in such a manner as that its hypothenuse has an inclination of 45 degrees on the axis of the glass. The light, on reaching the surface, divides itself into two very unequal parts. The reflected rays are rather feeble, but of sufficient brightness to make them pass through a glass faintly colored, falling perpendicularly on one of the faces of the prism, without reaching the eye of the observer. The colored glass, not having to sustain so high a temperature, is not so liable to break, as often happened in the old method.

If the colored glass is completely done away with, we shall succeed by adopting a method which rests on the properties of polarized light. When the light is reflected by a glass mirror under an angle of 35 degrees 25 minutes, it undergoes a modification which is called polarization. If the rays thus polarized are received on a second glass mirror under the same inclination of 35 degrees 25 minutes, they will divide into two parts, one part of which will traverse the glass, and the other will undergo a second reflection. {526} The quantity of light reflected by the second mirror will depend on the relative position of the two surfaces of reflection. It will be at the maximum if these surfaces are parallel, but otherwise if they are perpendicular; so that, by varying the relative position of the two mirrors to each other, we may either augment or diminish gradually the intensity of the reflected rays. Such is the property of the polarized light, which is utilized for making observations of the sun. To the eye-glass of the instrument are fixed two smooth mirrors, so adjusted as to make to the direction which the light follows an angle equal to the angle of polarization. One of these mirrors can turn round to the reflected rays. Then, by putting the surface of the second almost perpendicular to that of the first, we can observe the sun as easily as we can the moon, seeing it in its natural color, and we can regulate at will the intensity of the light. It is to this new arrangement of the eye-glasses that we owe the greater part of the discoveries of which I am about to speak to you. I ought to add, however, that in the astronomical glasses we employ not only two, but three and even four, of these reflections.

But to come to the consideration of the sun. Everybody knows that it has spots; that these spots, relatively very small, are of a black color, and also, that they adhere to the body of the sun. They move in a manner leading us to the conclusion that this luminary turns on its own axis in the space of twenty-five and a quarter days, and that its equator has an inclination of seven degrees and a half on the ecliptic. These spots are far from being constant. They undergo, on the contrary, the greatest changes both of form and size. They show themselves particularly in some zones, and appear and disappear at very irregular periods. The maximum and the minimum are reproduced at intervals of about eleven years. One of the most curious discoveries of our times is, that this periodicity of the solar spots has some correspondence with terrestrial magnetism. It is impossible to discover the point at which the two classes of phenomena unite, but the existence of the fact is incontestable. Thus, we have just seen the spots pass through the minimum. From September, 1866, to March, 1867, there were scarcely any of them; and during the same period the magnetic perturbations have been very feeble. As soon as the existence of these spots had been fully ascertained, the questions naturally arose, What is the cause of them, and what their nature? On these points there have been numerous opinions, all as diverse as possible. This is not to be wondered at; for hitherto there has been no correct observation from which could be learned the character and the particulars of the phenomena we desire to explain. So, without stopping to discuss ancient theories, I am about to bring before you the latest observations, and the conclusions at which we have arrived. The drawings of the first observers represent the spots as formed with a black centre surrounded by a gray tint of a uniform figure, which is called penumbra. It is not surprising that, with such imperfect means of observation, the theory of the spots should remain so long uncertain, and that these phenomena should have been taken for simple clouds floating in the solar atmosphere. This theory, which was put forth by Galileo, has been revived in our day. The solar spots have an aspect completely different from that which we see in the ancient cuts. {527} I am going to show the drawing of several of them as observed at the Roman College. I designed them myself, by a very rapid process, such a process being very important for objects essentially variable, and which change their form with great rapidity, and in a short space of time. Here is, first, one of the most common forms. (Figure 1.) It is a round spot, consisting of a black centre, around which is a penumbra all ragged. The first thing you wall observe is, that the figure of the penumbra is far from being uniform. It is composed of filaments, very long and very thin, which converge toward the centre. These have been called wisps of straw, willow-leaves, etc. I prefer to call them currents, being aware, at the same time, that it is impossible to compare them to any known thing. They are more scattered near the outline of the penumbra, and they become condensed near the centre, where the light is stronger and brighter. These luminous threads start from the outline of the spot, traverse the penumbra, and often run into the black space that forms the centre, where we see them floating singly, gradually becoming smaller, and disappearing after a while.

The penumbra is not always composed exclusively of threads like those you see. The centre is often surrounded by a uniform pale color, over which the currents are disseminated. These currents are not always continuous, and their different parts present an appearance which may be compared to elongated grains.

In spite of the increased power of the instruments we employ to observe the sun, the detached parts of the spots often appear to us as microscopic objects. In order to form an exact idea of their real dimensions, we must always remember that, at this distance, four fifths of a second is equal to 140 kilometres, and consequently these apparent threads, whose seeming width is at most not more than one or two seconds, are in reality immense currents, being, about the middle, of 600 or 700 kilometres in width, while their length is at least equal to the diameter of the terrestrial globe.

The drawings which you have just seen represent some of these spots in their complete form and exactly defined. But they present themselves oftener under fantastic and irregular forms. They are sometimes accompanied by a kind of tail, itself formed of black spots, and which seems to follow the centre in its motion. {528} We have here a curious example. The centre is not quite black; we meet with shadows there--some gray, and others red; the filaments on all sides fall toward the centre, and their edges are turned back and bent, as if they had experienced some resistance, or as if they had encountered a whirlwind. Here is a spot of this kind, (Figure 2,) the details of which are most instructive, and most important in a theoretical point of view. We find the centre divided in several parts by the luminous threads. This appearance was remarked by the ancient astronomers, who explained it by supposing that on the surface of the sun solid crusts were formed, which broke into shivers like glass under a blow from a stone. Modern observations, however, do not admit of this explanation. They show us clearly that these divisions are produced by currents which, leaving opposite edges, meet in the middle of the centre, and thus divide the spot into several parts.

The formation of a spot is never instantaneous. It is ordinarily announced by the appearance of several black points, and by a kind of diminution in the thickness of the luminous bed. These little cavities multiply themselves; one of them develops itself, absorbing the others, and the process ends in the formation of a black spot in the centre. In this first phase the movements of the spots are very irregular, and their advance is always to the front, by reason of the solar rotation.

The drawing which is now before you represents the first appearance of a great spot which was formed almost suddenly on the 30th of July, 1865. The day preceding that of its appearance, in observing the sun as usual, we had remarked only three little cavities, of which we noted the position. On the 30th of July, at mid-day, we found in the place of these cavities an enormous spot, the surface of which was equal to at least ten times the size of our globe. It was so mobile, and its form changed so constantly, that we could scarcely draw it. We could discover in it four principal centres, where the movement of the matter was visible in the form of a whirlwind. In an interval of 24 hours it had undergone some considerable changes. On the 31st of July, the four centres were completely distinct, and the matter which separated them seemed as if it were stretched out. {529} During the days which followed, this form became more and more marked. Soon there were four spots clearly defined, which ultimately assumed the form of four independent craters or cavities. In the interior of these craters we perceived some light shadows, whose form reminded us of that of the clouds we call cirrus. Their color was different from that of the other part of the sun which presented itself to view. As the polariscopic eye-glass does not change the color of objects, we are enabled to see that these clouds are often of a very decided red; and, as this tint is clear and well marked, it is impossible to confound it with the effects due to the achromatism of the instruments. You see here a great number of spots presenting this appearance, and especially in Figure 2, where the red shadows seem intertwined with the white shadows. I have more than once seen these luminous tongues, so to speak, transform themselves into red veils.

This hasty view is, however, so complete as to convince us that the spots cannot be compared to clouds, their aspect not warranting such a comparison. If any part of them may be compared to clouds, it is more the luminous matter; for we see it precipitate itself in the obscure space, and there dissolve in much the same way as we see the vapor which forms the mist dissolve into thin air. All that we are required to believe is, that these apparently black masses are but rents made in the luminous veil which covers the solar body, and to which we give the name of photosphere. It is this bed which transmits light and heat to us. It is suspended in the solar atmosphere, just as clouds in the terrestrial atmosphere. What appear to us as spots in the sun is simply the effect of the rents which take place in it. We are confirmed in this view by the well-ascertained fact that the spots are depressions in the solar body, and that they have the form of a funnel. This form becomes very perceptible, when the spots are drawn by the rotary movement toward the solar disk. When we examine a spot situated toward the centre of the sun, we find that the shape of the penumbra is more regular. But when the spot moves toward the edge, we see the penumbra diminish on the side of the centre, and increase on the opposite side, in which case it presents the appearance of a cavity in the form of a funnel looked at obliquely. {530} This effect is very clearly indicated in the drawing (Figure 3) which you have now before you, and for which we are indebted to M. Tacchini, the astronomer, of Palermo. We have observed this same spot at Rome, and we have made a drawing of it similar to that you now see; but I would rather exhibit that of M. Tacchini, because it cannot be objected that it was made under the influence of a preconceived idea. You see that in this spot the edge of the aperture is raised much in the same way as in the craters of the moon, and around these apertures are elevations, clearer and more luminous, which we call faculas.

The conclusions which I have just presented to you are also those to which M. Faye arrived, in studying the apparent perturbations in the movements of the spots. In short, what settles the question definitively is the study of the spots of exceptional grandeur when they reach the edge of the solar disk. It is then very easy to prove that the centre is lower than that part of the outline from which radiates the facule. Both M. Tacchini and I proved this at Rome, in studying the grand spot of July, 1865, at the moment in which it disappeared behind the disk of the sun.

The spots, then, are apertures, rents made in the photosphere. But how is it that these spaces do not fill up immediately? This is a serious difficulty, and it leads us to study the structure of the photosphere. If the photosphere was solid, all the movements which take place in it would be impossible. It is, then, fluid. But, on the other hand, a fluid would naturally spread itself until all points of the surface were on the same level, and it would require very little time to fill a gap having the dimensions of even the largest of the spots. The celebrated William Herschel saw this difficulty, and he met it by a solution which we still adopt, because it has been confirmed by observations and discoveries; so that what to Herschel was but a conjecture has become to us a demonstrated truth. The photospheric matter is like our clouds, gauze-like and transparent as ours. We often see among the clouds differences of level--disruptions which enable us to perceive the blue of the sky in the space which separates them. The same thing happens in the sun; and this hypothesis, which is so useful in explaining the phenomena I have just set before you, accords perfectly with all the particulars observed.

We have seen, in effect, the luminous matter remain suspended and floating in the midst of the centre, and the photospheric currents melt in obscure parts, just as our clouds dissolve, apparently dispersing themselves in a space completely deprived of vapor, when the temperature is sufficiently elevated. The little white veil in Figure 1 is a cloud about to be dissolved. Without this dissolving force, the matter which radiates from the circumference to the centre would not be long in filling up this gap. As I told you just now, we have been able to seize the fact of this dissolution of the solar atmospheric matter, and to see these cloud-like forms change into red veils occupying a large surface in the centre.

One thing alone remains to be proved--the existence of a transparent atmosphere. We have for a long time presumed its presence and its action to explain a well-established fact, namely, that the edges of the sun impart to us less of heat and light than the centre. This fact, inexplicable by any known laws of radiation, is easily explained by the action of an absorbing atmosphere; for the rays part at the edge before passing through a thicker atmospheric stratum, proving necessarily an absorption more considerable than that which flows to the centre. {531} The existence of a solar atmosphere, which was formerly regarded as probable, has been reduced to certainty by the observation of eclipses, and it has been shown that veritable clouds float in this gauze-like bed.

Everybody has heard of the magnificent aureola which surrounds the moon during the total eclipse of the sun. It is a truly solemn moment when, the last rays having just disappeared, we see the shadow of the moon projected on a sky of leaden hue, with a perfectly black disk surrounded by a magnificent luminous glory, like that which we see represented around the heads of the saints. This aureola, at least the part nearest the disk, is owing to the atmosphere of the sun. This spectacle is magnificent, but it becomes much more instructive when we examine it through a good telescope. We then perceive around the disk of the moon gigantic flames, of a lively red, the height of which is incomparably greater than the diameter of the earth. Some are suspended without any support, and others take a horizontal direction, like the smoke that comes out of our chimneys. These flames were designated protuberances; but we knew not how to explain them. It was even doubted whether they were real; and we were quite disposed to attribute them to an optical illusion. These doubts have disappeared since the observations we made in Spain during the eclipse of 1860. On that occasion we were stationed at Desertio de las Palmas, on the coast of the Mediterranean, while M. De la Rue took up his post at Riva Bellosa, at a short distance from the ocean. We succeeded at both these stations in photographing the sun at the period of the total eclipse, and a comparison of the two photographs has proved that the protuberances have a real existence, that they have a form so fixed as to give identical images at two points distant from each other by several hundreds of kilometres. The perfect resemblance of the two photographs is the more remarkable, from their not having been executed at the same moment. Between the two operations an interval of ten minutes elapsed. These protuberances, considering their distance and their bent forms, can be nothing but clouds suspended in the solar atmosphere, and it is these which form the red veils that we have seen in the centre. The observation of eclipses proves to us conclusively that the sun is really surrounded by a stratum of this red matter, which we ordinarily see only on the most elevated summits.

In the photograph taken at Desertio de las Palmas during the total eclipse, the exterior form of the atmosphere is perfectly visible. We see that it is more extended at the equator than at the polar regions, which is a natural effect arising from the movement of rotation which the sun possesses. We see, in short, that this atmosphere is livelier in its action in the two zones on each side of the equator, in which the spots ordinarily show themselves. The existence of a solar atmosphere being perfectly in accordance with all known principles and with all ascertained facts, there is no longer any room for calling it in question. We describe the sun, then, as surrounded by a dense atmosphere in which floats the photospheric matter. The surface of the photosphere is far from being uniform and regular. It is, on the contrary, wrinkled all over, and again covered with granulations. These granulations, first perceived by Herschel, have been carefully studied in later times.

{532}

When our atmosphere is calm and the observation very precise, the whole bottom of the solar disk appears covered with small luminous grains, separated by a very fine and very dark net-work, resembling in appearance partially desiccated milk, examined through a microscope. These points, or white grains, are of different sizes. Where there are openings, we see around each of them some lines of grains in the form of leaves, more or less oval. Their mean dimension is about the third of a second. These grains are only the upper part of the flame which inclines toward the openings, thus proving that there is a very sensible power of attraction in the apertures. We may even say that these granulations resemble the appearance which the clouds known as cumuli present when, from the summit of a mountain, their upper

## part is examined. The largest spots would be, then, but an

exaggeration of this net-work, ordinarily so fine, produced by the force which caused the flame, or rather, the stratum of the cumulus.

But what is it that produces these spots in the sun? Here the difficulty is singularly complicated. To reply satisfactorily to this question, it would be necessary to become acquainted with what passes in the interior of the solar globe. But let us, without hesitation, and without attempting to delude ourselves, confess that our study of the sun is confined to its external stratum, and to the most striking phenomena of which it is the seat; whereas, with regard to the interior mass, it is only by the process of induction that we are enabled to arrive at any knowledge.

Observations which we have just made lead us to the conclusion that the spots are owing to emanations issuing from the solar body, almost similar to the way in which matter is ejected by our volcanoes. This is proved both by the form of the craters, which you have just seen, and by the columns of clouds, analogous to those arising out of volcanoes, or out of chimneys, observed during eclipses. Here, then, is how we explain the constitution of the photosphere and the formation of the spots. The exterior stratum cools itself constantly by radiation, passes into the gauze-like state, or state of vapor, and ends by precipitating itself in the liquid state, or even in the solid, remaining, however, suspended in the solar atmosphere, as clouds do in ours. It is this condensed matter that forms the photosphere, and it is from that principally we receive light and heat. From some cause or other, a movement from below takes place in the gauze-like mass which is situated underneath. By this movement the photospheric stratum, raised at first, spreads itself on all sides, forming a sort of cushion, and ends by separating itself, leaving a wide opening in the form of a crater. While the volcanic emission lasts, the spot remains open, and it disappears only at the moment when the equilibrium is reestablished, by the luminous matter filling up the void which was formed. If this theory is correct, the circumference of the spots ought to form the mountains above the exterior surface. Now, we have just seen that the outline of the spots is always surrounded by faculae, which constitute prominent elevations. Supposing it is true that the interior mass is the seat of violent action, this conclusion has nothing surprising in it, and we are led to it by a certain number of other phenomena equally remarkable. {533} Thus, every time that a spot is produced, we remark that it is visibly projected with a quickness greater than that of the solar rotation. The projecting mass is then animated with a quickness greater than the surface of the photosphere; and, in order to explain this fact, we must admit that the matter of the interior stratum possesses a quickness greater than the superficial part.

This novel conclusion is supported by another fact. We know now that the rotation of the spots has not the same angular quickness under all the parallels. The quickness is sensibly greater in the equatorial zone than in the higher latitudes. This circumstance forces us to the conclusion that the sun is not a solid globe, but that its structure admits of the different strata of which it is formed having a movement of rotation independent of each other as regards velocity. In fact, the only explanation we can give of this difference of quickness is, that the interior mass is fluid, and that it is moved by a rotary process, more rapid than that of the external surface. We cannot, however, undertake the formal demonstration of this point on the present occasion.

This fluidity of the sun is calculated to surprise you; but you will cease to regard it as incredible when I remind you of certain ascertained facts about this luminary. The gravity of its surface is twenty-eight times greater than that of the surface of our globe, from which results an enormous pressure capable of condensing a large number of substances, or, at least, of singularly diminishing their volume. Looking simply at this fact, the mean density of the sun ought to be much greater than that of the earth. It is nothing of the kind, however, but just the contrary; for the specific gravity of the terrestrial globe is four times greater than that of the solar mass. We must admit the existence of a repulsive force capable of overcoming the molecular attraction, and of rarefying the substances which the weight tends to condense. This repulsive force is probably owing to the heat, and, in fact, the temperature of the sun is estimated at not less than five millions of degrees. At this temperature no matter could remain solid, even in spite of the enormous pressure of which we have already spoken. It is, then, impossible for us to admit the existence of a solid mass, and much more that of a cold centre in the interior of the sun.

And here an objection presents itself to which I ought to reply. If the interior mass of the sun is at a temperature so very elevated, how is it that, when the photosphere opens, a black spot is presented to our eyes? In examining this opening, we perceive a substance of which the temperature is extremely elevated, and which ought, consequently, to be very luminous. How is it, then, that, on the contrary, it presents to us the appearance of a very deep black? My reply is, that the black color of the spots is a purely relative matter; that it is owing to the contrast of the brilliant light which comes to us from the photosphere. If we could see those apparently dark parts away from the glittering mass of the sun, they would appear not only luminous, but dazzling with light.

But you will say to me, it still remains true that the interior mass of the sun is less luminous than the photosphere; but since the superficial part constantly cools by radiation, it follows that there ought to be less heat, and, consequently, less brilliancy in the photosphere than in the interior mass. {534} With your permission, I will make a reply to this which might, at the first blush, appear paradoxical, but which is, nevertheless, the expression of truth. It is precisely because it is of so very high a temperature that the interior mass of the sun sends us a less degree of light and heat; it is precisely because it is cooled at the point of condensation, to precipitate itself in the liquid or solid state, that the photospheric matter becomes hotter and more luminous. To make this plain, we have only to recall certain well-known principles of physics. Two bodies equally hot may not emit the same quantity of heat. One of them may cool itself rapidly in heating the bodies which surround it; while the other may let its heat escape only very slowly, and heat but feebly the neighboring bodies. In this case, we say that the first has a more considerable radiating power. Now, philosophers know that gas has a very feeble radiating power, and that it may be consequently at a very high temperature without emitting around it a great quantity of light and heat. You have an illustration now before your eyes. This lamp, fed by lighted gas, gives a very brilliant flame, because the carbon remains there some time in suspension before burning. Let us throw into the flame a little oxygen; immediately the flame pales, becomes bluish, and ceases to be luminous. Its temperature, notwithstanding, has greatly increased, and it is now the celebrated gas by the aid of which M. Sainte-Claire Deville melts his platina so rapidly. The change results from the very rapid combustion of the carbon by the oxygen. As soon as this takes place, the flame, no longer containing any solid body, loses almost all power of emission, and ceases, in spite of its high temperature, to have the brilliancy which it possessed at a lower temperature. To convince you perfectly, let us put a solid body in this flame, now so pale, and you will see it become more brilliant than ever. We introduce, for example, a piece of lime, and the apartment is at once illuminated by the Drummond light, one of the most brilliant of our artificial lights.

But, leaving the earth, let us now return to the sun. The interior mass is undoubtedly at a very high temperature--so high, indeed, that all the substances composing it must be in the state of gas, possessing only a feeble radiating power; while the photosphere is composed of matter precipitated in a liquid or solid state, of which the radiating power must be considerable. Here is the explanation of what seemed paradoxical in my answer. The hottest part of the sun is not the part which warms and lights us most, because, being in the state of gas, it produces only a feeble radiation.

Two questions now present themselves. How is it that the sun preserves indefinitely so elevated a temperature in spite of the enormous amount of heat which it loses daily? Of what kind of matter is this luminary composed? And what the nature of the radiation which sends to us daily the light and heat which we need? It is undoubtedly impossible to give a complete and satisfactory answer to these questions. We may yet be able, however, to do so; and we are persuaded that science in its progress will only confirm and develop the explanations which we give to-day of first principles. In the first place, it is impossible to admit that the sun is simply a luminous globe, not possessing any means of renewing the heat which it loses at every moment; for, in that case, at the end of a few years its temperature would be lowered in a very appreciable manner; and it would not require an age to effect a complete change in the phenomena which are dependent on it. There must be, then, a source of heat in the sun.

{535}

We are in the habit of comparing things we do not know with those with which we are familiar. Thus we have been led to think of the solar globe as the seat of a combustion similar to that we witness on our hearths. This idea is deceptive.

We know the quantity of heat which each substance throws off in a state of combustion; we know, too, what a vast body the sun is; and we are able to calculate with a rough but sufficient approximation the quantity of heat which the body of the sun would produce in burning. The result of this calculation is, that, at the elevated temperature which the sun possesses, the combustion of the solar mass could not be kept up during many ages. Since the historic period this temperature would have been so lowered as to produce a change in the seasons that has not taken place. We are compelled, then, to abandon the idea of a mass in combustion, as well as that of a luminous globe, and to acknowledge that there is a secret which has escaped us.

This secret, gentlemen, chemistry is charged to unveil to us. Astronomers profit eagerly by all the discoveries which physical science makes, and it is by this means alone that they arrive first at conjecture, and afterward at a knowledge of what is taking place at prodigious distances. It is thus that the phenomenon of dissociation recently discovered by M. Sainte-Claire Deville, puts us in the way of explaining the permanence of the solar temperature. We know that no combination can resist heat. Whatever may be the stability of the combination, whatever energy the affinitive force may possess, if the temperature is raised to the proper degree, the elements separate, and remain together simply in a mixed state, wanting to combine anew when the temperature is lowered. This is what we call dissociation; and this is just the state, for example, in which we find oxygen and hydrogen gas, exposed to a temperature of 2500 degrees. At such a temperature they remain in a mixed state, without being able to form water, which ought to result from the combination of these two elements. But the phenomenon of dissociation cannot take place without the intervention of an enormous amount of heat. To illustrate this, let us suppose a kilogram of ice at zero. In liquefying it would absorb 79 degrees of heat; to make it warm, 100 degrees would be required; in evaporation it would absorb 640; and to dissociate it, 3955, or nearly 4000 degrees would be necessary. What we say of water is equally true of all the combinations; all that is required being to change the numerical degrees of the latent heat, for fusion, for volatilization, and for dissociation. This being so, we arrive at the conclusion that even the least considerable quantity of matter in a state of dissociation may be regarded as a magazine of latent heat continually tending toward sensible development.

The temperature of dissociation of water is almost 2500 degrees. The temperature of the sun being at least five millions of degrees, the whole mass of which it is composed ought to be in a state of dissociation, and to contain consequently an enormous quantity of latent heat independent of the sensible heat; to which is owing this prodigiously elevated temperature. {536} What, then, is the effect which the solar matter ought to produce on the radiation of which it is the seat? Almost the same effect that radiation produces on a liquid body which has reached a temperature of solidification. The heat necessary to keep up the radiation is borrowed from that part of the liquid which solidifies, so that the temperature, instead of decreasing, remains constantly at the point at which solidification ceases. This is really what passes on the surface of the sun. This brilliant mass, raised to a temperature of five millions of degrees, has a tendency to cool itself rapidly. The radiation produces, in fact, a coolness in the superficial stratum. By reason of this coolness, part of the gas which composes the atmosphere is lowered below the temperature of dissociation; it yields then an enormous quantity of heat, which from latent becomes sensible, and prevents also an ulterior lowering of temperature. It is sufficient to repair the continual loss of heat that a mass of several kilograms passes daily from a state of dissociation to one of combination; and it is evident, considering the enormous size of the solar globe, that things may remain in this state during millions of ages without the temperature of the sun changing in a manner which may be felt by us. I say, by us, for our knowledge of this temperature is obtained at no less a distance than several hundred thousands of degrees.

It appears, then, from the very nature of the sun, that it does not possess an inexhaustible quantity of latent heat. A day will come when it will no more be able to lose heat without being cooled in a sensible manner, but that cooling will not take place before a very distant period, and long after we have disappeared from this world.

By way of recapitulation of the several views we have set forth, let us endeavor to give you a precise idea of the sun, as regards both its interior and its surface. The reasonings which we have just advanced, founded partly on astronomical observations and

## partly on known principles of science, lead us to regard the sun

as composed of a fluid or gauze-like mass, surrounded with a photospheric stratum, the matter of which has passed through the first stage of condensation. According to the views held by Laplace, the sun proceeded from the hands of its creator in a nebulous state. We are led to believe that the interior mass is still in this state. A change has taken place only on the surface, because there only could the loss of heat owing to radiation produce a partial cooling. The result of this cooling is the condensation of a relatively small quantity of matter, which, possessing a very considerable power of emission, forms the photosphere. It is in the presence of this photosphere that the only difference exists between the sun and a nebula, between the myriads of stars which people the heavens, and the nebulae with whose existence the telescope makes us acquainted.

We come, at length, to the last with which we proposed to deal: What is the constituent matter of the sun? What are the elements which enter into the composition of its atmosphere and of the photospheric bed? Some years ago, to put a question like this would have been regarded as rashness; to attempt to answer it, the height of folly. We only knew, from the analysis of meteoric stones, that cosmical matter did not contain any other elements besides those of which our globe is composed. But to-day we can go further, thanks to the discoveries of the German Kirchoff.

{537}

We all know the solar phantom, and the brilliant colors which result from the decomposition of the white light. This phantom seems continuous if we make the observations in a rough manner; but if we employ delicate means, we see that it is formed of a multitude of black streaks and of brilliant rays perfectly distinct from each other. It is impossible to imitate this appearance artificially. All that we are able to do is to project on a screen the figure of a solar appearance taken from a drawing. You see that it is furrowed over with a considerable number of black streaks, of which the principal ones are, according to Fraunhofer, who discovered them, indicated by the letters of the alphabet, A, B, C, etc. These streaks are extremely numerous: we have counted no fewer than 45,000 of them.

I have said that it is impossible for us to imitate this appearance with our artificial lights, and it is precisely here that we are able to discern the nature of the different sources of light. In fact, each source has an appearance peculiar to itself, and by which it is characterized. The brilliant line of the Drummond light gives a continuous appearance, and it is the same with all the simple incandescents. But when we analyze the light of a body in combustion, we arrive at an entirely different result. The appearance obtained in this case is crossed by rays which, instead of being black, are, on the contrary, more brilliant than the colors in the midst of which they are formed. The same thing happens when we make the rays emanating from the electric light pass through a prism, because in this case there is combustion, that is to say, a combination of the oxygen in charcoals, mixed with foreign matter, from which is produced the voltaic bow. If we are content to restore these burning coals, they will give a continuous appearance just as lime.

The brilliant spectral rays are not always the same. They depend on the nature of the metal which is found in the flame, and which takes part in the combustion. You see at this moment the appearance which silver presents: it is characterized by a magnificent green ray. Here is now the appearance of copper, which, we know, has a yellow ray, accompanied by a fine group of green rays, different from those which silver produces. We now burn some zinc, which gives a magnificent group of blue rays, a fine red ray, and another of violet. Finally, we shall close these experiments with burning brass, which is, as you are aware, a mixture of copper and zinc. You will recognize in the appearance which is produced the characteristic rays of those metals, each of them producing its proper effect, as if it were alone.

We learn but little, however, from these experiments, of the nature of the substances of which the sun is composed; for the rays which we have produced are all brilliant, while those of the solar appearance are black. Let us see, then, in pursuing this subject, if it would not be possible for us to obtain these black lines with our artificial lights. Let us produce, in analyzing the Drummond light, a perfectly continuous appearance. Now, let us make this appearance, before reaching the screen, pass through a deep layer of hypoazotic acid. Immediately you see it discontinued. It is like the solar appearance, crossed over by a multitude of black lines. The hypoazotic acid is not the only gas that produces this result. The vapor from brome, that of iodine, will give equally the black lines in the same circumstances, only these lines are different from those we have just seen in the experiment made with the hypoazotic acid. {538} Thus, the gases, the vapors, possessing the property of absorbing certain luminous rays, certain colors, these rays, found no longer in the appearance, are necessarily replaced by the black lines we have just observed. All the gases, all the vapors, could not, I am convinced, produce this result; for it is clear that their power of absorption, being less considerable, could not make itself felt, unless by means of a stratum the thickness of which should be greater than that which we are able to use in our experiments. We find a proof of this in what passes in the atmospheric air. Under a feeble thickness no sensible absorption is produced; but it is certain that the atmospheric mass absorbs a great number of rays, and consequently gives birth to many black lines; for in the solar appearance we observe new and very marked lines, when the sun being near the horizon, his rays pass through a bed of air of very considerable thickness. These rays are principally owing to the vapor of water. We can equally affirm the absorbent power of the atmosphere which surrounds the planets Saturn, Jupiter, and Mars. Their appearances contain lines very different from the solar appearance. Yet, as the light which they transmit to us comes to them from the sun, we are forced to conclude that that light undergoes some modification in travelling over its transparent path. It is the atmosphere of the planets which produces this result.

The sun also possesses an atmosphere, as we have seen, and this atmosphere ought necessarily to exercise an influence on the rays which traverse it. Such is, in fact, the origin of the rays which we notice in the solar appearance. They are owing to the atmospheric absorption, and the bed of transparent but absorbent vapor which surrounds the atmosphere, and which the rays pass through before they spread themselves in space.

But how are we to ascertain the nature of the vapors which produce the black lines we observe? Here physical science comes again to our aid, and the question we have just put finds its answer in a recent discovery. We have seen that a certain substance in burning gives birth to certain luminous rays which characterize it. We have also seen that this same substance, in a state of vapor, absorbs, on the contrary, certain rays, and produces in consequence certain black lines which are equally characteristic. Now, by a singular coincidence, these two powers, emissive and absorbent, are identically the same. Each substance, in a state of vapor, absorbs precisely the rays which it is capable of producing in combustion, so that the black streaks produced in the first case occupy identically the same place as the brilliant lines observed in the second. We may demonstrate this interesting theory by the following experiment, due to M. Toucault. We know that sodium produces in burning a beautiful yellow light. Well, let us burn some sodium in the coals, and between these two substances the electric light is produced. The metal while it is burning volatilizes largely; the vapors which are produced absorb precisely the rays which they should have emitted in their combustion; and you see that in the yellow, instead of a brilliant line, we have a very dark line. What we have just seen take place with the sodium has been equally proved by experiments on a great number of metals, and, by induction, we may extend the application to all those on which it has been impossible to make experiments.

{539}

Let us apply this principle to what concerns the light of the sun. The photosphere is composed of condensed substances, precipitated in a solid or a liquid state, floating in a transparent and absorbent atmosphere. This matter, being simply incandescent, ought to present to us a continuous appearance, and this continuity can be disturbed only by the absorption of the solar atmosphere. From this it follows, that to ascertain the chemical nature of the substances which compose this atmosphere, it will be sufficient to compare the black lines of the sun with the bright lines of our artificial lights. This has been done. M. Kirchoff first discovered that the sun contains sodium; for the line D of Fraunhofer coincides perfectly with the brilliant lines of this metal. It is equally well known that iron, copper, and twenty other substances which exist upon the earth in a solid state, would, at a temperature of five millions of degrees, be necessarily in a state of vapor.

After having thus made a chemical analysis of the sun, astronomers wish to go further; they have sought to know equally the composition of the stars. We have been led by this to some very remarkable consequences; we have been able to make a kind of classification of these stars, and to determine the group to which our sun belongs. It remains, then, for us now to apply the spectral analysis to the myriads of stars which stud the heavens, to those far distant suns, the greater part of which, perhaps, surpass in grandeur and brightness that which is the centre of our planetary system. It remains for us to interrogate these scarcely perceptible bodies, sparkling at such an incalculable distance, and to demand and draw from them the secret of their chemical composition. This enterprise is daring, but it is not rash. The difficulties are alarming; yet learned men are not discouraged, for they are accustomed to see difficulties disappear before strenuous and persevering labor.

We commenced our study of the stars with the complicated instruments which we employ for the sun; but we soon found out that this complication was useless. We have been able to reduce our instruments to the number of two, a cylindrical glass and a prism. And M. Wolff, of the Paris Observatory, has succeeded recently in suppressing the cylinder, keeping only the essential element, that is, the prism intended to produce the appearance.

We have examined a great number of stars, and I am going to submit to you some of the results at which we have arrived. You see at this moment the appearance which the star Orion presents. This star is of a yellow color; the appearance which it produces is deeply streaked; and it is one of the most beautiful in the heavens. You will find there the line D of sodium, and the line b of magnesium. These are two fundamental lines which have served as marked points to compare this appearance with that of the sun. Besides sodium and magnesium, _a_ of Orion contains iron, copper, and several other known metals; but it is singular that hydrogen is not found there in the free state, as in the sun. There is, then, some essential difference between the stars, of which you will be more convinced as we go further into the subject. Here is the appearance of Sirius. You see it is not nearly so fine. You will find two large bands in blue, in the place of the streak F of the sun; two others in violet; and one, very faint, in yellow. The two first are attributable to hydrogen, and the last to sodium; but we know not to what substance the violet is owing. In the green there are also some very fine lines, but very difficult to seize.

{540}

What is most remarkable is, that all the white stars present the same appearances, and half the stars that are visible belong to this type. Thus the fine stars of the Lyre, of the Eagle, of the Bear, Castor, etc., ought to be ranged by the side of Sirius. There is, however, an exception in [zeta] of the Bear, which is a yellow star. The magnificent stars of Arcturus, of the Goat, of Procyon, belong, on the contrary, to the class of which our sun is a type, except that the iron line E is much more marked. Their color, of light yellow, led to the inference that they were analogous to the sun, and the supposition has been confirmed by spectral analysis. All know substances have an appearance which is peculiar to them, and which characterizes them. Can we say as much of the stars? Do they also present marked differences in their appearance? This has been the subject of very interesting researches. The task has been undertaken at the observatory of the Roman College, and it has led to a result altogether unforeseen, namely, that the stellar appearances appertain to only a very limited number of types. We may classify them in three groups. The first group is that of the white stars like Sirius; the second, that of the yellow stars, of which Arcturus and the second are members; and Orion may be regarded as a type of the third, in which we ought to place _a_ of Hercules, and [Beta] of Pegasus. These two last-named stars have very remarkable appearances. They seem formed of a multitude of channels, which are divided by large black bands. This form of appearance shows us that the stars which belong to this type are surrounded with atmospheres heavily charged with vapor. In this group enters all the red stars, and in particular _Omicron_ of the Whale, that celebrated star which has been called _The Wonderful_. Several small stars of a blood-red color have appearances resembling each other. It is remarkable that in all the appearances belonging to stars of this type, the black lines occupy the same place, which proves that in general they are all made alike.

I have observed further that certain types abound in certain parts of the heavens, and that the stars of the same kind are generally grouped together. Thus the white stars are found in the Pleiades, the Bear, the Lyre, etc.; the yellow in the Whale, Eridan, etc. The constellation of Orion deserves particular attention; it abounds in stars of a green color, reminding us of the nebula which is found in the same region of the sky. This small number of types, and the grouping of which I have spoken, constitute an unforeseen fact, the importance of which is considerable from a cosmological point of view. We should not, however, be hasty in drawing conclusions from it.

A curious fact has been established with regard to one of the white stars in Cassiopeia. Its appearance is directly the opposite of that which is presented by stars of the same color, for, in place of black lines, it shows some brilliant lines. This phenomenon has appeared to me so extraordinary, that I am anxious whether it is an isolated fact. I have observed more than five hundred stars, selecting some of the largest, and I have found only one, [Beta] of the Lyre, which possesses the same peculiarity. M. Wolff says that among the small stars of the Swan he has found some examples of the same kind. A most remarkable fact is, that these brilliant lines were found in a transient star which glittered for a time in the Crown in May, 1866.

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These observations upset the theories which had been prematurely built upon facts formerly known. Still, there is nothing inexplicable here. You have seen that sodium burning gives a line of a very lively yellow, while the line becomes black if the sodium is increased to a considerable quantity. Might not the same thing happen with the hydrogen, which produces the brilliant lines of which I have spoken to you? Might not a small quantity act by radiation, while the action would be one of absorption should the mass be greater?

After having examined the stars, it was impossible to resist the temptation of observing the nebulae. You know that we designate by this name the kind of white clouds which are found spread in the heavens, and of which the nature is not perfectly known. Herschel has assured us that many of them, by means of the telescope, may be resolved into a multitude of small stars approaching very closely to each other. We infer from this that the greater part are composed in the same manner, and that the feebleness of our instruments is the only thing that prevents us from proving it. It is, however, admitted that many of these nebulae are formed of cosmical matter in a state of vapor not condensed. Everybody knows the nebulae which compose the Milky Way. But besides those which are visible to the naked eye, there is a vast number whose existence the telescope has revealed to us. One, of the most celebrated is that which is found in the magnificent constellation of Orion: we have carefully drawn it at the Roman College, and you see at this moment a sketch of it on the screen. The nebulae possess a very feeble light, and we had our doubts of success in seeking to apply the spectral analysis to them. We have, however, succeeded beyond our hopes. The appearances obtained in these observations are very singular. They reduce themselves constantly to luminous streaks, all the other colors failing; it is, in another way, that which happens when we burn an alcoholic solution with marine salt; the flame, analyzed by the spectroscope, gives simply a yellow streak. In the nebulae we find two green lines and a blue one. Such is the result which we obtained in examining the large nebulae of Orion, and that of the Milky Way in Sagittarius. Such is that, also, which furnishes the little nebulae called planetaries, on account of their form, which resembles that of the planets. These facts have been established for the first time by M. Huggins.

As I have just told you, the nebulas present generally but three lines; one belongs to azote, another to hydrogen, and the third is unknown. This result, which was not known before, is of the highest importance; for it teaches us that the nebulae are composed of gas and of vapors far removed from their point of saturation and condensation. These appearances, with luminous lines, distinctly isolated and separated from one another, appertain essentially to gas, and, we ought to add, to gas raised to a very high temperature. Thus we have made a discovery by the aid of the prism, for which the most powerful glasses had failed us.

The nebulae, notwithstanding their shining points, are not in general a collection of stars, but masses of cosmical matter in a state of dissociation under the action of an extremely elevated temperature. The collections of stars are perfectly distinguishable by the continuity of their appearances, as we see in the nebulae of Andromeda, and in some others which are well known. The discovery opens a vast field of investigation, and will be an epoch in science.

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We have wandered far into the depths of space, very far from the point from which we started. This is of no consequence, however, for between the sun, the stars, and the nebulae there is a close relation. The sun is simply a star approaching nearer to us than others. According to a bold hypothesis, its entire mass was at one period in a state of dissociation, which a great part of it still actually preserves. The only thing that makes it differ from the nebulae, and causes us to rank it among the stars, is its superficial stratum of inconsiderable thickness.

What mysteries do we not discover in nature, when we investigate it by the aid of those principles and instruments with which modern science has furnished us! And in the presence of the wonders, what an exalted idea ought we to form of the splendors of the universe and the power of its Creator!

Permit me, gentlemen, in closing this lecture, to quote an admirable thought of Saint Gregory of Nazianzus. The sun, says that father, is the most perfect image of the Deity. You see the effects which it produces; you enjoy its benefits; but you cannot contemplate it directly, nor sound its depths. The loss of life, the greatest of the earthly blessings we enjoy, would be the punishment of the madman who would dare to invade its mysteries. It is the same with the Deity; it is impossible for us to see in himself; and we ought to content ourselves with admiring here below those traces of his infinite perfections which shine in his works.

We have succeeded, by the means with which science has furnished us, in examining this dazzling star, and in doing so we have seen some unexpected wonders; but how many other wonders have escaped us, which will doubtless be discovered at some future time!

If we can thus speak of the material sun and its splendors, what shall we not say of its prototype, when, freed from this material covering of sense, and reduced to a state of pure intelligence, we contemplate him with the eyes of our soul? Science and Faith are two rays issuing from the same focus, the one direct, the other reflected. As long as we are upon this earth we should be content with the second, our vision not being strong enough to support the brightness of the first. But a day will come when we shall see the Divinity face to face; and, in the meantime, the man who denies his unfathomable mysteries, under the pretence that our feeble powers are not equal to their comprehension, is as foolish as the rude peasant who should deny the wonders with which I have entertained you, under the pretext that his eyes are dazzled by the light of the sun. A day will come when the direct rays of the Science of Divinity will no longer dazzle our intelligence: the high destinies which awaits humanity will permit of our contemplating the unclouded essence of the Deity, as the reward of the persevering but not blind fidelity with which we shall have here below, without pride as without baseness, believed in his existence and admired his greatness.

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

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Translated From The French.

An Italian Girl Of Our Day. [Footnote 155]

[Footnote 155: _Rosa Ferrucci: her Life, her Letters, and her Death_. By the Abbé H. Perreyve.]

Continued From Page 372.

I here interrupt, for a moment, the order of these _Letters_, to introduce a fragment from one of the writings of Signorina Ferrucci, in which is found, eloquently developed, the idea with which the last letter closes. Need we wonder that, to so a pure a soul, Christianity was all mercy and all love? Certainly not. The passions of men have so often disfigured the sweet countenance of the gospel that those outside the household of faith form a false idea of it, and, in their inability to distinguish what is divine from what is human, they reject all. But, if they would only learn to leave men and draw near to God, to flee vain disputes and go to the centre where all is calm, they would soon know that the genius of Christianity is indeed love. Pure souls, whom anger and dispute have not marred, know this well. The young author whom I am about to cite understood it, and it is with a feeling of respect that I transcribe these beautiful pages, which breathe so strong a perfume of the gospel:

The love of God, which inflames the heart of man and infuses into it a holy zeal, has assuredly nothing in common with that implacable fanaticism with which infidelity so unjustly charges the religion of Jesus Christ. And yet it is but too true that the sons of one Heavenly Father, the inhabitants of a world watered by the Redeemer's blood, have more than once, while waging cruel war upon each other, ranged themselves under the standard of the cross. But because such horrors darken the page of history, are we to conclude that the love of God banishes all toleration from the human heart, or can we deny that the Catholic religion is all love? And shall the blind fury of men make the world forget the numberless benefits which, for nineteen centuries, the gospel has bestowed upon all nations and upon its most cruel enemies?

O church of the Redeemer! who dost pray for thine enemies, and dost show thyself ever ready to succor them, even as our Heavenly Father maketh his sun to shine upon the most ungrateful of mankind, who was it that filled thy heart with that holy and ever active love of all the virtues? Who gave thee the strength to oppose at all times a tranquil front to the masters of the world? Whence have thy martyrs derived that courage which made them joyfully bend their heads under the axe of the executioner? Who taught thee to confound the subtle contradictions of the philosophers, and, with the same hands, to break the chains of the slave? How is it that, ever firm and immovable, thou alone hast survived the vicissitudes of all things and the overthrow of so many thrones? Who has given thee such power of persuasion that by its prodigies "from the very stones are raised up children to Abraham"? In fine, whence hast thou received that inviolable authority which resolves all doubts, dissipates our errors, humbles the mighty, sustains the weak, enlightens the world, pardons all faults, and consoles in every affliction and in every distress?

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Ah! who does not see that so many miracles have been wrought by the sole power of that divine love kindled in thee by Jesus Christ? For just as thou lovest Jesus in fatigue and in repose, in tears and in joy, in persecution and in peace, in combat and in victory, so also thou lovest in him and for him the humble and the great, the faithful and the unbelieving, the poor and the rich. There is not on this earth a human being for whom thou dost not pray, and whom thou wouldst not, at any price, bring back to the bosom of him who suffered for all men because he loved all. Oh! may thy desires soon be fulfilled, holy church of the living God!

How, then, can that man call himself the friend of God and the true son of the church of Jesus Christ, who would oppose arms to arms, violence to violence, forgetting these words of Christ, "Love your enemies," "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do"? The blind apostles of intolerance show well that they have never penetrated in its true sense the life of the Redeemer, who, suffering every injury, and even the death of the cross, drew the whole world to himself by the irresistible power of pardon and of love. He who would be willing to forget his prejudices, and, retiring into the solitude of his own heart, would plant there the sweet image of Jesus Christ, such a one would soon learn how far the power of Christian meekness transcends that of the sword, and he would shudder at the thought of pursuing with fire and steel them whom the cross alone may vanquish. Ah! if Jesus crucified entered truly into our hearts, how many things would he not make them understand! [Footnote 156]

[Footnote 156: Della Carità Cristiani.]

Again, I find, in the same paper, this beautiful sentiment:

I believe that charity consists not solely in compassionating the sufferings of the poor and relieving them. Its character is more general: it must be the soul of all our sentiments. For my part, I see charity in patience, in humility, in faith, in docile submission to superiors, in justice, in courage, in fortitude, in contempt of the world, in the desire of heaven. Charity is, indeed, the light of God, infinite as himself. Whoever has received into his heart a ray of this divine light is bound, if I may so speak, to communicate its warmth to the whole world.

We return to the letters.

July 15.

Sweet were the impressions, Gaetano, which our walk yesterday in that beautiful garden left on my mind. Is it not true that the flowers, the trees, the blue sky, the pure soft air, the song of the birds, the hum of the insects--all conspired to speak to our hearts of God? I feel, too, that all these beautiful things seemed more joyous to me because you were there, for to me they all seemed to reflect the feelings of your heart. Then those beautiful verses of my mother's which Uncle G---- read to us affected me powerfully. Earth and heaven, flowers and songs, all borrowed a new charm from the harmony of those beautiful stanzas.

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July 22.

I do not know the places you speak of, unless you mean Romito and Antignano. I went as far as La Torre on foot, one beautiful August morning, without suffering much from the heat, which was tempered by the sea-breeze. After having traversed that long, steep road, which becomes at every step more solitary and more closely shut in between the hills and the sea, I went up to the top of the little fortress, and thence for a long time I gazed on the neighboring islands and the vast horizon where sea and sky seemed to unite, and I even discerned some of the lands of the Maremma. Another time, with the Plezza, the Gabrini, and other friends, we went as far as Romito. The sun had already sunk below the horizon. Every moment the last glimmering of twilight was becoming more faint, and soon the moon rose behind the hills. Her pale rays were reflected in the sea, where nothing was seen save a solitary fishing-boat; and the gentle murmur of the waves, as they came slowly to die on the rocky shore, was the only sound that broke the stillness of the night. We crossed from time to time the dry bed of one of those torrents which fall from the mountains into the sea; and thus, now talking, now silent, gazing, admiring, we passed the two little towers, and, arrived at the limits of the two communes, we stopped and turned back, as if we had reached the Columns of Hercules, There is a comparison that would please my good friend Louisa V----. Would you believe it, in her last letter she gravely compares me to a navigator steering toward a new world. "Yet no," she says, "love is a world as old as the earth." That may be, my good Louisa; but to me it is new, all new, Gaetano, and I believe, even, that it will never grow old, like everything that comes directly from God, who is endless duration in eternal youth! On this is grounded my sure hope that, after having united us here on earth, he will unite us again in the life to come; and this thought alone raises me from earth to heaven!

This was not the first time that Rosa had visited Antignano. That calm and lovely shore had witnessed the sports of her childhood. Three or four years before the date of the last letter we have given, she wrote from that place to one of her young friends the following pretty letter:

Antignano, July, 1853.

In spite of our joy at being here, believe me, my dear Maria, we feel your absence sadly. It turns to melancholy the joyous memories of last year. This is from my heart, Maria; how happy I should be to have you at this moment by my side! Come back to us then, dear friend, come back! The little wood where we spent so many happy hours, the great shady trees, the smiling country, and the sea--all call you back. Why, it is but two days since I heard a wave which came bounding over the sea say to you, "Come down, young girl, from the flowery bank into this calm sea, and yield to the invitation of the sun, who with his brilliant rays is brightening air and earth and water." But this pretty song of the naiad was suddenly interrupted, for my poor wave broke and expired on a rock. All its sister wavelets murmured the same prayer to you, but all, like the first, soon broke upon the shore; and I grew pensive at the sight, for those poor waves, vanishing so quickly, seemed to me a true image of our shattered hopes, which cause us so many tears. Meanwhile a little interior voice remained with me, and murmured sweetly in my ear, "Courage, courage! Why are you sad? Cannot Maria come back? I am your good friend Hope, listen to me and believe me: I promise you that next year Maria shall be here." This consoled me a little, for I always believe what my good friend Hope tells me. Courage, then, and patience, and I am sure of having you yet at Antignano. Dear Maria, pardon this letter, which is as long as it is foolish, and, if you do not understand it, seek in it only a new proof of my tender affection for you. Meanwhile, let us leave the world of dreams and enter that of news. ...

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To Gaetano. July 28.

This day brings to us a mournful anniversary. Poor Charles Albert! on this day, and at the very hour in which I write, he yielded up to God his soul, oppressed with grief, but still full of an unshaken confidence in the justice of his cause and the imprescriptibility of his rights. Doubtless the saints have welcomed into heaven him who on earth loved God and suffered for justice' sake. It is with feelings of compassion that I think of the king, his son, surviving all his family, who have, one after the other, gone before him to the grave.

This enthusiastic remembrance of the house of Savoy is not the only one to be found in the letters of Rosa Ferrucci. The misfortunes of the king, Charles Albert; the death of the Duke of Genoa, his son; the ruin of so many hopes, for a moment triumphant--all these often call forth in her correspondence plaints and regrets. I like to see this love of national independence in so pure a soul. She says somewhere:

"In considering the history of nations, we discover at every step new and infallible proofs of the wisdom and omnipotence of him who directs the affairs of the world; of that mysterious justice which surpasses all human understanding as the heavens surpass the earth. Hope, then, in the Lord, ye victims of oppression! Acknowledge the hand which alone can give you deliverance! And you, usurpers of the rights of the vanquished, triumph not without trembling at the tears which you have caused to flow. He lives, he will live for ever, who will never remain deaf to the lamentations of his people Israel. If he defers his justice, are you to cease to believe in him? Because he can wait, will your presumption know no bounds? Do you forget that God is patient because he is eternal?" [Footnote 157]

[Footnote 157: Della Carità Cristiani]

Patriotism was, however, a family tradition with Rosa Ferrucci. At the time of the memorable events which, in 1848, threatened the speedy overthrow of Austrian rule in Italy, Signer Ferrucci, with his colleagues in the University of Pisa, quitted his chair, and, at the head of the students, who had formed themselves into a body, set out for the army, accompanied by his young son. They took part in all the battles of that unfortunate campaign--at first in its victories, then in its reverses--and returned to Pisa only after the ruin of the last hope. These are facts too little known in the contemporary history of that unhappy Italy whose faults are the theme of every tongue, while few know how many noble hearts she can still produce.

We resume the correspondence:

August 4.

May I tell you, Gaetano, what I have been thinking about our future life? We must first, as we have so often said, have continually present to our minds the will of God, endeavor to accomplish it in all things, and be ever submissive to it from our inmost hearts. Then we must have but one heart and one soul in serving God, and I hope that we shall have but one heart also in loving our dear parents. What ingratitude would be ours if in our happiness we forgot them to whom we owe so much, and who loved us before we knew what love was! [Footnote 158]

[Footnote 158: "Prima che noi potessimo sapere che fosse amore."]

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Let us endeavor so to regulate the affections of our hearts that one shall not be stifled by the other, but that all, forming a sweet harmony, may rise toward him who created us, and for whom alone we must live. May he alone be the end of all our actions and of all our thoughts! Then fatigue will never overcome our courage, our duties will never seem too heavy, our life will be calm, our intentions pure, and we shall taste even here below that interior peace,

"Which no one knows but he who feels it."

Such is the plan of our life. I have but lightly sketched it, fearing that I might seem to be giving counsels and prescribing rules to you. All this is possible only by the grace of God. Let us beg it through the intercession of the Blessed Virgin at the approaching festival of the Assumption; we have so great need of her protection and guidance.

"We pray for grace and it obtain From her who is its mother."

September 15.

To-day I am as sad as I was joyous yesterday. Your departure, the thought of an inevitable separation from my father and mother, a thousand conflicting feelings in my heart, undefinable to myself, have made me weep. Alas for us women! we are weaker than the leaves which are stripped from the trees and scattered by the first wind of autumn; and, childhood scarce passed, our hearts, capable only of loving and suffering, are torn by a thousand contrary emotions of joy and sadness. Pardon me these murmurs, O my God! No, I ought not to weep, but ought rather to pour out my soul in thanksgiving.

I open my whole heart to you, Gaetano, because it is you who are to be the support of my life; to share all my thoughts, dispel my fears, and be my counsellor and guide. Singular thing! my new hopes have made all my feelings more keen and ardent. Hence those alternations of joy and sadness, to whose deepest emotions I was till lately a stranger. As it is, I do not know how I am to tear myself from the arms of those who watched over my childhood and who love me so much. But let us forget all this to-day. I can no longer speak of my mother without my eyes filling with tears. It is drawing near that dear October. If I cannot enjoy your ruralizing, I can, at least, be happy in thinking of the pleasure you will find in it. You are going to see your mountains again, and those pine-groves, which from my childhood I have ever loved and admired. In the midst of the flowers, the plants, the trees, you will think often of him who created us with souls capable of loving the beautiful and good; of him who this year has opened to you the horizon of a new life, in which I hope you will never find either regrets or thorns. Oh! how easy, as it seems to me, does the beauty of the country make the love of God. How sweet it is to think that the same God who gives the dews and the fertilizing rains to the earth, foliage to the trees, flowers and harvests to the fields, is also that loving Father who supports us in all our trials and so sweetly invites our souls to repose in himself! Let me speak to you of the good God, Gaetano; I love so much to think of him.

September 25.

I cannot express the pleasure it is to me to gaze into the deep azure of the beautiful mornings of which

"The air is sweet and changeless,"

and of the lovely evenings when the stars seem to speak, and tell in a sacred language the wisdom of God. The country does good to our souls. In admiring its beauties and its treasures ever new, we are led more easily to think that, if earth was made for man, man was created to love God. I often say to myself, What, then, will heaven be, if there is so much of beauty on this poor earth, where we are not so much dwellers as pilgrims? ... On the eve of St. John's day, all Florence was illuminated. There was nothing to be heard but games and noisy laughter among the people. Every one was gazing eagerly at the fireworks and the illuminations; but no one thought of admiring the most beautiful ornament of the feast--I mean the moon, whose tremulous rays were reflected in the Arno, lengthening the shadows of the trees.

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September 28.

Next year we will go to the country together. If you knew how I love your mountains, with their tall pines, their flowers, their streams, and their green summits. I still remember the moment I left them. It was a November morning. The faint rays of a cloud-veiled sun shed a pale light on the horizon, the leaves were falling from the trees, and the snow of the day before still covered the summits. All nature was solitary and sad. Who could have told me then, that to this melancholy spot which I was leaving as a child, I should return with you a happy bride?

October 23.

Enjoy well your ruralizing; its pleasures are a thousand times sweeter than those of our towns. How pleasant it is of an evening to climb the heights, and thence behold the vast expanse of heaven still purpled by the sun's last rays; to see at one's feet the fields, the pine groves, the pale olives, the elms, yellow-tinted by autumn, the little, scattered cottages of the peasants, with the smoke of the evening fire rising from the roof, and the village church, which seems by the tolling of its bell "to mourn the dying day,"

"Il giorno pianger che si muore!" [Transcriber's note: This sentence is blurred.]

I am far from all this now, but I often think of it. Again I see our happy day at Cuccigliana, our mountain walk, and that beautiful horizon, with its luminous depths, which promised me a joyous future. How many things nature can say! How she can speak to the heart! How, above all, she can speak to it of God! Flowers, hills, forests, earth, and sky--all are more beautiful when we have learned to discern in them the beauty of God. How many times already, Gaetano, have I gone over again our walk on the Serchio, where the rustling of the leaves was the only accompaniment to our long conversations! Ah! may God bless thee, may he render thee happy, and all my desires will be satisfied.

Eve of All Saints' Day.

Oh! if the feast of to-morrow should one day be our feast! Do not suppose, however, that I am presumptuous enough to hope that we shall ever be like the saints of our altars. No; but I believe that not only those great saints, but also all the souls of the just who are admitted to the beatific vision of God, are invoked on this great day by the church. This it is that emboldens my desires. ...

If you are sad, recollect that it has pleased God thus to alternate in this world our joys and sorrows, in order to implant more deeply in our souls the desire of that life in which weeping shall be no more. Then shall we be united I hope, in the love and blissful contemplation of that God whom we now adore under the veil of faith.

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Meanwhile it is sweet to say to one's self: God loves me infinitely more than I can love myself. He thinks of me and watches over me with a tenderness surpassing all the tenderness of a mother. What, then, should I fear? And besides, how be Christians and not be willing to suffer for love of a God who has suffered so much for us? I would share these thoughts with you, Gaetano, because I find in them my strength and consolation every day. Treasure them in your heart, call them often to mind, and your sadness will disappear as

"La neve al sol si disigilla." [Footnote 159]

[Footnote 159: "The snow dissolves before the sun."]

I do not think we shall lose by the exchange when, having finished Milton, we read Virgil together. That great man seems to me indeed

"The light and honor of the other poets,"

as our Dante says. We shall reap from this reading the great advantage of being able to compare the principal episodes of the AEneid with the best passages of other poems. I assure you I do not regret the time I give to my little studies; if I had to commence them again, I should apply myself only with more diligence and attention. I owe to them the best pleasures that I have known; above all, I owe to them community of intellectual life with you. [Footnote 160]

[Footnote 160: I would for a moment call the reader's attention to this sentiment. Such should, indeed, be the chief end of the studies of every Christian woman--community of intellectual life with her husband, community of intellectual life with her sons.]

Now that I do not take lessons, and that, consequently, I have no more leisure, I know no more lively pleasure than to shut myself up in my little room with my books and my pen; and even during those hours which I ought and which I am determined to devote to needlework, I love still to think of what I have read and to beguile the time by these pleasant memories. Having had some time for study to-day, I resumed the reading of Muratori, taking the history of the wars of Odoacer and Theodoric. The subject is a familiar one, but I return to it always willingly, because I think the history of the middle ages even more important for us to know than ancient history. And then what joy of soul to see the church, in all places and in the most barbarous ages, the mother and guardian of civilization, the friend and consoler of the vanquished, the last bulwark of the oppressed against the unbridled pretensions of power!

Poor Italy! how she has suffered! What carnage! How much blood shed in vain! How many tears!

January 1, 1857.

Let us pray God, let us pray him with our whole heart to-day, Gaetano, to bless our union, our souls, our actions, our thoughts, our life. May he deign to preserve long those who are dear to us, to shield us from great misfortunes, and, above all, never to withdraw his grace from us! Such are the prayers that we will offer together, united in heart, though separated by distance. God will see the sincerity of our desires, and he will grant them.

The serenity of the heavens gladdens all nature, and rejoices also our souls, which in the light of the sun seem, as it were, a reflection of the Increated Light. I do not think I am superstitious, Gaetano; and if the new year had commenced in the midst of lightning, thunder, and dismal rains, I should certainly not, on that account, have augured ill for our future. But now, contemplating the calmness and pureness of the sky and of the whole horizon, I ask of God to give us a life like to this beautiful day, that is to say, such a life that nothing may ever be able to disturb in our souls that peace whose source is in God, its eternal fount.

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January 4.

After some cold days, the weather has again become very mild, and the air is balmy as with the first perfumes of spring. How brightly the sun shines to-day! Its warm beams inundate my little room. Seated at my table, at some distance from the window, my eye wanders involuntarily to what I can see of the sky. I fancy I see a great blue eye looking down lovingly on me. Ah Gaetano! how good is God!

I have just learned the death of a very dear friend. Young, beautiful, brought up in opulence, the only daughter of a mother who idolized her, she wished to become a Sister of Charity in order to serve God in his poor. For ten years she has been a tender mother to the orphan, and she has just died in the bloom of her days. Dear and good Sister Maria! how happy I should have been to see her again! I do not cease thinking of her! Schiller would say here: "Cease to weep: tears do not resuscitate the dead." Ah! with what a far different power do the words addressed by the Redeemer to the afflicted come home to our hearts: "Blessed are they that weep, for they shall be comforted!" The more I meditate on these words, and then look on earth in its renewal, the pure light and deep azure of the sky, the more I am impressed, death notwithstanding, with the infinite goodness of God and the ineffable bliss of a future life. I hear sometimes of the good being oppressed by the wicked; I often see virtuous persons in misfortune; will not, then, the just also have their day and their recompense? Ah! often, when at night I raise my eyes toward the twinkling stars, I think of those happy souls who are there on high, higher than the stars, in the eternal enjoyment of the beatific vision, of adoration and love without end. If man would only fix his soul on such thoughts, what is there on earth that could discourage him?

I received your dear letter this morning, Gaetano, and lest you should suppose I thought it too gloomy, I must tell you that I, too, have been thinking of death the whole day, and that I even offered a special prayer to our Lord to be merciful to me when the hour shall have come for me to pass from time to eternity, and, as I hope, "from the human to the divine." We have need of abandoning ourselves with a child-like confidence into the arms of God, if we wish to keep alive in our hearts the hope of seeing in heaven him whom we adore on earth. For my part, if, instead of thinking of him alone, I turned to think of myself, I really know not whither my reflections might lead me. But hope, which is a Christian virtue, is a firm expectation of future glory, I will, then, forget my fears and believe that, despite our imperfections, we may one day taste in the bosom of God a happiness even of the shadow of which we cannot catch a glimpse on this earth. We shall then know in what overflowing measure the Lord rewards even the feeblest efforts of his friends. We shall know how everything here below was inevitably passing away with ourselves, how this earthly life vanished more lightly than a dream, and that there remains nothing to man after death but love, that ethereal part of the soul which God claims all for himself. Yet more: I believe that the love which shall unite and commingle our souls on high will not be absorbed in the contemplation of the divine essence in such a manner that the sweetness of loving each other still shall escape our perception. {551} I believe, on the contrary, that it will be the triumph of love to exist and to endure in God, and to unite in one canticle of praise the souls which God made to love one another.

More sorrow--Matilda is dead! [Footnote 161] Oh! how we loved her. She was an angel! It is we only who suffer, for to her it is pure happiness to have quitted earth. Not a murmur was ever heard from her lips. She found all peace and all strength in the love of God. Her soul so easily opened itself to joy. The day before her death, seeing some flowers, "What beautiful things our God has made!" she exclaimed. Her friends wished to inform her father of her imminent danger. This she constantly opposed, wishing to spare that poor father the agony of a last farewell. Here are examples.

[Footnote 161: Matilda Manzoni, daughter of the celebrated author of _I Promessi Sposi_.]

I do not know the introduction you speak of; but my mother has read to me the admirable verses of Manzoni which are prefixed to it. How many things these verses recall to me. They have affected me powerfully. Returning in memory to the times that are past, I fancied as I listened to them that I heard the sweet voice of my poor Matilda, who, in reciting this beautiful poetry, evinced so tender an admiration for her father's genius. We were at Viareggio. It was a beautiful summer evening, and the peace of a starlit sky penetrated deep into our souls. Matilda said to me: "Rosa, if you could only tell me the first verse of those stanzas, I am sure I could recite the whole." For some time I ransacked my poor memory in vain. Suddenly came the word, "Pause awhile." That word was enough. Matilda recited without failing in a word--and oh! with what feeling--the whole piece of poetry. Dear friend! she is with us no longer, and we shall see her no more on earth. When I parted with her last, I said to her: "Farewell till we meet again." I ought to have said: "Farewell till we meet in heaven."

When the storm came upon us, [Footnote 162] two terrific peals of thunder were heard at once. I confess, Gaetano, I did not expect to reach Pisa. And oh! how terrible is the thought of death, when all around reminds one of the almighty power of God. I trembled as I thought of eternity. I saw my own nothingness, and that my only refuge was in the bosom of God. There did I cast myself with all the confidence of my soul. Unperceived by any one, I drew from my bosom my crucifix, and, concealing it in my hand, I pressed it to my lips. I felt then what help religion will give us in our last moments, for I immediately regained courage, and all my fears vanished.

[Footnote 162: Signorina Ferrucci was, with her parents, returning from Leghorn to Pisa, when they were surprised by a violent storm, which is the subject of this letter.]

To Signorina Louisa B----.

I received your sad and tender letter yesterday, my dear Louisa, and I answer it without delay, to prove to you that your sorrows are mine. Poor Antonietta! Yet, why weep for her? Her soul has winged its flight to the celestial regions, where, as she said in her delirium, all was ready to receive her. It is not to her, then--it is to you, to your family, to ourselves, that our tears belong. {552} As soon as I heard the sad tidings, I raised my heart to God, and offered him a fervent prayer for your mother and yourself. As to Antonietta, I could not pray for her, because I saw her truly in the midst of the angelic choirs.

Dear friend, would that I could console you; but I feel with sadness my utter inability. It is God alone who has the secret of true consolation. Is not he our good Father? Does not he await us in that blessed abode where there are neither sorrows nor tears, but where reign eternal peace and happiness? And then, my poor Louisa, if life seemed to promise your dear sister happiness and joy, has not death put her in possession of joys more pure, happiness more profound, than she could ever have desired? Oh! how enviable is her lot. She will never know the troubles, the disappointments, the disenchantments of this life. She will be spared all the suffering which is inseparable from a long existence. Death has been to her a beautiful angel, come from heaven to crown her with flowers. Dry your tears, Louisa: your sister is happier than we.

To Gaetano,

Each day is bringing you nearer the mournful anniversary you spoke of in your last letter. I beg, I conjure you, Gaetano, to allow to your heart no sentiment but that of resignation. Remember that we shall see in heaven those who are taken from us on earth; and that the sufferings of this life are the means by which we are to attain endless beatitude. I speak thus, not to preach patience to you, which it would ill become me to do, but to give you a word of consolation; for I know all that you have suffered, all that you still suffer in secret. The cares of business and the multiplicity of exterior duties will not prevent sorrowful memories from taking possession of your soul. You can, then, but offer your sufferings as a sacrifice, believing that they will render us more worthy of the divine love. If I already shared your life, I would do everything in my power to console and encourage you on these sad days. Meanwhile let us both strive each day to lessen our imperfections, and to let the love of God have fuller scope in our hearts. Thus shall we, if not without fear, at least without remorse, reach that solemn moment of our life, the one that will end it. May God, who, we hope, will one day unite us on earth by holy ties, deign to unite us also in heaven!

January 21. (Three days before the commencement of her illness.)

Truly we must be always ready to die when and as God wills, and to love him infinitely more than all the things of this world which are passing away with our frail lives. Our immortal soul is not made for this world, where all is fleeting, dissolving, changing. By the very nature of its being, it yearns for heaven. For me, living or dead, in this world or the next, I will be ever thine, my Gaetano, in the love that God knows and blesses.

This letter is the last that Rosa Ferrucci wrote.

Concluded In Next Number.

----------

{553}

The Sanitary and Moral Condition of New York City.

A glance at New York City, embracing the entire of Manhattan Island, will show that its geographical position, its advantages for sewerage and drainage, in fact for everything that would make it salubrious and healthy, cannot be surpassed by any city in this or any other country. And still, with its bountiful supply of nature's choicest gifts, many of our readers will be surprised to hear that our death-rate is higher than that of any city on this continent, or any of the larger cities of Europe. We append a table showing the relative per annum mortality in various cities:

Death. Population.

New York 1 in 35 London 1 in 45 Paris 1 in 40 Copenhagen 1 in 36 Christiansund, (Norway.) 1 in 40 Liverpool 1 in 44 Philadelphia 1 in 48 Boston 1 in 41 Newark, N. J 1 in 44 Providence 1 in 45 Hartford 1 in 54 Rochester 1 in 44 [Footnote 163]

[Footnote 163: _Health in Country and Cities_. W. F. Thorns, M. D.]

Let us first examine the conditions which favor and cause this excessively high death-rate, and then approximate as nearly as possible what our percentage of mortality should be, under good hygienic regulations.

The primary cause of the present condition is, evidently, in the packing system of the tenant-houses; and how the unfortunates exist in the fetid air and dirt of these dens, it is impossible to imagine. The name tenant-house is applied to all buildings containing three or more families. There are at present in our city 18,582 of these residences. In these live over a half-million of people, or more than half of our entire population. These houses vary in condition, from the apartments over stores on our prominent thoroughfares, which often contain all the comforts and conveniences of more aristocratic and imposing structures, through many gradations to the cellar, garrets, and model tenant-houses, occupied by the most miserable of our inhabitants. Such an economy of space was never known to be displayed in sheltering cattle as is here shown in the houses, if they can be so called, of the laboring classes. We give a description of one of these establishments, for the benefit of those who have never examined a "model tenant-house." On a lot 25 by 100 feet two buildings are erected, one in the front, the second in the rear. Between the houses is a yard or open space, in which are located rows of stalls to be used as water-closets. The buildings are frequently seven and eight stories high, including basement. Through the middle of each house runs a hall three to four feet wide. On each side of the hall are the apartments, as they are termed, more properly coops or dens. There are sometimes three or four sets of these coops to each half, making six or eight families to the floor; and so they are packed, from the cellar to the roof of the establishment. As the term "suites of apartments" is rather deceptive to the uninitiated, we will state this means simply two--one, the common room, where all the cooking, washing, and other family work is performed, and in some instances used additionally for manufacturing purposes, as shoe-making, tailoring, etc.; the other is the sleeping-room. {554} The first is generally 8 feet by 10, and the second 7 by 8, with an average height of 7 feet. "Not unfrequently two families--yea, four families--live in one of these small sets of dens; and in this manner as many as 126 families, numbering over 800 souls, have been packed into one such building, and some of the families taking boarders and lodgers at that. And worse yet, all around such tenements, or in close proximity to them, stand slaughter-houses, stables, tanneries, soap factories, and bone-boiling establishments, emitting life-destroying exhalations." [Footnote 164]

[Footnote 164: Mr. Dyer's Report on the Condition of the Destitute and Outcast Children of this city.]

Imagine rows of such houses, so close to each other as to shut out the air and sunlight from their inmates, and you have a picture of the condition of some portions of the lower wards of New York City. Of the 18,582 tenant-houses. Dr. E. B. Dalton, the Sanitary Superintendent, reports "52 per cent in bad sanitary condition, that is, in a condition detrimental to the health and dangerous to the lives of the occupants, and sources of infection to the neighborhood generally; 32 per cent are in this condition purely from overcrowding, accumulations of filth, want of water-supply, and other results of neglect." Dr. E. Harris, the efficient Register of Vital Statistics for the Board of Health, informs us that, although the Fourth ward has given up nearly one half its space for mercantile purposes, it still retains the population it had in 1864. This is effected by driving the poor tenants into smaller space and more miserable dens, which they are obliged to accommodate themselves to, as there is no rapid transportation at their command by which they could reach homes in more salubrious districts, and still retain their employment in this section. The result is, that in some locations the people are packed at the rate of nearly 300,000 to the square mile. Here are congregated the vilest brothels, the lowest dance-houses, and other dens of infamy. It is doubtful if throughout Europe, and certainly in no other part of America, in the same amount of space, so much vice, immorality, pauperism, disease, and fearful depravity could be found, as some of the worst of these locations present daily for our consideration. Our readers must not suppose, from our frequent references to the Fourth ward, that it contains all of this character of trouble existing in New York. This is not the case. In portions of all the wards in the lower part of the island, as well as up-town by either river-side as high as Fiftieth street, will the same condition be found, but not in so concentrated a form as in the Fourth Ward and its immediate surroundings, which has for a long time held the unenviable reputation of being the worst locality on the island.

Practical hygienists give 1000 cubic feet as the standard amount of air-space for each individual. Dr. W. F. Thoms, in his pamphlet on _Tenant-Houses_, thinking that quantity impracticable in this character of building, gives 700 cubic feet as the minimum in which a person can live and not be injured by the carbonic acid he constantly expires. With many of the 'fever-nests' not more than 300 to 400 feet to the individual are given; and Captain Lord's report shows that in 289 houses the quantity allowed each inmate is only between 100 and 300 cubic feet.

{555}

The zymotic or foul-air diseases, as they are termed by some, formed 29.36 per cent of our total mortality during last year. [Footnote 165]

[Footnote 165: Dr. Harris's Report.]

Belonging to this class are the diarrhoeal maladies, Asiatic cholera, cholera-morbus, typhoid and typhus fevers, small-pox, measles, scarlet fever, and others of this kind; also the dietetic disorders, inanition, scurvy, etc. It will be readily seen that, in such locations as are above described, a very large proportion of the mortality from this class must arise. Consumption also, which might properly be termed the constant scourge of the human family, assists largely in running up our death-table. The late Archbishop Hughes, in speaking of this disease, said "it was the natural death of the Irish emigrant in this country." This remark is equally true of persons coming from all other countries, partially on account of foreigners not being acclimated to the vicissitudes of our climate, but more

## particularly because so many of them dwell in damp, leaky

shanties, or in cellars which are frequently below the level of high water. Here the seeds of the disease are planted by which the miserable victims of hectic fever, night-sweats, and other attendant evils are hurried to their untimely graves. In the fifteen months ending December 31st, 1867, 4123 persons died in our city of this disease. The largest number of these were between the ages of 25 and 40. One thousand seven hundred and sixty-five were natives of Ireland, 1430 were Americans, 600 Germans, and 328 from other foreign countries.

Upon the infants, however, of these polluted districts death fastens his relentless grasp, and from their ranks under the age of five years he claimed last year over one half the entire mortality of the city. The blood of these innocents is poisoned from birth by the noxious influences of bad air and adulterated food; consequently their nutrition is defective, and the majority of them are found frail, puny, and miserable. In this condition they are little able to stand the irritation attendant upon the process of dentition, and during this period a large number of them rapidly sink from diarrhoea, marasmus, or some kindred disorder.

Seven thousand four hundred and ninety-four of these little ones died last year under twelve months of age. This is supposed to be little less than one fourth of all the infants born alive during the same period. Is it not enough to send a thrill of horror to the breast of every mother, to think that one out of every four infants born, must perish before it reaches its first birthday?

"This is well known to be twice too high a death-rate for the first year of infant life, and experience demonstrates, that the infant death-rate is a safe index of the general rate of mortality, both in the total population and in the adults of any city or district. That is, if in the Sixth ward we find a high death-rate in children, and if it is vastly higher than that in the children of the Fifteenth ward, then we shall find (as we actually have found) that the death-rate is excessively high in the total number of adult inhabitants of the Sixth, while there is a very low death-rate in the Fifteenth that buries the smallest percentage of its infants." [Footnote 166]

[Footnote 166: Dr. Harris's Report.]

An easy solution to this is found in the greater susceptibility of early infancy from extreme delicacy of formation. Just as the accurate thermometer indicates immediately every change in the temperature, so these frail organizations blight first under detrimental influences, before the more matured portion of the population are perceptibly affected by the same causes. {556} The following will strikingly elucidate the greater expectation for human life to persons living in even comparatively salubrious districts. The death-rate in the Fourth ward, in 1863, was about 1 in 25 of the population; in the Fifteenth, in the same year, it was 1 in 60.

Why should this wide difference in the mortality exist in two sections of the same city adjacent to each other? The reason is obvious: there are but few of the densely over-crowded tenant-houses in the Fifteenth or healthy ward, while the Fourth presents a population of nearly 20,000 souls packed in these buildings. Thus it is shown that persons living in the Fifteenth ward, have two and a half times more chances for life than those residing in the Fourth.

The all-important question to the social economist now recurs: What is the necessary or inevitable mortality of the total population of this city? We cannot do better than refer to the mortality above given for the Fifteenth ward, which is 1 in 60. Why is it not practicable to bring our sanitary regulations to such perfection as to reduce the mortality of the entire city to near this standard? Thus we would save many lives, now sacrificed by diseases which we have the power in a great measure to control; and we would lessen the general death-rate of the city to between 16,000 and 17,000 to the 1,000,000, instead of ranging, as it now does, from 23,000 to 26,000 to the same amount of population.

To look at this fearful drain of human life is painful enough; but the moral aspect of the subject will be found even more deplorable. The constant inhalation of vitiated air lowers the vitality and poisons the entire organism, and, as a natural consequence, predisposes these unfortunates to a continual desire for stimulation. This, in fact, is a manifestation of nature, which, by a wise dispensation of Providence, when depressed or disordered from any cause, has a constant tendency toward health. They, however, do not appreciate that pure air, cleanliness, and substantial food would quench this natural longing; but they seek that which is more gratifying to their depraved appetites; as for the time being it steals their reason and blunts their sensibility to present misery. These facts account to a great extent for the large number of rum-holes found in the neighborhood of these tenant rookeries, which is reported in certain localities to be one for less than every two houses. Many of these low groggeries are so disgustingly filthy, and their poisonous compounds so corrupting of every moral feeling, that they can properly be placed on an equality with the despicable Chinese opium-dens found in the neighborhood of Whitechapel in London. The following figures demonstrate the immense number of votaries who frequent drinking-saloons in this city, and the vast sums of money squandered annually in these degrading haunts: "There are at present 5203 licensed rum-shops in New York; 697,202 persons visit these daily, 4,183,212 in a week, and 218,224,226 in a year. The total amount of money paid out for drinks across the bar and at the drinking-tables of the liquor-shops of New York is $736,280.59 a week, or $38,286,590.68 a year." [Footnote 167]

[Footnote 167: Dyer's Report.]

This is the account of the licensed bar-rooms: how many unlicensed ones exist it is impossible to know. When we consider that the highest estimate made of our population gives us only 1,000,000 of inhabitants, the foregoing figures certainly are astounding, and deserve most earnest consideration. {557} In connection with this subject, it will be interesting to examine the annals of crime for the past year. There were 80,532 [Footnote 168] arrests made during the twelve months ending October 31st, 1867.

[Footnote 168: Report Metropolitan Police.]

These embrace offences of every grade, from petty larceny to murder. The number of the latter is 59, or an average of more than one a week. This total number of criminals amounts to nearly one twelfth of our entire population, and certainly shows a very low grade of morals in our community. It would be most interesting to know what proportion of these criminals date the commencement of their career in crime, from the time they began to drink intoxicating liquors.

One of the saddest features in our city is the condition of the homeless children. "The number of these between the ages of five and fifteen years is stated to be 200,900, of which not more than 75,000 attend Sunday-school, leaving the vast number of 125,000 of our children unreached and uncared for, of which it has been estimated that nearly 40,000 are vagrant children." [Footnote 169] "Hundreds of these children are confirmed drunkards, and thousands of them are accustomed to strong drink. Children from the age of fourteen years down to infants of four are daily met in a state of intoxication. They come drunk to the mission-schools. The little creatures have many a time lain stretched upon the benches of this institution, (Howard Mission,) sleeping off their debauch. Hundreds of them have become veteran thieves, and thousands more are in training for the same end. Nine hundred and sixty girls and 3,958 boys, between the ages of ten and fifteen years--making a total of 4618--were arrested during the year ending October 31st, 1867, for drunkenness and petty crimes." [Footnote 170]

[Footnote 169: R. G. Pardee, Esq., communication to _New York Observer_.]

[Footnote 170: Dyer's Report.]

The arrests for the same period between the ages of ten and twenty years amounts to the fearful number of 13,660. Is it not melancholy to contemplate these little creatures, "made to the image and likeness of God," allowed to develop in such haunts of crime, every faculty as soon as awakened blunted by the atmosphere of sin surrounding them? If not rescued from their fate at an early age, we know they are the embryo criminals who will in the future fill our prisons and grace our scaffolds. How can it be otherwise? Nurtured in a hot-bed of crime from infancy, educated in pilfering and beggary in childhood, it is but human that they should develop these accomplishments in rank luxuriance as they grow to manhood. It seems strange that Mr. Bergh's attention has never been drawn to the condition of the miserable tenants and the homeless children. He and the rest of his society take every means to remedy the complaints of ill-used quadrupeds; but unfortunate biped humanity may be stalled in filthy dens with imperfect drainage and no ventilation, or, the little ones starve and die on our thoroughfares, without finding a humanitarian to raise a voice in their behalf. It is true, our cattle should be cared for, but a just God will demand at our hands some protection for his poor.

"He has said--his truths are all eternal-- What he said both has been and shall be-- What ye have not done to these my poor ones, Lo! ye have not done it unto me." [Footnote 171]

[Footnote 171: Proctor.]

The radical relief for the evils growing out of the tenant-house system can only be reached by, first, condemning and tearing down the worst class of these buildings; and, secondly, remodelling those which, by their construction, are susceptible of such improvement as will insure the inmates at least the blessings of sunshine and pure air.

{558}

These stringent measures are unfortunately, for the present, impracticable, as, should they be carried into effect, two thirds of the inhabitants of these dens would be thrown upon the streets without shelter. Space must be found adjacent to the city where neat and comfortable cottages can be built for the laboring classes, and transportation of such character provided as will enable them to reach these abodes in as little time and at as small an expense as it now consumes to get to their tenant dwellings. The beautiful shores on the opposite sides of the Hudson and East rivers must eventually be dotted by the villages of these working people. It has been reported that a very wealthy gentleman of our community proposes building a number of such houses somewhere in the vicinity of New York. To be the projector of such a philanthropic enterprise would entitle him to the love and admiration of the people now, while in after-years it would be pointed out as a monument of his generosity to the struggling poor. The proposed "Hudson Highland Bridge," the "East River Bridge," and the tunnel under the East River, all of which, we hope, will be pressed rapidly to completion, will form the first of the links which are to bind our Island City to the surrounding rural districts. The location where the first will span the Hudson is near Fort Montgomery, in the Highlands; the second is intended to connect the lower part of the city with Brooklyn; and the iron tubular tunnel is, as its name indicates, a wrought-iron tunnel, to be laid at the bottom of the East River; it also is to connect Brooklyn with New York. In a sanitary point of view, we think these proposed means for rapid communication between our island and the neighboring country vie in importance with the gigantic enterprise which gives us the water of the Croton river for our daily consumption, and the Central Park for the recreation and amusement of our pent-up population. Over the East River Bridge it is intended to run cars by an endless wire rope, worked by an engine under the flooring on the Brooklyn side. The minimum rate of speed is put down as twenty miles an hour. It is such travelling facilities as these structures will afford which are necessary to enable the workingmen to reach healthful and salubrious homes outside of the metropolis. We would thus be able to disgorge the immense surplus of population which it is impossible for us to accommodate in our midst.

But while we keep this in our minds as the great ultimatum which will eventually relieve us, we must in the mean time use every effort in our power to ameliorate as much as possible the misery surrounding us.

Since the establishment of the Board of Health, in March, 1866, strenuous efforts have been made by that body to remedy the most glaring defects in the tenant-houses. Nothing could bear better evidence of the good results effected by the wise sanitary measures they have adopted than the saving in our mortality rates during the last year. It has been asserted that "our present code of health laws are better than those of any other city on this planet;" and had the commissioners, in the execution of these laws, been sustained in their laudable efforts for the public good by the courts of justice, no doubt much more would have been effected. {559} The Sanitary Superintendant, Dr. E. B. Dalton, reports 35,045 inspections made during the last year; 11,414 of these were in tenement-houses, 11,473 to yards, cellars, waste-pipes, etc.; the remainder, to private dwellings, slaughter-houses, establishments for fat-melting and bone-boiling, stables, piggeries, etc. This amount of visitations by the sanitary inspectors shows great

## activity in their department, and entitles them to much credit.

The evils, however, attending the entire of the present systems are so numerous that, without a good deal of active legislation, it is to be feared the root of the trouble cannot be reached. In the first place, no person should be allowed, in the future, to build a house to be occupied by more than three or four families, without its plan of construction being first officially approved of by an appointed superintendent. This would confine the sanitary evils, so far as the internal arrangement of tenements are concerned, to those we now have; and, in the second place, as Dr. Dalton suggests, the erection of a front and rear tenement on the same lot should be strictly prohibited. The importance of these means cannot be overestimated. In addition, many changes apparently slight in themselves can be effected in the existing houses, which would materially add to the comfort and chances of life of the inmates. Miss F. Nightingale says: "It is a fact demonstrated by statistics, that in the improved dwellings the mortality has fallen in certain cases from 25 to 14 per 1000; and that in the common 'lodging-houses,' which have been hot-beds of epidemics, such diseases have almost disappeared through the adoption of sanitary measures." One condition probably more pregnant with disease to the tenants than almost any other is, that so large a percentage of the water-closets in the tenant buildings are not connected with the regular sewers. The consequence is, these places become choked up with accumulations of filth, and give forth noisome and offensive odors, most detrimental to health. This alone is sufficient to cause a large amount of the diarrhoeal diseases which pervade our community during the hot season with such fatal results. The inspector of the Fourth Sanitary District, for the Citizens' Association, in 1864, reported "less than 30 per cent of the privies in his district as being connected with drains or sewers." He also says: "There is a section of my district, embracing at least nine blocks, in every part of which the peculiar odor arising from privies is always distinctly perceptible during the summer months. From this region fever is never absent. I refer to typhus and typhoid, for intermittent and remittent fever do not prevail in this neighborhood, even in the low tract adjoining the river. Such a gentle fiend as paludal miasma flies affrighted from the terrific phantoms of disease that reign supreme in this domain of pestilence." The landlords who grind the last cent of rent possible from their tenants should be obliged, at least, to do all in their power to preserve them from palpable occasions of disease. At a small expense in comparison to the income this class of property yields, the proper connections with the sewers could be made, and thus much suffering avoided.

One great trouble the sanitarian encounters is, the disinclination of a large portion of this class to adopt habits of cleanliness. They seem actually to riot in and be proud of their filthy surroundings. And their example is unfortunately contagious, as it is known frequently to be the case that where neat, clean, and respectable families are thrown in contact with them, they, too, soon degenerate into the same condition. {560} "It would be true of many thousands that, if left to the uncontrolled indulgence of their reckless and filthy habits, they would convert a palace into a pig-sty, and create 'fever-nests' and hot-beds of vice and corruption under circumstances most favorable to health, comfort, and social elevation." [Footnote 172]

[Footnote 172: Report of Association for Improving the Condition of the Poor in New York. 1863.]

This fact, although discouraging, should be but a greater incentive to keep constantly over them a vigilant sanitary inspection, to show them the baneful effects of their habits of living, and to cause a spirit of emulation to assist themselves in purifying their homes and surroundings. This can be done. Their "reckless and filthy habits" are, in many instances, but the indication of a lowered moral and physical status, the result of the poverty, starvation, and misery they have endured. A little encouragement, and a constant stimulation as to the right means to be adopted, would soon cause many of them to overcome their vitiated and depraved tastes.

These combined facts, we think, necessitate a thorough house to house examination of all this character of property in the city, by competent sanitary persons, so that the Sanitary Superintendent may know the exact condition of each tenement. With such knowledge many advantageous improvements could be made and many nuisances abated, without waiting for a report from either the occupants or sanitary police, as is now done. This

## action is at present rendered more essential as the summer is

coming on, and under the influence of its long, hot days the animal and vegetable decomposition will make the air putrid with its "life-destroying exhalations." Our death-rate from the diarrhoeal, and other miasmatic diseases, will, as usual, run up to the highest mark; and should cholera get a foothold in the city, it is questionable if it could be controlled by the Health Commissioners as readily as it was in the summer of 1866.

The question, how to deal wisely with the abuse of alcoholic stimulants, has been earnestly discussed and considered by the press, by municipal and legislative bodies, from the pulpit, and also by countless temperance associations, without reaching a solution of this great problem. Philanthropic efforts are constantly made to stop the tide of self-destruction without avail; and the originators of such movements seem all to arrive at the conclusion that it is impossible to thoroughly restrain the appetite for strong drinks by any character of laws which may be enacted. The only resource that remains is to throw around the trade such restrictions as will confine it to its narrowest limits. This is to be effected not alone by legislative enactments, but also by a moral and religious influence. Public opinion has great weight, and every man who loves the well-being of his race should frown down this social evil to the utmost of his power. Ministers of the gospel should persistently teach the enormity of the ills resulting, as they alone fully know, from this cause.

A great many persons think the present laws have no influence in restraining drunkenness, and that as much liquor is consumed now as formerly. As a proof of their efficacy, we will give here a portion of a table, taken from the report of the Excise Commissioners for last year, comparing the number of arrests for offences actually resulting from the excessive indulgence in intoxicating drinks on Sundays, when the rum-sellers were obliged to keep their glittering shops closed the entire day, and Tuesdays, when the prohibition applied only to before sunrise.

{561}

Months. Year. Days. Arrests.

March, 1867 5 Sundays, 210 March, 1867 4 Tuesdays, 471 April, 1867 4 Sundays, 195 April, 1867 5 Tuesdays, 480 May, 1867 4 Sundays, 123 May, 1867 4 Tuesdays, 380

As it is well known that before the enaction of these laws the arrests on Sunday far exceeded those of any other day in the week, this should convince the most sceptical of the effect of the Sunday prohibition.

The estimated number of vagrant children in this city is nearly 40,000. Forty thousand immortal beings floating, day by day, toward physical and moral destruction! Throw aside all the dictates of Christianity, and look upon these children in the future. According to our free institutions, they will have the same amount of control over the destinies of the nation as our own offspring, although the latter may be thoroughly educated to make good and intelligent citizens. Here we are allowing to be nurtured the element which, in the riots of 1863, threatened to deluge the length and breadth of the island with tumult, conflagration, and bloodshed. Every year, with the constantly increasing tide of emigration, new material is added to develop this character at a more rapid rate. Such being the case, self-protection demands that something be done to give these children homes and draw them from the pollution surrounding them. In the lower portion of the city, there are some institutions intended particularly to take care of these little vagrants, and they form the only breakwater to this torrent of infantile depravity. The first of these is the Five Points Mission. This was established under "An Act," passed in March, 1856, by the Senate and Assembly of the State of New York, "to incorporate the Ladies' Home Missionary Society of the Methodist Episcopal Church." The intentions of the ladies forming this association are shown in the second paragraph of the above-named act, and reads: "The objects of said society are, to support one or more missionaries, to labor among the poor of the city of New York, especially in the locality known as the 'Five Points;' to provide food, clothing, and other necessaries for such poor; to educate poor children and provide for their comfort and welfare; and, for that purpose, to maintain a school at the Five Points, in said city, and to perform kindred acts of charity and benevolence." The "Old Brewery," a most notorious den of infamy, just at the Five Points, was selected by the association as headquarters for their missionary labors; and to gather round them here the little ones of this worst location of the city, to be fed, clothed, and instructed in the rudimentary English branches, as well as the Methodist Episcopal faith, became a labor of love. This enterprise prospered, and now, in place of the "Old Brewery," stands a large, commodious mission-building. A peculiar feature in the management is, that entire families are taken in, and given work of some kind to do, so that it forms a character of tenant-house. The institution contains some 18 families, including between 60 and 70 children. One thousand and nineteen children have been taught during the year in the day-school. Immediately opposite and facing this is the second of these institutions, the "Five Points House of Industry." {562} This was established under the supervision of the same gentleman who at first had control of the Five Points Mission, the Rev. L. M. Pease. Through some misunderstanding, he withdrew from the mission and founded the House of Industry. His beginning was very small, and consisted of an effort to obtain work for a number of unhappy females who desired to escape from their criminal way of living. His next step was the establishment of a day-school; soon afterward men and women were employed in making shoes, baskets, etc. The success of the enterprise was quickly assured, and it rapidly enlarged its sphere of usefulness. Some time since, the manufacturing of baskets, shoes, etc., was given up, and it is now simply a house of refuge, where homeless children are educated, fed, and clothed. During the winter, a meal was given, in the middle of the day, to destitute adults. One of the gentlemen informed us that 325 men and women partook of this meal daily during the cold weather. The average number of children given three meals was also 325, making 1300 meals given by this institution daily. The whole number of children taught here during the last year was 1289. An interesting feature connected with this enterprise is the boarding-house which has recently been established for working-girls. A large tenement-house was bought, and fitted up in the most complete manner; and here homeless working-girls can get good, substantial board for three dollars and a quarter a week. This is of great advantage to these poor young women, who are overworked at meagre pay, and enables them to live for about one half the price they would be obliged to pay for board in a respectable lodging-house. In the internal arrangements, everything is done to add to the comfort as well as the mental improvement of the inmates. In the public parlor there are an organ and a piano, also several sewing-machines. These are at the disposal of any one in the house, at all times. Two evenings in the week they have night-school. The Germans teach their language in exchange for English. The matron states: "Through the kindness of some publishers, we have 5 daily papers, 12 weeklies, and 4 monthlies. Three daily German papers are sent us; also a German magazine, published at Leipsic, Germany." Some six years ago, the third of the houses for this special work was established at No. 40 New Bowery, by the Rev. W. E. Van Meter. The Howard Mission (as this establishment is called) far exceeds the House of Industry in its internal appearance. The latter, with its massive bare walls and iron gratings resembles more a prison for culprits than a home for little ones. The former, to the contrary, is built with a desire to surround the children with everything that can please and attract them. The assistant superintendent remarked to us that "their wish had been to make their mission home more beautiful and enticing than any saloon could be." The two large halls are neatly finished and artistically adorned. In the lower one, through the benevolence of a gentleman, a fountain is constantly playing, several hanging baskets of moss and evergreens swing from the ceiling, and at the base of the fountain is a pretty reservoir containing gold-fish. This institution has received, in six years, 7581 children; and the March number of the _Little Wanderers' Friend_, published by this house, states that "for this month (February) 619 children have been fed at its tables, clothed from its wardrobes, and taught in its schools." {563} These houses all have their regular religious services, morning, noon, and night, with Sunday-schools, singing, and prayer-meetings. On Sunday mornings, the prisoners from some of the station-houses, under arrest for disorder and drunkenness the night previous, are taken to the Howard Mission, and furnished with coffee and bread, and then, before leaving, they have a religious discourse preached to them. In addition, these houses have regular visitors, who call at the homes of those making complaints, to assist and comfort the sick, and, at the same time, to find out if the statements given by them are correct. In order that those not familiar with the workings of such institutions may see the charitable work these ladies effect, we extract the first two items from the visitors' diary in the April number of the _Monthly Record of the Five Points House of Industry_, 1866:

"Called on Mrs. L---- , Irish Catholic; is a widow, with two small boys; tells me she cannot get enough work to support the family; would be willing to sew, wash, pick hair, or any of the various female employments, if she could get it. We offered to feed and clothe her boys if she would send them to our school, which she readily promised.

"Visited Mrs. G----, 31 M---- street, Irish Catholic. She lives in a small attic room, rear building; is a widow, with one child; has been but a few days out of the hospital; found her little girl sick with fever; promised to send a doctor and give her necessary assistance."

Although these institutions are doing something by their work to alleviate the condition of a portion of this vast army of 40,000 stray waifs, still it is most evident that they are utterly inadequate to provide for more than a small fraction of this number. It is well known that nearly one half the population of this city profess to be members of the Roman Catholic religion; and, to show the great excess of persons belonging to this church among the lower classes in our city, we extract the following analysis of a block of buildings from the _Little Wanderers' Friend_ for March, 1868: "Fifty-nine old buildings occupied by 382 families, in which are 2 Welsh, 7 Portuguese, 9 English, 10 Americans, 12 French, 39 negroes, 186 Italians, 189 Polanders, 218 Germans, and 812 Irish. Of these, 113 are Protestants, 287 Jews, and 1062 _Roman Catholics_."

The Catholic Reformatory in Westchester county, established by the late Dr. Ives, is doing everything possible for the children under its control; but the little vagrants, unless arrested for some petty crime and thus committed to that institution, are not within reach of its benefits.

The Rev. F. H. Farrelly, the pastor of St. James's church, has labored most zealously during the last three years in the cause of the Catholic children in his immediate vicinity. He has established a poor-school in the basement of his church, under the charge of the Sisters of Charity. The average daily attendance here is 200, and these are furnished with a meal at noon, in order to facilitate their remaining in the institution the entire day. During the year, two suits of clothing are furnished to as many as the good father's means will permit. This school will be removed to the very elegant five-story mission-house, now nearly completed, on the corner of James street and New Bowery. This structure is of brick with freestone trimmings, and has a front of 111 feet on New Bowery, and 83 feet on James street. It will be divided into 21 class-rooms. {564} This enterprise will take more means for its support than St. James's parish can possibly furnish, and it deserves and should have the sympathy and pecuniary assistance of all Catholics.

It is impossible to calculate the amount of good to be effected by the establishment of a large home, under the supervision of the Sisters of Charity or Mercy in this location. These good ladies are peculiarly adapted to care for the wants of the poor, the sick, and the afflicted, as they devote all their energies, according to the intention of their institution, to these classes of society. And why? Because simply in so doing they fulfil the wishes of "The Master." Thus their mission is one of love, and to strictly attend to duty the greatest pleasure of their lives. This is the solution of their great success in the management of hospitals, schools, and charitable institutions; and the large number of their magnificent edifices devoted to these purposes, found throughout almost every portion of the known world, attest the success with which God blesses their labors. To these good sisters the poor emigrants could appeal, without even apparently denying their religion, for a little sustenance to keep their miserable bodies from perishing; the sorrow-burdened could communicate their troubles, confident of a ready sympathy; and to these the homeless little vagrant could come, knowing a mother's tender love and gentle forbearance awaited him. In the home a room should be devoted to the use of mothers--a place where they could leave their babes to be fed and taken care of for the day. This would enable poor widows to do washing and other kinds of work, and thus many could support their families who are now entirely dependent upon public charity. In addition to the home, a large farm should be procured near the city, where the children taken permanently under the care of the institution could be raised and educated. This is advisable, because, in the first place, it would be more economical, and secondly, experience demonstrates that a large body of children do not thrive well in such establishments when located in cities. We feel confident there would be no trouble in supporting this home, as the great Catholic heart always responds liberally to appeals made for the poor, and in this institution the weight of the burden should be equally borne by all the Catholics in the city. In addition to all this, to take care of these little wanderers is a matter of great import in the light of political economy. They form the fountain-head from which a large proportion of our criminals are developed. If they could be made useful members of society, it would relieve the city of a large proportion of the taxation which is now necessary to support our various prisons; and the energy now shown in the commission of crime would become a source of material wealth to the country.

There is one other subject we wish to mention before concluding this paper: it is, the condition of the night-lodgers at the station-houses. From the report of the Board of Metropolitan Police, we find that 105,460 persons were accommodated with lodgings at the various precincts during the last twelve months. Mr. S. C. Hawley, the very accommodating chief clerk of this department, informs us that the number this year will be much greater. Over 100,000 sought refuge in the station-houses, glad to obtain the bare floor to rest their weary limbs; but how many pace our streets nightly, poverty-stricken and despairing, but too proud to seek a shelter in these abodes of crime! It is a stigma on the fair fame of this great city that, throughout its length and breadth, there is not one refuge, established by religious or philanthropic efforts, where the homeless can find shelter from the wintry night blasts.

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"Our beasts and our thieves and our chattels Have weight for good or for ill; But the poor are only his image, His presence, his word, his will; And so Lazarus lies at our doorstep, And Dives neglects him still." [Footnote 173]

[Footnote 173: Proctor.]

In Montreal, Canada, refuges are connected with the church property, and are superintended by the female religious orders, we think more particularly by the Gray Nuns. In 1860, the Providence Row Night Refuge was established in London, under the care of the Sisters of Mercy. There is no distinction made as regards religious creed, and the only requisites necessary for admission are, to be homeless and of good character. Before retiring, a half-pound of bread and a basin of gruel are given to each lodger, and the same in the morning, before they are allowed to commence another day's efforts to obtain work. What charity could so directly appeal to our hearts as this? Think how many men and women arrive daily in this metropolis, in search of employment! For days they eagerly seek it without success, hoarding their scanty means to the uttermost. Finally the time comes when the last dime is spent for bread, and they wander along, their hearts filled with dread, as night covers the earth with her sable mantle, knowing not whither they shall turn their weary steps. Think of the poor woman wending her way through the pelting storm; garments soaked and clinging to the chilled form; heart filled with despair, and crying to Heaven for shelter; head aching, temples throbbing, brain nearly crazed with terror; finally, crouching down under some old steps to wait the first gleam of day to relieve her from her agony. If one in such condition should reach the river-side, what a fearful temptation it must be to take that final leap which ends for ever earth's cares and sufferings, or, still worse for the poor female, the temptation to seek in sin the refuge denied her in every other way!

"There the weary come, who through the daylight Pace the town and crave for work in vain: There they crouch in cold and rain and hunger, Waiting for another day of pain.

"In slow darkness creeps the dismal river; From its depths looks up a sinful rest. Many a weary, baffled, hopeless wanderer Has it drawn into its treacherous breast!

"There is near _another river_ flowing. Black with guilt and deep as hell and sin: On its brink even sinners stand and shudder-- Cold and hunger goad the homeless in." [Footnote 174]

[Footnote 174: Proctor.]

What a mute appeal for such institutions is the case of the little Italian boy found dead on the steps of one of our Fifth avenue palaces last winter! Think of this little fellow as he slowly perished that bitter night, at the very feet of princely wealth. How his thoughts must have reverted to his dark-browed mother in her far-off sunny home! And think of that mother's anguish, her wailing

"For a birdling lost that she'll never find,"

when she heard of her boy's death, from cold and starvation, in the principal avenue of all free America! We consider we are safe in saying that in no other work of charity could a small amount of money be made to benefit so many as in the founding of these refuges. In the police report it is recommended that "several of these be established in different parts of the city, to be under the supervision of the police." This is a great mistake. These people always associate station-houses and the police with crime; consequently it is bad policy for them to come constantly in contact with either. {566} This is the objection to the lodging-rooms used in the various precincts. Official charity, as a rule, hardens those who dole it out, and degrades its recipients.

There are thousands of noble-hearted women attached to our different churches, who, if they once thoroughly understood this subject, would not cease their efforts until societies were established and refuges opened. How could it be otherwise! How could they nestle their little ones down to sleep in warm, comfortable beds, and think of God's little ones freezing under their windows? How could they go to sleep themselves, and feel that some poor woman was probably wandering past their doorways, dying from want and exposure? We hope, before the chilling winds of next November remind us of the immensity of suffering the winter entails upon the poor, some philanthropic persons will have perfected this design, and have the refuges in working order. If such should be the case, the founders will find an ample reward in the words of Holy Writ, "He that hath mercy on the poor, lendeth to the Lord: and he will repay him."

If we could thus, by the adoption of every possible sanitary precaution, deprive our death-tables of all avoidable mortality; and by a proper religious influence elevate the moral character of the people, we should, in the first place, save thousands of lives, now necessary to develop our vast resources; and, secondly, our advance toward perfection in healthfulness and public virtues would go hand in hand with the gigantic strides being made in the adornment of our beautiful island. Our people would no longer seek other places in quest of health, as none more salubrious than New York could be found; and strangers, instead of saying, as is said of that most beautiful of Italy's fair cities, "See Naples, and die!" would exclaim, "Go to New York, and live!"

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Wild Flowers.

The child, Mercedes, youngest of the three Whom God has sent me for a mother's crown. Brought me wild flowers, and with childish glee Thus prattled on, as at my feet she cast them down:

"See, mamma! here are saucy flowers I found Hiding behind the hedge, like boys at play. Just peeping up their heads above the ground. To watch if any one should chance to pass that way.

"'Aha!' said I, 'whose little flowers be you, And from whose garden have you run away? Your leaves are dripping with the morning dew. Fie, naughty things! What, think you, will the gardener say?

{567}

"'Come, let me take you to my mamma's home; And she will put you in a golden vase, Where you shall stand and look around the room, And see your pretty, rosy faces in the glass.'

"I took them softly up, and here they are. And now, my mamma, I should like to know Whose garden they have wandered from so far. And why they did not stay at their own home to grow?"

I said: "My child, these flowers have never strayed From any other home. Their place to grow Is just behind the hedge, down in the glade. Though no one may their beauty see or sweetness know."

Then she: "Why, mamma dear, how can that be? What use for them to grow there all alone? Why look so pretty if there's none to see? Or why need they smell any sweeter than a stone?"

"No one on earth may see," I then replied-- "No one may know that flowers are blooming there But God." Mercedes clapped her hands, and cried, "God's flowers! Oh! keep _them_, mamma, in your book of prayer."

Methinks the child did choose a fitting place To put those unnursed blossoms of the field: Like them, our humble prayers with beauty grace The heart's rough soil, and unto God their perfume yield.

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Translated From The French.

Faith And Poetry Of The Bretons.

The bay of St. Malo is strewn here and there with rocks, upon which forts have been erected to protect the town by their cross fires. One of these, the Grand Bé, was formerly armed with cannon; but the fort is now abandoned, and only recognizable midst its ruins by the cross at the extremity of the beach, resting apparently on the blue sky above. To this cross all eyes are attracted, to this all steps turn, so soon as the breakers leave a shore of sand and granite for a pathway for the travellers.

After having ascended a rough and steep declivity, a naked and desert plateau is attained, where a few sheep find with difficulty a herb to browse upon; then a turn through a defile of rocks, and on the steepest point a stone and cross of granite. This is the tomb of Chateaubriand.

{568}

No longer a poetical tomb; leaning against the Old World, it contemplates the New; under it, the immense sea, and the vessels passing at its feet; no flowers, no verdure around it, no other noise than the incessantly moving sea, covering in its tempests this naked stone with the froth of its waves. Here he chose his last resting-place; and we wonder what thought inspired the wish that not even his name should be inscribed upon his tomb. Was it pride, or humility that actuated him? To me it appears that this humility and this pride were from the same source--a perfect disenchantment with the world. This man, who had proved so many projects abortive, so many ambitions misplaced; this traveller who had overrun the universe, visited the East, the cradle of the Old World, and the deserts of America, where was born the New; the poet who could count the cycles of his life by its revolutions, was overwhelmed at the end of it by a sadness that knew no repose. He, whose youth was preluded by _Considerations on Revolutions_, so comprehended life in his latter years as to write _The Biography of the Reformer of La Trappe_. The silence and solitude of the cloister were in harmony with the sadness of his soul. Having been charged with the most important missions, having accomplished the highest employments, and set to work the most skilful and powerful men, he retired from the whirling circle of the world, penetrated with the overpowering truth, how little man is worth, how little he knows, and how seldom he succeeds in what he undertakes. The usual source of joy--pride, the intoxication of the world--only provoked in him a smile; for all men he had the same contempt--did not even except himself--and knew well, according to the ancient proverb, that there is very little difference between one man and another. [Footnote 175]

[Footnote 175: Thucydides.]

Through humility, then, he cared not for any inscription on his tomb, not even a name. What mattered it who read it! Men were nothing, and he was one of them! But through pride also, he chose this naked stone. Travellers would come from all parts of the world, they would contemplate it and say, _Chateaubriand!_ His name would be echoed by the waves that came from, and those that parted for, distant shores; and men were obliged to know where he lay.

Thus--ever-recurring instability of the human soul!--in him were united the most contrary sentiments--the disenchantment of glory, and the belief in the immortality of a name; the disdain of scepticism, and the thirst for applause; the impression of the Christian's humility, and an instinct of sovereign pride.

Here, however, we find truth: this cross, the sign of eternity on this stone marked by death, is the immutable testimony of the emptiness of human pride. Chateaubriand desired only a cross on his tomb, while Lamennais, his compatriot, rejected it: both obedient to the same preoccupation, in negation as in faith. The cross, dominating the tomb where the Breton poet reposes, is the symbol of the genius of his country, of Catholic Brittany.

Faith, in Brittany, has a particular character, allied to a poetry peculiar to Breton genius. In this country material objects speak; the very stones are animated, and the fields assume a voice to reveal the soul of man conversing with his God. This is not imagination; no one can be deceived in it. So soon as one enters Brittany, the physiognomy of the country changes, and the sign of this change is the cross. On all the roads, at all the public places, is raised the cross; of every epoch from the twelfth to the nineteenth century we find them, and of every form. {569} There, simple crosses of granite raised on a few steps; here, crosses bearing on each side the image of Christ and the Virgin, rude sculptures in themselves, but always impressed with a sincere sentiment. The Bretons not only understand the tenderness of the Blessed Virgin, but they feel her grief; they share it with her, and express it with an energetic truth. Look at the picture of the Virgin holding her dead son on her knees, in the church of St. Michael at Quimperlé. It is a primitive painting by an unskilled hand, and one totally ignorant of the resources of art; the design of it is incorrect; yet what an expression of grief! The painter wished to portray the living suffering of the mother; the mouth is distorted, the eyes are fixed, the pupil seems alone indicated: yet this fixedness of look seizes upon you; you stop, you remain to examine it, you forget that it is a representation, and see the Virgin herself, immovable in her grief, with no power to express her sorrow; petrified, yet living.

At one side, leaning against the wall, is a statue of the Virgin, conceived with as contrary a sentiment as possible. She is all tenderness and delicacy, and has a leaning attitude, the head inclined, with the gentle look of the Mother who calls the sinner to her side. Her robe falls in numberless plaits, her mantle envelops her with a harmonious grace; for she is no longer the Mother of sorrow, but the sweet consoler of human kind, holding her Son in her arms, whom she presents to bless the earth, _Notre Dame de Bot Scao_, The Virgin of Good News.

The faith of sailors in the Blessed Virgin is well known, that of the Breton sailors particularly. At Brest, we look in vain for a museum of pictures. Brest is not a city of art; it breathes of war; the port, filled with large ships, the arsenal and its cannon, its shells, its gigantic anchors, the forts built on the rocks, the animated movement of the streets, where soldiers of all kinds go and come, and sailors constantly arriving from all parts of the world, give to it an air of intense reality--a character at once powerful and precise. Man has built on the rock his granite home, and we may believe it is immovably established.

But ascend the steps that lead from the lower to the upper town, and under a vault you will find four pictures appended to the wall. Here is the museum of Brest. Sea pictures dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, the departure of the vessel, women and children on the beach on their knees during a tempest, the vessel tossed by the waves, and the arms of the sailors extended to heaven; and on their return, the rescued sailors, bending their steps, with tapers in their hands, toward the chapel of Notre Dame; and underneath, touching legends, cries of the soul that implores, humbles itself, or renders thanks. _Holy Virgin, save us! Holy Virgin, protect those who are now at sea!_ Man we see in his weakness, his aspirations, and his hopes--the true man; the rest was but the mask.

They seize every opportunity and use every pretext to testify their faith. At Saint Aubin d'Aubigné between Rennes and Saint Malo, you go along a tufted hedge; you see a cross cut of thorn--a cross which grows green in the spring, among the eglantines and roses. [Footnote 176]

[Footnote 176: At St. Vincent les Redon, a tree is cut in the form of the cross.]

You return to visit the land of Carnac--a land so pale and desolate, where the standing stones are squared by thousands, gigantic and silent sphinxes that for twenty centuries have kept their impenetrable secret--what is that cross that rises on an eminence? {570} One that they have planted on an isolated ruin in the land--a cross on a Druidical altar, and before the army of stones which mark, perhaps, a cemetery of a great people.

Elsewhere, at the cross-way of a road near Beauport, a spring gushes out and flows among the rocks, forming both basin and fountain on the heaped-up stones; in an arched niche is enclosed a Virgin crowned with flowers; all around, the field morning-glory, the periwinkle, and the eglantine have peeped through the moss and herbs, and enlaced the rustic chapel with their flowery festoons, and fallen again on the infant Jesus. Opposite lie fields of green thorn-broom, and above their long, slender stalks appear the half-destroyed walls of an ancient abbey, roofless, opened to heaven, and silent. Through the blackened arches appears the blue sea, whose prolonged and incessant roaring fills the air.

In this Catholic country _par excellence_, all the churches are remarkable. There is no village, however small, of which the church does not form an interesting part; and here and there, as at Guérande and Vitré, we find the beautifully carved pulpits enclosed in the wall, from which the missionary fathers, on certain extraordinary occasions, speak to the people assembled in the square. At Carnac and Rennescleden we have the arched roofs so exquisitely painted; at Roscoff, Crozon, and elsewhere, medallions of stone and wood framing the altar with quaint gilded sculptures; then, again, we meet with a tabernacle formed for an architectural monument, a sort of palace in miniature, with its wings, pavilions, columns, domes, galleries, and statues, (as at Rosporden;) then an antique confessional greets us in a little chapel near Chateaulin, and a canopy sculptured in wood or even crystal, at Landivisiau. An odd ornament, which is found in only one church--that of Notre Dame de Comfort, on the way to the Bec du Raz--is called _the wheel of good fortune_, and is composed of a large wheel suspended from the roof of the church, and entirely surrounded by bells. On days of solemn feasts, for baptisms and weddings, the wheel is turned, and, agitating all the bells at once, forms a noisy chime, which times the march of the procession, and adds a joyous and silver-toned accompaniment to the voices of the young girls chanting the canticles to the Blessed Virgin. Finally, we meet with one of those trunks of trees, large squared pillars of oak, encircled with heavy bands of iron, and placed in the middle of the church, by the side of a catafalque of blackened wood, but sowed with whitened tears; the trunk and the coffin, emblems of the fragility of life, and the Christian principle above all others, charity.

The churches in the towns are truly _chefs-d'oeuvres_, the cloisters of Tréguier and Pont l'Abbé, for example, where the arcades are so light and so finely carved; or the _bas-reliefs_ inside the portal of Sainte Croix, at Quimperlé, a vast page of sculptured stone, finished with the delicacy and richness of invention, the charming qualities of youth and of the _Renaissance_. Then, in all these churches, near the altar, you perceive immediately the painted statue of the parish saint, one of the Breton saints, not found elsewhere--Saint Cornély, Saint Guénolé. Saint Thromeur, Saint Yves especially. {571} Saint Yves has the privilege of being represented in almost all the churches, even in those of which he is not patron; the remembrance of this great, good man, this wise priest, this incorruptible judge, is indelibly impressed on the heart of every Breton. Sometimes he is seen in his judge's robe, his cap on his head, and listening to two litigants, one in red velvet, embroidered in gold, with his grand wig, his silken stockings, and sword; the other, the poor peasant, all in rags, holes on his knees and his elbows, and naked feet in his wooden shoes. The great lord, with his cap on his head, and an air of pride, presents the saint a purse of gold; the peasant, with timid look and attitude, his head bent down, his cap in his hand, humbly awaits his sentence. He has nothing to give, but justice will not fail him. Saint Yves turns toward him with a gracious smile, and, handing him the judgment written on parchment, lets him know it is his. And thus the history of the middle ages: the church protecting the peasant, the weak against the powerful and the strong.

As to monuments, properly called, nowhere can we find more of these beautiful churches of the middle ages, testimonies of the piety, the science, and the taste of so glorious an epoch. Here, the Cathedral of Dol, of the best day of Gothic art--the thirteenth century--imposing by its massiveness, its grandeur, and the noble simplicity of its ornaments and the harmony of its proportions, the granite of whose towers, in the lapse of ages, is permeated with the air of the sea, has a color of rust, we might say built with iron; there, Tréguier and its exquisite wainscoting, benches, altars, stalls, pulpit in brilliant black oak, carved in such fine and delicate designs, with inexhaustible variety; not a baluster alike, enough models to furnish the entire sculpture of our time; and further on, Saint Pol de Leon and its spire of granite; daring and easy, a prodigy of equilibrium, immovable, girded with open galleries like graceful crowns, flinging to heaven its tiny sharpened bells; so beautifully carved, so aerial, the joy of Brittany, as well it may be, its legitimate pride; then Folgoat, a little unknown village north of Brest, lost at the extremity of the isle, and necessary to leave one's route to see it; but even here, two Breton princes, the Duke Jean III. and the Duchess Anne, have constructed a royal church accumulating all that Gothic art in its richest ornamentation, united to the most ingenious caprices of the _Renaissance_, could have imagined of delicacy and brightness; portraits sculptured, statues of the finest style reflecting their antiquity, a richly Gothic and carved choir, and a gallery--one of those graceful and original monuments of Catholicism so seldom met with--of lace-work, where trefoils, roses, and foliage are carved in indestructible blue granite. The hammer of the Revolution has only knocked off small pieces of these beautifully carved stones. They resisted the passions of men, as they have defied the action of time.

With the bells, of such varied forms, and the vessels for holy water, we will conclude.

These bells are of every style--of the _Renaissance_, the Roche-Maurice-les-Landerneau, of Landivisiau, of Ploaré, of Pontcroix, and of Roscoff. Many are hung with smaller and lighter bells and ornamented with two-story balustrades, like the minarets of the East; then the coverings, spires as they are called, are like that of Tréguier, open, that the winds of the sea may pass through them, and adorned with crosses, roses, little windows, cross-bars, and stars like the cap of a magician.

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The vessels for holy water also express the character of the age. At Dinan, in a church of the twelfth century, an enormous massive tub is supported by the large iron gauntlets of four chevaliers; the old crusader dress, armed _cap-a-pie_ in the service of Christ. In a church of the fifteenth century, at Quimper, is one of an entirely opposite character--a small column, around which a vine is entwined, and above an angel, who, with wings extended, appears as if it had descended from heaven to alight upon the consecrated cup. Again, and as if inspired by a still more Christian sentiment, we find the exterior vessels for holy water, so common everywhere in Brittany, of which the most remarkable are at Landivisiau, at Morlaix, and Quimperlé. The interior ones seem only accessories; the exterior, isolated before the door, have a more precise signification: they solicit the first impulse of the soul; the Christian, in stretching out his hand toward the blessed vase, pauses, and prepares his heart for the coming devotion.

How well these Breton architects have understood religion! These exterior vases are living monuments, little pulpits, with their emblems, symbols, and heads of angels enveloped in their wings. Their canopies, prominent, sculptured, and under them, standing and always smiling, our blessed Mother, who seems to invite the faithful to enter the house of prayer. And prayer, as some one has said, is the fortress of life. The Breton people believe and pray: a hidden power is theirs--religion; its effectiveness attesting not only its existence, but its life.

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Sayings Of The Fathers Of The Desert.

Abbot Pastor said: He who teacheth something and doth it not himself, is like unto a well which filleth and cleanseth all who come to it, but is unable to cleanse itself of filth and impurities.

A brother asked Abbot Pastor the meaning of the words: He who is angry with his brother without cause. He answered: If in all cases where thy brother wisheth to put thee down thou art angry with him, even though thou pluck out thy right eye and cast it from thee, thy anger is without cause. If however, any one desireth to separate thee from God, then mayest thou be angry.

Abbot Pastor said: Malice never driveth away malice; but, if anyone shall have done thee an injury, heap benefits upon him, so that by thy good works thou destroy his malice.

A brother came to Abbot Pastor, and said: Many thoughts enter my mind, and I am in great danger from them. Then the old man sent him out into the open air, and said: Spread out thy garment and catch the wind. But he answered that he could not. If thou canst not do this, replied the old man, neither canst thou put a stop to these thoughts; but it is thy duty to resist them.

Abbot Pastor said: Experiments are useful, for by them men become more perfect.

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{573}

New Publications

Discussions in Theology. By Thomas H. Skinner, Professor in the Union Theological Seminary. New York: Anson D. F. Randolph, 770 Broadway.

Hints on the Formation of Religious Opinions. Addressed especially to young men and women of Christian education. By Rev. Ray Palmer, D.D., Pastor of the First Congregational church, Albany. Same publisher.

These two volumes are very much alike in their general scope and character. Both are written in a calm, philosophical style, and with the praiseworthy view of presenting the claims of the Christian religion on the reason and conscience of men, combating scepticism, and removing difficulties and objections derived from the infidel literature of the day. Professor Skinner begins with a very good essay on miracles as the basis of a reasonable, historical belief in the teaching which they authenticate, and then proceeds to develop his own views respecting certain special topics which he can assume will be admitted by his particular audience to be contained in that teaching. These relate chiefly to the mode by which fallen man may obtain restoration to the divine favor through the Redeemer of our race. The author's object is to show that this mode, as explained by himself, exhibits the attributes of God in a manner consonant to the dictates of reason and the truths of natural theology, and is one by which any sincere, well-intentioned person can make sure of obtaining grace from God, pardon and eternal life. The author's view is that of the new school of Calvinists, which is a great improvement on that of the old school in a moral, though not in a logical, sense. Such preaching and writing as that of Professor Skinner must have a good influence on those who still believe in Christianity and know no other form of it than the Presbyterian. It puts forward the goodness and mercy of God, and encourages the sinner to hope for grace and pardon, if he will be diligent in prayer, meditation, and other pious exercises, and this appears to have been the practical end proposed to himself by the author in this volume. Dr. Palmer's essays are more elaborate and consecutive in their character, and aim more immediately at satisfying the intelligence. He first portrays in a clear and impressive manner the evils of scepticism, and then proceeds to exhibit the evidence of the truths of natural theology and of the fact of a divine revelation, which is also accomplished with a considerable degree of ability and force. The result at which he aims is to convince his readers that they are morally bound to recognize Christianity as true, and to form some definite opinions as to its real meaning, which may serve them as a practical rule and guide for attaining their eternal destiny. The capital defect in his argument is, that he reduces the evidence of the being of God to mere probability, thus leaving the mind where Kant left it, in a state of scientific scepticism with no better basis of certainty than the practical reason. Of course, then, he has nothing more to propose under the name of Christian doctrines than probable opinions. No doubt, it is obligatory on all to act upon opinions which are solidly probable in regard to the momentous interests of the soul, where there are no other equal probabilities to balance them, and no greater certainty is attainable. We deny, however, emphatically that man is left in this state by the Christian revelation. The being of God is a metaphysical certainty. The fact of revelation is a moral certainty, reducible in the last analysis to a certainty which is metaphysical and sufficient to produce an absolute assent of the mind without any fear of the contrary. {574} The articles of faith proposed by the revelation of God ought to have the same certainty, since it is necessary to believe them without doubting. Our respected authors cannot propose a reasonable motive for believing all the doctrines of their sect or school without any doubt, but can only propose opinions more or less probable, or even directly contrary to reason. We do not think, therefore, that they will be able to satisfy the reason of any person who thinks logically that their theories of Christianity are true and complete. The most they can do is to breed an anxious desire to find out with certainty what Christianity is and to attain to a rational faith.

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Celebrated Sanctuaries of the Madonna. By Rev. J. Spencer Northcote, D.D., President of St. Mary's College, Oscott. For sale by the Catholic Publication Society, New York.

This is a valuable contribution to Catholic literature, and presents a subject of interest not only to Catholics, but to the public at large; for great public facts are always of interest, whatever may be our opinion in regard to their significance. A clear and full account is given in this book of the principal facts connected with the origin of some of the sanctuaries of the Madonna in Europe, particularly of the Holy House of Loreto and the recently established pilgrimage of La Salette in France. We do not see how any one can read it and resist the conviction that God has, by his own finger, established and maintained the devotion of the faithful at these holy places. It is easy enough to cry superstition, and to call everything supernatural superstitious. But the evidence of facts speaks for itself, and we commend this book to the candid reader, confident of his favorable judgment in spite of all preconceived opinions, as able to speak for itself. We have, moreover, found it most attractive, and have read it from beginning to end with unflagging interest. It is calculated to quicken the faith of the dumb Christian, open his eyes to the unseen world, and fill his heart with desire for virtue and the love of God, and, as well, to produce in the mind of the careless a deeper conviction of the truth of spiritual things, which may make him set less value on the present, and prize more highly the world to come. We hope this book may attract attention and be widely circulated.

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Notes on the Rubrics of the Roman Ritual: Regarding the Sacraments in general. Baptism, the Eucharist, and Extreme Unction. By Rev. James O'Kane, Senior Dean, St. Patrick's College, Maynooth. New York: The Catholic Publication House. 1 vol. crown 8vo, pp. 527. 1868.

This is one of the most excellent commentaries upon the Ritual that has come under our notice. The reverend author has for several years delivered lectures upon the Rubrics to the senior class of theological students in Maynooth, and the substance of these lectures is to be found in the present volume. That he is eminently qualified for such a difficult task, is apparent from the thoroughly practical as well as theoretical knowledge he displays in treating of the administration of the sacraments.

Priests on the mission will find the book one of the most useful works for reference on the subjects treated of which can be found in the English language.

It has been examined by the Sacred Congregation of Rites, and received its approbation, and can, therefore, be consulted and followed with confidence as good authority.

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Appleton's Annual Cyclopedia for 1867.

This valuable work appears to receive more care and attention each year. The present volume is of unusual importance on account of the political events in our own country and elsewhere, bearing on the ultimate destiny of the Christian world, which are recorded in its pages. {575} It contains, also, a very fair statement of the history and present condition of the Pope's temporal dominion, and of the principal events in the history of the Catholic Church during the year. In the article on the "Roman Catholic Church," it is incorrectly stated that the Council of Florence is by some regarded as oecumenical. It is universally regarded as oecumenical, and was one of the most important councils ever held in the church. The Patriarch of Constantinople, the Greek Emperor, the representatives of the other Eastern patriarchs and of the Russian Church, and a number of other Eastern prelates were present, and discussed all their causes of difference with the Roman Church during thirteen months, after which they signed the Act of Union, and united in a solemn definition of the supremacy of the Pope.

The Council of Basle is enumerated among the certain oecumenical councils, although all its acts from the twenty-fifth session have been condemned, and none of those of the prior sessions approved, by the Holy See. Although a few Galilean writers have maintained that this council was oecumenical during its earlier sessions, their opinion is generally rejected and is of no weight.

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Red Cross; or, Young America in England and Wales. By Oliver Optic. Boston: Lee & Shepard.

This volume, the third of the series published under the title of _Young America Abroad_, continues and concludes the travels and adventures of the naval cadets on British soil and in British waters. London, Liverpool, Manchester, the Isle of Wight, the Lake District, Snowdon, the Menai Straits, etc., are visited, affording an opportunity for the introduction of a great deal of miscellaneous information regarding the physical geography and history of many interesting localities. So far the book is unexceptionable. The adventures of the students, however, are, in Oliver Optic's usual style, exaggerated to the very verge of credibility; and though they will doubtless be relished by the class for which they are written, we no less decidedly think that, as mental food for youth, the selection is not the most judicious, and that the author could very easily, with equal credit to himself and greater benefit to his juvenile readers, serve up something else more nutritious, if less palatable, or not so highly seasoned. As regards the students themselves, it seems to us, also, that the author has not yet hit upon the golden mean: the good boys are almost too good, the bad equally untrue to nature. Our experience with boys--and it is by no means slight or superficial--tends to prove that with those who, from an indisposition to submit to an "iron rule," are commonly known as "wild," such impatience of restraint generally springs from exuberant animal spirits, and is seldom, if ever, met with in connection with meanness, much less vice. _Per contra_, the greatest sycophants are, as a rule, the meanest and most depraved.

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Chaudron's New Fourth Reader. On an Original Plan. By A. De V. Chaudron. Mobile: W. G. Clark & Co. Pp. 328. 1867.

Exteriorly, this book presents a by no means pleasing appearance; hence, the greater our surprise, and, we may add, our pleasure, at the variety and excellence of its contents, in which respect it is nowise inferior to any of those in use in our public schools. While we cannot expect for Mrs. Chaudron's Series of _Readers_ an extended circulation in this city, in view of so many and generally deserving rivals already firmly established amongst us, we do with confidence recommend them, if in their general features they resemble this, the only one of the series submitted to us.

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{576}

Imitation of Christ Spiritual Combat Treatise on Prayer. Boston: P. Donahoe. Pp. 816. 1868.

Decidedly opposed to small type in books of a religious or educational character, we can cheerfully overlook its use in this instance, giving us, as it does, complete in one volume and in bulk not exceeding the average size of prayer-books, three such admirable devotional works.

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Irish Homes and Irish Hearts. By Fanny Taylor, author of _Eastern Hospitals, Tyborne, Religious Orders,_ etc., etc. Boston: Patrick Donahoe. Pp. xi. 215.

The original work, of which this volume is a very neat reprint, was favorably mentioned in _The Catholic World_ for September, 1867. Hence we need not enter into details. It is enough to say that the author, leaving the beaten track of ordinary tourists, devoted herself to the visitation and inspection of the various charitable and religious institutions of Ireland, the number and excellence of which amply vindicate "the warmth of Irish hearts and the depth of Irish faith." This volume gives the result of her examination. It unfolds not a new, but to many an unexpected, phase of Irish character, and will well repay a perusal, from which few can rise without being benefited thereby.

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Choice of a State of Life. By Father C. G. Rossignoli, S. J. Translated from the French, 1 vol. 16mo, pp. 252. Baltimore: John Murphy & Co. 1868.

This is a well-reasoned little treatise on vocations, or the choice of a state of life, an important matter too little thought of in our day, when material things have the upper hand, and spiritual things are made of so little account. Many, no doubt, fitted by their talents and called by an interior voice to the priesthood or the religious state, neglect the call; and others again, quite unfit, thrust themselves forward, allured by some prospect of worldly advancement. This little book clearly exposes the motives which should govern us in the choice of a state of life. If read in a calm and undisturbed state of mind, we do not doubt it will do a great deal of good, and induce many to embrace the better part which shall not be taken away from them.

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Margaret: A Story of Life in a Prairie Home. By Lyndon. New York: Charles Scribner & Co. 1868.

A pleasantly told story of everyday life. The interest in the narrative is well sustained throughout; the incidents natural, yet effectively introduced; and the characters strongly marked and sufficiently diversified. "Life in a prairie home," however, if here faithfully described, differs materially from what it is generally supposed to be. The incidents are such as to be equally possible in any village in any one of the original thirteen states.

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Elinor Johnston: Founded on Facts; and Maurice and Genevieve, or The Orphan Twins of Beauce. Philadelphia: Peter F. Cunningham. Pp. 136.

Two charming stories for children, tastefully got up, if we except an occasional inequality in the pages and carelessness in typography, which we hope to see avoided in future volumes. There is no reason why books intended for children should not be as creditable in appearance as those for adults. That this can be done is proved by the beautifully uniform series just issued by the Catholic Publication Society.

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Books Received.

From John Murphy & Co., Baltimore:

The First-Class Book of History, designed for pupils commencing the study of history, with questions; adapted to the use of academies and schools. By M. J. Kerney, A.M., author of Compendium of Ancient and Modern History, Columbian Arithmetic, etc., etc., etc. Twenty-second revised edition. Enlarged by the addition of Lessons in Ancient History, 1 vol. 16mo, pp. 335.

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From P. O'Shea, New York:

O'Shea's Popular Juvenile Library. First series. 12 vols., illustrated.

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{577}

The Catholic World.

Vol. VII., No. 41.--August, 1868.

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A New Face On An Old Question.

A few months ago I described a visit which I had recently paid to a friend of mine in the country, and repeated a little of the conversation we then had together upon subjects especially interesting to Catholics. [Footnote 177]

[Footnote 177: See _The Catholic World_, March, 1868; article, "Canada Thistles."]

I was so well pleased with what I saw and heard on that occasion that I resolved to spend a few more days with him; and last month, as soon as the warm weather set in, I presented myself one evening at his hospitable door, valise in hand, and was soon comfortably installed as a guest. If I found his house an embodiment of domestic comfort during the winter, it was still more delightful, now that the lawn and meadows wore the brilliant green of early summer, and the prairie-roses, climbing over the great, roomy piazza, shook down perfume into the open windows, and drew around the place the ceaseless song of bees and the whir of the restless little humming-bird. The library which had charmed me so much when the blazing wood-fire shed a ruddy glow of comfort over the bookshelves and the big writing-table, and the tempting arm-chairs, was a thousand times more attractive, now that green branches and bunches of roses filled the old-fashioned fire-place, and windows, open to the floor, let in the breath of new-mown hay, while creepers and honeysuckles kept off the glare of the sun, and waved gently in and out with the south-west breeze. Here we used to sit and chat on warm afternoons, and our conversation generally turned upon the religious topics in which we were both so much interested. One day we were talking about the great improvement of late in the style of discussion on the Catholic question. "We don't hear so much of the old slanders," said my friend, "but there is rather an inquiry into the reasons of our success and the best methods to meet us. Whenever that inquiry is conducted honestly and thoroughly, it is found that the only way to meet us is, to come over boldly to our side and fight under our banner. As an illustration of what I have said," continued he, picking up a pamphlet from the table, "take this sermon on 'Christ and the Common People,' by the Rev. Mr. Hinsdale, a Protestant clergyman, of Detroit. He states the subject of his discourse boldly enough: 'We start,' he says, 'with the _confessed failure of Protestantism_ to control spiritually the lives, and to mould religiously the characters, of the millions. {578} What are the reasons?' He declares that Protestantism has scarcely won a foot of ground from Romanism in more than two hundred years. 'Geographically, it is where it was at the close of the century in which Luther died. Neither is Protestantism stronger religiously or politically than it was in the seventeenth century; some deny that it is as strong' Nor can it be claimed that it is now making any material gains in any of these directions.' Again: 'In the Protestant countries, no ground has been wrested from false religion or irreligion within a hundred years;' and in the principal American cities the Protestant denominations are unquestionably losing ground. There is good authority for stating that in Cincinnati, for instance, the communicants in the Protestant churches are fewer by two thousand than they were twenty years ago; yet the population of the city has increased during the interval by something like a hundred thousand. Well, Mr. Hinsdale being, as I should judge, a gentleman of common sense and honesty, does not try to relieve his mind from the pressure of these disagreeable facts by cursing the Catholics, but sets himself to work to find out the reasons for the greater prosperity of our church. I need not read them to you; for of course the great reason of all--the assistance of Heaven--he does not perceive; but he makes some significant admissions. He tells his people that Catholicism is the especial religion of the poor, and that Protestantism is restricting itself daily more and more closely to the rich; and he quotes a saying of Theodore Parker's: '_If the poor forsake a church, it is because the church forsook God long before._' I am a Protestant of the Protestants,' Mr. Hinsdale adds, 'but have no hesitation in affirming that in some particulars we should stand rebuked before Romanists this hour; none in declaring that in some respects the Romish priest understands the methods of Christ better than the evangelical preacher.' Now, when the alarm of Protestants at the increase of our churches takes such a form as this, I believe that good results must flow from it."

"No doubt you are right," said I; "but I am afraid few of the anti-popery preachers are like this gentleman of Detroit. Here, for example, is an address, delivered at the last anniversary of the American and Foreign Christian Union, by the Rev. Dr. Talmadge, of Philadelphia. He begins with the admission that the cause of popery is still flourishing, 'although in the attempt to destroy it there has been expended enough ink, enough voice, enough genius, enough money, enough ecclesiastical thunder, to have torn off all the cassocks, and to have extinguished all the wax candles, and to have poured out all the holy water, and to have rent open all the convents, and to have turned the Vatican into a Reformed Dutch church, and the convocation of cardinals into an old-fashioned prayer-meeting, and to have immersed the pope, and sent him forth as a colporteur of the American and Foreign Christian Union. But somehow there has been a great waste of effort. The plain fact is,' he continues, 'that Romanism has to-day, in the United States, tenfold more power than when we first began to bombard it.' {579} And the moral he draws from this survey of the situation is, that the Protestants had better 'change their style of warfare,' and introduce into the fight the principle of holy love, and the example of charity and devotion. Nothing could be more sensible than this remark of his: 'Bitter denunciation on the part of good but mistaken men never pulled down one Roman Catholic church, but has built five hundred. There is only one way to make a man give up his religion, and that is by showing him a better.' Brave words, you say, and so they are. Yet this very sermon is full of just the sort of bitter denunciation which the preacher denounces. The whole address is a condemnation of the speaker himself--one of the finest pieces of unconscious satire I ever read. I don't believe _The Observer_ itself could do the raw-head and bloody-bones business better than Dr. Talmadge does it."

"Never mind. Get these people to admit the principle of honest and gentlemanly dealing in religious controversy, and you may leave their practice to reform itself. For one man who was impressed by Dr. Talmadge's swelling invectives, I make little doubt that there were five who carried away in their hearts his advice to be charitable, courteous, and just. The English Nonconformist preacher, Newman Hall, who travelled through the United States recently, told his congregation on his return home that one of the greatest dangers of Protestantism nowadays was injustice toward Roman Catholics. I am afraid that his advice was not much relished in England, for you know injustice to Catholics is one of the pet foibles of Englishmen; but it is not so bad here. The American people are naturally fond of fair play. You have only to convince them that a certain course of conduct is unjust, and they will change it of their own accord."

"Do you mean to say, then, that you believe reason and logic are henceforth to supersede violence and slander in the discussion of the Catholic problem?"

"Not entirely, of course. But I believe that falsehoods are rapidly losing their efficacy in polemics, and that Protestants recognize this fact and are preparing to adapt themselves to the altered conditions of the conflict. And I do not mean to insinuate that as a class they do this merely from policy. Most of them probably used to believe the old standard lies; at least, they did not _dis_believe them. They repeated them by rote, because they had been brought up to do so, and they never thought of stopping to inquire into their authority. Now that the slanders have ceased to serve a purpose, it is naturally easier to convince those who used to profit by them that they _are_ slanders. What I mean to say is, that the tendency of our time is toward fairness and good sense in religious disputes. You and I, for example, are quite young enough to remember when 'Romanism' was popularly regarded as an unknown horror, no more to be tolerated than the plague or the yellow fever. It was not thought to be a question open for debate. A Protestant would no more have dreamed of examining the merits of popery than the merits of hydrophobia. But now it is a very common thing for our adversaries to admit that we have done wonderful service to humanity in our day; that in some particulars we have done and are still doing more than any other denomination; only we belong to a past age and ought now to give way to fresher organizations. {580} I remember a rather striking sermon which I read in a Detroit newspaper, the other day, on the 'irrepressible conflict' between Catholicism and Liberalism, by the Rev. Mr. Mumford, a Unitarian clergyman. The greater part of the discourse was as illiberal as anything could be. Mr. Mumford saw in the Catholic Church a tremendous engine of oppression, and thought it was scheming to get control of the negroes in the Southern States, and through them to direct the politics of the whole country--"

"He saw no danger in the great influence which Methodism has acquired over the colored people, did he?"

"No; and he forgot to mention that the Catholic Church is almost the only one in America which has never been tainted by the intrusion of politics. Well, I was going on to say that, with all Mr. Mumford's prejudices and absurdities, he had the honesty to acknowledge that the Catholic Church is really entitled to the gratitude of mankind, and declared that he was glad it had secured some foothold in America, 'to act as a restraint upon the intolerance of the Protestant churches.'"

"I am afraid that you rather exaggerate the importance of admissions like these. They are so often made merely for rhetorical effect! They are little patches of light artfully thrown into the picture to heighten the effect of the shadows."

"I know that I don't refer to them as proofs of a willingness to examine the nature and grounds of Catholic doctrine, though I believe that there is much more of such willingness than there used to be, but as an evidence that a spirit of fairness and good-breeding is beginning to prevail in religious controversy; and from that spirit I cannot but expect good results."

"So far I have no doubt you are right; and one of the good results, it seems to me, must be the gradual extinction (or possibly the reform) of denominational newspapers of the old bludgeon-school. _The Observer_ must go out of fashion whenever reason comes in. There will be no room for the religious brawlers when those who differ in creed learn to talk over their differences in a common-sense way. Don't you think there is a change in the tone of the press already?"

"The secular press certainly has improved wonderfully in its treatment of Catholics. About the religious periodicals I am not so sure: some of them are tamer than they were formerly, but the old stand-bys lash their tails as furiously as ever, and the less they are heeded the louder they roar. But that is only natural. You see the same thing at the theatres. When a play ceases to draw very well, the single combats become doubly fierce and the red-fire is frequent. The violence of the denominational organs must not be taken as an evidence of the sentiment of society. If they really led the opinions of their readers, we should have an anti-Catholic crusade every year. I wonder if you have noticed, however, that some of the Protestant religious papers which have usually been mild in their tone have been roused of late to an unaccustomed bitterness against us?"

"Yes, and I hardly know how to account for it."

"I think the explanation is this. The calm discussion of Catholic questions, as we said before, must logically lead to the discovery of Catholic truth. There are Protestant writers who see this and do not want to see it. They perceive whither the current is bearing them, and they struggle against it. They rail at the church by way of protest against the growth of an unwelcome, dimly foreseen conviction, as an encouragement to their tottering unbelief, just as boys whistle to keep up their courage. {581} Have you ever seen a dying sinner try to fight off death? It is in some such hopeless effort as his that _The Liberal Christian_ and a few other journals are now engaged. I do not say that they understand this themselves. I do not charge them with absolutely resisting the progress of conviction, or, to speak more exactly, the resistance is instinctive rather than voluntary; but they feel or suspect, perhaps without fully comprehending, that, if they keep on as they are going, they must come pretty soon to the Catholic Church, and that provokes them. _The Liberal Christian_, you know, is edited by Dr. Bellows, an accomplished gentleman, who was thought some years ago to exhibit a decided leaning toward the church. I am not prepared to say whether this supposition was correct or not; but it is certain that he saw more clearly and exposed more boldly the inherent defects and logical tendencies of Protestantism than any other Protestant I can remember, and in one of his published sermons he declared that Unitarians (his own sect) had more sympathy with Catholicism than with any other form of religion. It might seem strange to find him among the foremost revilers of that very Catholicism; but my theory explains it. The hostility which glistens in his letters and runs mad, sometimes, in the miscellaneous columns of his paper, is the revolt of his Protestantism against the progress of unwelcome ideas--an effort of his unregenerate nature, so to speak, to throw off something which does not agree with it. Ah! how many men have trod in the same path he is now following, and have been led by it to the bitter waters of disappointment! He saw the fatal gulf into which the Protestant bodies were plunging. He felt that hunger of the spirit which nothing but the church of God ever satisfies. He raised a cry for help, and when he found that there was no help except from the Holy Catholic Church, he turned his back upon her, and bound himself down once more with the narrow bonds of what is called Unitarian 'liberalism.' And now, of course, he misses no opportunity of declaring his detestation of the succor which he has refused. He has failed in his aspirations after a mock church, and naturally he vents his disappointment on the real one. He fancies that he is moved by principle, when he is really instigated by pique. He imagines that he is an earnest, honest seeker after an answer to what he well terms 'the dumb wants of the religious times,' when he is--but I have no business to judge his motives. That is God's affair. We must presume that he is courageous and sincere, and that whenever he finds the right road he will boldly walk in it. Nine years ago, Dr. Bellows delivered an address before the alumni of the Harvard Divinity School, on 'The Suspense of Faith,' which was generally supposed to indicate his wish to engraft a ritual and a priesthood upon the Unitarian denomination, bringing it perhaps nearer to Episcopalianism than to any other system of worship. There was no such thought in his mind, I am sure; though his sentiments, had they been acted upon, might have led many men through Episcopalianism into the Catholic Church. I will not weary you with the whole of it; but let me read a few lines which have a special application to what we have been saying. {582} He is trying to account for the fact that Unitarianism is in a posture of pause and self-distrust and he says: 'If, with logical desperation, we ultimate the tendencies of Protestantism, and allow even the malice of its enemies to flash light upon their direction, we may see that _the sufficiency of the Scriptures turns out to be the self-sufficiency of man_, and the right of private judgment an absolute independence of Bible or church. No creed but the Scriptures, practically abolishes all Scriptures but those on the human heart; nothing between a man's conscience and his God, vacates the church; and with the church, the Holy Ghost, whose function is usurped by private reason: the church lapses into what are called religious institutions, these into Congregationalism, and Congregationalism into individualism--and the logical end is the abandonment of the church as an independent institution, _the denial of Christianity as a supernatural revelation,_ and the extinction of worship as a separate interest. There is no pretence that Protestantism, as a body, has reached this, or intends this, or would not honestly and earnestly repudiate it; but that its most logical product is at this point, it is not easy to deny. Nay, that these are the _tendencies_ of Protestantism is very apparent.' When he comes to speak of Unitarianism as the representative and most logical exponent of Protestantism, he expresses himself in a still more remarkable way. Religion, he thinks, like everything else in the world, has been constantly making progress, and Unitarianism has always been in the van. Now this progress seemed to have reached its limit; there is a pause, a partial recoil, in some cases a turning back to the formalism and ritual worship of Rome, in others a headlong rush into the abyss of pure rationalism. In fact, Dr. Bellows believes that to create an equilibrium in the relations between God and man, two opposing forces are in operation--a centrifugal force, which drives man away from submission to divine authority, that he may develop his own liberty and functions of the will, and a centripetal force, which leads him to worship and obedience. These are represented respectively by Protestantism and Catholicism, and he seems to think them destined to alternate--perhaps for all time, though about this his meaning is not very clear. 'Is it not plain,' he says, 'that, as Protestants of the Protestants, we are at the apogee of our orbit; that in us the centrifugal epoch of humanity has, for this swing of the pendulum at least, reached its bound? For one cycle we have come, I think, nearly to the end of our self-directing, self-asserting, self-developing, self-culturing faculties; to the end of our honest interest in this necessary alternate movement.'"

"That means, if it means anything that Protestantism has done its work, at least for the present age; that it has accomplished all it can; and there is nothing left for man but a return to the centripetal force, or to the Catholic Church."

"Exactly: that would be the logical complement of the position he assumed in the curious discourse from which I have been quoting; but the misery is that he had not the courage to be logical. Ah! how well I remember the impression produced at the time by that sad, sad cry of weariness and disappointment which went up from his pulpit when he perceived that the toil, and speculation, and uneasiness of years had brought him to no goal; that he had developed man's faculties without finding a use for them; that he had achieved an intellectual freedom without knowing what to do with it; that, as he well expressed it himself, '_there was no more road_ in the direction he had been going.' {583} Many, as we have seen, when they reached that point on their journey whence this whole dismal prospect was visible, turned back to the church which their fathers had forsaken, and there found peace; and Dr. Bellows had stated so boldly the miseries of his own situation that it was no wonder people thought he too would follow that course. But he set himself about finding a new road, imagining a new church which was to arise at no distant day, and combine the most conservative of liturgies with the most radical of creeds. It was to be constituted on strictly centripetal principles. Speculation having proved empty, worship was to be essayed as a change. Doubt being but sorry fare for a hungry soul, there was to be a good deal of faith, and preaching not being a gift of all men, place was to be made for prayer. What that church was to be, how it was to arise, and when it was to make its appearance, he did not pretend to say. But it must come soon, because 'the yearning for a settled and externalized faith' was too strong to be left unsatisfied. It was to be, I must suppose, a mingling of the revelations of our Saviour with the dreams of Luther, Calvin, Fox, and Swedenborg; because, as Dr. Bellows says in one of his lectures, 'the religious man who has no vacillations in his views, who is not sometimes inclined to Calvinism, sometimes to Rationalism, sometimes to Catholicism, sometimes to Quakerism, has an imperfect activity, a dull imagination, and a timid love of truth; for all these faiths have embodied great and interesting spiritual facts which the free and earnest explorer will encounter in his own experience, and find more vividly portrayed in the history of these sects than in himself.' It was to possess a fixed creed, but nobody was expected to believe in it, for 'inconsistencies of opinion' are to be expected of everybody, and doubt, fear, and scepticism are actually desirable, provided they are 'the work of one's own mental and spiritual activity, and not of mere passive acquiescence in the forces that one encounters from without.' It was to be a _true_ church, of course, yet a false church also; because Dr. Bellows declares that 'truth is too large to be surrounded by any one man or any one party,' and there are always two great parties in religion as there are in politics, 'and each has part of the truth in its keeping;' so that, of course, neither can be wholly right. He wanted his church to be a historical church, for Christianity is a historical religion, and 'a faith stripped of historic reality, disunited from its original facts and persons, does not promise to live and work in the human heart and life.' He seemed to have forgotten that history is the growth of time, and cannot be conferred upon a new-born infant. The future church must have rites and ceremonies, for without them religion hardly 'touches our daily habits and ordinary career,' and is, like Unitarianism, 'an unhoused, unnatural, and disembodied faith.' It must be a visible church, yet without a priesthood; a divinely instituted church, yet without authority; receiving its doctrines by divine revelations, yet only true in part; eternal, yet changeable, I am not surprised that Dr. Bellows has not yet found it."

"Surely he never uttered any such extraordinary farrago as you have been putting into his mouth?"

{584}

"Not in those words, of course, nor with that collocation of thoughts; but all that I have said you will find either in his _Suspense of Faith_, or in the volume of sermons published under the title of _Re-Statements of Christian Doctrine_, (New York, 1860.) I have represented, as fairly as possible, the vagueness of his aspirations and the inconsistency of his principles. It is only clear that he wanted to be a Protestant and a Catholic at the same time. He was shocked at the results of his own centripetalism, and he longed for a visible church, with a tangible creed and a set form of worship; only he wanted to make the church himself; not to be the founder of a new sect--he disclaimed that, and was unwilling even to change the form of service in his own congregation--but to dream about it, to speculate upon what it ought to be, to mould and influence opinion, until, by a seemingly spontaneous movement, the new church should arise from the midst of the people. Poor man! He sees, by this time, that nobody feels the want of this new church, and nobody believes in it; and he hates the true church,

## partly because it is a continual reproach to him, bringing to

mind a duty unfulfilled and a happiness unappreciated, and partly because it continually revives his disappointment."

"I have serious doubts, however, whether Dr. Bellows ever comprehended the beauty of the Catholic religion half so well as many people supposed that he did. Read his books with a little care, and you will see that he never took but the most superficial view of religion: he never got at the core of it. Religion to him--as to how many others!--was a thin philosophy which amused his intellect, a sentimental poetry which tickled his aesthetic instincts; it was not a _life_. Of that vital Christianity which comprehends the whole relationship between God and man, which is both a creed, a worship, and the very essence of devout life, his heart seems to have been void."

"Yes, he says something almost equivalent to this in his sermon on 'Spiritual Discernment.'[Footnote 178]

[Footnote 178: _Re-Statements of Christian Doctrine_.]

'All the triumphs of Protestantism,' he declares, 'the universal improvement of private and public morality, of public education, respect for the individual, have grown out of the increasing care to keep the church and the world apart--religion and other interests distinct subjects of thought and attention.' And the word 'world' here he does not use in its bad sense, but merely as synonymous with secular affairs. Again he says, that 'the Catholic Church succeeded wonderfully in blending life and religion together, faith and daily usage, pleasure and worship, philosophy and the Gospel;' and this, he thinks, was its great fault, while the great merit of Protestantism was, that it carefully separated what the church had so carefully melted together. That gives you the real old Puritan idea of piety--a something to be put on at stated times, and then put off again, like the long faces which old-fashioned Protestants pull for Sunday wear; to have no intimate connection with daily life, but to be kept carefully apart, like the best coat which our ancestors used to lay by in lavender leaves, to be worn on days of ceremony. What is the good of a religion which does not blend with work-a-day life? of a faith which is not felt in daily usage? of a worship which must be kept apart from our pleasures, from our business, from any of our honest pursuits? {585} Why, the very beauty of religion is, that it shall be in man's heart at all times and in all places. If it cannot accompany us everywhere, if it can only live in the artificial atmosphere of Sunday meetings, it is not worth having. The danger against which we have most to guard is not, Dr. Bellows thinks, that of forgetting our religion, but that of growing too familiar with it. His God is an awful rather than a loving God, and our sin against him is not that we go so far away from him, but that we bring him so near to us. In effect he tells us to fetch out our piety once a week or so, on stated occasions, but not to let it interfere with our daily walk and conversation, for that would be sacrilege."

"All this shows, as you say, that he has no comprehension as yet of the true nature of religion; and shall I tell you why he is so slow to acquire it? I believe that he is not really in sympathy with Christianity."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh! he is nominally a Christian, of course. He would be horrified if you told him he was not. But he has no sympathy with the religion of Christ. Our Saviour, in his opinion, was only the expounder of a system of ethics, and, to tell the truth, it is not clear to me wherein the Christ of Unitarianism is essentially superior to Socrates or Benjamin Franklin. The worship of our Lord Dr. Bellows emphatically denounces as rank 'idolatry.' We may only reverence him as a creature specially favored by the Almighty, and a teacher to whose word we owe the most profound respect. Take away from your religious system the idea of God in the person of his divine Son perpetually present with the faithful, and helping them to bear the burdens of humanity which he himself has borne, and it is but a cold, cheerless, fallacious belief which is left you. It is no longer religion; it is only a false philosophy. Devotion vanishes; faith, hope, and love are exchanged for a code of rules of behavior; and God withdraws from the world into the impenetrable mystery of the heavens, where the voice of prayer indeed may reach him, but his presence is never felt by man, and his love never fills the heart. He is no longer the dear Lord of the Christian saints, but the Allah of the Moslems."

"You have hit it exactly; and now let me tell you that ever since Dr. Bellows set out on the foreign tour in which he is still occupied, I have watched for the record of his impressions of Oriental life, feeling certain, from what I knew of him, that he would find an attraction in Mohammedanism which he never saw in Christianity. I was not mistaken. He is not a polygamist: he has no taste for a sensual heaven; I don't suppose he prefers the Koran to the Bible; and I never heard of his keeping the inordinate fasts of Ramadan; still, the creed of Islam seems, in its main features, to have caught his fancy, and he loads it with indirect praises, which he never thought of bestowing upon any form of Christianity. Let me read you an extract from one of his recent letters to _The Liberal Christian_:

"'These people,' he says, referring to the Egyptians, 'know nothing of Christianity which ought to give it any superiority in their eyes over Mohammedanism. When the Arabian prophet commenced his marvellous work, there is little doubt that he was animated by the sincere enthusiasm of a religious reformer. Mohammed recognized both dispensations, the Mosaic and the Christian; and his intelligent followers to this day speak reverently of the Christ. They evade the authority and use of our Scriptures, by asserting that they have been thoroughly corrupted in their text. A learned Mohammedan in India, however, has just written the introduction to a new Commentary on our Bible, in which he ably refutes the Mussulman charge of general corruptness, and adduces all the passages quoted out of the Old and New Testaments in the Koran. {586} But what have Mussulmans seen of Christianity to commend it greatly above their own faith? Is it alleged that Mohammedanism has owed its triumphs and progress to the sword? Is it the fault of Christians if the Cross has not advanced by the same weapon? What infidel rage of the Crescent has ever exceeded the fanatical soldiering of the Crusades, and what has Coeur de Lion to boast over Saladin in enlightenment or appreciation of the Christian spirit? And if we come to bowing, and fasting, and washing, and external forms, _I confess that the degrading prostrations, and crossings, and mummeries of the Greek and Catholic churches, with the gaudy trappings of robes and jewels, the worship of saints and images, and the deification of a humble Jewish woman, appear to me to have nothing in the presence of which Mussulmans could feel the lesser reasonableness, purity, or dignity, or the lesser credibility of their own unadorned and simpler superstition._ Compared with Catholic and Greek legends, the Koran is a model of purity and elegance of style, and _its worst superstitions do not much exceed in grossness the popular interpretation given to monkish fables._ As it respects ecclesiastical interference and tyranny, Mohammedanism is a whole world in advance of Romanism or the Greek Church. It is essentially without priest or ritual, in any Catholic sense. The Mussulman is his own priest. He finds Allah everywhere, and he has only to turn toward Mecca, and bow in prayer, and his field, his boat, the desert, is as good an altar as the mosque. It is truly affecting to see the fidelity of the common people to their faith, the apparent heedlessness of observation, the absorption in their prayers, the careful memory of their hours of devotion.'

"And, speaking of the absence of symbols and rites in the mosques, he adds: 'Surely there is something grand in this simplicity, _and something vital in a faith which, aided by so little external appliance, has survived in full vigor twelve hundred years'_"

"Why don't he admire the vitality of the devil? Satan has survived in full vigor a good deal more than twelve hundred years."

"That would be about as logical. But is it not melancholy to see how far a man whom we would like to respect can be carried by his uncontrolled vagaries! He demanded a 'historical church:' there is only one in Christendom, and that he will not have; and now it almost seems as if he felt an occasional temptation to search for one _outside_ of Christendom. Protestantism, he finds, has run its course. Catholicism he will have nothing to do with. What, then, is left him, if he will be a religious man at all? That seems to be the question which perplexes him and the small but intelligent school of thinkers of whom he is the representative. As the Jews are still waiting for the Christ they crucified eighteen hundred years ago, so the Bellows school are watching for the coming of that Christianity which they have already rejected. And both, it seems to me, are sick at heart with hope long deferred."

"Yes; we hear little now of the confident prophetic tone in which Dr. Bellows some years ago discoursed of the glories of the new religion of humanity, and predicted a resettlement of worn-out creeds and a revival of suspended faith. He writes now rather of the desolation of the present than of brightness which he discerns in the future. And this brings us back to the point from which we started. While Protestant theologians in general are discarding vituperation, there are certain of our opponents who show us a bitterness to which they were not formerly accustomed, because they have been disappointed in their own religious aspirations, and have a vague, half-conscious, and wholly unwelcome impression that the Catholic Church alone is capable of satisfying them. Dr. Bellows, for instance, travels through Europe and finds that Protestantism is everywhere lifeless. He is bold enough to say so; but he takes his revenge in the next breath by trying to show that the Catholic Church is no better. {587} He is powerless to arrest the decay which is destroying his own organization, but he seems to find a melancholy compensation in attacking Catholicism. He reminds me of what the boy said when he was thrashed by a school-fellow: 'If I can't whip you, I can make faces at your sister.' He visits Paris, and confesses that 'Protestantism makes next to no headway' in France, and is torn by internal dissensions. He goes to the heart of Protestant Germany, and finds the general aspect 'one of painful decay in the faith and spirituality of the people.' All over the continent, he observes that where the Catholic faith has died out, 'nothing vigorous has shot up in its place,' and the masses of the population are 'without aspiration, devoutness, or faith in the invisible.' 'Protestantism, as it appears here, is a chilled, repulsive, ungrowing thing, entering very little into the national or the social and domestic life, and apparently not destined in any of its present forms to animate the passions or win and shape the hearts and lives of the middle classes. ... _Out of the present elements of faith and worship in Germany I see no prospects of any healthy and contagious religious life arising.'_ Nay, what is worse than all, the peculiar form of Protestantism upon which, if upon any. Dr. Bellows would rely for the regeneration of Europe, is in no better way than the others. 'It does not appear,' he says, 'that the liberal element in the Protestantism of Germany, I mean that branch of its Protestantism which we should consider 'most in sympathy with Unitarianism, is very earnest or creative. It seems still rather a negation of orthodoxy than an affirmation of the positive truths of Christianity. ... Forced to take positive ground, I fear that a large part of this extensive body _would be compelled to abandon Christian territory altogether._' From Berlin he writes that 'the whole life of the national church is sickly and discouraging;' from Strasburg, that Protestantism 'must learn some new ways before it will become the religion of the people of France, Italy, or even Germany;' from Vienna, that the Protestantism of Austria is 'essentially torpid and unprogressive, presenting nothing attractive or promising.' These passages, and many more of similar purport, we may take as equivalent to the little boy's confession that he could not whip his antagonist. When it comes to the other part, the making faces at his sister, I am bound to say that Dr. Bellows shows more temper than strength. In Vienna, he deplored the lukewarmness of the Catholic people all through Germany, yet, in several previous letters, he had contrasted their zeal in church-going with the indifference of the Protestants. He accuses the clergy of avarice, though in Rome he compliments the priests for their personal merits, their 'seriousness, decorum, and fair intelligence.' He declares that 'the Catholic Church is an artful substitute for anything that a human soul ought to desire;' that she is 'the chief hinderance to progress;' that she has 'glorified the blessed Mother into the Almighty;' that she 'mutters spells and practises necromancy at her altars,' and all that kind of thing, which I need not repeat, because we have heard it in almost the very same words scores of times before. But the most curious of all his angry attacks was made--where, think you? Why, on a steamer in the Levant, where there was nothing whatever to provoke him: where the onslaught was so perfectly gratuitous that it burst upon the calm flow of his letter like a thunderbolt rending the summer sky. Here it is:

{588}

"'Roman Catholicism, weak in every member, is prodigious in its total effectiveness, because it is a unit. It is quietly seizing America, piece by piece, state by state, city by city. In a new state like Wisconsin, for instance, it has the oldest college, the largest theological school, the best hospitals and charities, the finest churches; and what is true of Wisconsin is equally true of many other Western states. Protestantism, with a hundred times the wealth, intelligence, public spirit, and administrative ability, by reason of its sectarian jealousies and divisions can have no parallel successes, and is losing rapidly its place in legislative grants and in public policy. The Irish Catholics spot the members of state legislatures who vote against the appropriations they call for, and are able in our close elections to defeat their return. Representatives become servile and pliable, and Romanism flourishes. A Quaker gentleman of wealth, in the West, (the story is exactly true,) married a Vermont girl who had become a Catholic in a nunnery where she was sent for her education. It was agreed that, if children were given them, the boys should be reared in the faith of their father, the girls in that of their mother. _The Vermont mother gave her husband ten girls, but never a son!_ Eight of them grew up Catholics, married influential men, and brought up their children Catholics, and in some cases brought over their husbands, and so the Roman Church was recruited with Protestant wealth and Quaker blood to a vast extent. So much for sending Protestant girls to Roman Catholic seminaries, and then complaining that so many Protestants are lost to the superstitions of Romanism! There is an apathy about the Roman Catholic advances in the United States among American Protestants, which will finally receive a terrible shock. There is no influence at work in America so hostile to our future peace as the Roman Catholic Church. The next American war will, I fear, be a religious war--of all kinds the worst. If we wish to avert it, _we must take immediate steps to organize Protestantism more efficiently_, and on less sectarian ground.'

"Well, upon my word, the conduct of that Vermont girl was abominable. I suppose Dr. Bellows thinks she never would have been artful enough to swindle her husband out of all his expected boys if she had not been brought up in a convent. 'So much for sending Protestant girls to Roman Catholic seminaries!' I should think so, indeed!"

"The story is very ridiculous; but the moral Dr. Bellows draws from it is worse than ridiculous. If we wish to avert a religious war, he says, 'we must take immediate steps to organize Protestantism more efficiently, and on less sectarian ground.' That means that Protestantism must maintain an overwhelming preponderance in this country by fair means or foul. If it cannot convert the papists with the Bible, it ought to knock them on the head with a bludgeon. And the same atrocious sentiment is still more plainly expressed by an Irish writer in _The Liberal Christian_ of Feb. 29th, who says, 'Popery and Fenianism are Siamese curses, withering every noble and humane feeling wherever they exist. ... _They deserve no toleration; they should receive no mercy._' There's a 'liberal' Christian for you, with a vengeance!"

"Well, we can afford to ridicule such fears and threats; but it is very sad. Here, where nearly all honest people seem to have made up their minds to reform their bad language, and be as polite in discussing sacred questions as in talking over secular affairs, a sect which professes toleration and fairness beyond all others goes back to the old style of polemical blackguardism. I can appreciate the unfortunate position of the liberal Christians, when, having pushed ahead so far, they find that there is 'no more road' in that direction, and can understand that only one of two courses may seem open to them, either to berate the Catholics or to join them; but the instruction which the barrister received from his attorney when the law and the facts were both against him, 'Abuse the other side,' does not apply so well to religion as to jury trials. We must have a different style of argument if anybody is to be converted or improved by the discussion.

-------

{589}

Nellie Netterville.

## Chapter XII.

When first O'More unfolded the cloak in which he had brought Nellie safely through the flames, she lay so white and still that, for one brief, terrible moment, he almost fancied she was dead. The fresh air, however, soon revived her, and, opening her eyes, filled with a look of terror which afterward haunted them for months, she fixed them upon Roger, and whispered nervously:

"Where are the rest--the priest and all? Where are they?"

"They are with their God, I trust," he answered solemnly. At that awful moment he felt that he could say nothing but the truth, terrible as he knew that truth must sound in the ears of the pale girl beside him. His words, in fact, seemed to cut through her like a knife, and she fell upon her knees, exclaiming: "I only saved--I only saved! O my God, my God! have mercy on their souls!" Then suddenly remembering that, if she were safe, she owed it entirely to Roger, she added earnestly, "You have risked your life for mine. How shall I thank you?"

"By helping me once more to save it," he answered curtly. "Nellie," he went on rapidly, for he knew too well that every moment they lingered there was fraught with peril--"Nellie, you are saved, and yet not safe yet! Your life, however, is in your own hands now, and with courage and good trust in Providence, I doubt not we shall pull safely through."

Nellie seemed to gather up her mind for a great effort, and said calmly:

"Only say what I must do, and I will do it."

"The case is this," said Roger shortly: "Yonder tower," and he pointed to the burning pile overhead--"yonder tower must fall soon, and, if we linger here, will crush us in its ruins. On the other hand, even if we could creep round to the opposite side of the church, a thing in itself almost impossible, the fanatical demons who guard the gates will probably shoot us down like dogs. The cliff, therefore, is our best--almost our only chance. Nevertheless I leave the choice in your own hands. Only remember you must decide at once."

"The cliff, then, be it!" said Nellie, with white lips but flashing eyes. "God is more merciful than man. He will save us, perhaps; if not, his will be done--not mine. I will trust entirely to him--entirely to him and you."

Almost ere she had finished speaking, Roger had undone the rope which he carried round his waist, and was looking eagerly about him for some means of securing it in such a way as to make it useful to Nellie in her descent. Fortunately for his purpose, a thorny tree had planted itself, some hundreds of years before, in a fissure of the rocks so close to the walls of the tower that, old, and gray, and stunted, as it now was, its roots had in all probability penetrated beneath their broad foundation, and were quite as firmly settled in the ground. Upon this Roger pounced at once, and having tried it sufficiently to make tolerably sure of its powers of endurance, he passed one end of his rope round the thickest and lowest portions of the stem, and made it fast with a sailor's knot. {590} The other end he threw over the cliff, and then watched its fall with a terrible, silent fear at his heart lest it should prove shorter than his need required. Down it went and down, and he stooped over to mark its progress until Nellie felt sick with fear, and turned away to avoid the giddiness which she knew would be fatal to them both.

At last she heard him say, "Thank God, it has reached the platform!" Then he turned round and anxiously scanned her features.

"Nellie," he said, "this thing is difficult, but not impossible. I have seen you bound like a deer down cliffs almost as steep, if not so high. The great, the only real peril, is in the eyesight. Lot's wife perished by a look. You must promise me neither to glance up nor down, but to keep your eyes fixed on the rocks before you. Hold well by the rope; take it hand over hand like a sailor, (I remember that you know the trick;) and leave the rest to me. There is really a path, though you can hardly see it from this spot; and there are chinks and crevices besides, in which you will easily find footing. You must feel for them as you descend; and when you are at a loss, I shall be below to help you. Neither will you be quite alone, for I am going to fasten you by this cord, so that, if you should happen to let go, I may perhaps be able to support you."

"My God!" said Nellie, white with terror, as he passed a strong, light cord, first round her waist and then his own, in such a way that there was length sufficient to enable them to act independently of each other, while, at the same time, neither could have fallen without almost to a certainty insuring the destruction of both. "My God, I cannot consent to this. Go by yourself; my fall would kill you."

"But you will not fall--you shall not fall," he pleaded anxiously, "if only you will abide by my directions."

"Go alone, I do beseech you!" she answered, with a shiver. "You cannot save me, and I shall but insure your destruction with my own."

"Nay, then, I give it up," he answered, almost sullenly. "We will stay here and die together, for never shall it be said of an O'More that, in seeking safety for himself, he left a woman thus to perish."

"Then, in God's name, let us try!" said Nellie; "only tell me what to do, and I will do it--if I can."

"Hold fast the rope, that is all. Never let one hand go until the other has grasped it firmly, and leave the rest to me. I will help to place your feet in safe resting-places as we go down. Only trust me, and all will yet be well."

"I will trust to you and to God, and our Lady," said Nellie, unconsciously repeating the password of the morning. Her color was rising fast, and her eyes had begun to sparkle with excitement. O'More seized the propitious moment, and, almost before Nellie knew it, she had begun her perilous descent.

"Are you steady now--quite steady?" he asked, in as low a voice as if he feared to startle the air with motion by speaking louder. Yes! with the natural instinct of a mountain climber Nellie had already found a rough indented spot in which her foot was firmly planted, and he descended a step lower. Thus inch by inch they went, Nellie ever clinging to the rope, and O'More guiding her descent with a success he had hardly looked for, and which he felt to be almost miraculous. {591} His heart at last beat high with hope; for he saw by the distance which they had descended that they must be nearing a sort of shelf or platform formed by a sudden bulging out of the lower strata of the cliffs, and he knew that they were safe if they could only reach that spot, the rest of the path being so well marked that, even without his aid, Nellie could easily have found her way from thence to the sands beneath.

But the surge of the sea boomed louder and louder as she approached it, and at last, fairly forgetting Roger's caution, she turned her head a little, and glanced downward. Then, for the first time, she became fully conscious of the terrible position she occupied, suspended as it seemed by a very thread between earth and sky, and with the great, deep, awful ocean rolling hundreds of feet below her. Her head swam, her eyesight failed her, she had just enough presence of mind left to grasp the rope firmly by both hands, when, feeling as if her senses were utterly deserting her, she cried out:

"O my God, I am going! Save me, Roger, I am going!"

"No, no!" he cried, in agony, for he knew only too well the danger of the thought. "Hold fast--hold on; for Christ's dear sake, hold on! One step--two steps more, and you are safe. There!" he cried, in a voice hoarse with emotion, as he felt his own foot touch the platform; and seizing Nellie by the waist, he drew her, hardly conscious of what he was doing, by main strength to his side. "There, oh! thank God--thank God, you are safe at last!"

He was just in time. Nellie had that very moment let go the rope, and if he had not caught her, would inevitably have been dashed to pieces on the rocks below. As it was, he landed her safely and gently on the ledge where he himself was standing, and without venturing to loose her entirely from his grasp, laid her down, that she might recover from her nervous panic.

"You are safe," he kept repeating, as if it required the assurance of his own voice to make certain of the fact. "You are safe!" and then with an instinctive yet entirely unacknowledged consciousness on his part, that _his_ own safety might perhaps be at least a portion of her care, he added--"we are safe now. You can stay here until you are quite yourself again; only do not look up or down--at least not just yet, not until the giddiness is gone. You forgot Lot's wife, or this never would have happened."

Nellie was not insensible, though she looked so. She only felt as if she were in a dream. She understood perfectly all that Roger said; the shadow even of a smile seemed to pass over her white lips as he alluded to Lot's wife; but his voice fell with a muffled sound, as if it came from a great distance, on her ear; and earth, and sky, and cliff, and ocean, all seemed blending and floating in a wild fantasy through her brain. By degrees, however, a sort of awakening seemed to creep over her, but she did not use it at first either to look up or speak. Possibly she felt that words would be powerless to express her thoughts, and was glad of any excuse for silence. Roger did not like to hurry her, and he therefore employed the next few minutes in scanning the sea in search of Henrietta. She was there, exactly in the place in which he had bidden her to wait for him; but she was watching the burning tower overhead, and had evidently very little notion that any of its victims had escaped. From the spot where he was standing, he could easily have made her hear him; but fearing that his voice might rouse up some hidden foe, he turned to Nellie for assistance.

{592}

"Have you a handkerchief," he asked, "or anything of that kind which you could give me for a signal?"

Without answering, without even looking up, (so obedient had she grown, poor Nellie!) she untied the scarlet kerchief, which, in her harmless vanity, she had that morning thrown over her head and knotted beneath her chin, as the last thing wanting to her costume of a native girl, and gave it into Roger's hand. He waved it for some time without success; but at last Henrietta saw it, and began to row vigorously into shore.

"Now you may look," cried Roger joyfully, helping Nellie to stand up; "now you may look; for you will see nothing but what it is good for you to see. Henrietta Hewitson is waiting for us in the boat below, and the sooner we leave this resting-place the better."

"Henrietta Hewitson!" cried Nellie, roused effectually to life again by the mention of her name. "His daughter! How kind, how noble! Shall we not go to her at once?"

"If you are able," he answered. "The rest of the way is easy--easier far than the cliffs of Clare Island, which you climbed with me yesterday."

"Easy! oh! yes, surely it is easy," cried Nellie wildly. "O my mother--my mother!" she sobbed, with a little gasp; "I shall see her once again--and my grandfather! the poor old man will not be left desolate, after all."

Roger saw that she was growing every moment more and more excited, and he cut the matter short by carrying her down to the beach and laying her in the boat, as if she had been a baby. Henrietta received her with a look of remorse, as if she felt that she herself must seem, somehow or other, responsible in Nellie's eyes for the pain and misery she had been enduring for the last few hours; and while she wrapt her tenderly and affectionately in a cloak taken from her own shoulders, Roger sent the boat, by a few vigorous strokes of the oar, to a safe distance from the rocks near which they had embarked. This manoeuvre placed them in full view of the burning tower, and he dropped his oar and gazed upon it as if irresistibly attracted by the spectacle. The body of the church was by this time a smouldering heap of ruins, but the tower, wrapt in its terrible robes of fire, still stood bravely up as if in defiance of its coming doom. For a single second it remained thus, unyielding and apparently uninjured, than it began visibly to totter. Another moment, and it was swaying backward and forward like a leaf in an autumn storm; and yet another, and, as if in a last wild effort to escape from the flames that swathed it, it plunged right over the cliffs, the fragments of its ruined walls crashing and crumbling from rock to rock till they fell with a roar like thunder into the waters underneath. Both girls, at the first symptom of the catastrophe impending, had instinctively shut their eyes; but Roger, on the contrary, looked on as steadily as if he were keeping a count of every falling stone in order to set it down in his debt of vengeance against those who had done the deed. Not a syllable, however, did he utter, until the last stone had fallen, and the last fiery gleam disappeared from the cliff; but then, as if unable any longer to endure in silence, he threw up his arms toward heaven, and exclaimed:

{593}

"Men, women, and children all sent before their time to judgment! O God! what punishment hast Thou reserved in this world or the next that shall be heavy enough for such a deed as this!"

"Curse me not--curse not!" cried Henrietta, with anguish in her voice, "The doom, God knows, is heavy enough already."

"Curse _you!_" said the astonished Roger, "_you_, to whom I owe more than my own life a thousand times. Nay, Mistress Henrietta, what madness has made you fear it?"

"I fear! I fear! Why should I not?" sobbed Henrietta. "The sin of the parents shall be visited on the children, and he is my father, after all!"

"Your father! _your_ father!" Roger muttered, trying to keep down the storm of passion that was choking him. "Well, well, he is, as you say, _your_ father, and so I must perforce be silent."

"Alas! alas!" Henrietta pleaded, "if you did but know the completeness of his religious mania, you would also comprehend how easily a man, merciful in all things else, can in this one thing be merciless."

"Nay," said Roger bitterly; "it needs, I think, no great stretch of intellect to understand it thoroughly. A man, fresh from the siege of Tredagh, where children were dashed from the battlements, lest, 'like nits, they should become troublesome if suffered to increase,' will, doubtless, merely consider the holocaust of human life which lies buried beneath yonder ruins as a whole burnt-offering, smelling sweet in the nostrils of the Lord, which he, as his high-priest, has been deputed to offer up."

He broke off suddenly, for a hand was laid upon his arm, and a white face lifted pleadingly to his. "Speak not thus of her father," whispered Nellie. "Speak not thus; see how she is weeping!"

"Her tears are his best plea for mercy, then," said he in a gentler tone, and seizing the oars, he began to row as vigorously as if he hoped to quiet his boiling spirit by the mere fact of bodily exhaustion. Nellie made no answer, and silence fell upon them all.

The deed just done was not of a nature lightly to be forgotten, and they went quietly on their way, as people will, upon whom the shadow of a great terror still hangs heavily. Just, however, as they entered the harbor of Clare Island, Nellie caught sight of a well-known figure, and uttered a cry of joy. It was Hamish, and, in her impatience, she scarcely waited until the boat was fastened ere she was at his side. But there was no gladness in his eye as he turned to greet her. He was deadly pale, and his left arm hung powerless at his side. Nellie saw nothing of this at first, however, she was thinking so entirely of her mother.

"Is she come, dear Hamish?" she cried. "Where is she?"

"In Dublin," he answered curtly.

"In Dublin--and you here?" cried Nellie in dismay.

"Because she sent me," he replied.

"What is it, Hamish? What is it?" faltered Nellie, struggling with a sense of some new and terrible misfortune impending over her.

"She is sore sick--sick even unto death," Hamish reluctantly replied. He could not bring himself to utter the terrible truth as yet.

Nellie stood for a moment mute with terror. She read upon her foster-brother's face that worse news than even this was about to follow; but when she would have asked what it was, courage and voice completely failed her. She knew it, however, soon enough. From his seat by the door of the tower, Lord Netterville had caught a glimpse of Hamish, and came down at once to greet him. Excitement seemed for one brief moment to have restored all his faculties, and he cried out eagerly:

{594}

"You here, good Hamish! I am heartily glad to see you! And what news bring you from Netterville? How goes my lady daughter? Ill, do you say--sore stricken? Nay, man, remember that she is still but young. It cannot surely be an illness unto death?"

"Yea, but it is, my lord," said Hamish, speaking almost roughly in his agony. "Death, and nothing short of death, as surely as that I am here to say it."

"Art thou a prophet?" asked Roger, bending his dark brows upon him, and half tempted to suspect a snare. "Art thou a prophet, that thou darest to speak thus confidently of the future?"

"Sir," said Hamish, driven at last beyond his patience, and hardly knowing how to break his news more gently, "it needs not to be a prophet to foresee that the widow of a royalist and a Catholic to boot, shut up in prison and condemned on a false charge of murder, is in danger--nay, said I danger?--and is as certain of her doom as if she were already in her coffin."

Nellie uttered a wild cry, the first and last that escaped her lips that day, and Lord Netterville repeated faintly, "Murder!"

"Ay, murder; and in another week she dies," Hamish answered, now desperate as to the consequences of his revelation.

Nellie turned short round toward Roger:

"I must go!" she said. "I must go at once."

"Of course you must," he answered, in that helpful tone which had so often that morning already reassured her.

"She has sent me hither to conduct you," Hamish--with some latent jealousy of the interference of a stranger--was beginning, when, unable any longer to conceal the bodily anguish he was enduring, he uttered a moan of pain, and leaned back against the low wall of the pier.

Then for the first time Nellie looked into his face, and saw that he was as white as ashes.

"My God! my God!" she cried in her perplexity. "What is to become of us? He is dying too."

"No, no," Hamish mustered his failing strength to answer, "It is nothing. They shot at me as I took boat from the beach, and hit me in the arm; but it is not broken, and if only I could stop the bleeding, I should be well enough to start at once."

But he grew paler and paler as he spoke, and the blood gushed in torrents from his arm, as he tried to lift it for their inspection. Roger shouted to Norah to bring down a cordial from the tower, and he then helped Nellie and Henrietta in their nervous and not very efficient endeavors to check the bleeding with their kerchiefs. Hamish was by this time well-nigh insensible, but a cup of wine revived him, and having ascertained that he was merely suffering from a flesh-wound, Roger sent back Norah to rummage out some bandages which he remembered were among his soldier stores. With these he stanched the blood, and carefully bound up the wounded arm, assuring Nellie at the same time that her faithful follower was merely suffering from loss of blood, and that in a few days he would be as well again as ever. Nellie must be forgiven if at that moment she had no thought excepting for her mother.

"A few days," she cried despairingly; "then I must go back alone; for my mother will be dead by that time."

{595}

Hamish did not hear her. He was leaning back in that half-dreamy state which often follows upon loss of blood; but Roger answered instantly:

"You shall go at once; but certainly not alone." He turned round to look for Lord Netterville; the poor old man had sunk upon the ground, and in his helplessness and perplexity was weeping like a child.

"Lord Netterville!" said Roger suddenly.

Lord Netterville dashed the tears from his eyes, and looked up anxiously in the young man's face.

"Lord Netterville," Roger repeated, giving him his hand and helping him to stand up, "you see how the case stands; your granddaughter must go to her mother, and go at once. Any delay were fatal. This poor fellow is totally unable to accompany her. Will you trust her to my care? I swear to you that she shall be as dear and precious to me as a sister, and that I will watch over her and wait upon her as if I were in very deed her brother."

With a look of relief and confidence that was touching to behold, the old man wrung the hand which Roger gave him, and then silently turned toward Nellie. Roger did did not ask her if she would accept him as an escort; he felt that after the events of the morning she would need no protestations of loyalty at his hand, and merely said:

"In two hours we can start; but I shall have to go first to the mainland to look for horses."

"Nay, that shall be my business," said Henrietta suddenly. "In two hours hence, at the foot of the round tower, you will find them waiting; and I will bring you at the same time a letter to a friend, who may, I think, prove useful to you in Dublin. Follow me not now," she added in a tone that admitted of no reply, as Roger made a movement as if he would have gone with her to the boat, "follow me not now; I can best arrange matters if I go alone; but in two hours hence I shall expect you."

## Chapter XIII.

Henrietta was as good as her word, and, thanks to her energy and kindness, Nellie, with Roger for an escort, was enabled to commence her journey that very afternoon, both she and her companion being mounted upon good swift steeds, which the young English girl had made no scruple of abstracting for the purpose from her father's stable. She had done even more than this; for she had conquered her pride and petulance sufficiently to write a letter to Major Ormiston, in which she entreated him, by the love he once professed to bear her, to do all he could for Nellie, and to procure her every facility for access to her mother. This she had given to Roger, hinting to him at the same time that her correspondent was high in favor of the Lord Deputy, and might possibly be able to induce the latter to commute the sentence of death hanging over Mrs. Netterville into one of fine or imprisonment, even if he could not or would not grant her a full pardon. Of this hope, however, Roger said not a syllable to Nellie, fearful, if it should come to naught, of adding the bitterness of disappointment to the terrible measure of misery which in that case would be her portion.

The journey to Dublin was a difficult and a long one, and if Nellie had been allowed to act according to her own wishes, she would probably have used up both herself and her horse long before she had reached its end. {596} Fortunately, however, for the accomplishment of her real object, Roger took a more exact measure of the strength of both than, under the circumstances, she was capable of doing for herself, and he insisted every night upon her seeking a few hours' repose in any habitation, however poor, which presented itself for the purpose.

With this precaution, and supported also in some measure by the very excitement of her misery, Nellie bore up bravely against the inevitable fatigues and discomforts of the journey. The horses, however, proved less untiring. In spite of Roger's best care and grooming, both at last began to show symptoms of distress, and they were a long day's journey yet from Dublin when it became evident to him that his own in particular was failing rapidly. Henrietta had chosen it chiefly for its quality of speed; but it was too light for a tall and powerfully-built man like Roger; and more than once that day he had been compelled to dismount, and proceed at a walking pace, in order to allow it to recover itself. Night was rapidly closing in, and Nellie, who, preoccupied by her own anxieties, had not as yet remarked the state of the poor animal, ventured to remonstrate with Roger upon the slowness of their proceedings. Then for the first time he pointed out to her the exhaustion of their steeds, acknowledging his conviction that his own in particular was in a dying state, and that two hours more, if he survived so long, would be the utmost measure of the work that he could expect him to accomplish. Nellie was for a moment in despair, and then a bold thought struck her--why not ride straight for Netterville? They had been for some hours in the country of the Pale, and they could not be very far from her old home now. Every feature in the landscape was becoming more and more familiar to her eyes, and she was certain that, in less than the two hours which Roger had assigned as the utmost limit of his steed's endurance, they would have reached her native valley. Once there, they would not only be in the direct road to Dublin, but they would also have a better chance of finding horses than they could have in a place where they were entirely unknown. Netterville, it was true, was now wholly and entirely, with its fields and stock, in the hands of the Parliamentarians; but she was certain of the fidelity of the poor people there, and as certain as she was of her own existence, not only that they would not betray her, but that they would also do all they could to help and speed her on her way. The plan seemed feasible; at all events, no other presented itself at the moment to Roger's mind, and accordingly, after having done all he could to relieve his horse, and prepare him for a fresh spurt, they struck right across the country eastward toward the sea. Nellie proved right in her conjectures. In even less than two hours from the moment in which they started, they reached the valley of Netterville--reached it, in fact, just in time; for Roger had barely leaped from his horse's back ere the poor animal was rolling on the turf in the agonies of death. Nellie then proposed that they should walk to the cottage of old Grannie, and dismounted in her turn. Her horse was not so exhausted as that of Roger, nevertheless it was even then unfit for work, and would in all probability be still more so on the morrow. Roger therefore thought it better to leave it to its fate than to run the risk of attracting notice by bringing it with them to Grannie's habitation. {597} He hoped, as Nellie did, that they would have a good chance of finding fresh steeds at Netterville next morning; and after carefully hiding the two saddles in a clump of gorse, they set out on their way on foot. The old woman received Nellie with a cry of joy. No sooner, however, did the latter mention the business which had brought her there, than the faithful creature stifled all her gladness at this unexpected meeting with her foster-child, and turned to weep in good and sorrowful earnest over the woe and shame impending upon the house of Netterville, in the person of its unhappy mistress. While Nellie ate, or tried to eat, the simple fare set before her by her hostess, Roger told the latter of the fate which had befallen their horses, and inquired as to the possibility of replacing them by fresh ones. Grannie shook her head despondingly. Royalists and Parliamentarians alternately, she said, had seized upon every available horse they could find in the country, until, as far as she knew, there was not a "garran" fit for a two hours' journey within ten miles of Netterville. As to Netterville itself, if there _were_ any horses left in its stables, (which she doubted,) they must of necessity belong to the English soldier to whose lot, in the drawing of the debentures, the castle and its grounds had fallen; much, the old woman added with a chuckle, to the disgust of the officer who commanded them at the time of the recent murder, and who, having coveted the place exceedingly for himself, was supposed to have pressed the matter heavily against Mrs. Netterville for the facilitating of his own selfish wish.

Roger listened to all this in silence, privately resolving to risk his own detention, if discovered, as an outlaw, and to visit the stable of Netterville next morning, in hopes of procuring a fresh mount. As nothing, however, could be done till then, he entreated Nellie to lie down and rest, after which he left the hut, there not being a second chamber in it, and throwing himself on a bank of heather on the outside, was soon fast asleep. It was long before Nellie could follow his example, but at last she fell into that state of dreamless stupor which often, in cases of extreme exhaustion, takes the place of healthy slumber. Such as it was, at all events, it was rest--rest of body and rest of mind--a truce to the aching of weary limbs, and to the yet more intolerable weariness of a mind, wincing and shivering beneath a coming woe. The first gleam of daylight roused her from it. There was never any pleasant twilight now, between sleeping and waking, in Nellie's mind! With the first gleam of consciousness came ever the pale image of her mother, and there was neither rest nor sleep for her after that. In the present instance, anxiety as to the chance of being able to prosecute her journey at all, was added to her other troubles; and, unable to endure suspense upon such a vital point even for a moment, she opened the door quietly, so as not to disturb old Granny, and looked out for Roger. He was nowhere to be seen, and she guessed at once that he had gone up to the castle. Then a longing seized her to look once more upon the old place where she had been so happy formerly; and, without giving herself time to waver, she walked hurriedly up the valley. She did not, however, venture to the front of the house, but resolved instead to take a path which, skirting round it, would lead her to the offices behind. {598} It was, by one of those strange accidents which we call chance, but for which the angels perhaps have quite another name, the very path which her mother had always taken when visiting the sick soldier. The door of the room which he had occupied was slightly ajar as Nellie passed it; and, moved by an impulse for which she could never afterward thoroughly account, she pushed it open without noise, and entered. The room was not uninhabited, as she had at first supposed. A woman, evidently in the last stage of some mortal malady, lay stretched upon the bed, and a soldier of the Cromwellian type was seated with an open Bible in his hand beside her. He had probably been employed either in reading or exhorting, but at the moment when Nellie entered, it was the woman who was speaking.

"I tell you, soldier!" Nellie heard her querulously murmur--"I tell you, soldier, it is mere waste of breath, your preaching. So long as that woman's death lies heavy on my soul, so long I can look for nothing better in the next world than hell."

At that very moment Nellie noiselessly advanced, and stood in silence at the foot of the bed.

The woman recognized her at once, and with a wild shriek flung herself out of the bed at her feet. The girl recoiled in horror and dismay. She had learned the whole story of her mother's condemnation from Hamish ere she left Clare Island.

"Murderess of my mother!" she cried, in a voice hoarse with anguish. "Dare not to lay hands upon her daughter."

"Mercy! mercy!" cried the woman, grovelling on the ground, and seeking with her white shrunken fingers to lay hold of the hem of Nellie's garment. "Mercy! mercy!"

"Where shall I find mercy for my mother?" Nellie asked, as white as ashes, and shaking from head to foot in the agony of her struggle between conscience and resentment--the one urging her to forgive her foe, the other to leave her to her fate. "Where shall I find mercy for my mother?"

"You see, soldier--you see," moaned the poor wretch upon the floor, "the daughter cannot pardon me; why then should God?"

"What would you have?" cried Nellie, almost maddened by the mental conflict. "What would you have? I cannot cure you. What can I do?"

"You can forgive," the woman answered feebly; "then perhaps God will pardon also."

"O my God! my God! give me strength and grace sufficient!" cried Nellie; and then, by an effort of almost superhuman charity, she stooped, put her arms round the dying creature's neck, and kissed her.

The woman uttered a cry of joy, and fell back heavily out of Nellie's arms. A long silence followed.

Nellie looked at the dead, white face, lying quietly on the floor beside her, and felt as if she were dying also, so utterly did her senses seem to fail her, and so dead and numbed were all her faculties in the heavy strain that had been put upon them. A hand was laid at last upon her shoulder. Nellie started violently. She had totally forgotten even the existence of the soldier.

"Nay, fear not, maiden, nor yet grieve inordinately," he said, in a voice of mingled pity and admiration. "Thou hast acted in all this business (I am bound to bear testimony to the truth) in a way worthy of thy mother's daughter."

"Thank God, at least, that I forgave her," Nellie murmured beneath her breath, scarce conscious of what he was saying.

{599}

"Nay, and in very deed," he answered, "thy presence here has been a crowning and a saving mercy for the poor wretch whom we have seen expire. Ever since I found her here last night, dying alone and in despair, I have been striving for her with the Lord, and praying and exhorting, but, as it seemed to me, all in vain, until thy kiss of peace fell like a balm more precious even than that of Gilead on her soul, and restored it, I cannot doubt, (for I saw a light as of exceeding gladness settle upon her dying features,) restored it to long banished peace."

"Thank God that he gave me grace to do it!" Nellie once more whispered. It seemed as if she were powerless to think of aught besides.

"They who do mercy shall in due time find it!" rejoined the soldier, putting a small scrap of written paper into her hand. "In this very room thy mother tended me, when my own comrades had deserted me, fearing the infection; in this very room yonder woman, having been expelled the other portions of the mansion, since order has been taken for the separation of God's elect from the sinful daughters of the land, took up her abode some three days since; and in this very room I last night found her, dying of the malady of which, but for thy mother's care, I must have also perished, and so moved by the prospect of eternal retribution which lay before her, that she of her own accord did dictate, and did suffer me to write down on the spot, a full confession of her own guilt in the matter of the murdered Tomkins, She told me then--and many times afterward in the course of the long night she did continue to aver it--that she herself it was who did the deed for which Mrs. Netterville stands condemned to die; she having, in a drunken squabble. seized the man's pistol and shot him dead upon the spot. And she furthermore avowed, with unspeakable groanings and many tears, that, terrified at the consequences of her own act, and moved besides by a fiendish desire of vengeance against thy mother, who had in some way unwittingly, in times past, offended her, she not only accused her of the murder, but maintained that accusation afterward upon oath when examined before the High Court of Commissioners in Dublin. Now then, maiden, rise up and speed. Thy mother's life is in thy hands; for with that paper, writ and witnessed by one who, however humble, is not altogether unknown as a zealous soldier in the camp of Israel--with that paper, I say, to attest her innocence, they must of a certainty acknowledge it, and let her go."

"How shall I thank thee, O my God!" cried Nellie, scarcely able to believe her ears that she had heard the soldier rightly.

"It is good to praise God always," he replied sententiously, "but at this moment briefly. Thy present care must be to get to Dublin with what speed thou mayest."

"Alas!" said Nellie, "how shall I get there? I have ridden day and night ever since I heard this unhappy news, and only yesterday evening our horses were so knocked up, that I and my companion had to find our way hither as best we could on foot."

"There are but two horses in these stables, and neither of them are mine to offer," said the soldier, evidently distressed and anxious at the dilemma in which his _protégée_ was placed. "Nevertheless, and the Lord aiding me in my endeavors, I will do what I can. Come with me to the courtyard--I doubt not but thou knowest the way well enough already."

{600}

Yes, indeed! poor Nellie knew it well enough, and at any other time she might have wept at revisiting on so sad an errand a spot hitherto pleasantly associated in her mind with many a childish frolic, and many a petted animal, the favorites of the days gone by. Just now, however, she had no inclination to dwell on the memories of the past. Joy at the proved innocence of her mother, and a wild fear lest she herself should arrive too late in Dublin to allow of her profiting by the disclosure, filled her whole soul, and left no room there for sentimental sorrows. She found Roger already in the yard, engaged in hot discussion with an officer of the English army, a coal-black charger, which the latter was holding carelessly by the bridle, being the apparent object of the dispute.

"Ay," muttered her conductor, as he glanced toward the group; "it is, I see, even as I suspected, and I shall have to pay dearly for Black Cromwell." Then leaving Nellie a little in the background, he went up to the English officer and said:

"Here is an unhappy maiden, Captain Rippel, bound upon an errand of life and death, and sorely in need of a good steed to bear her. The fate of a grave, God-fearing woman, even of Mistress Netterville herself, the late owner of this mansion, is dependent on her speed, and, had I twenty horses in the stable, as I have not one, I declare unto thee as God liveth and seeth, that she should have her choice among them all."

"Yea, and undoubtedly," the other answered with a sneer. "Nevertheless, since it is even as thou sayest, and that thou hast them not, I fear me, good master sergeant, that this young daughter of Moab, who has been lucky enough to find favor in your eyes, will be none the better for your good intentions."

"Sir, if you be a man--a gentleman--you cannot, you will not refuse!" cried the indignant Roger. "Consider, this young lady is here a suppliant where once she dwelt the honored mistress of the mansion, and you cannot of a surety say nay! Remember it is no gift we crave, for this purse contains double the value of your steed, strong and of admirable breeding as undoubtedly he is."

He held up a purse as he spoke, the parting gift of Henrietta, from whom, however, he had accepted it merely as a loan, to be afterward repaid in some of the most valuable of the articles yet left him in his tower. It was well filled and heavy; but with a little smile of scorn the officer waved it quietly on one side.

"And how am I to be certified, I pray you, that this young maiden--who seems to have cast witchcraft on you both--is in reality Mistress Netterville, or any other indeed than a base impostor?" he asked with a most offensive leer. "Scarce five days have as yet elapsed since I came hither, sent by the Lord High Deputy himself, to put order in this garrison, and to separate the elect of God from the sinful daughters of the land, and--"

"Sir, do you dare!" cried Roger, suddenly cutting short his speech; and, raising his hand, he would have struck him to the ground if the soldier had not placed himself hastily between them, saying in a monitory tone to Roger:

"If thou wouldst not destroy the young maiden's hopes altogether, sir, leave this affair to me. Another look or word of thine, and it will utterly miscarry."

{601}

Roger felt the man was right. It was not by violence or angry words that he could best serve Nellie. He checked himself at once, therefore, and fell back, while the soldier said quietly to his superior officer:

"Thou hast not, peradventure, captain, forgotten the offer which thou didst make to me some three days since, when first the way in which the Lord had disposed of our lots was made known to us at Netterville?"

"Forgotten--no, in sooth--not I!" the other answered roughly. "Nor have I forgotten either with what manifest folly and ingratitude thou didst reject it; better though it was by a hundred pieces of good gold, than that which one of thy comrades didst thankfully accept from Major Pepper."

"Throw Black Cromwell and the white mare Daylight into the bargain, and I accept," the soldier answered quietly.

"What, part with Black Cromwell? Black Cromwell, who hath carried me unhurt through more battles than David himself ever fought against the Philistines?" the officer demanded with well-affected astonishment. "Verily and indeed, master sergeant, thou art, as I do perceive, notwithstanding thy good odor for most punctilious sanctity--thou art, I say, but an extortioner after all. Had it been the mare alone, now, though she also is a very marvel for strength and speed--I had never said thee nay; but to talk to me of parting with Black Cromwell is to prick me, so to speak, upon the very apple of the eye."

"Nevertheless I have a fancy for him, and if I cannot get him, I will still hold fast to Netterville, the inheritance which the Lord himself hath of late assigned me in this new land of promise," the other steadily replied.

"There is the good horse. Battle of Worcester, he is stronger than Black Cromwell, and would altogether suit the maiden better," his superior rejoined in a coaxing tone.

"Yea, but he hath an ugly trick of going lame ere the first mile is over," Sergeant Jackson responded with a knowing smile, and then he added in a tone which was evidently intended to bring the discussion to an end, "It will be all in vain to dispute this matter any further. Captain Rippel. If you have in truth, as you seem to say, made up your mind to keep Black Cromwell for your own riding, I, on the other hand, am equally resolved not to part with this house of Netterville, which will serve me well enough, I doubt not, as a residence, once I have brought my old mother hither to help me in its keeping."

"Nay, then, usurer, take the horse and thy money with it!" cried the officer, in a tone far less expressive of vexation than of triumph at the result of the discussion. "Take thy money and hand me over that debenture which, with the loss of such a charger as Black Cromwell, is, I fear me, but too dearly purchased."

Without deigning to utter a single syllable in return, Sergeant Jackson took the purse which the other in his affected indignation almost flung at his head, with one hand, while with the other he drew forth from the breast-pocket of his coat a paper, being the identical debenture in question, and presented it to his officer. Captain Rippel snatched it hastily from him, ran his eye over it to make sure that it was the right one, and then, turning on his heel, sauntered out of the courtyard, without even condescending to glance toward the spot where Nellie stood anxiously awaiting the result.

{602}

Sergeant Jackson instantly dived into one of the stables, and seizing a side-saddle, (Nellie's own saddle of the olden times,) he led forth a strong, handsome mare, as white as milk, and began to saddle it in hot haste; while Roger, taking the hint, did the same for Cromwell.

"I am afraid I have cost you very dear," Nellie said in a low, grateful tone, as she stood beside the sergeant. "Believe me, for nothing less than a mother's life would I have suffered you to make such a sacrifice."

"Nay, maiden, call it not a sacrifice," he answered without looking round, and giving a pull to the girths to make sure that they were tight. "Or if thou needs must think it one, remember that, had not thy good mother saved my life, I should not have been here to make it."

Nellie's heart was too full to speak, and she suffered him to lift her in silence to her saddle. He settled her in it as carefully and tenderly as if, instead of a simple soldier, he had been one of the old courtly race of cavaliers, from which she was herself descended, and then, with one last whispered word of gratitude for himself, and one last loving message for old Grannie, which he promised to deliver to her in person, Nellie rode forth from Netterville, and, without even giving it a farewell glance, turned her horse's head toward Dublin.

## Chapter XIV.

The city of Dublin, as it stood within its walls in the days of the Protectorate, barely covered ground to the extent of an Irish mile, and was built entirely on the south side of the Liffey. That side, therefore, only of the river was embanked by quays, and not even _that_ in its entirety; the space now occupied by the new custom-house and other buildings, to the extent of several thousand feet, being then mere ooze and swamp, kept thus by the continued overflowing of the tides.

To the north of the Liffey, however, there was a suburb, built, as time went on and the exigencies of an ever-increasing population required, outside the walls of the fortified city. It was called "Ostmantown," now "Oxmantown," and occupied a very insignificant space between Mary's Abbey and Church street; Stoney Batter, Grange Gorman, and Glassmanogue, being merely villages scattered here and there in the open country to a considerable distance northward. A bridge of very ancient date, the bridge of "Dubhgh-all," also at a later period styled the "Old Bridge," formed the sole means of communication (except by boat) between the city and its northern suburb. Built upon four arches, and closed in on the Dublin side by a strong gate-house with turrets and portcullis, the Old Bridge, like all others of similar antiquity, was broad enough and strong enough to form a sort of street within itself; shops being erected upon either side, and traffic as busy and as eager there, as in the more legitimate thoroughfares of the city.

From Old Bridge men passed at once into Bridge street, (_Vicus Pontis_ formerly,) a long, narrow thoroughfare, hemmed in on one side by the city walls, and on the other by a tolerably handsome row of houses. These houses were almost all built in the cage-work fashion of the days of Queen Elizabeth, and roofed in with tiles and shingles. Many of them also possessed inscriptions which, cut deep into the wood above the doorway, stated the name and calling of the owner, with the addition frequently of some pious sentiment or appropriate phrase from Scripture. {603} This custom seems to have been a favorite one in Dublin, and in the more antique portions of the city there existed houses, even to a very recent period of its history, upon which might still be read the names and occupations of the men who, more than two hundred years before, had resided within their walls.

On the day on which we are about to introduce Dublin to our readers, there had been a considerable amount of stir and bustle going on among its inhabitants, and more especially among those of Bridge street. Rumors had, in fact, been rife since early dawn of an expected rising of the rebels (as the king's partisans were then styled by their opponents) in the north; and men speculated in hope and fear, as their secret wishes moved them, on the probability of the report. It received something like confirmation in the afternoon, one or two regiments of recently arrived English soldiers, armed from head to heel, and evidently ready to go into action at a moment's notice, having been marched out of the city and sent northward. Later on in the day, moreover, it became known that the Lord-Deputy himself, Henry Cromwell, the best of Ireland's recent rulers, accompanied by a strong escort, was proceeding in the same direction, and might be looked for at any moment at the "Ormond Gate," which shut out Bridge street on the city side, just as the "Gate-house" closed it on that of the Old Bridge.

But if people stood at their doors and windows to do honor to the coming of their king-deputy, there yet seemed to be another and still stronger attraction for them at the end of the street opposite that by which he was expected to appear. Eyes were cast quite as often, though more furtively, in the direction of the Old Bridge as in that of the Ormond Gate; for, in the midst of other rumors, there had come a whisper, no one knew how or by whom it had been first set agoing, that a person suspected of belonging to the rebel party had just been arrested on the river, having attempted, by means of a boat, to elude the passage of the Old Bridge, and so penetrate unchallenged into the heart of the city.

There followed, as a matter of course, much secret and some anxious speculation as to the rank and real object of the arrested person, but no one ventured to make open inquiry into the matter. Cromwell's brief reign of blood had stricken men dumb with fear. To have shown the smallest interest in persons suspected of belonging to the rebel party, would have been but to have drawn down suspicion on themselves; and suspicion, in those hard times, was too nearly akin to condemnation to be heedlessly incurred. Instead, therefore, of going at once to the Gate-house and ascertaining the real facts of the case from its guardians, people were content, while awaiting the appearance of the military cavalcade from the castle, to question and conjecture among themselves as to the rank and real business of the arrested man. A flourish of trumpets before Ormond Gate put a stop at last to their gossipings. Heads and eyes, if not hearts and good wishes, were instantly turned in that direction; the gate was flung open, and Henry Cromwell, surrounded by a goodly company of officers and private gentlemen, rode at a brisk pace through it. A moment afterward, and he had swept past all the gazers, and pulled up opposite the Old Bridge. The guard at the Gate-house instantly turned out to receive him, the portcullis was drawn up, and he was actually spurring his horse forward to the bridge, when a girl, in the habit of a western peasant, darted through the soldiers and flung herself on her knees before him. {604} The movement was so rapid and unexpected that, if the Lord-Deputy had not reined up his steed until he nearly threw it on its haunches, he must inevitably have ridden over her. A moment of silent astonishment ensued. The girl herself uttered no cry, and said not a syllable as to the nature of her petition; but as she lifted up her head toward the Lord Henry, her hood, falling back upon her shoulders, revealed a face of ashy whiteness, and there was a pleading, agonized expression in the dark eyes she raised to his, which told more than many words, of the inarticulate anguish of the soul within.

Henry Cromwell was not of a nature to be harsh to any one, much less to a woman; but there had been information enough sent in to him that morning to make him suspect a snare, and he turned sternly for explanation to the chief officer of the guard.

"What means this unseemly interruption, corporal?" he asked, as the latter was vainly endeavoring to induce Nellie to rise from her knees. "Is this maiden a prisoner? or if not a prisoner, is she distraught, that she thus ventures, bare-headed and dressed in such ungodly play-acting fashion, to rush into our very presence?"

"A prisoner of only half-an-hour's standing is she, may it please your excellency," the soldier answered promptly, "she and her companion! They were seen attempting to cross the river in a boat borrowed from some of the natives on the other side, and as it seemed to me that their purpose must needs be seditious to demand such secrecy, I caused both to be apprehended, and have kept them here to wait your honor's further directions in the matter."

"Ormiston," said the Lord-Deputy, turning to one of the younger of the group of officers behind him, "remain you here, and examine, with Corporal Holdfast, into this business. If there be aught which seems important hid beneath this masquerading folly, follow me at once to Glassmanogue, where I shall have business to detain me for a couple of hours; but if it be only, as I do suspect, the silly freak of a love-sick maiden, in that case I shall not look for you before to-morrow morning, when you will bring me, as I have explained already, the last despatches which may have come from England."

Having thus somewhat summarily despatched poor Nellie's business, but little dreaming of the great service he had done her in appointing young Ormiston her guardian, Henry Cromwell dashed over the bridge, and, followed instantly by his escort, galloped northward. The moment Nellie saw that her efforts to hold speech with the Lord-Deputy himself would prove in vain, she had risen of her own accord, and, the hood once more drawn modestly over her head and face, had stood aside to let him pass, with a calm, sad dignity in her look and bearing which had its due effect upon the rough soldier who had made her captive. He did not again attempt to touch, or even to address her, but standing near her silently and respectfully, seemed to wait until of her own accord she should return with him to the Gate-house. Thus unmolested, Nellie forgot his existence altogether, and equally heedless of the crowd, which, having gathered in the wake of the Lord-Deputy, was now gazing curiously and compassionately upon her, she stood considering what her next move should be, when, in obedience to his orders, Harry Ormiston approached her.

{605}

As he took Corporal Holdfast's place beside her, Nellie lifted her eyes to his face, and recognized him instantly as the young officer who had been riding with Henrietta on the day of their first meeting in the wilderness. A soft cry of joy escaped her lips, and Harry Ormiston broke down in his half-uttered greeting. _He_ also remembered her face--have we not already told our reader that it was by no means one easily to be forgotten?--but of the when or the where that he had seen it, he had no such distinct a recollection. Silently, and with a look of timid hope stealing over that fair face, Nellie drew Henrietta's missive from her bosom and placed it in his hands.

Ormiston glanced at the superscription, and with a flush of honest joy mantling on his features, eagerly tore it open. Scarcely, however, had he read three lines ere the scene among the mountains, which had ended in his quarrel with his betrothed, rose before him like a vision, and instantly remembering Nellie as the fair girl who had been in some measure, albeit unwittingly, its cause, he turned sharply upon Corporal Holdfast.

"How is this, corporal? I fear me you have made some grave mistake! This young maiden whom you hold a prisoner is the bearer to me of a token from one whose zeal and faithfulness in the good cause cannot be suspected--even from a member of the household of that brave and God-fearing Major Hewitson, who has set up his camp on the very edge of the wilderness, and thus made of his small garrison a very tower of strength against the incursions of the enemy."

"Nay, and if your honor says it, it must needs be true," the man--a bluff old soldier, with little pretensions to sanctity in his composition--answered with suppressed impatience; "and therefore I can only marvel that a maiden, known and esteemed by the family of worthy Major Hewitson, should not only have sought to cheat our vigilance by crossing the river privately in a boat, but should have done so in the company of a man whom I myself can testify to having been a chief of some repute in the army of the Irish enemy, having crossed swords with him at the battle of 'Knocknaclashy,' as I think they call it in their barbarous language, where he fought (I needs must own it) with a valor worthy of a better cause."

Major Ormiston turned, gravely but kindly, to Nellie.

"I fear me much," he said, "that you have been but ill-advised in all this business. Why not have presented yourself openly at the bridge if the matter which has brought you hither will bear investigation? and why, more than all the rest, have you come attended by a person whose very company must needs render you suspect yourself?"

"O sir!" said Nellie, weeping sadly, as she began to fear that even Henrietta's recommendation to mercy might perhaps avail her little; "we had not the password, without which we never should have been permitted to enter Dublin by the bridge; and our errand is, alas! of such a nature, that every moment lost is of deep and sad importance."

"_Our_ errand," Ormiston thoughtfully repeated. "This errand, then, is not entirely your own, but is in some way or other interesting also to the man by whom Master Holdfast tells me you are accompanied."

{606}

"He should have said 'a _gentleman_,'" Nellie answered, with a slight rebuking emphasis on the latter word--"a gentleman who, at his own great trouble, and, I fear me, risk, has enabled me to accomplish this journey; in which, however, he has no other interest than such as any kind and noble heart might feel in the sorrows and perils of an unprotected girl."

"Where is he--this other prisoner?" Ormiston asked, turning for information to the corporal.

"In the gate-house, sir, where we have him safe under lock and key; for he was no prisoner to be left at large like this silly maiden, who begged so hard to be allowed to see the Lord-Deputy go by, that I found it not in my heart to deny her so small a favor; for the doing of which, I trust I have not incurred the displeasure either of your honor or of his highness the Lord Henry."

"Certainly not, honest Holdfast; you have acted both well and mercifully in all this business. And now lead the way to the gate-house, and trouble not your wits about this young maiden. I myself will be her surety that she attempt not to escape."

He offered his hand very respectfully to Nellie as he finished speaking, 'and she suffered him to lead her in silence toward the bridge. As they entered the gate-house, however, she quietly withdrew her hand and glided from his side to that of Roger.

Ormiston instantly recognized the latter as the dispossessed owner of the "Rath," and an officer, beside, of some standing in the recently disbanded army of the Irish. Courteously saluting him, therefore, he informed him that he had been deputed by the Lord-Deputy to inquire into the nature of the business which had brought him to Dublin, adding an earnest hope on his own part that it might prove to be in no way connected with political affairs.

"That, most assuredly, it is not," said Roger, pleased and touched by the young officer's manner, and satisfied by Henrietta's letter, which Ormiston still held open in his hand, that he was addressing the person for whom it had been intended. "My business is one which solely concerns this young gentlewoman, and concerns her, in fact, so nearly, that if you cannot aid her, as Mistress Hewitson half hinted that you could, I trust, at all events, you will give me as much of my liberty for this one day as may enable me to do so myself. I too am a soldier and an officer. Major Ormiston, and you may trust me that I will not abuse your favor."

"Sir," said Nellie imploringly, "you have not read the letter--if you would but read the letter! Mistress Hewitson half promised that you would help me!"

Thus called upon, Ormiston ran his eyes over Henrietta's letter, which, concluding it to be on matters merely personal to himself, he had been reserving for more private, and therefore more satisfactory perusal.

Nellie watched him anxiously as he read on, and with a spasm of anguish at her heart she saw that, as he gradually took in the nature of its contents, his first look of eager joy disappeared, and was succeeded by one of deep and tender pity--pity which made itself felt in the very accents of his voice, as he exclaimed:

"Young Mistress Netterville! Good God! And I never even dreamed of the relationship! Alas! that you should have come so far, only to find sorrow and disappointment in the end."

"Oh! not dead! not dead!" cried Nellie, terrified by his words and looks. "Say, not dead--not dead--I do entreat you!"

{607}

"No, no!--not dead--_yet_," he answered nervously. He could not bring himself to say that she was to die upon the morrow.

"Nay, Major Ormiston," Roger here interposed, for Nellie was sobbing in speechless anguish, "if not dead all is well--or may at all events yet be well--for this most injured lady. I have hope still--hope in the honor and justice even of our enemy. See this paper! It was writ by the soldier who hath lately received as his share in the Irish spoil the house and lands of Netterville, and who is ready to aver on oath that he took it down word for word from the lips of the very woman who did that deed for which Mrs. Netterville stands condemned to die."

Ormiston glanced rapidly over the papers which Roger had drawn from his bosom and given to him.

"Yes, yes!" he cried joyfully, "I doubt it not in the least. Sergeant Jackson is well known as a man of truth beyond suspicion, and these lines, moreover, do but repeat the defence which the unhappy lady urged over and over again upon her trial, insisting that the accusation against her was an act of private vengeance. But all this can be discussed hereafter. Time presses; and whatever is to be done to save her, must be done at once."

"The Lords Chief-Justices," suggested Roger; but Ormiston shook his head with a little smile of scorn.

"Little likely _they_ to reverse a sentence pronounced in their own courts!" he said. "No, no! it is to the Lord-Deputy we must appeal. I will ride after him at once, and in a couple of hours at the furthest you may look for me with the result. I trust in God that it may be a good one."

He left the room without waiting for an answer, and in another minute they heard him gallop across the bridge. The next two hours were passed by Nellie in an agony of expectation which was painful to behold. She could not stay still a moment. Sometimes she paced the narrow guard-room with rapid and impatient footsteps--sometimes, regardless of the presence of the English soldiery, she flung herself on her knees, weeping and praying almost aloud in her agony. Every stir upon the bridge--every sound from the street beyond, seemed to announce the return of her messenger, and at these moments she would stand up, shivering from head to foot in such a fever of hope and fear, that Roger at last became seriously alarmed, and remonstrated firmly and affectionately with her on her want of self-command. At last, to his inexpressible relief, a bustle at the doorway announced Ormiston's return, and a moment afterward the latter entered the guardroom. Nellie stood up, as white as ashes, and utterly incapable of either speaking or moving toward him. Shocked at the mute anguish of her face, Ormiston took her hand in his; but when she looked at him, expecting him to address her, he hesitated, like one doubtful of the effect of the tidings he was bringing.

"For God's sake, speak at once!" cried Roger. "Anything is better for her than this suspense! Say, is it life or death?"

"Not death, certainly--at least I hope not," said Ormiston, vainly seeking in his own mind for some fitter words by which to convey his meaning.

The blood rushed to Nellie's temples, and the pupils of her eyes dilated, but still she could not answer.

"You _hope?_" Roger repeated sadly. He saw, though Nellie did not, that there still existed some uncertainty in the matter.

{608}

"There is a reprieve at all events," he said, in the same joyless tones in which he had before replied.

The color faded from Nellie's cheek, and the gladness from her eye. "Only a reprieve--only _that,_" she muttered, in tones so hoarse and changed that the young men could hardly believe it to be hers--"only that!"

"But the rest will follow," said Ormiston, trying to reassure her. "The Lord-Deputy will himself inquire into the business, and--"

"Nay, then, she is safe indeed!" Nellie interrupted him to say. "With that confession, furnished by her chief accuser, her innocence must be clear as daylight. O sir! she is safe--surely she is safe!" she added, trying to reassure herself by the repetition of the word, and yet sorely puzzled by a something in Ormiston's eyes which looked more like pity than sympathy in her joy.

"Safe? I trust so--with all my heart and soul I trust so," he answered gravely. "Nevertheless, my dear young lady, I would counsel you, as a friend, not to suffer your hopes to soar too high, lest any after disappointment should be too terrible for endurance."

"If she is reprieved, she will be pardoned; and if she is pardoned, she will live," Nellie repeated slowly, like one trying yet dreading to discover the hidden meaning of his words.

"She will live," he amended gently; "yes, certainly, if God hath decreed it as well as man."

"Nay, if she is in God's hands only, I am content," said Nellie, with a sudden return to confidence, which somewhat astonished Ormiston. "I also have been in God's hands," she added, with an appealing look toward Roger, "and can tell how much more merciful they are than man's. Sir, I conclude from what you say that she is ailing; may I not go to her at once?"

"If you are strong enough," he was beginning, but she interrupted him with a burst of grief and indignation.

"How? not strong enough? and I have come all this way to see her! O mother, mother!" she sobbed convulsively, "little you dream your child is near, bringing peace and pardon to your prison!"

Roger saw that Ormiston knew more than he liked to tell, and asked in a low voice:

"The poor lady, then, is very ill?"

"Dying!" the other answered curtly.

"Will her daughter be in time to see her, think you?"

"In time; but that is all. She has burst a blood-vessel, as I have just now learned, and this reprieve seems little better than a mockery; for no one dreams that she could have survived for the tragedy of to-morrow."

"Then let Nellie go at once," said Roger promptly. "She has ridden night and day to see her mother, and sad as the meeting may be, it would be sadder still if they met no more. Let her go at once."

And so it was decided.

----------

{609}

Newman's Poems.

BY H. W. Wilberforce.

The little volume of poems published anonymously under this humble title, [Footnote 179] produced an impression immediately on its publication, not only among Catholics but among English readers in general, which could hardly have been caused by a volume of poems from any other writer of the day, with the exception, perhaps, of the Laureate. The explanation is to be found in the initials J. H. N. at the end of the preface--a signature long ago of world-wide celebrity.

[Footnote 179: _Verses on Various Occasions_. London: Burns, Gates & Co. 1868. For sale at the Catholic Publication House, 126 Nassau street, New York.]

There may be those who feel surprised to find that a man chiefly known as having been, under God's providence and grace, the main author of the Oxford movement of 1833, should be found to have possessed and exercised extraordinary poetical gifts. It may perhaps be partly a lurking feeling of envy, partly a just perception how rarely any one man combines numerous unconnected powers, which makes the world at large reluctant to admit that any man has greatly distinguished himself in a line far removed from that specially his own. But that feeling, be its origin what it may, does not in reason apply to the case before us, because it would seem that the gifts which specially qualify a man to produce a deep effect upon the hearts and consciences of his fellows, to be the founder and leader of any great school of thought, social, moral, political, or religious, are very much the same as those required for the making of a great poet.

This is at first sight so obvious, that we incline to think the only real argument against it would be, an appeal to experience. It will be said, there is a small class of men who have won among their fellows (as if it were a title of honor formally secured to them) the name of "the poet," and no one of them has been, except in his own special art of poetical composition, among the great leaders of human thought. But this is easily accounted for. A man immersed for years in public affairs of any kind, however richly his mind may have been stored with poetical images, and however natural it may have been to him to have sought for them a poetical expression, can rarely have had leisure to cultivate the merely artistic part of poetical composition to the degree necessary for success as a poet. It is hardly likely that in his case there should combine the many accidental circumstances necessary (over and above the possession of great poetical endowments) for the composition, publication, and general diffusion of any considerable poetical work. And even if all these should happen to meet, the mere fact of being very greatly distinguished in any other line is of itself, we strongly suspect, enough to prevent any man from being chiefly remembered as a great poet. The name of "the poet Cowper" is a household word in every English family. But if "William Cowper, Esq., of the Inner Temple" (as his name stands on the title-page) had risen to the woolsack, we believe that, even though he might have written the same poems, he would never have gained the title. {610} If indeed mediocrity in everything else had sufficed to gain a high and permanent reputation for a man of equal mediocrity in poetical talents, we should now have talked of Cowper's friend as "the poet Hayley." But that the highest poetical genius does not obtain the title for a man otherwise conspicuous, is proved by the example of Shakespeare. Merely because he has left behind him dramatic works to which the world affords no rival, not even the preeminent poetical genius shown in his poems has caused the world at large to speak and think of him as "the poet Shakespeare." Nor would Dryden, despite of his matchless lyric poems, have attained the title, if among his numerous plays he had written Hamlet, Macbeth, and Lear.

It seems to us that these considerations are enough to answer the objection from experience, which might perhaps be urged against our opinion, that the qualities which qualify a man to exercise a deep influence on his fellows and make him a leader of the souls of men, are in fact the same as those which qualify him for success as a poet.

We think this volume will convince most of those who read it that we are right. The weighty and touching thoughts of these poems bear the stamp of the same mint from which issued those volumes of sermons, which, far more than any other work, have impressed a permanent stamp upon the generation of English readers which is now tending, as Dr. Newman says of himself, "toward the decline of life." It is impossible to read them without feeling that, if his life had been one of mere literary leisure, his chosen employment would probably have been poetry. As it is, he has evidently resorted to it, not when he was thinking of others, but when he sought to relieve the fulness of his own soul. In this world he has written in prose; his poetry has been the record of his inner struggles and emotions, and has been written for himself and his God.

As long as any memory of the English nation and the English language remains among men. Dr. Newman, we doubt not, will be remembered and reverenced; not indeed as one of the few whom poetry has made great, but as one of the great men who have written poetry. And so far from deeming it strange that such should be the case with the great author of the movement of 1833, we, for our part, should have thought it strange if, in a man of the highest literary culture, the intense feelings in which that movement originated had not relieved themselves by poetical expression. We believe, indeed, that few if any great moral movements have taken place in which something more or less of the same kind has not been found. Perhaps the most remarkable exception was the change of religion in England in the sixteenth century; the leaders in which not only produced no great poetical work, but did not leave behind them so much as a hymn. This was a striking contrast, not only to the contemporary movement in Germany, and to that of the Methodists in the eighteenth century, but also to that of the earlier Lollards. The explanation, however, is not far to seek. Lord Macaulay says, "Ridley was perhaps the only person who had any important share in the English Reformation, who did not consider it as a mere political job." Now, attractive as jobbing is to many very clever men, it is hardly qualified to inspire any poetical afflatus. Cranmer was too busy getting what he could for himself, to be musing over poetical images. {611} Besides, the Reformation in England appealed not so much to men's deeper feelings, as to their natural and reasonable dislike to have their property confiscated and themselves imprisoned, hanged, and cut up alive; and this last kind of appeal neither needed nor encouraged poetical powers.

To return to the volume before us, the poems were so evidently written only for the author himself that it is our signal good fortune that they have ever been published. The greater part of them first appeared in a series called the _Lyra Apostolica_, in many successive numbers of the _British Magazine_, edited by the late Hugh James Rose, in which several of Dr. Newman's earliest prose writings were originally published. It was afterward issued in the form of a small volume, the first edition of which appeared in 1836. By far the greater part of it was supplied by Dr. Newman; the other poems, by five of his intimate friends. [Footnote 180]

[Footnote 180: These were John Bowden, "with whom" (Dr. Newman writes in the _Apologia_) "I spent almost exclusively my undergraduate years." He died just before Dr. Newman became a Catholic. His two sons are now fathers in the London Oratory.--Hurrell, Froude, whose noble character and high gifts Dr. Newman has sketched with admirable force, truth, and beauty, in three pages of the _Apologia_, which he sums up by saying: "It is difficult to enumerate the precise additions to my theological creed which I derived from a friend to whom I owe so much. He made me look with admiration toward the Church of Rome, and in the same degree dislike the Reformation. He fixed on me the idea of devotion to the Blessed Virgin, and he led me gradually to believe in the Real Presence." He died February 29th, 1836, "prematurely," says Dr. Newman, "and in the conflict and transition-state of opinion. His religious views never reached their ultimate conclusion, by the very reason of their multitude and their depth."--John Keble, the author of _The Christian Year_, of whom Dr. Newman writes (_Apologia_, edition i. p. 75) words expressing deep feelings shared by many who are now, by God's grace, members of the Catholic Church. He died in 1865, and at this moment, on his birthday, April 27th, the first stone of a new college at Oxford, erected as a testimonial to him, and bearing his name, is being laid by the Archbishop of Canterbury.--Robert Isaac Wilberforce, second son of William Wilberforce. From his earliest years his character seemed made up of truth, purity, unselfishness, tenderness of affection, and indefatigable diligence. As his great powers developed, they showed themselves perhaps the more remarkable from their combination with a degree of humility so extraordinary as to be his chief characteristic. After a university career of unusual distinction, he was elected fellow of Oriel College, on the same day with Hurrell Froude, with whom he is classed by Dr. Newman, in the _Apologia_, as one with whom he was, "in particular, intimate and affectionate." He became a country clergyman, and afterward archdeacon; and in 1838 published (in combination with the present Bishop of Oxford) the _Life of William Wilberforce_. His theological works were all of later date. It is characteristic that he always declared he would never have undertaken any of them if Mr. Newman had not left the field unoccupied. In the opinion of most persons, except himself, his equal in learning and ability was not then left in the Church of England. In 1854, he became a member of the Catholic Church, and died in 1857, while studying at Rome for the priesthood.--Isaac Williams was fellow of Trinity College, Oxford. He remained much longer in Oxford, sharing Mr. Newman's intercourse and counsels. In 1840, Mr. Newman dedicated the beautiful volume on _The Church of the Fathers_ "to my dear and much admired Isaac Williams, the sight of whom carries back his friends to ancient, holy, and happy times." He is, perhaps, best known by his published poems; but he has also published a series of devotional commentaries on the gospels, of great beauty and to which many are deeply indebted. He died in 1865. Dr. Newman went to visit him in his country retirement only a few days before. Our readers, we think, will feel an interest in this brief memorial of a group of men so closely connected with the collection in which many of these poems originally appeared.]

To these are added, in the present volume, a few of earlier and a good many of later date. All of them seem equally to have been composed without any view to publication, and considering that their illustrious author has always been remarkable for a dislike to put himself forward, and for an almost extreme susceptibility of feeling, some persons may wonder that he has ever been able to persuade himself to give them to the world. We do not share their wonder; for we long ago came to the conclusion that it is by men of the greatest natural reserve that the fullest confidences of their inner feelings are not unfrequently made. In the common intercourse of society such men display least of their real feeling. But being distinguished from others by the depth and strength of their thoughts and affections, more lasting convictions and emotions, and greater self-knowledge, they can, upon any call of duty, speak out most unreservedly and sincerely; and the pain it gives them to make any revelation of their inner selves is such that, to do it completely, costs them little, if anything, more than to speak of themselves at all. {612} This, all the world sees, has been exemplified in the _Apologia_, and in its measure it has been the same with the _Lyra Apostolica_, and with the present volume. The poems in the _Lyra_ were, nearly all of them, the expression of the thoughts which crowded into the mind of Dr. Newman during a tour in the Mediterranean, between December, 1832, and July, 1833. The present volume adds very greatly to their interest by giving the place and day of their composition. Thus, the poem headed "Angelic Guidance" was written on the day on which he left Oxford. In our days, in which a very few hours upon the Great Western takes Oxford men to Falmouth without trouble or fatigue, the date, "Whitchurch, December 3d, 1832," is interesting. Whitchurch is a somewhat dreary and secluded village, at which the direct road from Oxford to Southampton intersected the mail road from London to Exeter and Falmouth. There was in those days a coach to Southampton, to the top of which Mr. Newman mounted, (the present writer and other Oriel friends standing in the street, in front of the Angel Inn, to see the last of him.) Before midday he reached Whitchurch, and there had to wait till night for the Falmouth mail. We should be curious to know what has become of the large inn at Whitchurch which was maintained by this sort of traffic. It must long ago have been shut up. Mr. Newman's life had hitherto been almost entirely confined to one or two places, and now he was starting alone for distant lands, and began by waiting many hours at a lonely and (_crede experto_) sufficiently dreary inn. His thoughts turned to the guardian angel who, as he already believed, bore him company. The _Apologia_ tells us how early in life his thoughts had run upon angels and their ministrations. He says of these lines: "They speak of 'the vision' that haunted me. That vision is more or less brought out in the whole series of these compositions." We need hardly say how much these circumstances add to the interest of the poem, which appeared in the _Lyra_ without any explanation of the circumstances under which it was composed.

It is impossible to read these poems without feeling how much a man takes with him from home of the thoughts which are called out even by the most striking and memorable scene. The events going on in England--the evident decay of what he still believed to be the "reformed church"--formed the coloring medium through which he looked at all he saw. Thus, at sea, the day he left Gibraltar, he wrote the lines headed "England:"

"Tyre of the West, and glorying in the name More than in Faith's pure fame! O trust not crafty fort, nor rock renown'd Earn'd upon hostile ground; Wielding Trade's master-keys, at thy proud will To lock or loose its waters, England! trust not still.

"Dread thine own power! Since haughty Babel's prime. High towers have been man's crime. Since her hoar age, when the huge moat lay bare, Strongholds have been man's snare. Thy nest is in the crags; ah! refuge frail! Mad counsel in its hour, or traitors, will prevail.

"He who scann'd Sodom for his righteous men Still spares thee for thy ten; But, should vain tongues the Bride of Heaven defy, He will not pass thee by; For, as earth's kings welcome their spotless guest, So gives he them by turn, to suffer or be blest."

The _Apologia_ tells us that the golden lines, "Lead, kindly light," were composed when the "orange-boat" in which the author sailed from Palermo to Marseilles was becalmed in the straits of Bonifacio. {613} It is not mentioned, we think, that it was in the darkness of the night. They are here headed, "The Pillar of the Cloud:'

"Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on! The night is dark, and I am far from home-- Lead Thou me on! Keep Thou my feet: I do not ask to see The distant scene,--one step enough for me.

"I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou Should'st lead me on. I loved to choose and see my path; but now Lead Thou me on! I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears. Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

"So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still Will lead me on. O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone; And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile."

"Off Algiers," in sight of the grave of that great African church which produced St. Augustine, St. Cyprian, and Tertullian, is the date of "The Patient Church," in which, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, the writer, relying on the promise of Christ, looked forward to the ultimate victory of the church, and which begins:

"Bide thou thy time! Watch with meek eyes the race of pride and crime; Sit in the gate and be the heathen's jest. Smiling and self-possest, O thou, to whom is pledged a victor's sway, Bide thou the victor's day!"

On December 28th, 1832, Mr. Newman caught his first sight of a Greek shore. It is highly characteristic that the first thought which it inspired to the most finished classical scholar of his day in Oxford, was not of Thucydides, not even of Homer, but of "the Greek fathers:"

"Let heathens sing thy heathen praise, Fall'n Greece! the thought of holier days In my sad heart abides; For sons of thine in truth's first hour. Were tongues and weapons of his power. Born of the Spirit's fiery shower. Our fathers and our guides.

"All thine is Clement's varied page; And Dionysius, ruler sage, In days of doubt and pain; And Origen with eagle eye; And saintly Basil's purpose high To smite imperial heresy, And cleanse the altar's stain.

"From thee the glorious Preacher came, With soul of zeal and lips of flame, A court's stern martyr-guest; And thine, O inexhaustive race! Was Nazianzen's heaven-taught grace; And royal-hearted Athanase, With Paul's own mantle blest."

At Corfu, the narrative of Thucydides brought to his mind the thought which he worked out in the sermon on "The Individuality of the Soul," published six years later; and in which he says: "All who have ever gained a name in the world, all the mighty men of war that ever were, all the great statesmen, all the crafty counsellors, all the scheming aspirants, all the reckless adventurers, all the covetous traders, all the proud voluptuaries, are still in being, though helpless and unprofitable. Balaam, Saul, Joab, Ahitophel, good and bad, wise and ignorant, rich and poor, each has his separate place, each dwells by himself in that sphere of light or darkness which he has provided for himself here. What a view this sheds upon history! We are accustomed to read it as a tale or a fiction, and we forget that it concerns immortal beings who cannot be swept away, who are what they were, however this earth may change." The germ of that sermon is contained in the lines headed "Corcyra," January 7th, 1833.

The _Lyra_ contains some beautiful and well-known lines:

"Did we but see, When life first open'd, how our journey lay Between its earliest and its closing day. Or view ourselves as we one day shall be, Who strive for the high prize, such sight would break The youthful spirit, though bold for Jesus' sake.

"But thou, dear Lord! While I traced out bright scenes which were to come, Isaac's pure blessings, and a verdant home, Didst spare me, and withhold thy fearful word; Willing me year by year, till I am found A pilgrim pale, with Paul's sad girdle bound."

They are headed, "Our Future. What I do, thou knowest not now; but thou shalt know hereafter." It gives them a new interest to find that they were composed at Tre Fontane, the spot of the martyrdom of St. Paul.

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The verses called "Day Laborers," composed while waiting at Palermo for a passage home, (as is described in the _Apologia_,) show the author's deep sense of having a work to do. They are headed, "And He said. It is finished:"

"One only, of God's messengers to man, Finished the work of grace which he began; ...... List, Christian warrior! thou whose soul is fain To rid thy mother of her present chain;-- Christ will avenge his bride; yea, even now Begins the work, and thou Shalt spend in it thy strength; but, ere he save, Thy lot shall be the grave."

We have insisted on the peculiar value of the poems written during this short tour, (the only one of the kind in which the illustrious author has ever indulged himself,) because it adds a new and special interest to compositions which, even when published without any such interest, attained a wide and deserved celebrity. He seems at the time to have felt that that tour was to be the only distraction of the kind in a life of toil; and that he was enriching himself with images of beauty (worthy, as he says, in itself rather of angelic than mortal eyes) which were to last him for many a long year:

"Store them in heart! Thou shalt not faint 'Mid coming pains and fears. As the third heaven once nerved a saint For fourteen trial years."

That the remembrance has been fresh and keen, we see in the lines on "Heathen Greece" written in 1856, and first published in that exquisite volume _Calista_:

"Where are the islands of the blest? They stud the AEgean sea; And where the deep Elysian rest? It haunts the vale where Peneus strong Pours his incessant stream along, While craggy ridge and mountain bare Cut keenly through the liquid air. And, in their own pure tints arrayed. Scorn earth's green robes which change and fade. And stand in beauty undecay'd. Guards of the bold and free."

It is worth notice that the pregnant lines on "The Sign of the Cross" were written before the author left Oxford, and while he was as yet, as he expressly tells us, so ignorant of Catholic doctrine that even when waiting at Palermo, just before he returned home, he says: "I began to visit the churches, and they calmed my impatience, though I did not attend any services. I knew nothing of the presence of the blessed sacrament there."

We might linger equally upon many poems which equally deserve it, but pass on to those written since the author was a Catholic. Among these are not to be reckoned the translations from the Latin Hymns of the Breviary, which were made "in 1836-8." There are a few which bear the date "Littlemore," a date full of touching recollections to the friends of the author. It is a hamlet locally separated from the parish of St. Mary's, of which he was vicar, but belonging to it. He had built a church there for the use of his parishioners, and retired there from time to time for his own as well as their benefit. When he gave up his connection with the Oxford movement, (as the _Apologia_ shows,) he retired there altogether, and staid there till he became a Catholic in 1845. Of those written since the author became a Catholic the best known, probably, are "The Pilgrim Queen," and "The Queen of the Seasons." It is indeed cheering to find a great genius, who had so long been more or less crippled by the chill, stiff system of Anglicanism, opening out, like a flower beneath the spring sun--beneath the genial teaching of the Catholic Church:

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"But I know one work of his infinite hand. Which special and singular ever must stand; So perfect, so pure, and of gifts such a store, That even Omnipotence ne'er shall do more.

"The freshness of May, and the sweetness of June, And the fire of July in its passionate noon. Munificent August, September serene, Are together no match for my glorious Queen.

"O Mary! all months and all days are thine own. In thee lasts their joyousness, when they are gone; And we give to thee May, not because it is best. But because it comes first, and is pledge of the rest."

Apart from the freedom of thought which the author has gained from the Church, ("Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free,") there seems to us an ease and flow about the very language and metre of these Catholic hymns which we do not find equalled in the author's earlier poems, sublime as are their conceptions. But it is remarkable that the poem which unites both these qualities in the highest measure, is that which was composed last, "The Dream of Gerontius." Like the others it seems to have been written for the author alone, and to have been published merely as an act of friendship to the editor of _The Month_. Is it too much to hope that the high sense of its exceeding depth and beauty which has been shown by the whole English world may not only encourage the author, as he tells us it did, to publish his collected poems in the volume before us, but to compose more? For it is plain that as yet at least his arms are not dimmed or his force abated.

"The Dream of Gerontius" begins with the thoughts of one who feels himself at the gate of death and the prayers of the assistants by his bedside. Then Gerontius says:

"Novissima hora est; and I fain would sleep. The pain has wearied me. ... Into thy hands, Lord, into thy hands. ..."

And the priest says the commendation. Then follows:

Soul Of Gerontius.

"I went to sleep; and now I am refreshed-- A strange refreshment: for I feel in me An inexpressive lightness, and a sense Of freedom, as I were at length myself. And ne'er had been before. How still it is! I hear no more the busy beat of time, No, nor my fluttering breath, nor struggling pulse; Nor does one moment differ from the next. I had a dream; yes, some one softly said, 'He's gone;' and then a sigh went round the room. And then I surely heard a priestly voice Say, 'Subvenite;' and they knelt in prayer. I seem to hear him still; but thin and low." ......

He does not yet know whether he is living or dead. Then he finds himself held,

"Not by a grasp Such as they use on earth, but all around Over the surface of my subtle being. As though I were a sphere, and capable To be accosted thus, a uniform And gentle pressure tells me I am not Self-moving, but borne forward on my way. And hark! I hear a singing; yet in sooth I cannot of that music rightly say. Whether I hear, or touch, or taste the tones. Oh! what a heart-subduing melody."

Then follow the songs of the guardian angel over the soul which he was set to tend. After a long while Gerontius takes courage and says:

Soul.

"I will address him. Mighty one, my Lord, My guardian spirit, all hail!

Angel.

"All hail, my child! My child and brother, hail! what wouldest thou?

......

Soul.

"I ever had believed That on the moment when the struggling soul Quitted its mortal case, forthwith it fell Under the awful presence of its God, There to be judged and sent to its own place. What lets me now from going to my Lord?

Angel.

"Thou art not let; but with extremest speed Art hurrying to the just and holy Judge; For scarcely art thou disembodied yet. Divide a moment, as men measure time. Into its million-million-millionth part. Yet even less than that the interval Since thou didst leave the body; and the priest Cried 'Subvenite,' and they fell to prayer; Nor scarcely yet have they begun to pray."

We must not linger on the converse between the soul and its guardian angel, nor at the marvellous description of the demons in "the middle region," their impotent rage--impotent against one who has now no traitor within. {616} Then he comes within the reach of the heavenly choirs. We have the hymns of the successive choirs. At length, as they approach "the veiled presence" of God, the soul hears again the voices it left on earth, for in that presence the voices of prayer are heard:

Soul.

"I go before my Judge. Ah! ....

Angel.

.... "Praise to his name! The eager spirit has darted from my hold. And, with the intemperate energy of love, Flies to the dear feet of Emmanuel; But, ere it reach them, the keen sanctity Which with its effluence, like a glory, clothes And circles round the Crucified, has seized. And scorch'd, and shrivell'd it; and now it lies Passive and still before the awful throne. O happy, suffering soul! for it is safe, Consumed, yet quickened by the glance of God.

Soul.

"Take me away, and in the lowest deep There let me be. And there in hope the lone night-watches keep, Told out for me. There, motionless and happy in my pain, Lone, not forlorn, There will I sing my sad, perpetual strain. Until the morn. There will I sing, and soothe my stricken breast, Which ne'er can cease To throb, and pine, and languish, till possest Of its sole peace. There will I sing my absent Lord and love;-- Take me away. That sooner I may rise, and go above, And see him in the truth of everlasting day."

Then follow the words of the angel, and those of the souls in purgatory. At length the angel concludes:

"Angels, to whom the willing task is given, Shall tend, and nurse, and lull thee, as thou liest; And masses on the earth, and prayers in heaven, Shall aid thee at the throne of the Most Highest.

"Farewell, but not for ever! brother dear. Be brave and patient on thy bed of sorrow; Swiftly shall pass thy night of trial here, And I will come and wake thee on the morrow."

Any one who has read this wonderful poem will complain that we have omitted this, and this, and this, which especially deserved to be quoted. It is most true. It would be impossible to give any idea of its matchless weight and beauty, except by transcribing the whole of it; and we have wished only to give a sample which may direct to it the attention of any reader to whom it may yet be unknown.

The preface contains a dedication of the volume of Mr. Badeley, one of Dr. Newman's Oxford friends and followers, who before this time knows far more of that world of spirits than even the gifted eye of the most illustrious seer has ever pierced; for he had hardly received this dedication when he received his summons to it. He was the son of a Protestant physician at Colchester, who, many years ago, was the medical adviser of a convent in that neighborhood, and created a good deal of suspicion among his fellow religionists, by bearing testimony to the supernatural nature of a cure of one of the nuns who was his patient. Mr. Badeley himself graduated with high honors at Oxford in 1823, and afterward studied the law, in which he attained a high reputation and great success. He directed his special attention to ecclesiastical questions, and hardly any case connected with them came before the courts in which he was not retained. In this preface Dr. Newman bears testimony to the fidelity with which he followed the religious movement in which the volume originated from first to last. He was counsel to the Bishop of Exeter in the celebrated Gorham case, and his argument upon it was published in a pamphlet which attracted much notice. He also published a book against the alteration of the law of marriage. At last a new light shone upon his path; he followed it faithfully, and it led him into the Catholic Church. He was, perhaps, the only lawyer from whom was actually accepted, on his conversion to the church, a sacrifice of his worldly interests, nearly equal to that made by many Protestant clergymen. {617} The loss of practice has no doubt been risked by all who have become Catholics; by him, owing to the nature of his principal business, it was in a great measure incurred, nor did he ever recover what he had lost. But the time is short. It is but a few weeks since he was cheered by Dr. Newman's words, "We are now both of us in the decline of life; may that warm attachment which has lasted between us inviolate for so many years, be continued, by the mercy of God, to the end of our earthly course, and beyond it;"--and his earthly course is already over; the sacrifice is gone by. He is now able to estimate its real value.

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Sonnet.

Sharp lightnings flash, tempestuous thunders roll: I shudder--and yet wherefore? For the dead Sleep undisturbed in consecrated bed. And thou, who didst yield up thy sweet, young soul So mildly to thy Maker, and console. By dying acts, the hearts which love thee best, Must, even on this first night, sublimely rest In thy still sepulchre, by yon green knoll. Yet one, I know, will tremble as she hears The storm above her darling; and each dart Of the forked lightning will to anguish start A legion of dread shapes and tender fears; For who can sound the fountains of her tears, Choice instincts, lodged in her maternal heart?

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The Second Plenary Council of Baltimore. [Footnote 181]

[Footnote 181: _Concilii Plenarii Secundi Baltimorensis, Acta et Decreta_. Baltimore: John Murphy & Co.]

The good city of Baltimore witnessed, in October, 1866, the most numerous and imposing ecclesiastical assemblage ever gathered in the United States. Forty-seven archbishops and bishops, with two mitred abbots, convened in Plenary Council, under the presidency of the Most Rev. Archbishop of Baltimore, delegate of the Apostolic See. For two weeks they met daily in consultation, their labors being interrupted only by the solemn sessions prescribed by the Pontifical. After a free but harmonious interchange of ideas, they adopted practical resolutions, which they embodied partly in decrees, partly in petitions to the Holy See. Their work done, it was not published to the world, but sent to the mother and mistress of all churches for revision, correction if necessary, and final recognition or approval. And now, almost two years after the celebration of the Council, the ACTS and DECREES, as revised and approved by the Holy See, are published under the authority of the same most reverend prelate that as delegate apostolic had presided over the deliberations of the council. The work is thus complete: the new legislation takes its appropriate place in our canon law; an epoch is marked in the history of the American church.

From the beginning of the church, the celebration of councils has been looked on as a most efficient means, under God, of preserving discipline, arriving at proper conclusions on practical matters, and promoting the common good. The very first question that arose in the infant Christian community was decided in the Council of Jerusalem, where the apostles and the ancients consulted together. Every succeeding age saw councils meet to decide ecclesiastical questions. Indeed, the history of the church may be said to be a history of councils. Gradually, as ecclesiastical discipline assumed regular outlines, and was settled according to fixed rules, proper arrangements were made for the regular meeting of prelates for consultation and mutual consolation and enlightenment. It would be foreign to the purposes of this paper to dwell on the ancient discipline in this regard; but a short exposition of the actual law and practice of the church will enable the reader properly to appreciate the importance of the work of the late Plenary Council.

The Council of Trent (Sess. xxiv. _De Reform_, c. 2) decreed that the ancient practice of holding councils should be renewed, and fixed a regular period for their celebration. Each archbishop was to call his suffragans together every three years, and these were strictly obliged to obey the summons. The object of these meetings was "to regulate morals, correct excesses, settle controversies and do all other things permitted by the sacred canons." St. Charles Borromeo celebrated several such councils, which were not only productive of immense good to the church of Milan, but have remained as a pattern on which the proceedings of all subsequent councils have been modelled. But councils of bishops were not in favor with the civil rulers, whose aim it was to fetter, and, if possible, to enslave the church. {619} They prevented the execution of the salutary decree of Trent, which, with a few exceptions, remained almost a dead letter from the time of St. Charles to the present century. To the church of the United States belongs the credit of having revived the custom of holding councils. Not long after the establishment of the hierarchy, the first Provincial Council of Baltimore was convened, and was followed in regular succession by others, held every three years, according to the prescriptions of the fathers of Trent. When new archiepiscopal sees were erected, Rome, anxious that the American church should retain as far as possible a uniform discipline, suggested the holding every ten years of a plenary council, to be composed of all the bishops of the various ecclesiastical provinces of the country, under the presidency of a delegate to be nominated by the Holy See. Accordingly, the Most Rev. Francis Patrick Kenrick, of illustrious memory, then Archbishop of Baltimore, was appointed delegate apostolic, and convened the first plenary council in his metropolitan church, in May, 1852. The second should have been held in 1862, but the civil war then raging made it necessary to defer it. As soon as peace was restored, measures were taken to convene the prelates, and, as we have seen, the council was actually held in 1866.

The title "plenary" sounds odd to some ears, and has, if we remember aright, provoked some little discussion in the public prints. The term national is frequently given to the council in common parlance, and would probably have been its official title also but for the caution of the Holy See. Rome, enlightened by wisdom from above and rich with the experience of ages, looks on a tendency to nationalism in the church as one of the greatest dangers that can arise, almost, indeed, as the forerunner of schism. When she was about to propose to the American prelates the decennial convening of a council of all the bishops of the various provinces of the country, the question of the official title at once arose. _National_ was not liked, _general_ was too ample, _provincial_ too restricted. A learned ecclesiastical historian suggested _plenary_, the title given to the general councils of the African church in the fifth century--councils rendered famous by the genius of St. Augustine, and their explicit condemnation of Pelagianism. The title was adopted. It avoids the narrowness of nationalism, while it fully expresses the idea of a _full_ council of _all_ the prelates of the American church.

The object of a plenary council is plainly indicated by the Holy See. Strictly speaking, provincial councils could provide all the necessary legislation. But there would be danger of a loss of uniformity. Even among the best persons, the old adage, that where there are many men there are many minds, is verified. To prevent this divergence of views from manifesting itself too much in practice, it has been deemed advisable to call occasionally all the bishops together, that their united counsels may adopt such measures as will keep the American church one not only in faith and in the essential points of discipline, but even in the principal among the secondary matters of the latter branch. It is not necessary to descant on the advantages of such uniformity. The faithful, if they do not expect it, are at least edified and consoled by it; and, for the great purposes which the church is called on to carry out in this country, it brings into practical effect, as far as is possible, the great motto, _Viribus unitis_. To gain it were well worth the sacrifice even of fond predilections and of cherished usages.

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The plenary council, then, is to look to the wants of the whole American church, and to do for it what a provincial council does for an ecclesiastical province. Canon law is necessarily couched in general terms, and cannot be applied in the same way everywhere. A great portion of it, in fact, consists of decisions given for particular localities under peculiar circumstances, of which the principle only is or can be of general application. It thus happens not infrequently that the general regulations have to be modified to meet other wants, other times, other circumstances. This is one of the first duties of local councils. They propose, and, with the approval of the supreme pastor, enact those regulations to which their wisdom and experience may point as necessary to carry out the real spirit of the general law. In these they do not contradict, much less abrogate; on the contrary, they enforce the observance of the canons. We know there is an impression abroad that "canon law does not oblige in this country;" but a more erroneous or more mischievous idea could scarcely have been propagated. If it be said that all the circumstances contemplated by the canons do not exist here, and that such laws as presuppose these circumstances are not, on that account, applicable here, the proposition is correct; but, if it be said that the law itself does not oblige, the proposition is simply monstrous. We do not know whom it would affect worse, the higher or the lower orders of the clergy, the religious or the seculars. All would be very much in the same position; all would soon be glad to return to the reign of law. If "canon law does not oblige in this country," what becomes of the impediments of matrimony? Where do the religious orders find the charter of their privileges? On what does an aggrieved clergyman rely for the right of appeal? Where is the proof that every Christian of either sex, that has come to the years of discretion, is obliged to approach worthily, at least once a year at Easter, the holy sacrament of the blessed eucharist? The origin of the erroneous idea appears to be, that, the organization of the church in this missionary country not being yet completed, certain privileges, generally granted by the Holy See, have been withheld; and, as one case may easily occur to the clerical reader, we shall take the liberty of using it to exemplify our meaning. The nomination, institution, and consecration of bishops are inherently and radically the exclusive right of the Holy See. No matter by whom it may have been exercised at any time, if it was not in virtue of a permission expressly or tacitly granted by the successor of St. Peter, the exercise was a schismatical act. This no Catholic can deny. By canon law the right of presentation of three names to the pope has been granted, not to all the clergy of the diocese, but to the cathedral chapter, a body in the composition of which the diocesan clergy, by the same law, exercised but little influence. In this country there are no cathedral chapters; in fact, it is impossible thus far to erect them according to the canons. The right of presentation of the three names has been accorded by Rome to the bishops of the province instead. This is an instance in which a privilege granted by the canons to a body which has no existence among us has been transferred by the supreme authority to another body that can exercise it. {621} We are not now either blaming or praising the arrangement; that would be beyond our province. We are merely stating what the law is, and endeavoring to help to dispel an error which may be, if it has not been, productive of evil. As canon law, then, does oblige in this country, numerous questions must necessarily arise in the application of its ordinances to our circumstances and wants. The whole social fabric here is very different from that of Europe when the decretals were issued. It thus becomes necessary to adopt such measures as may save the principle of the law, and, at the same time, avoid the inconvenience of a too literal understanding. This is one of the first and most important works of a council. It involves a patient and careful study of the law; a thorough knowledge of the circumstances of the country; a prudent foresight, which may be able to discern what measure is most likely to be practically successful. We may instance the question of the tenure of church property. If there were in practice real religious freedom among us, if the church were allowed to hold her property according to her own laws, there would be no difficulty. The actual canon law would provide for the security of the tenure, for the good use of any revenues that might accrue, and for any rights or legitimate influence the donors might reasonably expect to be allowed. But, at least in most of the states, the wisdom of the legislature has interfered, simply to prevent the Catholic Church from executing her own long-tried, satisfactory laws on the subject. To save the vital principle, the security and the independence of church property, it has been necessary to adopt various expedients, which may be, we do not doubt are, the best that could be devised under the circumstances, but, considered in themselves, are far from satisfactory. They, of course, are only temporary; and it is ardently to be desired that the time will soon come when wiser civil legislation will permit the execution of the mild and equitable provisions of the canons.

It is easy to see that a wide field is thus opened for the wisdom and industry of the fathers of a plenary council. But "the correction of abuses" is also expressly assigned by the decree of Trent as one of the objects of their labors. To err is human, and it is only too easy to fall away from the strict observance of the canons. Such has ever been the experience of the church. In this country, thank God, positive abuses are rare, if they exist at all. There is a general desire to become acquainted with the law of the church and to observe it as closely as circumstances will allow. But necessity has, in the past, introduced many customs which no longer have its sanction or excuse. Yet it is found hard sometimes to leave the old paths and take the broad highways of the canons or the rubrics. Sometimes doubts arise as to whether the exceptions formerly allowed are still permitted. Thus, there is ample matter for wise and cautious legislation, neither so lax as to allow abuses to grow up, nor so strict as, by substituting the letter for the spirit, to make the law kill rather than give life.

There must of necessity arise in the course of time many most important practical questions, which can be nowhere better decided than in council. Mutual advice, comparing of ideas, and discussion naturally lead to wise conclusions. In a country like ours, where so many cases arise which are without precedent, the necessity of frequent counsel among the prelates is obvious. {622} And doubtless the regular celebration of councils has contributed greatly to that success which has especially marked the external government of the church in America. Fewer mistakes have been made here, perhaps, than anywhere else in the same time, while the successes have been great, nay, brilliant. The wisdom of the old has been handed down to the young; the experience of one generation has been used for the benefit of that succeeding; and there has been an uninterrupted unity of practical views from the days of Carroll to the present. Thus, England, Dubois, Bruté, Kenrick, Hughes, though dead, still live. Not merely their works remain behind them, but their spirit still speaks in the halls of the archiepiscopal residence, and in the sanctuary of the metropolitan church of Baltimore.

Another special duty has been assigned by the Holy See to our American councils--that of proposing the erection of new episcopal sees, and the names of candidates to fill either them or the older ones that may be canonically vacant. The erection of new sees is a special feature of the church in new countries. Every council of Baltimore has proposed the creation of new bishoprics, and, in most cases, the propositions have been favorably considered by the Holy See. The growth of the church can thus be traced through the acts of the various councils, and the steps can be counted, one by one, by which, from one bishop at Baltimore, the American hierarchy has progressed to its present development. Its growth has been more rapid than even the material progress of the country; and as we look at the far West, sure to become the happy home of millions of Catholics, imagination is scarcely bold enough to call up the numbers by which the bishops will be counted in future councils. We have already alluded to the duty of selecting candidates to fill episcopal sees. It is an important and a difficult task, requiring the exercise of some of the highest qualities that should be possessed by those who are, in the highest sense, "rulers of men." The Holy See has been so impressed with its importance and difficulty that it has earnestly urged that the bishops of the province should meet every time that there is a see to be filled. When, however, the vacancy occurs about the time of a council, or when the fathers ask for the erection of new sees, the question of candidates to be recommended must be considered in its sessions.

From this cursory glance at the work of a plenary council, it will be seen that the two weeks given to the celebration of the one lately held could have been by no means a time of rest. On the contrary, the conscientious performance of this work required the employment of every available moment. Every preceding council of Baltimore had devoted itself to the attainment of the different objects which we have indicated. The measures adopted were timely and wise, and the legislation forms the groundwork of our particular church law. Nor will we wonder at the success attained when we think of the great names that adorned those councils, of the illustrious prelates whose learning, prudence, foresight, zeal, and piety instructed and edified the past generation, and laid the broad and solid foundations on which the grand structure of the American church is rising. All honor to these great men! They were "men of great power, and endued with their wisdom, ... ruling over the present people, and by the strength of wisdom instructing the people in most holy words. Let the people show forth their wisdom, and the church declare their praise." {623} But the American church had grown out of its infancy, and it was time to commence to build on the foundations so deeply and so skilfully laid. It would have been impossible, even had any one desired it, merely to re-enact in the second plenary council what had been done before--merely to pass a few general decrees, recommend the erection of new sees, provide for the filling of them and of those already existing and vacant by apostolic authority, and then separate. Had the council confined itself to this, it would have failed of performing its allotted work. These considerations had their due weight with the most reverend prelate, who most fitly was chosen for the high and important office of delegate apostolic. He determined upon a comprehensive plan, the execution of which by the council should, by meeting one of the chief present wants, impress its celebration and its work in indelible characters on the history of the American church. As early as April, 1866, this plan had been distributed to the archbishops and bishops, the heads of religious orders, and all others who of right were to be present at the council. He next convoked a body of theologians to initiate the preparatory studies. They were taken from the religious orders as well as from the secular clergy; many of them were or had been professors of theology or canon law; some were favorably known for high offices they had already held or for well-deserved reputation for learning. The _coetus_ met daily as long as the greater part of its members could remain in Baltimore, and in that time the main points were gone over carefully and thoroughly, and the recommendations of the theologians thereon submitted to the most reverend archbishop. Some divines who could not be present sent their contributions in writing, so that we do not say too much when we assert that the best talent of the country was employed in these initial steps. The many occupations, however, in which the greater part of the _coetus_ were engaged at home rendered a protracted stay of all impossible, and the remainder of the work was necessarily confided to a fewer number. The most reverend delegate apostolic, himself a most indefatigable worker, watched over all the proceedings. Every paper was submitted to his final revision before it went to the printer. Indeed, as he was the promoter, so he was in reality the principal of the laborers in the great work, to which he brought learning, improved by conference; judgment, matured not only by age, but by long practice in every branch of the ministry; a ready pen, whose labors, in other departments, for the cause of our holy religion, had already procured for him a high and well-deserved reputation. And we are sure his colleagues will not blame us if we say that, under and after the archbishop, Very Rev. James A. Corcoran, D.D., of the diocese of Charleston, deserves to be especially remembered for his industry, his erudition, his talents. The graceful style in which so many of the decrees are couched is so peculiarly his own that it can never be mistaken; and it will make the second plenary council remarkable for what, perhaps, would scarcely be expected in this remote country--a Latinity that would grace even the most finished documents that come from Rome herself. The work thus went on until the drafts of the decrees formed a large volume, which, for greater convenience, was printed. {624} The inspection and the examination of it by the fathers and the theologians of the council were thus rendered more easy; indeed, it would be difficult to conceive how, without this preparation, the work could have been done at all.

As each bishop was entitled to bring two theologians, there was a very large attendance of the clergy of the second order. To these must be added many vicars-general, the heads of religious orders, and the superiors of the greater seminaries. All these clergymen were divided into congregations, after the pattern of the Milan councils of St. Charles Borromeo. Each congregation was presided over by a bishop, with a vice-president and a notary. This last officer kept a minute of the proceedings of the congregation, and drew up its final report. The whole matter of the proposed decrees was distributed among these congregations, and thus the preparatory work was subjected to a searching, minute investigation. It may be here interesting to the general reader to give a short account of the mode in which the business of a council is managed. We learn from the acts that there were four different meetings at the Second Plenary Council: 1. Private congregations. 2. Public congregations. 3. Private sessions. 4. Public sessions. The "private congregations" were the meetings of the committees or congregations of theologians, each in a separate room. The "public congregations" were held in the cathedral, and there assisted at them all the "_synodales_" that is, all who had a right to be present at the synod, from the Most Reverend President to the youngest theologian. At these congregations the theologians "had the floor," the bishops confining themselves to asking questions, or proposing difficulties. The "private sessions" were meetings of the prelates alone. The officers of the council were also present, but merely to record the acts. The work of the council was really done in these private sessions. In them the decrees were passed, and the acts show that there were a close scrutiny and a thorough investigation of the measures proposed. The "public sessions" were solemn ceremonies in the cathedral. After pontifical high Mass, the decrees already passed were solemnly read and promulgated. They thus became a law as far as the action of the council could make them such. All that they needed was the approval of the Holy See.

In this manner the decrees of the Second Plenary Council of Baltimore were prepared, examined, discussed, matured, until now they are published as the law of the American church. In looking over them one is astonished at the variety of matter on which they treat. Faith, and the errors opposed to it now so prevalent, the church and her government, the primacy of the Roman pontiff, the powers, rights, and duties of archbishops and bishops, the rights and duties of the clergy, church property, the sacraments, the sacrifice of the Mass, and all the proper conducting of divine worship, uniformity in the celebration of festivals, and other points of discipline, the _status_ of religious, the education of youth, good books, the Catholic press, zeal for the salvation of souls, the spiritual welfare of the blacks, secret societies--these are some of the subjects which, as even a cursory examination shows us, are treated in these decrees. These are, indeed, what the original plan intended them to be. They give a clear and lucid exposition of canon law as adapted _by authority_ to the circumstances of this country. {625} They supply a want long felt, and they will remain for all time to come the guide and the rule of action of all ecclesiastics, from the hoary missionary bowed down with age and labors to the young priest whose elastic step leads him joyously from the seminary walls to his first appointment, from the mitred prelate to the humblest of the great army of missionaries that are bringing to our countrymen the good tidings of peace. They are clear and comprehensive; they were carefully prepared, every quotation, even though it were of a few words, was verified; and they are in every sense authoritative. Prescinding altogether from their binding force, they were carefully prepared originally; next, they were literally sifted by the theologians of the council; afterward they were discussed, and sometimes modified by the fathers; lastly, they were subjected to the scrutiny of Roman theologians, and were finally approved with very few emendations. They have thus undergone the trial of a threefold criticism, and deserve proportionate attention and respect. But, what is far more important, they are binding as laws, and the S. Congregation _de Propaganda Fide_ has expressed its wish that they be faithfully observed by all whom it may concern. They have been, moreover, made by authority the text of a course of canon law in our ecclesiastical seminaries. The future clergy of the country are thus to be formed on them. To the volume that contains them they are afterward to look for enlightenment and instruction in the performance of the duties of the ministry. Nothing more need be, indeed little more could be, said in their praise.

The Acts and Decrees have been published in a goodly volume, in imperial octavo, by the well-known firm of John Murphy & Co., Baltimore. We need not say that the material part of the book is highly creditable to the publishers. The good quality of the paper, letter-press, and binding is commensurate with the importance of the work and the magnitude of the occasion which brought it forth. The volume contains all the official documents, from the first letter of Rome appointing Archbishop Spalding delegate apostolic, to the last communication of the Cardinal Prefect of Propaganda in regard to the decisions of the Holy See. A copious and well-arranged index gives access to the mass of matter scattered through the work, thus rendering as easy as possible a reference to any given point. We congratulate Mr. Murphy on the honor done him by the privilege of placing his imprint on the title-page of so great and important a publication. It is a fitting reward for many services rendered to Catholic literature through a long and useful business career.

We hail this volume as the beginning of a new period in our American church, the period--_detur venia verbo_--of the reign of law. It marks an improvement, a step in advance, a progress. But the progress is legitimate, because it commenced where all such movements must commence, if they be Catholic, with the proper authority. A work begun, carried on, and brought to completion as this has been, is--we need not say--a _safe_ guide; and one for which, we may be permitted to add, every lover of our holy religion should feel deeply grateful to those through whose zeal and labors it has been accomplished. By it this young church now takes her place with the most ancient and best regulated churches of the Old World: a light is given to our feet, lest inadvertently we stumble in the darkness: a sure guide is afforded, alike to young and old, to prelate and subject, to cowled monk and surpliced priest.

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{626}

Translated From The French.

An Italian Girl Of Our Day.

Concluded.

To any one who has read this sweet and pious correspondence I need not point out how strongly toward the end it inclines to heaven. Was it a presentiment of death? It may have been. We cannot deny to certain souls the grace of having heard from afar the call of God. For me, I think I see in this case the natural movement of a very pure love in a lofty soul. There are souls that see God everywhere. She of whom I speak was one of these, and, from her infancy, all that was beautiful on earth had been for her but a veil designed to temper the brightness of the Eternal Beauty. Thus in the new and unknown regions of earthly love, through the first wonder and the first dreams, she soon found again the divine countenance; but this time more radiant than ever, more vivid, more irresistible; and that chaste flight which had carried her to the hopes of earth passed beyond and bore her away to heaven.

That a person has not had the happiness to feel this heavenly attraction, is no reason that he should either wonder at it or attempt to deny it. It is in the logic of our heart, and I believe there are few souls that in various degrees have not felt its power. It was known to ancient philosophy, whose greatest glory it is to have expressed by the mouth of Plato, its king, the progression of love from bodies and from souls to ideas and to God; and St. Augustine, who bore in his heart the gospel of Jesus Christ, has not rejected this part of the ancient heritage. Who has not read that conversation at Ostia, in which two holy souls, beginning with the love that united them on earth, came at last to touch heaven? "We were speaking sweetly together, ... and whilst we converse and look up to heaven, we reach it with the whole aspiration of our heart." [Footnote 182] It is this soaring, this upward flight that I speak of; this it is, I believe, which carried the soul of the saintly young bride to the desire of that eternal region where all desires are satisfied.

[Footnote 182: St. Augustine's _Confessions_.]

The heavenly instinct had not deceived her. Two days after that on which she wrote the last letter we have given, a death-bearing blast was breathed upon her, and she was seized with a slight fever which at first gave no uneasiness except to the ever-anxious heart of a mother. Yet on the very first day she had said to her, "Take my little desk and keep it in memory of me." These words were startling, coming from a person so clear-sighted. The illness suddenly assumed an alarming character, and the physicians recognized it as the miliary fever, a terrible epidemic which was then desolating Tuscany, and which seemed to pick out only choice victims. The young patient had divined her danger; she at once asked for the sacraments, and received with a humble and tender love the last visit of that Saviour whose blood never fails us, from our cradle, which it sanctifies, to our death-bed, where it strengthens and consoles us.

{627}

The patient now felt herself better. "Great and happy day!" she said; "if I am restored to health, never shall I forget it. What strength there is in the holy viaticum! My dear mother, how sweet and consoling is our religion! Ah! believe me, if any one feared death, he could do so no longer after having received the blessed Eucharist." Then she called her betrothed. "Gaetano," she said, "if it is the good pleasure of God to unite us on earth, he will restore me; but if he has other designs in our regard, then, my Gaetano, we must be resigned and adore his holy will, must we not?" The young man could not answer.

She continued: "In my English prayer-book there is an act of thanksgiving for the reception of the holy viaticum: take the book and read it to me." And a voice, tremulous with sorrow, began to read the following admirable prayer:

"Glory and thanksgiving be to thee, O Lord! who in thy sweetness hast been pleased to visit my poor soul. Now let thy servant depart in peace according to thy word.

"Now thou art come to me, I will not let thee go; I willingly bid farewell to the world, and with joy I go to thee, my God.

"Nothing more, O dear Jesus! nothing more shall separate me from thee: in thee I will live, in thee I will die, and in thee I hope to abide for ever.

"I desire to be dissolved and to be with Christ; for Christ is my life, and to die will be my gain.

"Now I will fear no evils, though I walk in the shadow of death, because thou art with me, O Lord! As the hart pants after the fountains of water, so does my soul after thee: my soul thirsts after the fountain of living water. Oh! when shall I come and appear before the face of my God?

"Give me thy blessing, O divine Jesus! and establish my soul in everlasting peace; such peace as only thou canst give; such peace as it may not be in the power of my enemy to destroy.

"Oh! that my soul were at rest in thy happiness, and in the enjoyment of thee, my God, for ever!

"What more have I to do with the world? And in heaven what have I to desire but thee, my God?

"Into thy hands I commend my spirit. Receive me, sweet Jesus! In thee may I rest; and in thy happiness rejoice without end. Amen."

When the reader's voice had ceased, the young patient wished to take some repose. But she still seemed collected, and continued to pray.

Her brother was expected to arrive from Florence. "Settle the room," she said to her mother, "and put back upon my table the things that were taken off it when it was prepared for an altar. I do not wish that poor Antonio should perceive, on entering, that I have received the last sacraments; but remember, dear mother, always look upon that little table as a sacred thing, for it has borne the body of Jesus Christ." All that day she held her mother's hand, and spoke of nothing but the happiness of having received the holy communion. Toward evening she remembered that she was to have visited such and such poor persons that day. This thought troubled her, and she could be calmed only by the assurance that before night some one should carry to those poor persons their accustomed succor. From this time she began to converse with Jesus Christ, speaking to him with an ardor which the violence of her sufferings rendered more intense. "O Jesus! this bed seems to me of fire--but no, I will not complain. {628} Thou willest that I should serve thee in suffering, and in suffering I will serve thee. Thou knowest that I should not grieve to die if my death did not cause such great affliction to those who love me. If thou seest that I should make a good Christian wife, I would say, 'O Lord! heal me!' But what is it that I am asking? No, not my will, but thine be done!" In the middle of the night, seeing her mother's shadow still bending over her pillow, she exclaimed, "O the heroic love of mothers!" She thought so much of the least things that were done for her. "My poor father," she said, "how good he is; what care he takes of me; for my sake he deprives himself entirely of sleep. He has called in three physicians, and he wishes one of them to remain night and day near my room. It is too much, my God! Mother, what say you of my Gaetano? Ah! now indeed I feel how happy I should have been with him; for the more I know him, the more I feel that he loves me, as you love me." She asked to have prayers recited by her bedside, and began herself in a low tone the prayers for the agonizing. Her mother interrupted her. "Rosa, my child, why these sorrowful prayers? You will recover, my child; do not always be thinking of death." She answered, "Ah! but if all day I have not been able to think of anything but death; if Jesus wishes to take me, must I not be ready?" She suffered terribly; one moment nature prevailed, and she uttered a complaint. Her betrothed said to her, "Rosa, think of what our Lord suffered." "Thanks, Gaetano; ah! how that thought consoles me!"

The dawn of the following morning only brought an accession of the malady. Three skilful physicians saw all their efforts powerless against its violence. One of them, who loved Rosa as his own child, wept. The patient became delirious. "Let us go! let us go!" she cried; "dear mother, adieu! my home is not here, my home is above! Let us go! let us go! adieu!" She repeated these words, sometimes in French, sometimes in Italian. She called her father, when he was absent, talking to him as if she saw him beside her; when he was present, looking for him and calling him still. She wept over the misfortunes of a poor widow whom in her dreams she saw left destitute; the next moment it was a little orphan that she cradled in her arms, and that drew tears from her eyes. Nothing could calm her delirium, which was still full of these charitable memories and images. At one time she seemed to see the ladder of Jacob, and she exclaimed: "But I--am I pure enough to go up with these angels? may I go forward? may I join their choirs, I who was preparing for earthly espousals?" She then recovered her consciousness, and asked for a chapter of the _Flowerets_ of St. Francis on holy perseverance, during the reading of which she cried out suddenly, as if struck with horror, "O the evil spirits! the evil spirits!" Her mother hastened to her, threw her arms round her, and pressed her to her heart, saying, "Listen to your mother, Rosa, my dear child. Why these cries? why these terrors? You need not fear the evil spirits, my child; and they are not devils that surround your bed, but the angels of heaven. Have you not always loved God? have you not loved the poor? have you not been a good and obedient child?" But her countenance grew stern. "Hush," she said, "tempt me not to pride." And her face was overspread with the shadow of a profound and austere humility.

{629}

Her delirium returned, and now with a violence that neither words nor remedies could calm. As a last resource, her mother said to her, "Rosa, my child, I am quite exhausted. If you could calm yourself a little, I might lean my head on your hands and sleep. Calm yourself, my child, for my sake." And saying this, she affected to fall asleep. From that moment the poor child was silent; love was stronger than delirium.

A long stupor followed; an ivory paleness overspread her features; the veil of death was upon her brow. The victim was ready. But there is no victim without sacrifice, and no sacrifice without pain. Jesus trembled and wept, and was sorrowful even unto death in the Garden of Gethsemane. The hour of cruel sacrifice was come for this young Christian. She felt the cold iron of the sword, but again divine love remained victorious. Suddenly she wakes, opens her large, terrified eyes, while the blood rushing from her heart in an impetuous tide, crimsons her face and lights up her eye. She seems to come out of a dream, and now for the first time to understand all. "It must be, then!" she cried, "it must be! I must die! I must leave my father's house! I must leave my betrothed! No, no! I am to live with him, I am to make him happy!" A flood of tears bathed her countenance; a cry of anguish burst from her soul. "Adieu, Gaetano, adieu! we shall see each other no more!" It was a terrible struggle in that poor heart. The joyous preparations for her wedding had suddenly given place to the dismal preparations for the grave. The bride seemed to entwine her dying fingers in her nuptial wreath and to clasp it convulsively--but, if it be God's will?

Her mother put to her lips a picture of our Lady of Good Counsel, which the young girl had near her bed. Instantly she became calm, joined her hands, bowed her head, and remained perfectly silent. What was passing at that moment in the superior part of that beautiful soul? The eye of God alone, infinitely holy, can read such secrets. What we know is that, after this long silence, the dying girl pronounced in a clear, firm voice, the words, "Thy will be done." And from that moment the name of Gaetano was never upon her lips.

She recited the Litany of the Blessed Virgin. At the invocation, "Gate of heaven, pray for us," she pressed her mother's hand and smiled. Did she then see the eternal gates opening?

The Prior of San Sisto, her confessor, was by her bedside. She asked for extreme unction, and answered distinctly to all the prayers. An extraordinary grace of peace and resignation seemed from that moment to have entered her soul. She needed consolation no longer; it was she who now consoled and encouraged all around her. Her poor mother, wild with grief, threw herself upon her bosom. "I still hope," she said, sobbing; "yes, my Rosa, I still hope that you will recover; but if this be not God's will, oh! pray to him, supplicate him to call me also to himself. I will not, I cannot live without you!" But Rosa said, "No, mother, you must not wish for death. You have too many duties to accomplish upon earth; remember the mother of the Machabees." Then stretching out her hand and laying it on the head of the sorrow-stricken woman, she said, "I bless her who has so often blessed me! O Blessed Virgin! change the sorrow of this poor mother into the consolation of the poor, the afflicted, and the sick; and do thou, O my God! grant that we may all adore unto the end thy holy decrees." She drew from her finger a little ring, and said to her mother, "Keep that in remembrance of me;" and placing in her hands the ring of her betrothal, she said, "Give that to--you know whom--it is a noble soul." But she spoke not his name.

{630}

The end drew near; her family and friends surrounded her bed; every one was weeping. She said smiling, "You are all around me, I am very happy; thanks." Then suddenly, "Who wishes to have my hair?" No one ventured to answer. A long, half-reproachful look was cast on the weeping faces around. A voice cried, "_I_ do." Rosa recognized it and said, "My mother shall have it."

She motioned to the Prior of San Sisto to come to her, and said to him in a whisper, "I beg of you to return this evening to my poor mother and do all you can to console her." From this time she seemed to retire to the feet of God, henceforth to speak to him alone. She said, "I suffer, my Jesus, but all for thy love! I do not fear hell, because I love thee too much. I am on fire, I am in flames! O Jesus! burn me, consume me in the flames of thy love!" It was now with difficulty that these holy ejaculations came from her oppressed bosom. Again, however, and for the last time, she rallied. Death had a hard struggle with her vigorous and innocent youth. This time the dying girl spoke the very language of the saints, and her farewell to earth was worthy of a St. Catharine of Sienna. "O Lord!" she said, "bless all men! bless this city of Pisa! bless her people! bless her bishop and her pastors! bless the Catholic Church! bless her sovereign Pontiff! bless her ministers and her children! Have pity on poor sinners; enlighten heretics; be merciful toward those who believe in thee, merciful also to those who believe not. Pardon all; be a loving Father to the good and to the wicked. Have pity on my soul, O Immaculate Virgin! Give to all thy peace, O Jesus!--that peace--" She was silent. A film gathered over her eyes; they saw no longer the things of earth, but a better light began to dawn on them. "Yes, yes," she murmured, "I see now; I begin to see--O the heavenly Jerusalem! O the angels! oh! how many angels! How beautiful! Yes, certainly, willingly, my God! Where am I? who calls me? where then? Let us go! let us go, my God! Let us go forward! _Andiamo! andiamo! avanti!_--" The words died on her lips; she made the sign of the cross, kissed the crucifix, and while mortal eyes still sought her upon earth, she was following the Lamb in the eternal choirs of the virgins.

Such is this beautiful death, every detail of which we have learned from her who, after having assisted at the sacrifice, did not die, but, like Mary, had to come down living from Calvary.

Will I be pardoned if I add some reflections on these letters and this narration? I said when commencing them that, as it seemed to me, they glorified Christianity in the two-fold transfiguration of love and of death. It seems to me yet clearer, now that I have finished them, that this is indeed their characteristic and their merit.

Yes, it is the glory of Christianity to have rendered possible, nay frequent, this sanctity of love which ancient philosophy pursued in its dreams, but which it had never either contemplated or exemplified. It is the glory of Christianity to have so well schooled, so well regulated the heart of man, to have made that heart at once so virginal and so strong, as to be capable of loving more, and better than ever, all that is lovable on earth, and at the same time capable of always loving it less than God. {631} It is the glory of Christianity to have made a young girl--not a philosopher, not a poet, but a simple and pious girl--to realize unconsciously in her heart that sublimest conception of human wisdom; the continual, incessant passage of love from the shadows of being and of beauty, to the infinite being and the infinite beauty, from "divine phantoms," to use the expression of Plato, to the eternal reality. It is the glory of Christianity to have in all things opened to man a road toward God; to have taught him to make all his affections serve as so many steps whereby he may ascend to the absolute love: "In his heart he hath disposed to ascend by steps." [Footnote 183] In fine, it is the glory of Christianity to have worked this prodigy, that a holiness so extraordinary, a perfection so superhuman, neither destroys nor fetters the pure affections of earth; so that the saints did not attain to the loving God alone by stifling in their hearts all love for their fellow-beings; but, on the contrary, they learned to love all mankind more than themselves, by first loving God above all.

[Footnote 183: Psalm lxxxiii. 6.]

Whoever, after seeing this, will meditate on the nature of the human heart, and on its history when abandoned to itself, will be forced to admit that here is indeed a transfiguration.

And as regards death, I find this transfiguration to be, if possible, more striking still. Death learned upon the cross that its highest office is to be the auxiliary of love. There an indissoluble fraternity was established between these two great forces; and _there_ love received its mission to transform death into sacrifice. The ideal statue of the dying Christian is not then the ancient gladiator, falling, resigned but passive, his head bowed, his dim eye fixed on the earth which is fast escaping from him, impatient for the approach of nothingness, plunging willingly into eternal night. No; his ideal is the Crucified, dying erect, above the earth, "_exaltatus a terra_" in the attitude of the priest at the altar, pardoning all men, loving them to his latest breath, acquiescing in his death, nay, willing it, making himself the solemn deposit of his soul into the hands of his Father, at once the subject and the king of death, at once priest and victim.

Such is the Christian fraternity of Love and Death.

Hence it is, that through the differences of ages, of conditions, of minds, all holy deaths resemble one another; it is still love ruling death and transforming it into sacrifice. We have just portrayed the last hours of a betrothed bride who died in sacrificing to Jesus Christ her nuptial crown; ere while we followed through tears of admiration the account of another death, grander, more celebrated, more striking. [Footnote 184]

[Footnote 184: These lines were written a few days after the death of the Rev. Father de Ravignan. We give them to-day just as the first emotion dictated them, persuaded that time cannot take from the virtues of the saints their eternal actuality.]

Now, what similitude could we expect to find between the last hours of a holy religious, an illustrious orator, a great and heroic soul, and those of a simple young girl, strong only in her innocence? And yet I venture to compare these two deaths, and the longer I consider them the more do I find that they resemble each other, that they are blended together in one ruling sentiment; they are both a sacrifice, and a sacrifice conducted by love. Sacrifices very different, victims very unequal, I admit. What peace in the death of the holy Father de Ravignan; or rather, what triumph of the Christian will over death! How he rules it! {632} He speaks of "this last affair which is to be conducted, like all others, with decision and energy;" he gives the directions for the sacrifice; he offers it himself! When did he more truly live than on that bed of death? when was he more wakeful than in that seeming sleep! Then was he so strong and vigorous that he seemed to dominate death itself; in this resembling, as far as is possible to man, Christ upon the cross, whom, say the doctors, death could not approach except by his express order. What love, in fine, in his every word and in those desires of heaven, for the impatience and the ardor of which he reproaches himself! For my part, I fancy I see him welcoming death, for which he had been preparing himself for more than thirty years, with that grave, sweet smile whose charm was so extraordinary.

The young bride of Pisa is far from this severe grandeur. There are tears, there are regrets in her last farewell. There is one earthly name that lingers on her lips even to the confines of heaven. She does not command death--she obeys it; and yet here, too, I see an altar, a victim a sacrifice. Here, too, I see the will, more tremulous, more surprised, indeed, than in the great religious, but still armed by love, ending by _conducting itself the last affair_, and by absorbing death in its victory. Once again, what becomes of death in such deaths? where is it? It seems to disappear: "Death, where is thy victory? Where is thy sting? It is swallowed up!"

Let our souls become inebriated with hope at the recital of holy deaths; let us yield ourselves without fear to the attraction which they give us for the life to come. Undoubtedly, the true secret of dying well is to live well; and our imperfection does not allow us to treat death as may the saints. But surely the love which transfigured their death, is at least begun in our souls; it may increase, and, the hour come, may transform for us also the supreme defiles into regions of light and peace.

Among the paintings which have been found in the catacombs of Rome, there is one that has always struck me as having a profound meaning: it is a jewelled cross, from all sides of which spring stems of roses, which bloom around it, and cover its severe nudity. [Footnote 185]

[Footnote 185: Two of these crosses, adorned with gems and flowers, have been discovered among the frescoes of the cemetery of St. Pontianus, whose origin seems to have been anterior to the third century. One of them surmounted an altar; the other, which decorated a baptistery, is one of the most valued monuments of Christian archaeology. Throughout its entire height, and on both arms, it is covered with precious stones, richly figured, alternately square and oval. The two arms support flambeaux, with the flame clearly outlined; from them also depend two little chains, at the extremity of which are suspended the traditional Alpha and Omega. From the foot of the cross to the arms spring on both sides stems of roses covered with leaves and flowers. Directly under this painting was the baptismal font, formed from a stream whose waters, ever smooth and limpid, seem even now, after the lapse of fourteen centuries, to await the immersion of the catechumens.

The discovery in a baptistery of this cross enveloped in splendor, light, and love, authorizes our conjectures as to the signification it must have had in relation to the neophytes. This precious fresco is carefully reproduced in the great work of M. Perret on the Roman catacombs.]

It is very rarely that the cross is found in the catacombs. Perhaps for the tender faith of the neophytes it was dreaded-the sight of that instrument of torture which was yet odious to the whole world, and was dragged daily through the streets for the punishment of slaves. It was, doubtless, to assist the transition from horror to love that the Christian instinct had covered that cross with precious stones and blooming roses, red still with a blood shed by Divine love for the salvation of mankind. Be that as it may, this symbol seems to me to express gloriously the transfiguration of death by Christianity. Ah! neophytes that we are, neophytes of death and a life to come, let us regard the dying moment as a cross which Jesus and his saints have covered for us with encouragement and hope. {633} When the children of the first Christians wondered to see a gibbet on the altar, their fathers pointed to the jewels and roses, and told them of the Redeemer's love. If death terrifies us in its austere nakedness, let us look at the love which can transfigure it, and can make our last hour the happiest, and above all, the most precious in our life.

Rosa Ferrucci was mourned. The whole public press of Tuscany told of her death; poets chanted it; inscriptions were composed in her honor,--the Italian scholars excel in this art so little cultivated among us;--I transcribe one which I think touching:

CHASTE YOUTHS, TENDER VIRGINS, DECORATE WITH TEARS THE TOMB OF ROSA FERRUCCI, SWEETEST GIRL, IN THE POLITE ARTS VERSED BEYOND THE CUSTOM OF WOMEN; WHO, ON THE VERY EVE OF MARRIAGE, WHILST UNACCUSTOMED JOYS FILLED HER SILENT BREAST, COMPLETED HER YOUTHFUL LIFE SECURE.

_Secura!_ beautiful word--word full of peace! and yet less eloquent than one single word which I once read on a fragment of marble taken from the Roman catacombs, [Footnote 186] and which I now bring to the tomb of her who has passed from earthly espousals to the nuptials of the Lamb. The case here also was that of a young Christian maiden. Was she affianced like Rosa Ferrucci? Was it the hand of a betrothed spouse that closed her tomb? The word we speak of, does it indicate her virginal glory, or was it her name? The little stone saith not. All that we know is, that the hand which carried into the consecrated galleries the mortal remains of the young Christian, after having marked the place of her repose, took a fragment of marble, laid it against the opening, fastened it by a little clay, and choosing a word among those which the Gospel had just given or explained to the world, engraved these six letters:

"Chaste,"

[Footnote 186: This fragment is now preserved among the _monumenta vetera Christianorum_ in the Belvedere gallery of the Vatican.]

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Memoirs Of Count Segur.

To record the actions and opinions of one who labored efficiently in the attainment of American independence is an agreeable task. The deeds of soldiers are always interesting to the historian and attractive to the reader. The philosophical principles that led gay young men from the brilliant capital of France to the distant regions of a new world, in order to practically assist in the assertion of human liberty, cannot be ignored, much less neglected, in our all-investigating age. Count Segur participated in the stirring scenes over which the genius of Washington presided, and he has transmitted to us the treasure of his experience in the first volume of his memoirs. As he lived in the times preceding the great Revolution which overthrew so many old forms of power and honor throughout Christendom, and as his facilities for obtaining a correct knowledge of the state of society and of systems in his day were extensive, his introductory pages are very instructive. {634} This will appear from one comprehensive sentence of his own: "My position, my birth, the ties of friendship and consanguinity, which connected me with all the remarkable personages of the courts of Louis XV. and Louis XVI.; my father's administration, my travels in America, my negotiations in Russia and in Prussia; the advantage of having been engaged in intercourse of affairs and society with Catharine II., Frederick the Great, Potemkin, Joseph II., Gustavus III., Washington, Kosciusko, Lafayette, Nassau, Mirabeau, Napoleon, as well as with the chiefs of the aristocratic and democratic parties, and the most illustrious writers of my times;--all that I have seen, done, experienced, and suffered during the Revolution; those strange alternations of prosperity and misfortune, of credit and disgrace, of enjoyments and proscriptions, of opulence and poverty; all the different occupations which I have been forced to occupy, and the various conditions of life in which fate has placed me--having induced me to believe that this sketch of my life would prove entertaining and interesting; chance having made me successively a colonel, a general officer, a traveller, a navigator, a courtier, the son of a minister of war, an ambassador, a negotiator, a prisoner, an agriculturist, a soldier, an elector, a poet, a dramatic author, a contributor to newspapers, an essayist, a historian, a deputy, a counsellor of state, a senator, an academician, and a peer of France:"--Certainly a catalogue of sufficiently varied offices, winding up rather prosperously!

The family of Segur was ancient and honorable. In the field and in the cabinet his forefathers had distinguished themselves, and our author helped to extend his ancestral reputation. Highly gifted by nature, his ample opportunities of cultivation and acquirement made him familiar with the various branches of science then taught. He became deeply imbued with those philosophical notions that had begun to spread themselves abroad under the reign of Louis XV., and continued to gather might until they brought his successor to the block, and even still keep Europe in a state of unrest. From 1753 to 1774, when Louis XV. died, young Segur had occasion to learn as much as his youthful judgment would enable him, concerning the wretched state of society around the court of that weak and degraded prince. It was under his reign, or rather that of his mistresses--for their influence had more to do with the government than the king's--that the storm was brewed which swept away with terrible force so many corrupt systems of legislation and social life. The philosophers began to point their weapons against ancient customs. Parliamentary decrees came to the assistance of the latter, but "their acts of rigor against philosophical writings produced no other effect than to cause them to be sought after and read with a greater avidity. Public opinion became a power of opposition which triumphed over every obstacle; the condemnation was a title of consideration for its author; and under the reign of an absolute monarch, liberty having become a fashion in the capital, exercised a greater sway in it than the monarch himself." Who can fail to see that such results will always inevitably follow similar proceedings! Human nature has something imperatively logical in it, and it will act according to its laws, which are nothing else than the laws of Providence. {635} There is a deep philosophy in what he says: "Power was still arbitrary, and yet authority lost its influence; public opinion escaped despotism by railing at it; we did not possess liberty, but license." (P.17.) The lethargy of one weak mind produced all this confusion. The parliament, clergy, philosophers, and courtiers, all joined for different purposes in the same common cry against the shameful indolence of the court. The revolution which was silently moving through public opinion was scarcely dreamed of by anybody. Rash measures of resentment, always the resort of weak and tyrannic minds, only served to irritate what had been provoked, and the folly of the king was shown in small acts of petty tyranny. But death came to remove him and his turpitude from the French throne. Segur narrates it: "In the month of April, 1774, as Louis XV. was going to hunt, he met a funeral, and, being fond of asking questions, he approached the coffin and inquired who it was they were going to bury? He was told it was a young girl who had died of the small-pox. Seized with a sudden fear, he returned to his palace, and was two days afterward attacked with that cruel malady, the very name of which had alarmed him. The hand of death was upon him; his flesh became corrupted; mortification ensued, and carried him off. His corpse was covered with lime, and conveyed to St. Denis without any kind of ceremony." (P. 32.)

He proceeds to philosophize upon the desertion of the royal fallen shadow by his most subservient flatterers, and observes that in proportion as they had been slavish to his whims and their own interests during his life, so did they evince their indifference to him when departed. They turned immediately to the rising sun, and offered him their adulatory worship. Still, the principles which had been set to work in former years continued to advance even under the benignant reign of Louis XVI., who finally atoned for the faults of his predecessors.

The author sums up succinctly the condition of the tottering society, daily becoming weaker: "The object of every one was to repair the old edifice; and, in this simultaneous attempt of all, it was levelled with the ground. Too much light was brought to the work by many, and a conflagration ensued. The consequence of this has been, that, for the last fifty years, our harassed lives have been to each of us a dream, alternately monarchical, republican, warlike, and philosophical." (P. 63.) The misfortune is, that this dreaming has not yet ended in France, or, indeed, in any part of Europe except Switzerland.

But we must hasten to the events which drew him into connection with the American war. He became a soldier, and, after fighting several duels, found himself carried away by the enthusiasm which filled his countrymen at the sound of the first cannon-shot fired in defence of the standard of liberty. "I recollect," he says, "that the Americans were then styled insurgents and Bostonians; their daring courage electrified every mind, and excited universal admiration, more particularly among young people. The American insurrection was everywhere applauded, and became, as it were, a fashion; and I was very far from being the only one whose heart beat at the sound of liberty just waking from its slumbers, and struggling to throw off the yoke of arbitrary power. On my arrival at Paris, I found the same agitation prevailing also there in the public mind. {636} Nobody seemed favorable to the cause of England; all openly expressed their wishes for the success of the Bostonians."

Eager as were these young enthusiasts to fight in America for the cause of liberty, many obstacles interposed to prevent or defer the carrying out of their intentions. The French government was not in a very prosperous financial state at the time, as the country had scarcely recovered from the mad speculations of the Scotchman Law during the preceding reign. Besides, England was then powerful: her fleets swept the sea, and she had just conveyed across the Atlantic 40,000 mercenaries, to cut the throats of American freemen and stifle the rising spirit of liberty. Private aid was, indeed, freely afforded to the colonists; arms and ammunition were conveyed across the ocean in spite of embarrassing neutrality laws, and many enterprising officers were allowed to resign their positions in the French service and serve under Washington. When the American deputies, Silas Deane, Arthur Lee, and Benjamin Franklin, arrived in Paris, and were received with such cordiality at the French court, a new stimulus was given to the general desire of assisting the revolutionists. The appearance of those republican delegates produced a sensation in that brilliant capital. "Nothing could be more striking than the contrast between the luxury of our capitol, the elegance of our fashions, the magnificence of Versailles, the still brilliant remains of the monarchical pride of Louis XIV., and the polished and superb dignity of our nobility, on the one hand; and, on the other hand, the almost rustic apparel, the plain but firm demeanor, the free and direct language of the envoys, whose antique simplicity of dress and appearance seemed to have produced within our walls, in the midst of the effeminate and servile refinement of the eighteenth century, some sages contemporary with Plato, or republicans of the age of Cato and Fabius." (P. 101.)

No less impressive than their unpretending exterior, the honesty and artless sincerity of the American deputies gained the hearts of the French people, and enlisted in their cause the generous enthusiasm of the warlike portion of the nation. Numerous offers of service were made, and among the most distinguished were Lafayette, then a young man, the Count de Noailles, and Count Segur. The two latter were obliged by their parents to desist from the enterprise, which they had already arranged to carry out by crossing the ocean; but Lafayette succeeded in purchasing a vessel, which he armed and manned at his own expense, and, taking with him some experienced officers, sailed from a port in Spain and reached America, where he met with a reception due to his merits and noble purpose. A brave and experienced soldier, M. de Valfort, afterward chief instructor of Napoleon Buonaparte, accompanied the Marquis and rendered efficient service during his stay in the New World.

Some time was now spent by young Segur in attending to the events which Voltaire and his colaborers were bringing about in the world of literature. He was a visitor at the family residence of Segur, whose mother was a woman of note in the metropolis. The count himself narrates several interesting incidents respecting the arch-infidel, with whom he appears to have been on intimate terms. With regard to his death there is one thing worth recording. Immediately after his triumphal entry into Paris, death came upon him. Segur says that he recanted his former errors. {637} "The clergy, no longer venturing to oppose him, now hoped to convert him. At first Voltaire yielded; he received the Abbé Gauthier, confessed himself, and wrote a profession of faith, which, without fully satisfying the priests, greatly displeased the philosophers. After escaping the danger, he forgot his fears and his prudence. A few weeks after, upon being taken extremely ill, he refused to see a priest, and terminated, with apparent indifference, a long life." There is a different version of the latter half of the story. It is related that he cried most piteously for a priest; but his philosophical friends refused to accord him his request, and he died with imprecations most horrible upon their heads for denying his dying wish.

Political changes at length enabled the count to embark for America, and become an actor in the great drama of freedom, of which he had been long an earnest spectator at a distance. War was declared between France and England. The French, under Arthur Dillon and Count Noailles, directed by D'Estaing, captured the town of Grenada; after which the latter sailed for Savannah, designing to seize that important position. Notwithstanding the valor of the French and Americans in the successive assaults upon the works, they were obliged to retire with loss, rendered still more lamentable by the fall of the brave Pulaski, who fought in America for the liberty which had been crushed in his own land. A concise and accurate narrative of the principal events that preceded the surrender of Cornwallis to the united arms of America and France, occupies a considerable space in the memoirs before us. The bravery of the French, very naturally, obtains a prominent notice until the moment of capitulation arrives. "The English troops then defiled between the two allied armies, drums beating, and carrying their arms, which they afterward deposited with their flags. As Lord Cornwallis was ill, General O'Hara defiled at the head of the English troops, and presented his sword to the Count de Rochambeau; but the French general, pointing to Washington at the head of the American army, told him that, the French being only auxiliaries, it was for the American general to receive his sword and give him his orders." (P. 237.)

Strange incidents happen in all wars. About this time, the French general, De Bouillé, made an attack on the Dutch islands of the West Indies, lately captured by the British. "Having during the night landed his troops in the island of St. Eustatia, he advanced at break of day to attack the principal fortress of the island, whose garrison was then engaged in manoeuvring on the plain. The vanguard of M. de Bouillé was composed of an Irish regiment in the service of France: deceived by the sight of their red coats, the English thought they saw a part of their own countrymen, and suffered themselves to be approached without suspicion. Undeceived too late, they vainly fought with courage; they were routed on all sides, and pursued with so much ardor that French and English entered pell-mell into the fortress, which remained in our possession." How many foreign battle-fields have found the Irish in the vanguard of armies, yet what avails their valor to their own country!

In 1782, Count Segur got permission to set out for America, and a frigate, La Gloire, of thirty-two guns, was placed at his disposal to carry important despatches to Count Rochambeau from his government. {638} He had as fellow-passengers the Duke de Lauzun, the Prince de Broglie, the Baron Montesquieu, Count de Loménie, an Irish officer named Sheldon, Polawski, a Polish gentleman, and others eager to assist the inhabitants of a new world fighting for liberty, of which men were allowed to dream in the Old World. Enthusiastic as he had previously felt upon the subject, he could hardly restrain himself, now that he was on his way to accomplish his most cherished hopes.

A letter dated from "Brest Roads, onboard La Gloire, May 19th, 1782," contains some remarkably philosophical passages; and when writing his memoirs, forty-two years afterward, he could find no fitter language to convey the sentiments which then agitated his mind. "In the midst of an absolute government, everything is sacrificed to vanity, to the love of fame, or what is called glory, but which hardly deserves the name of patriotism in a country where a select number of persons, raised to the first employments of the state by the will of a master, and on the precarious tenure of that will, engross the whole legislative and executive power; in a country where public rights are only considered as private property, where the court is all in all, and the nation nothing. A love of true glory cannot exist without philosophy and public manners. With us, the desire of celebrity, which may be directed to good or evil, is the prevailing motive, while promotion depends not upon talents, but upon favor." A most pernicious course, and certain to produce disastrous consequences in any organization! He proceeds to expose the facility with which men adapt themselves to any absolute system in which the ambitious and selfish portion of the community find adulation and sycophancy the readiest ladders to power and eminence, while the truly meritorious find their virtue an obstacle to favor, if not an occasion of suspicion and fear. If the French nation continued without change under the system of government such as Count Segur represents that of his day, it would be more difficult to account for the phenomenon than the revolution which destroyed it.

The intelligent appreciation of right and freedom that incited those Frenchmen to dare the perils of the ocean preparatory to the more serious dangers of the battle-field for the sake of liberty, we should not too easily forget in the present age. It was no whimsical adventure that led them over the waves to engage in the pursuit of chimerical gratification. "In separating at this time from all I hold dear, I do not make so painful a sacrifice to prejudice, _but to duty_. ... Being a soldier, I leave my family, my native place, and all the charms of life, in order strictly to fulfil the duties of a profession, perhaps the noblest of any, when engaged in a just cause."

An interesting narrative of the voyage, in company with the frigate L'Aigle, of forty guns, and bearing a treasure of two million and a half livres for the aid of the Americans, is given in a few pages of the memoirs. They fell in with an English frigate of seventy-four guns, and a memorable engagement ensued. This vessel was the Hector, formerly a Frenchman, taken by the English at the defeat of De Grasse. In the midst of the engagement, Vallongue, the French commander, cried out to the English captain to strike his colors. "Yes, yes," said the latter ironically, "I am going to do it;" and completed his answer by a terrible broadside. So near were the vessels that the men used pistols; and even the rammers of the guns were wielded as clubs. {639} For three quarters of an hour La Gloire bore the brunt of the unequal conflict; but, at length, aided by L'Aigle, they so disabled the English vessel that they expected soon to capture her. Next day, however, other sails appearing in sight, they abandoned the Hector, which afterward sank, and the crew was rescued by an American ship. An incident of the battle may be related, as showing the coolness and gayety of the French character, even amidst the most appalling scenes:

"The Baron de Montesquieu was standing near us, (on the deck;) we had of late been amusing ourselves with rallying him in regard to the words _liaisons dangereuses_, which he had heard us pronounce, and, in spite of all his inquiries, we had still evaded explaining to him that such was the title of a new novel, then much read in France. While we were thus conversing together, our ship received the fire of the Hector, and a bar-shot--a murderous junction of two balls united by an iron bar--struck a part of the quarter-deck, from which we had just before descended. The Count de Loménie, standing at the side of Montesquieu, and pointing to the shot, said very coolly, 'You were wishing to know what those _liaisons dangereuses_ were? There, look, you have them.'"

Soon after this event they approached Delaware Bay, where they captured an English corvette. Being ignorant of the channel, however, they were necessarily delayed, and they were placed in a most critical position by the appearance of an English fleet, whose superior force seemed to leave them no chance of escape. This they effected, nevertheless, with the greatest difficulty, carrying with them the gold which they had been obliged to throw into the river when pursued by the English, but which they afterward fished up and secured. They then proceeded on the way to Philadelphia, and the Count gives amusing incidents that occurred on the route. Sometimes well treated by the inhabitants favorable to the cause of freedom, they were also subjected to much annoyance by the tories and the timid or vacillating between both sides. A certain Mr. Pedikies is particularly mentioned as having received them coolly and suspiciously, while promises, bribes, and threats were necessary to oblige him to afford them any aid. The contrast evident between the Americans and his own countrymen, is noticed by the writer in an aspect very favorable to the former. What especially attracted his attention was, the absence of different classes in society and of all poverty. "All the Americans whom we met were dressed in well-made clothes, of excellent stuff, with boots well cleaned; their deportment was free, frank, and kind, equally removed from rudeness of manner and from studied politeness; exhibiting an independent character, subject only to the laws, proud of its own rights, and respecting those of others. Their aspect seemed to declare that we were in a land of reason, of order, and of liberty." (P. 320.) He describes the face of the country, its boundless resources of agricultural wealth, and stores of future happiness and power. Philadelphia, then the capital of the country, attracted his admiration, and he enters upon a disquisition concerning the Quakers, who inspired him with a very high esteem for their principles of peace and rectitude. He says that "most of them were tories," and cannot blame them, because their religion forbade its members to engage in war. "Friend," said one of them to General Rochambeau, "thou dost practise a vile trade; but we are told that thou dost conduct thyself with all the humanity and justice it will admit of. {640} I am very glad of this; I feel indebted to thee for it; and I am come hither to see thee, and to assure thee of my esteem." Another discovered a very ingenious mode of avoiding

## participation in the deeds of war, even by paying taxes to

support it, and at the same time of complying with the law of Congress imposing taxation. The day upon which the collectors called, he placed a certain sum of money apart where they might find it, and thus he would not _give_, but allowed it _to be taken_. At Newport, he became acquainted with a venerable member of the same sect; and the Frenchman became an ardent admirer of Polly Leiton, the beautiful and modest daughter of his host. She made no pretence to conceal her abhorrence of war, and candidly addressed the Count in terms not at all complimentary to his military notions. "Thou hast, then," she said, "neither wife nor children in Europe, since thou leavest thy country, and comest so far to engage in that cruel occupation, war?" "But it is for your welfare," he replied, "that I quit all I hold dear, and it is to defend your liberty that I come to fight the English." "The English," she rejoined, "have done thee no harm, and wherefore shouldst thou care about our liberty? We ought never to interfere in other people's business, unless it be to reconcile them together and prevent the effusion of blood." "But my king has ordered me to come here and engage his enemies and your own," said Segur. To this she replied that no king has a right to order what is unjust and contrary to what God ordereth.

Having transacted important business with M. de Luzerne, at Philadelphia, and fully acquainted himself with the state of affairs and eminent men of the times, he set out for the camp of Washington and Rochambeau, on the banks of the Hudson. In the narrative of his journey thither, he shows himself a keen observer, and highly appreciates the character of the inhabitants, as well as the magnificent aspect of the country through which he passed. Schools, churches, and universities met him at every town; while kindness, comfort, happiness, were everywhere displayed. The modest tranquillity of independent men, knowing no power above them but the influence of law, and that law the expression of their own will; the vanity, servility, and prejudices of European society unknown; the general spirit of industry and the honorable occupation of labor common to all; such phases of life, so strange to the traveller, attracted his deepest attention.

The inns at which he stopped on his way were generally kept by captains, majors, colonels, generals, who conversed with equal facility upon military tactics and agricultural projects, and were no less entertaining in their stories of campaigns against the English than in their success in clearing forests and raising crops on the sites of Indian wigwams. This very naturally surprised the inquisitive Frenchman; but, while it presented to him a new phase of human society, it approved itself very highly to his judgment. Two things, however, he found to condemn; or, as he himself says, shocked him more than he could express. One was "a vile custom, the moment a toast was given, of circulating an immense bowl of punch round the table, out of which each guest was successively compelled to drink; and the other was, that, after being in bed, it was not unusual to see a fresh traveller walk into your room, and without ceremony stretch himself by your side, and appropriate a part of your couch."

{641}

Trenton and Princeton recalled to him the memory of brilliant exploits performed in the cause of liberty by Washington and Lafayette; but at Pompton he would have fallen into the hands of the Britishers, had he not been warned of his danger by an old woman sitting at her door, engaged by a spinning-wheel. Having at length crossed the majestic Hudson, which he eloquently describes, he was cheered by the sight of the American tents, and soon reached the headquarters of Rochambeau, at Peekskill. He took command of a veteran regiment of Soissonnais, which had been awaiting him, and he was received with the greatest enthusiasm. It had been formerly named Segur, from his father, who had commanded it at the famous battles of Lawfeld and Rocoux. In both these battles the old warrior was wounded at the head of his regiment, once by a musket-ball through his breast, and again by another shot that shattered his arm. Although he felt annoyed at the absence of active operations in the field, still he found amusement enough among his numerous countrymen, with whom he was now associated. One young officer of artillery particularly attracted his attention. This was Duplessis-Mauduit, who had most signally distinguished himself in several engagements, and who carried his attachment to liberty and equality so far as to be highly displeased if any one called him _Sir_ or _Mister_. He would be called simply Thomas Duplessis-Mauduit.

His appreciation of the character of Washington is in accordance with the estimation in which that great man was and is held by all. "Too often," he says, "reality disappoints the expectations our imagination had raised, and admiration diminishes by a too close view of the object upon which it had been bestowed; but, on seeing General Washington, I found a perfect similarity between the impression produced upon me by his aspect and the idea I had formed of him. His exterior disclosed, as it were, the history of his life; simplicity, grandeur, dignity, calmness, goodness, firmness, the attributes of his character, were also stamped upon his features and in all his person. His stature was noble and elevated; the expression of his features mild and benevolent; his smile graceful and pleasing; his manners simple, without familiarity. He did not display the luxury of a monarchical general; everything announced in him the hero of a republic."

Expecting to find an army without organization, and officers without suitable military knowledge, he was surprised to find well-drilled battalions, and officers fully competent in all departments of their service. He dined frequently with Washington, and gives instructive descriptions of the habits of those Revolutionary heroes. The toasts most frequently given after dinner at headquarters were, "The Independence of the United States;" "The King and Queen of France;" "Success to the allied armies." The generous spirit of brotherhood that united the two nations in those days seems to have become unknown in our times; while she that was then the cruel enemy has now become the flattered friend. Who will deny that nations sometimes act the life of individuals? Washington's opinions on this point are worth recording: "He spoke to me of the gratitude which his country would ever retain for the King of France, and for his generous assistance; highly extolled the wisdom and skill of General de Rochambeau, expressing himself honored by having observed and obtained his friendship; warmly commended the discipline and bravery of our army; and concluded by speaking to me, in very handsome terms, of my father, whose long services and numerous wounds were becoming ornaments, he said, to a minister of war." (P. 253.)

{642}

The Americans and French were closely besieging the British at this time in New York, and although the prudence of the generals restrained the impetuosity of the allies, who eagerly sought to attack the enemy in their defences, it was not possible to prevent the execution of some daring exploits. But the armies soon separated, the French marching toward Newport and Providence, thence to Boston. They were ordered to the West Indies, where the decisive blow was to be struck at the English, and, as it eventually turned out, the independence of the States soon after followed.

We cannot but admire the wisdom displayed in this book of memoirs, written eighty-five years ago, amidst scenes and times that could afford material from which the future greatness of the country could be predicted only by a very sagacious mind. He clearly foresaw, in the rising colonies then about to emerge into a powerful nationality, all the resources which, by judicious and liberal legislation, led to the wonderful prosperity with which our country is blessed. The religious toleration and equality which reigned everywhere he highly eulogized, and accounts very philosophically for the necessity of such a state of things. It must be borne in mind that Count Segur was a follower of Voltaire, although of a Protestant family. For this reason the ingenuousness with which he testifies to the origin of this religious toleration is more deserving of notice. At page 371, he says: "The multiplicity of religions rendered toleration indispensable among them, and, what will, perhaps, appear singular, _the example of this toleration was set by the Catholics_. No church, therefore, was privileged or considered the established church; the ministers of each religion were paid by those who professed it, and there existed between them not a fatal spirit of jealousy, a source of discord, but a laudable emulation of charity, benevolence, and virtue." It is pleasing to record this generous tribute of respect to the liberal spirit which influenced the religious denominations of those Revolutionary times. It is true that in all religious sects there are some members who are ever ready to clamor for persecution, and eager to adopt forcible measures to compel their unwilling neighbors to believe according to their own special measure of belief. And it is difficult, perhaps impossible, to name one religious party that has not, when sufficiently strong to do so, been led into the commission of acts which succeeding generations would willingly have effaced from the record of their predecessors. For instance, what intelligent Presbyterian of the present day would not willingly blot from the page of her history the deeds that stain the Scotch Church in the days of her influence? Buckle, one of the deepest non-Catholic writers of the present age, says that her real character was "one of the most detestable tyrannies ever seen on the earth." "When the Scotch Kirk was at the height of its power, we may search history in vain for any institution which can compete with it, except the Spanish inquisition. Between these two there is a close and intimate analogy. Both were intolerant, both were cruel, both made war upon the finest parts of human nature, and both destroyed every vestige of religious freedom." (Vol. ii. p. 322.) {643} It is more truthful to admit the opinion of Mr. Buckle than to attempt to controvert his facts of proof by which he establishes his position. We only advert to this as elucidating the principle that, although there may be individual Presbyterians and individual Catholics who feel a disposition to recur to the unchristian acts of some of their predecessors, yet it cannot be denied that they are exceptional. The general spirit of toleration which Count Segur so justly appreciates, is too deeply implanted in the institutions of the Republic to be blown away by any foul blast of weak bigotry.

Another subject upon which he wisely commented is equally important to show his great foresight. After aptly describing the reasons from which he presaged the future greatness of the nation, he observes that "the only danger to be apprehended hereafter for this happy Republic, (which then consisted of three millions of inhabitants,) is the state of excessive opulence of which its exclusive commerce seems to hold out the promise, and which may bring luxury and corruption in its train." (P. 374.) Has not this already come to pass? Again he asks: "Is not that difference which is observable between the manners and situation of the North and South calculated, in fact, to create an apprehension for the future of a political separation, which would weaken and perhaps even dissolve this happy union, which can only retain its strength while it remains firm and intimate?" The past few years have proven the justness of his views.

We cannot better conclude than by transcribing his relation of an incident which evinced the bravery of his friend Lynch, an officer of the staff of Count d'Estaing, at the storming of Savannah: "M. d'Estaing, at the most critical moment of that sanguinary affair, being at the head of the right column, directed Lynch to carry an urgent order to the third column, which was on the left. These columns were then within grape-shot of the enemy's entrenchments; and on both sides a tremendous firing was kept up. Lynch, instead of passing through the centre or in the rear of the columns, proceeded coolly through the shower of balls and grape-shot, which the French and English were discharging at each other. It was in vain that M. d'Estaing, and those who surrounded him, cried to Lynch to take another direction; he went on, executed his order, and returned by the same way; that is to say, under a vault of flying shot, and where every one expected to witness his instant destruction. 'What!' cried the general, on seeing him return unhurt, 'The devil must be in you, surely. Why did you choose such a road as that, in which you might have perished a thousand times over?' 'Because it was the shortest,' answered Lynch. Having uttered these words, he went with equal coolness and joined the party that most ardently engaged in storming the place."

It has been a pleasure, as well as an instruction, to accompany in his thoughts and actions one of those many noble and brave foreigners who aided, by their services, in the establishment of our independence, and forced a powerful foe to relinquish her grasp upon a nation struggling for liberty.

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{644}

Notre Dame De Garaison.

In the province of Aquitaine, a short distance from the village of Monléon, among the hills of _Les Hautes Pyrénées_, is a valley bearing the name of Garaison, where stands a votive chapel in honor of the Blessed Virgin. It is a favorite place of pilgrimage for all the country around, which has been approved of by Popes Urban VIII, and Gregory XVI., who have enriched it with indulgences. It was erected in consequence of the apparition of our Blessed Lady on the spot, about the year 1500, to a young shepherdess who was guarding her flock in the valley. The legend is as follows, somewhat abridged. It is supported by most unobjectionable witnesses at the time of the event, by tradition, and the unanimous voice of the country around; by public documents, and by the effects which followed and which still exist. As for me, however, this is of little moment, these legends not being matters of faith. It is sufficient for me to know that the spot in question is one dear to Mary and peculiarly favored by Heaven. It has been sanctified by the sighs of contrition, by the pure confessions, the fervent communions, and the sudden and miraculous conversions of those who have gone thither in honor of the Mother of our Lord.--But the legend:

A young girl of twelve years of age, Anglèse de Sagazan, was guarding her flock near a large hawthorn which shaded a fountain of living water. The deep shade and the soft murmur of the fountain invited repose, and, opening her basket of provisions, the young shepherdess seated herself by the spring to dip her dry brown bread in the clear, cold water. Suddenly a lady of majestic mien, with a serene countenance and gracious regard, clothed in a long, white robe, which fell in graceful folds to her feet, stood before the astonished maiden, who, dazzled by her appearance, remained immovable and speechless. Then our gracious Lady, who loveth the poor and the humble, declared to her that she had chosen this spot as a place of benediction, whereon she wished a shrine erected in her honor, around which her children might gather with more than ordinary assurance. This apparition occurring three days in succession, the maiden related to her father what had happened. He, in turn, reported the occurrence among his neighbors, who were quite incredulous, but yet, through curiosity or inspired by God, flocked to the fountain, where was still to be heard the voice of the Virgin, though no one saw her but the pure eyes of the shepherdess. The people went to seek the curé, and returned to the fountain with banners, chanting hymns in honor of Mary. They erected a large cross on the spot. After that the water of the fountain seemed miraculously changed, and the sick went thither to be healed. The sudden restoration of many to health made the spot celebrated in a short time. The number of miracles increasing, the present elegant vaulted chapel was erected by the voluntary offerings of grateful pilgrims, and there the benediction of Heaven descended upon the votaries of Mary. {645} At this day wonderful are the prodigies wrought on soul and body at the shrine of our Lady of Garaison. Ages ago God healed many who, at the troubling of the waters, descended to the angel-guarded Pool of Siloam. His ways are not as our ways. ...

I made a pilgrimage to Notre Dame de Garaison in June, 18--. The evening before, I went to shrift, by way of preparation, and the next morning left at an early hour with a party of friends, who completely filled our private diligence. There were five of us, and two servants, besides the driver and his more efficient wife. I might call her the driver and him the postilion. Quite a procession we should have made in honor of our Lady of Garaison! We ought to have gone plodding along the highway in sandal shoon and penitential garb, with pilgrim staff and scallop-shell, knocking our breasts as we went, as did the votaries of the middle ages. But in these days, when stout old Christian flies along the celestial railroad with his burden of sin carefully stowed away in the baggage-car, I, a feeble pilgrim, may be excused for seeking as comfortable a seat as could be found in our rickety old diligence. As I got in, I caught a satisfactory glimpse of a large basket, in which were light, crispy _pistolets_, heaps of deep-red cherries, flasks of water, and bottles of mild _vin rouge_, which our servant had thoughtfully provided for our outer man. And they were not disdained in our drive of thirty miles. Such due attention having been paid to our bodily wants, we were quite at leisure to abandon ourselves to our spiritual musings or our devotions! Who could wish to have his soul constantly disturbed and pestered by a jaded and craving body? It is quite contrary to the religious as well as philosophic spirit of this enlightened nineteenth century, and though I was somewhat ascetic, and rather inclined to the sterner rules of medieval times, the thought almost reconciled me to my corner, where I braced my weary back, and to the aforesaid basket, whence I fortified my body.

"_Ciel!_" I exclaimed, as I found myself _en diligence_ and the stone cross of St. Oren's Priory fast disappearing, "have I returned to the middle ages, or am I dreaming?" I could not help rubbing my eyes, and wondering what some of my more enlightened American friends would think, if they could see me seriously, deliberately setting off on a pilgrimage (even in a carriage!) of thirty miles, to pay my devotions at a shrine of the Virgin Mary! But yes--my head was quite sound, though filled with the vows I wished to offer in a spot peculiarly dear to our Lady. This was the first visit I ever made to one of these places of popular devotion, and so, apart from my religious motives, I felt some curiosity to see this mountain chapel, away almost upon the confines of Spain.

The roads are fine in that part of France, and bordered by magnificent shade-trees. Owing to recent rains, we had no dust. We passed waving wheat-fields, luxuriant vineyards hedged with hawthorn, and away on the neighboring hills was many an old château with its venerable towers, and hard by an antique church. I found everything novel, and consequently interesting. Going and returning we stopped at most of the villages. {646} In every one we found an old vaulted stone church, with thick walls and doors, ever open to the passer-by. In each were several chapels, adorned with oil paintings, bas-reliefs, and statues of the saints, and in every church were the stations of _Via Crucis_ well painted, and the little undying lamp of olive oil burning near the gilded tabernacle--announcing the presence of the Divinity--the Shekinah of the new Israel--and recalling the beautiful lines of Lamartine:

"Pâle lampe du sanctuaire, Pourquoi dans l'ombre du saint lieu, Inaperçue et solitaire, Te consumes-tu devant Dieu?

"Ce n'est pas pour diriger l'aile De la prière ou de l'amour, Pour éclairer, faible étincelle, L'oeil de celui qui fit le jour.

......

"Mon oeil aime à se suspendre A ce foyer aérien; Et je leur dis, sans les comprendre. Flambeaux pieux, vous faites bien.

"Peutêtre, brillantes parcelles De l'immense création, Devant son trône imitent-elles L'éternelle adoration.

"C'est ainsi, dis-je à mon âme, Que de l'ombre de ce bas lieu Tu brûles, invisible flamme, En la présence de ton Dieu.

"Et jamais tu n'oublies De diriger vers lui mon coeur, Pas plus que ces lampes remplies De flotter devant le Seigneur." [Footnote 187]

[Footnote 187: In the absence of a suitable poetic version of the above, we subjoin--for such of our readers as are not familiar with the language of the original--the following prose translation of it, from Digby's _Ages of Faith_:

"Pale lamp of the Sanctuary, why, in the obscurity of the Holy Place, unperceived and solitary, consumest thou thyself before God? It is not, feeble spark! to give light to the eye of him who made the day: it is not to dispel darkness from the steps of his adorers. The vast nave is only more obscure before thy distant glimmering. And yet, symbolic lamp, thou guardest thy immortal fire, thou dost flicker before every altar, and mine eyes love to rest suspended on this aerial hearth. I say to them, I comprehend not; ye pious flames, ye do well. Perhaps these bright particles of the immense creation imitate before his throne the eternal adoration! It is thus, say I to my soul, that, in the shade of this lower place, thou burnest, a flame invisible, a fire which remains unextinguished, unconsumed, by which incense can be at all times rekindled to ascend in fragrance to heaven!"]

In these churches there was always an altar to the Virgin, too, adorned with lace and flowers, and streaming with gay ribbons and pennons, after the taste of the country. In one we found a wedding party, and were in season to hear the _Ego conjungo vos_ of the curé over a very modest and subdued-looking pair.

We often passed huge crosses of wood or stone erected by the wayside, to which were attached the instruments of the Passion. I noticed among the passers-by that the women made the sign of the cross and the men raised their hats. I did not find the villages very agreeable. The houses were of stone, with tiled roofs, and had a cold, forbidding look. The paved streets were narrow, with no sidewalks, and anything but cleanly. I thought of our fresh New England villages, their white cottages and green blinds, and front yards filled with flowers and shrubbery. But those of France were more antique and more picturesque--at a distance. Flocks of sheep dotted the country, each guarded by a shepherdess, who wore a bright scarlet _capuchon_, which covers the head and falls below the waist. It is picturesque, if not graceful, and at a distance the wearer looks like one of her native but overgrown _coquelicots_. They were generally spinning, after the manner of the country, with the distaff under one arm and twirling the spindle in the hand, thus laying their hands to the spindle and their hands hold of the distaff after the manner of Old Testament times. How they contrive to spin with these two instruments is past my comprehension, but they do succeed admirably.

Every now and then we met a donkey groaning under the weight of his ears and of a huge cage, or _panier_, as large as himself on each side, filled with live poultry or fruit and vegetables. Perched on the top between these queer saddle-bags was a bright-eyed, sunburnt _paysanne_, most patiently thwacking Old Dapple marketward. The oxen looked as if they fared better; they were sleek and clean, that is, what I could see of them, for they were almost entirely encased in great coverings, as if they were elephants. {647} Their drivers wore a blouse of blue cotton, and wooden shoes with most impertinently turned-up toes. They are worn (the shoes) both by men and women. They make a terrible clatter; you would think the Philistines upon you; but they are very durable.

The country reminded me of the interior of New England. The hills were finely wooded, more so than I had expected in that old country. On leaving Monléon, we entered a valley, narrow at first, but which gradually opened, forming a basin of considerable extent, with green meadows and shady thickets. It is bounded and crowned by hills, and a few hours distant are the Pyrenees. This valley is solitary--secluded, but not wild or uncultivated. Perhaps there is a score of houses in it. From about the centre rise the turrets of Notre Dame de Garaison. The whole country was once covered with magnificent oaks which had been planted by the old chaplains, but the vandals of a later day had cut away whole forests.

The rain poured down in torrents when we entered the valley of Garaison, but that did not prevent us from admiring the locality so favorable to devotion. Far from any city, free from noise, the chapel is buried among the hills and forests of Aquitaine, a spot chosen by God in which to reveal his presence and power! What a delicious solitude! We drove to a little _auberge_--Hotel de la Paix!--erected for the accommodation of pilgrims. In the olden time they were sheltered in a monastery, which was devastated during the Revolution, and now, when great festivals draw crowds of people, the women often remain in the house all night. Leaving our carriage at the hotel, we immediately went to the church in spite of the rain, passing through a long avenue of majestic oaks.

The principal entrance to this sacred retreat is quite imposing. The front is decorated with a statue of the Virgin, holding the dead Christ in her arms--the bodies of natural size, and the work of a skilful hand.

The buildings form a vast enclosure, in the centre of which is the chapel, having on the north and south two courts which separate it from the rest of the edifice. I was surprised to find so fine an establishment so far away from any city. We passed through a cloister shaded by cypresses to the chapel. Over the door and at the sides are niches, in which are statues. The vestibule, as in all these old churches, is very low. Here my attention was attracted by a great number of small paintings which cover the walls and vault, forming a complete mosaic. These _ex-voto_ are not remarkable as works of art, but precious on account of the miraculous events which they retrace. They represent the persons who have been cured of their infirmities by the intercession of Mary; to each is attached a label bearing the name of the person and the date of the cure. These paintings were left untouched at the Revolution, though the venerable guardians of this sanctuary were driven from their cherished solitude; and the sacred vestments, the holy vessels, the silver lamps, the jewels, and other _ex-voto_ of all kinds, which had been offered the Virgin in gratitude for grace received, were carried away; the fine statues of the twelve Apostles were destined to the flames, but were rescued by the people of Monléon, whose church they now adorn.

From the vestibule we passed into the nave. One feels an inexpressible emotion of piety and devotion on entering this beautiful church. {648} I went immediately to the grand altar to pay my devotions to our Lady of Garaison, while the servant took my letter of introduction to M. le Supérieur, who was fortunately at liberty. I found him a tall, fine-looking gentleman, instead of a hoary old hermit, and as polite as a Parisian. He wore a flowing _soutane_, confined at the waist by a fringed girdle, and on his head was a sort of skull-cap, such as the priests wear in that country--I imagine, to protect their tonsured heads from the cold. He conducted me over the whole establishment. In his room I saw the skull of the shepherdess to whom the Virgin appeared. She died a nun, and more than a century old. After her death, her body was given to the chapel, which had been erected during her life, and to which she had been permitted to resort from time to time. The fountain is under the grand altar; but the water is conducted into a basin in a vault to the east of the chapel. Every one says the waters still perform wonderful cures. The superior said it was not owing to any mineral qualities; and as I was not able to analyze them, I contented myself with drinking quite freely of them, bathing therein my forehead, and inwardly praying God to heal every infirmity of body and soul. On the basin is a bas-relief representing the Virgin's appearing to the shepherdess.

The arches and walls of the sacristy are covered with the frescoes of a by-gone age, but which have not lost their brilliancy of color. They represent the descent of the Holy Ghost upon the Apostles; angels bearing to our Saviour the instruments of the Passion, etc.

Over the grand altar of the church, in a niche, is a statue of Notre Dame de Garaison, the mother of sorrows, holding in her arms the inanimate body of her divine Son. There are four small chapels, two on each side, separated by walls which advance to the principal nave, and are there converted into pilasters to support the vault. In them are some oil paintings, two of which are very fine, the angel guardian and a Madonna. The niches, which were robbed in 1789, have been newly furnished with gilded statues of the twelve Apostles, large as life, and bearing the instruments of their martyrdom; and one of our Saviour in the midst. On the vault are painted the patriarchs and prophets of the old law. These gilded statues and altars give a most brilliant appearance to the lightly vaulted Gothic chapel.

In the south court is a fountain. Mary stands with her divine babe in her arms, sculptured in white marble. The water spouts out at her feet through four small masks, and falls into a basin of pure white marble, whence it flows into another still larger. The statue has been a little injured by exposure to the weather; but still it reminds one that Mary is the channel through which the grace of God comes to us--that through her flow the waters of benediction and of grace upon man!

The refectory is vaulted and paved. In it is a whispering gallery, common in the monasteries of the middle ages, so one could communicate from one corner to the other opposite in the lowest tone. I am sure the knight of the couchant leopard was no more surprised or awed by the midnight procession he witnessed in the little chapel of Engaddi, than was I at a late hour in the evening, when, while I was still rapt in prayer, and quite unconscious of what was going on around me in this still mountain chapel, I found the altar suddenly illuminated, and a door opened to a long procession of white-robed priests and about a hundred young men:

"Taper and Host and Book they bare, And holy banner flourished fair With the Redeemer's name.

{649}

They passed around the chapel, chanting _Tantum Ergo_, and then returned to the altar to give the benediction of the Blessed Sacrament. The richly gilded chapel was radiant with reflected light, and the strains of _O salutaris Hostia!_ seemed to float upward in celestial tones, as they issued from lips purified by solitude and prayer. I never felt more devotion at this solemn rite than there, in the shadow of the Pyrenees. I forgot my fatigue, and yielded to heartfelt emotion. Exiled from my native land, to which I might never return, and among those who were almost entire strangers to me, I felt myself folded to the bosom of divine Providence, and that the All-Father would have me consider every part of his world as my home, and all those souls, which he has breathed into human forms, as my brethren and sisters.

It was a late hour when I fell asleep on my hard bed at the Hotel de la Paix. Coldly looking down upon me from a rude frame was, for my guardian saint, a picture of _Napoleon le Grand;_ but, though he had routed many a formidable host, he did not put to flight a single sweet fancy or holy thought that thronged my brains, waking or sleeping.

At an early hour I was again before the altar of Our Lady. Priests were celebrating the holy mysteries at every altar when I entered the chapel. At seven o'clock, M. le Supérieur offered the Holy Sacrifice for my intentions, at which I communicated. ...

My devotions ended, I rambled around the garden and through the cloisters, drank again from the fountain, and then prepared for my departure. I had gone to Garaison with a deeper intent, more serious purpose, than is my intention to unveil here. I bore in my heart a burden--a burden common to humanity--which I laid down at the feet of Mary, thinking, as I did so:

"Oh! might a voice, a whisper low, Forth from those lips of beauty flow! Couldst thou but speak of all the tears, The conflicts, and the pangs of years, Which at thy secret shrine revealed Have gushed from human hearts unsealed!"

I left that chapel in the strong embrace of the everlasting hills, and with sunlight flooding its walls like a glory. Turning to give it a last look, at the last turn in the valley, it seemed like a lily rising up in the green meadows--fit type of her to whom it is dedicated.

Since that time I have visited many a shrine of _la belle France_, but I turn to none with a more grateful heart than NOTRE DAME DE GARAISON.

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Count Ladislas Zamoyski.

Translated From The French Of Ch. De Montalembert.

The nineteenth century, which is already drawing to a close, will in the course of its history present nothing more grand, more touching, more deeply impressed with the stamp of moral beauty, than Poland--vanquished, proscribed, abandoned by the world.

This nation in mourning and in blood, which yet will not die--this race of indomitable men and women, which survives all tortures, all treasons, and all catastrophes, what a spectacle and a lesson does it present! Its existence is at once a defiance and an appeal: a defiance to adverse fortune, and an appeal to what seems the too tardy justice of an avenging God. Abandoned and calumniated by successful iniquity, by selfish opulence, by the ever-ready worshippers of success, a sight intolerable to their conquerors, and a reproach to the powerful of the world--there they abide, like Mardochai before Aman, firmly resolved to forget not, to despair not, nor to capitulate; incomparable types of suffering, of sacrifice, of unwearying patience, of lofty patriotism; invincible martyrs and confessors, not only of faith, but of right, of country, and of liberty!

In the centre of this group of proscribed and oppressed, like some great oak struck by lightning in the midst of a burning forest, stands out in bold relief the noble figure of Count Ladislas Zamoyski.

Ere yet the waves of forgetfulness and indifference have effaced his noble memory, let us endeavor to recall and rescue from oblivion some traits of an existence which, by every title, belonged to ourselves; for in France he was born, (during a journey of his parents there,) and in France he died, [Footnote 188] having passed here the greater part of the thirty-seven years which he spent in exile, without having at any time returned to his true country.

[Footnote 188: January 11th, 1868.]

Here it would seem appropriate to speak of the ancestors of the illustrious dead. But how can we fitly portray to this generation the splendor and power of those ancient houses of Poland and Lithuania, whose immense possessions, countless adherents, and extent of influence find no parallel in our own country, even at the most aristocratic periods of its history? It was a Zamoyski who headed the embassy which came to offer the crown of Poland to a brother of Charles IX.; [Footnote 189] and some one of this race is ever to be found dominant in their country's annals. They may have had equals, but I know that in their native land none ever assumed to be their superiors.

[Footnote 189: For an account of this embassy, see the excellent work of the Marquis de Noailles, _Henri de Valois et la Pologne in 1572_.]

Nothing is more _a propos_ to our immediate subject than the legend of their device and bearings. A King of Poland, whose people had some cause for discontent, being engaged in a conflict with the Teutonic chevaliers, saw on the field of battle a Zamoyski dying, his breast pierced with three lances. The king approached to aid and comfort him. "_To mnicy [Transcriber's note: blurred.] boli!_" exclaimed the dying hero. "_It is not that which pains me!_" or in other words, "_A wound does less harm than a bad prince or a bad neighbor_."

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These three words and three lances have ever since been the armorial bearings of the Zamoyski family. Reflecting upon them, we find in them a singular appropriateness to that one of the line whom we have best known; that illustrious and wounded hero whom we have had so long before our eyes with the deadly steel in his heart, and on his lips a word of proud resignation or intrepid disdain.

Fortunate are those great races who, before they are submerged by the rising tide of equality and modern uniformity, can give forth one last flash of glory, and furnish to the historian some great heart enthusiastic for a good cause and a noble faith; some vigorous lover of right and duty, capable of signalizing himself by a generous death, like our own Duke de Luynes, or by an entire life of devotion and sacrifice, like Count Ladislas Zamoyski. For reason as we will, so long as men are men, they will be always and everywhere moved by a something--I know not what--a kind of realization of completeness, which nobility of birth imparts to great virtues or great misfortunes.

Ladislas Zamoyski, in his 28th year, was an officer of the lancers in the Polish army, and aide-de-camp to the Grand Duke Constantine; he was desirous above all things to serve his country as a soldier and a citizen, when the military insurrection of Warsaw broke out, at the end of November, 1830.

It was, as has often been repeated, the advance-guard of the Russian army, directed against the France of July, which turned back against the main body. Although the count had taken no part in the insurrection, the high rank of his family and the precocious maturity of his mind enabled him to profit by the

## particular position which he held near the prince, whose

arbitrary and unwise acts had contributed more than anything else to provoke the revolt. He obtained from the brother of the emperor the order which separated the Polish troops from the Russian, and gave a sort of method to the military movement, which soon expanded into a national revolution. Believing himself freed now from all allegiance to the grand duke, the young count took part in all the exploits of the campaign of 1831--a campaign which has left imperishable recollections in the minds of all who were living at that time.

For ten months all Europe stood breathless, gazing with deep and varied emotions on those fearful turns of fortune. Every incident produced vehement agitations at the French tribune, in the streets of Paris, and even in the reviews held by the French king. There was something both of heroic and legendary interest in this conflict, so disproportioned yet so prolonged, between a handful of brave men on the one side, and the colossal resources of Russia on the other--a conflict where the veteran comrades of Dombrowski and Poniatowski were led on by youths inflamed with holy zeal for their country's liberty, where the first place was so long held by the Generalissimo Skrzynecki, true paladin of the middle ages, who always put in the orders of the day for his army prayers to the Holy Virgin as Queen of Poland, and who, brave in the field and devout at the altar, was so pre-eminently hero, Christian, and Catholic. I know not how upon this point the young Poles of our own day stand; but I know they would be faithless to the most noble examples of the heroes of 1831 if they should suffer themselves to be enervated by religious indifference, or, sadder still, should they ever trail through the depths of atheism and modern materialism that banner which their ancestors never separated from the cross of Jesus Christ.

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When, finally, the countless masses which Russia threw upon Poland had dislodged the insurgents from all their positions; when the attempts at intervention made by the French government were rendered nugatory by the icy and cynical indifference of Lord Palmerston; [Footnote 190] when Europe resigned herself to be a tranquil spectator at the sacrifice of a nation, Ladislas Zamoyski, firm to the end, in the front rank of combatants, holding then the grade of colonel, laid down his arms with the last division of the Polish army, that of Ramorino, defeated in Gallicia. He crossed then the frontiers of that country which he was destined never more to see, and came, wounded and suffering, but not less resolute than in the first days of his manhood, to put himself at the disposal of his uncle, Prince Adam Czartoryski, the venerable chief of the Polish emigration, as he had been president of their national government.

[Footnote 190: See the correspondence between Prince Talleyrand and Lord Palmerston on the Polish question, July, 1831, in the documents submitted to the English parliament by order of the Queen, in 1861.]

It was then that we saw him for the first time among us. Young, tall, commanding, active, and untiring, he carried in his deportment and in those glorious wounds the credentials of his mission. Always occupied with the cause of his country, but with a serenity and stability far beyond his years, he attracted to himself all attention. A solitary and embarrassed wanderer in a world which was so soon to grow heartlessly indifferent to Poland, he entered calmly and resolutely upon that obscure, laborious, and uncongenial path which honor and duty had traced for him.

I must be permitted here a just homage to that first Polish emigration of 1831, which, preceded by the members of the national government, by the Count Platen and General Kniacewicz, and grouped about Prince Czartoryski, the Generals Dembinski, Dwernicki, Rybinski, and the former ministers, Malachowski and Morawski, have given us, for nearly forty years, such noble examples of fortitude and devotedness, of modest dignity and magnanimous resignation. How many of these yet remain to whom I can address this last testimony of an admiration which I shall always account among the most salutary and most lasting emotions of my life? I owe to them a great good--the power to know and to comprehend the grandeur and beauty of a vanquished cause!

Forced by circumstances to immolate everything in the worship of their assassinated country, not one hesitated before this stern requisition. Rich and poor, old and young, citizens and soldiers, all were called on for sacrifices painful and unexpected, and none shrank back; indeed, to many the privations they were obliged to endure formed a strange contrast to their previous habits of prodigality and almost oriental luxury. Ladislas Zamoyski was conspicuous in this career, so new to himself and his comrades. The subsidies which his friends forced him to accept were invariably reserved for some general object, or divided among his less fortunate companions, saying: "_I learn every day to do without something._" One thing only did he guard carefully--his _beloved sword_, as, with juvenile _naïveté_, he was accustomed to call it, in the warm hope and belief that it might yet serve his country.

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The French refugees, whom the Edict of Nantes expelled from their homes, represented liberty of conscience odiously persecuted, and by this title they won the active sympathies of all the Protestant nations. The Irish emigrants, who, about the same time, were the victims of an intolerance as bitter and inconsistent in Protestant England, found in France and Spain places freely opened to them, and which they honorably filled. The French emigration of 1792 represented not only loyalty to a monarchy, but an entire social order, whose end no one believed so near--an order which still reigned in nearly the whole of Europe; to this they owed, at least during the first years of their exile, the aid and support of all the powers affected or threatened by the Revolution. It was quite otherwise with the Polish emigration of 1831, which, nevertheless, personified, at one and the same time, liberty both political and religious, and, more than all, a grand people, erased, by injustice, by a crime without a parallel, from the list of nations, and unanimous in protesting against that decree. They received from perplexed and divided Europe not one of those consolations and encouragements which it was their right to expect.

France and England had generous alms to solace needs purely material, but nothing more. Ruled by a double fear--that of the Muscovite preponderance from without, and that of dangers from demagogues within--no statesman, even the most liberal, was able or willing to espouse the Polish cause. It was a sadder thing still that a misapprehension prevented their receiving a sympathy which otherwise would have been first offered. Beyond the little circle of liberal, free-hearted Catholics--a circle then very limited--the Polish refugees, victims of the most bitter persecutor of the church in the nineteenth century, met no response from the religious world. It was a time when Catholic Europe, monarchical and aristocratic, was miserably prostrate before the Austria of Prince Metternich and the Russia of the Emperor Nicholas. Consequently, at Paris, and, above all, at Rome, there was to be caught not one glimpse of salvation. There existed among the defenders of the throne and the altar an animosity to the Poles truly revolting, unjustifiable traces of which even yet remain. It was the heaviest cross, for a multitude of Christian souls, which the Polish emigration hid in its bosom. I have the right to speak of it, for no one, perhaps, on this subject, has received more mournful confidences, and no one, I venture to believe, has done more to induce among Catholics a happy change--a change commencing with the good and fatherly Pope Gregory XVI., and precisely on occasion of Count Ladislas Zamoyski, whom he was pleased, at my request, to encourage to visit him in Rome. [Footnote 191]

[Footnote 191: Until 1837, no Pole was allowed to enter Rome, without a passport visé by Austria, Prussia, or Russia; consequently, this excluded the exiles of 1830.]

But how time and efforts must fail in making reparation for this strange misunderstanding! and how much it must have aggravated the sorrows inseparable from prolonged exile--those sorrows which every noble heart must comprehend, even without having experienced them, and which inspired, in a sad, gifted soul, the last ray of its genius!

"He passed, a wanderer on earth. May God guide the poor exile! I move among the crowd; they gaze at me, and I at them, yet each to each is unknown. The exile is alone everywhere," [Footnote 192]

[Footnote 192: _Paroles d'un Croyant_. 1833.]

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Count Zamoyski, always sincerely attached to the faith of his fathers, even before the death of a beloved mother had developed in him a fervent piety, lived long enough to witness this happy change in Catholic opinion. He had the consolation of seeing the entire church moved, at the voice of its chief, by the incomparable sufferings of Poland. In France, at least, every Catholic worthy the name addressed prayers without ceasing to the divine mercy, that the country of St. Hedwige and Sobieski might one day resume her place, free among the nations. This harmony between the irrepressible aspirations of his patriotism and the daily increasing fervor of his religious sentiments threw over the last years of his life a warm and consoling light.

But before arriving in port, how stormy the voyage! Bound by soul yet more than by the ties of blood to his uncle, Prince Adam Czartoryski, he had been twenty-five years his lieutenant, his coadjutor, and the sharer of his fortunes; like him, too, encountering continually repulse, deception, and injustice, without being embittered or discouraged.

Belgium, always hospitable, took full possession of her nationality in the same year, 1831, when Poland seemed to have lost hers. She immediately opened the ranks of her army to Count Ladislas, with the grade of colonel, a position he had won on the bloody banks of the Vistula.

For fifteen years [Footnote 193] he watched in vain for an opportunity to once more draw his sword in behalf of his own land, or for some cause which might even indirectly serve her interests.

[Footnote 193: From 1832 to 1847.]

He was obliged to content himself with employing his intercourse with the political men of the two great constitutional countries, to secure to the Polish question, in the order of the day, some parliamentary discussion or some diplomatic bias, and to obtain from the French chambers and the English parliament those periodical demonstrations which seemed to him so many protestations of right against the most odious of political crimes; so many guarantees against a proscription which the sad destinies of men too often drew down on them, to the profit and encouragement of injustice.

At length, in 1846, he thought he saw the dawn of better days. In the short counterfeit alliance between Pius IX. and Italian liberty, he hastened, with sixty other Polish officers, to offer their devotedness and military experience to the new pontiff, whom all believed menaced by Austria even more than by the Revolution. From thence he passed as a volunteer into the army of Charles Albert, and shared, by the side of that noble and unfortunate sovereign, in all the vicissitudes of the struggle between Piedmont and Austria. Austria, we must remember, at the time we speak of, was not the liberal Austria of the present day; and no Pole could look on this empire as aught save the author and accomplice of the calamities of his country. Piedmont being defeated and restricted to its ancient limits, it was to Hungary that Count Zamoyski next turned his steps. Hungary was then in a state of insurrection against Austria, but was also a victim herself to an insurrection of her Sclavic population, unwisely irritated. To gain from Hungary a recognition of the rights of these people--rights so misunderstood or ignored by the rest of Europe--was the mission of Count Zamoyski, and for which he was willing to confront new perils. The Russians, however, soon arrived, and, combining their armies with those of Austria and with the revolted Croats, Hungary was soon crushed. {655} After the decisive defeat of Teneswar, the remnants of the Polish legion passed into Servia, and from thence to Turkey.

For two years he occupied himself here in disciplining those indomitable spirits for future contests; for to the honor of the Ottoman Porte be it recorded that it refused the demands of the Russian and Austrian governments for the extradition of the Polish and Hungarian refugees.

During a short revisit which he made to France, the Eastern question arose, and he immediately returned to Turkey. He took part, with the rank of general, in the campaign on the banks of the Danube, and through the entire Crimean war devoted his strength, his rare intelligence, his military experience, to forming regiments of Polish Cossacks, ostensibly for the service of the sultan, but indulging in the hope of seeing them ultimately admitted to the ranks of the allies.

In January, 1856, the preliminaries of the Peace of Paris came to dash aside once more his patriotic day-dreams, and to destroy every chance of resuscitation which had seemed offered to Poland in this rupture, so pompous but so fruitless, between France and England and Russia.

No adequate reason has yet been given for that blind delusion which prevented the powerful allies, in 1855, or Napoleon I., in 1812, from using against Russia the only power which she could not control, to recall Poland to that national existence which was her sacred right; and which, at the same time, was the only efficient guarantee for the independence and security of Europe.

Made desperate by this thwarted expectation, Poland suffered herself, in 1863, to be drawn into that strenuous but unfortunate effort whose miserable consequences are in the memories of all. Count Zamoyski, now suffering with age and infirmities, made one last attempt to prevail on England to unite in some kind of

## action with France, and not to stand by in silence at those

massacres and outrages which Russia perpetrated with such impunity, a mockery to the civilization of the nineteenth century. He failed, and this was his last attempt.

He died, leaving Europe more than ever exposed to perils he had warned her against, more than ever recklessly serving the Muscovite power.

He died, seeing Russia supremely powerful in the East, and free to put the seal on all the bloody hypocrisies of her history: _here_, making the world resound with her solicitude for the civil and religious liberty of the Cretans, while she crushed out with her unholy foot the last palpitations of Polish freedom, and extirpated, with infernal perfidy, the last vestiges of Polish Catholic faith: _there_, instigating against regenerated Austria a formidable conspiracy of her Sclavic subjects, while the highways and mines of Siberia are strewn with the skeletons of heroic Poles, whose only crime was to spurn the yoke of those Russians who are a hundred-fold less truly Sclavic than their victims.

The history of Count Ladislas Zamoyski is, then, a sad one; it is the story of a life-long shipwreck.

All his designs were frustrated, all his hopes deceived. Always hastening from disappointment to disappointment, from defeat to defeat, he wearied never, paused never, was successful never.

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Deeming no sacrifice too great, and no detail too minute for the service of his country, he was prompt to avail himself of any circumstance or encounter any new risk which might gain for her a friend, remove an error, or stimulate in her behalf the indifferent. Self-armed against disasters, he raised himself from each defeat with the tenacity of an old Roman on the battle-field, where he had been once overthrown, to fall again, wounded and crushed down by an implacable adversity.

It would seem as if so many trials, mental and material, public and private, might suffice to fill that measure of suffering which is the lot of all below. But no! he had still to endure those which would appear more fittingly the portion of the idle and prosperous.

Crippled with wounds and infirmities, the last ten years of his life were passed in physical sufferings which made them one prolonged torture. He endured, during all this time, the prolonged weariness, the distastes, the feebleness of failing health; and he supported them with the same imperturbable patience, the same tranquil and unconquerable courage, which had sustained him through the sad vicissitudes of his public life.

How great the virtue, crowned by those great sufferings! There is in it a grand and mysterious lesson, and one, above all, which God seems to have designed for our instruction and edification; for his character more than his career at all times raised him far above the mass of human kind. No one could approach him without feeling a profound respect before a strength of mind so determined, a patience which never failed; before that singular union of bravery and gentleness, that generous sense of honor, that equanimity, that integrity. Rich in the domestic happiness which Providence accorded to his declining years, he was content to live, content to suffer; yet appreciating any relief, and humbly thankful for those rare moments of respite which were permitted to his numerous infirmities. Without disavowing the aspirations of his youth, he had purified and transformed them in the crucible of self-denial and sacrifice. What remained to him of generous pride was so tempered that the most exacting could not have reproached him. His Christian fervor brightened as the chills of age encircled him; and the destinies and well-being of the church inspired him no less than those of his country.

He gave a proof of this devotion in the past summer, (1867,) when, so broken in health, he went to Rome to lay at the feet of Pius IX. a last homage. In the midst of those _fètes_ of the Centenary of St. Peter, where were gathered the bishops and the faithful of the entire world, except those bound fast and gagged by the Muscovite autocrat, Ladislas Zamoyski appeared, like the living spectre of absent, enchained Poland.

Nor was it only faith: it was still more--charity--which animated this soul, so Christian and chivalrous. How can we depict that compassion and generosity, so irrepressible, toward his destitute compatriots! or how sufficiently admire that charity of forgiveness to his enemies--the pitiless enemies of his nation! Never one word of bitterness crossed his lips.

"What is to be thought of the Russians?" said a friend to him, one day, "and how far are they implicated with the emperor?"

"I never judge them," he replied: "I pray for them."

For us, who are not bound to exercise such superhuman moderation, who are witnesses and not victims of these atrocities, we raise beside the tomb of this just man a cry of grief and indignant surprise.

"_Usquequo, Domine sanctus et verus, non judicas et non vindicas, sanguinem nostrum de iis qui habitant in terrâ?_"

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How long, O Lord! shall crime and falsehood triumph? How long wilt thou leave unpunished this martyrdom of a Christian nation, which will soon have lasted an entire century?

But all rebellious thoughts against the tardiness of divine justice are checked, all the poignancy of sorrow is subdued, by the remembrance alone of the departed dead. He is gone! His long and cruel trials are over! He has entered into light and peace! He lives in the bosom of his God, and his memory will be for ever cherished among men, with the annals of his illustrious house and of his unfortunate country. He leaves behind a name which will be a crown of glory to his children, born in the land of exile where he died, and rocked in their frail cradle on a stormy sea. He leaves a sacred grief, which is a treasure to her alone, to the youthful and admirable woman who gave herself to him in his darkest hour; the intrepid sharer in his vicissitudes and perils, the loving and faithful consoler of his sufferings and decline, and who enjoyed a happiness with him in this world which is to be interrupted only for a few brief days.

Finally, he leaves a great and profitable example to all who have known and loved him; above all, to those who, subjected to slighter trials, submit to them with less patience and less courage.

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The Catholic Church And The Bible.

_Does the Catholic Church condemn the Bible and forbid her people to circulate and read it?_

We answer: NO! On the contrary, the Catholic Church believes the Bible to be the inspired word of God himself, and constantly incites her people to its diligent perusal. In testimony of which, we offer: first, her official declarations; and second, her unvarying practice.

First, her official declarations.

The holy Council of Trent, which closed its sessions in the year 1564, and whose canons and decrees are the voice of the universal church, binding upon every Catholic under pain of sin, distinctly says:

"The Holy OEcumenical and General Council of Trent, ... following the example of the orthodox fathers, does with due veneration and piety receive all the books of the Old and the New Testament, of both which God himself is the immediate author. ... And, lest any doubt should exist as to what books this council has thus received, a catalogue of the same is annexed to this decree. (Here follows a list of the sacred books, as found in. English Catholic Bibles.) Now, if any one shall refuse to receive these books entire, with all their parts, according as they are accustomed to be read in the Catholic Church and are contained in the ancient Latin Vulgate edition, as sacred and canonical, ... let him be anathema." [Footnote 194]

[Footnote 194: _Can. et Dec. Conc. Trid._ Sess. iv.]

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Again, the Pope, who, as the head and mouth-piece of the Catholic Church, administers its discipline and issues orders to which every Catholic, under pain of sin, must yield obedience, has positively declared, "that the faithful should be excited to the reading of the Holy Scriptures: for these are the most abundant sources which ought to be left open to every one, to draw from them purity of morals and of doctrine;" which declaration may be found in the preface to the English Catholic Bibles now in use.

Second, her unvarying practice.

The Catholic Church, from the beginning, has provided effectual means, not only for the distribution of the Bible among her people, but also for their knowledge of the truths which it contains. One of her holy orders is that of _Reader_, "whose duty," as her catechism says, "is to read the Sacred Scriptures to the people in a clear and distinct voice, and to instruct them in the rudiments of faith." [Footnote 195]

[Footnote 195: _Catechism. Cone. Trid._ pars. ii. De Ordin.]

Again, from the beginning, it has been made the daily duty of her priests and religious persons to recite "the divine office," which consists of psalms, of readings from the Bible, and of prayers. The new revision of this office made by Gregory VII., in which its different parts were first collected into one volume, became known as the "Breviary," and is still so called. From this was translated and compiled, in great part, the "Daily Morning and Evening Prayer" of the Protestant Episcopal Church, the epistles, gospels, lessons, and psalms of which, thus borrowed, present, as is well known, so large a portion of the Holy Scriptures. Indeed, the Breviary is but the Bible, in a form adapted to devotional uses, and illustrated with pious meditations and devout prayers. Before us lies a copy, published in the year 1632, during the Huguenotic wars and persecutions. It bears the official order of the great Richelieu; and, as we turn over its leaves, we find that a large part of the whole Bible is embraced within its pages, and we perceive that as long as this

## book can be found in the hands of all her clergy, and is

accessible to every one who seeks it, so long, within the borders of the Catholic Church at least, the Holy Scriptures will be widely circulated and intimately known.

Again, in every age, the most eminent and pious of the pastors and scholars of the Catholic Church have devoted their lives to the study and explanation of the Bible. The sermons of the first eight centuries were principally oral commentaries on the sacred text. The great libraries of valuable Christian works, which have come down to us from the primitive church, are made up of volumes directly based on Holy Scripture. Their writers are well known as men of great intellect, of unwearied zeal, of deep and humble piety. Look at this list of some of them: In the second century, Pantaenus, Clement of Alexandria, and Origen; in the third century, Pierius, Pamphilus, Hesychius, and Eusebius; in the fourth century, Hilary, Ambrose, Jerome, Augustin, Chrysostom, and Ephrem; in the fifth century, Cyril, Theodoret, and Isidore of Pelusium; in the sixth century, Gregory the Great, Cassiodorus, Procopius, and Primasius; in the seventh century, Maximus, Isidore of Seville, Julian of Toledo, and John Damascene; in the eighth century, Venerable Bede, Alcuin, and Rabanus Maurus; in the ninth century, Christian Druthmar, Walafridus Strabo, Remigius of Auxerre, and Sedulius; in the tenth century, OEcumenius and Olympiodorus; in the eleventh century, Nicetas, Lanfranc, and Theophylact; in the twelfth century, Euthymius, Anselm, and Rupert; in the thirteenth century, the great Thomas Aquinas and Hugo de Sancto Caro; in the fourteenth century, Nicholas de Lyra, Paul of Burgos, and Gerson; in the fifteenth century, Laurentius Valla, Tostatus, Denis the Carthusian, Marsilius, and Le Fèvre: in the sixteenth century, Cornelius à Lapide, Maldonatus, and Jansen of Ghent; in the seventeenth century, Natalis Alexander and John Baptist du Hamel; in the eighteenth century, the learned Calmet, of whose work the famous Dr. Adam Clarke has written: "This is, without exception, the best comment on the sacred writings ever published, either by Catholics or Protestants." [Footnote 196]

[Footnote 196: Horne's _Introduction_. Vol. ii. part. iii. chap. V. sec. iii. § 3, Am. ed. 1836.]

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Certainly, no age, illuminated with such lights as these, deserves to be called "_dark;_" no people, taught by such teachers, could ever have been ignorant. And when we remember that, as an eminent Protestant clergyman has said, "the writings of the dark ages are made of the Scriptures;" not merely, "that the writers constantly quoted the Scriptures, and appealed to them as authority on all occasions, but that they thought and spoke and wrote the thoughts and words and phrases of the Bible, and that they did this constantly as the natural mode of expressing themselves," (_The Dark Ages._ By Rev, S. R. Maidand, D.D. London, 1853;) and remember, further, that this could not be so, unless the people who wrote and those who read alike had free access to Holy Scripture both possessing the books and being permitted to circulate and use them, we shall be far enough from believing that in the Catholic Church the Bible has ever been "_a hidden book,_" or that the doors of its rich treasure-house were ever closed to men.

Again, the efforts of the Catholic Church to preserve and perpetuate the Bible have been unceasing. As early as the fourth century, by the direction of Pope Damasus, St. Jerome entered on the work of preparing a full and perfect copy of the Scriptures. He devoted twelve years to the study of the Hebrew, Syriac, and other oriental languages. He collected at Jerusalem and in the East all the most accurate versions, both of the Old and New Testaments. From these, revised, compared, and corrected with each other, he prepared that Latin version which is commonly called the "Vulgate," and which, as all biblical critics allow, is the most perfect and complete copy of the Bible which now exists. During the period between the fourth and sixteenth centuries, every great monastery (and Europe was full of them) had its "scriptorium," or writing-chamber, in which copies of the Scriptures were constantly produced. Of the 1400 manuscripts of the New Testament which are now extant, not one was written earlier than the fourth century, or by other than Catholic hands; and Protestants themselves have no higher origin for their Scriptures than these Catholic copies, and no surer ground of reliance on their accuracy than the fidelity and learning of Catholic scholars. How easy, if the Catholic Church condemned the Bible, would it have been to neglect this multiplication of the sacred books, and to silently destroy existing copies! Yet those who depend altogether on her labors for their boasted Scripture, have said, and still will say, that she fears the Bible and would gladly banish it from men. But when the age of printing came, her efforts were redoubled. {660} According to the popular idea, translations of the Scripture into the vulgar tongues were never made before the Reformation, or even till long after it, by Catholics. Nothing could be more false. The Bible, either wholly or in part, had been translated and published in no less than _seven_ of the common languages of Europe, before Luther and his Reform were ever dreamed of. In the year 1466 a translation into German was printed, copies of which still exist. This translation passed through _sixteen_ different editions at Strasburg, Nuremberg, and Augsburg, in the course of a few years, and was followed by another translation, of which _three_ editions were published at Wittemberg in 1470, 1483, and 1490; _two_ at Cologne in 1470 and 1480; _one_ at Lubeck in 1494; _one_ at Haberstadt in 1522; and _one_ each at Mayence, at Strasburg, and at Basle, in 1517. Luther first published his translation in 1530, nine years after the Diet at Worms and twelve years after he had turned Reformer. Before his time, therefore, there were no less than _twenty-seven_ different editions of the Bible in the German language in circulation among the people, besides almost innumerable editions in Latin, a tongue with which the clergy and the learned of that age were well acquainted. In the year 1471 a translation of the Bible into Italian was printed both at Rome and Venice, and passed through _thirteen_ different editions before the year 1525. Two different translations into French were also published; one in 1478, which was printed in _seventeen_ successive editions before 1546; and the other in 1512, which also passed through many editions. In 1478 a translation into Spanish was published, which was reprinted in 1515 _with the express sanction of the Spanish Inquisition._ In 1475, a translation into Flemish was published at Cologne, of which _seven_ new editions were printed before 1530. In 1488, the Bible, in the Bohemian language, was printed at Prague, and again produced at Cutna in 1498, and at Venice in 1506 and 1511. An edition in Sclavonian was also published at Cracow in the first part of the same century. Add to these the different versions made in the "dark ages," and you have no less than _twenty-two_ translations and _seventy_ printed editions of the Holy Scriptures in the vulgar tongues of England, Germany, France, Spain, Italy, and Sweden, prepared by the Catholic pastors and scholars of Europe, and distributed among their people, before Luther and his Bible were ever heard of. When Protestant historians relate that this renowned Reformer never saw a Bible till he was twenty years of age, and had been a student at the university upward of two years, and depict his wonder and delight at its discovery, (_Hist. Ref. D'Aubigné_, vol. i. p. 131,) we hardly know whether to condemn the ignorance of the Reformer or the dishonesty of the historian, one of which must be true. Circumstances certainly seem to cast the odium of falsehood on the latter, rather than that of unparalleled stupidity upon the former.

After the Reformation began, the Catholic Church applied herself to preserve and perpetuate the Scriptures with the same diligence and zeal as of old. A new translation into German appeared in 1534, and passed through _twenty_ different editions within the century. Another was printed in 1537, and also passed through several editions. Still another was published in 1630, and during the past fifty years there have been several others. Between the years 1525 and 1567, _eight_ different editions of the Italian translation of 1471 were printed, with the formal permission of the Holy Office at Rome. {661} Another translation appeared in 1532, which passed through _ten_ editions within twenty years. Another still was published in 1538, 1546, and 1547, and more recently there have been several others; the principal of which is that of Antony Martini, which in 1778 received the written endorsement and recommendation of Pope Pius VI. _Thirty-nine_ different editions of the French translation of Le Fèvre, as revised by the doctors of Louvain, were published between 1550 and the year 1700, since which latter date many new versions, and many reprints of former versions, have appeared in France; of one of which the great Bossuet is said to have distributed _fifty thousand_ copies with his own hands. In Spain, likewise, the Bible, and especially the New Testament, has been frequently reprinted. The most famous Spanish edition is the renowned Polyglot Bible of Cardinal Ximenes, in six folio volumes, published at Alcala in 1515. In the year 1582, the New Testament in English was issued from Rheims, and in 1609, the Old Testament, in the same language, was printed at Douay, the two together forming the Douay Bible, an edition which, if not the most elegant in phraseology, is still generally admitted by all critics to be more faithful and correct than any other version in the Anglo-Saxon tongue. This latter version has appeared in almost every form, from the largest and most ornate to the smallest and least expensive, and may be found in almost every Catholic family which possesses the ability to read it. Nearly the same may be said of all other versions in the common languages of the present age. They were intended not for the learned, but for the people. The encouragement which they received came from the people, not in opposition to, but in consequence of, the permission and recommendation of the pastors of the church: and it is simply incredible that all these different translations should have been made, and these numerous editions printed, unless the Bible had been freely read and freely circulated among the Catholic masses both of Europe and America.

So far, therefore, from ever hiding the Holy Scriptures, or even keeping them in the background, history proves, beyond the possibility of doubt or denial, that the Catholic Church has always occupied the foremost position in the preservation and diffusion of the written word of God; and that to her efforts, and to her efforts alone, is due not only the continued existence of the Bible itself, but also of those vast treasures of research and investigation which tend to throw light upon its meaning, and enforce its teachings on the hearts of those who read it; nay more, that Protestants themselves possess a Bible, only so far as the same church has bestowed it on them; and that their commentaries and expositions are but mere digests and abridgments of the laborious and extensive works of Catholic philosophers and theologians.

How, then, when the Council of Trent--which is the unerring voice of the universal church--when the Pope, who is the head and ruler of the faithful--when the unvarying practice of all ages of Catholics throughout the world--proclaims that the Catholic Church believes the Bible to be the inspired word of God, and one of the great means for the enlightenment and instruction of mankind--how, then, can Protestants ask whether the Catholic Church condemns the Bible, and forbids its members to circulate and read it? Does not all history answer them? {662} Do not thousands of sermons, homilies, and commentaries answer them? Do not hundreds of translations, scattered over all ages and all lands, answer them? Does not their own possession of the Bible at the present day, which they profess to prize so highly, and for which they are indebted to that same church, answer them? How, then, can they believe those slanders which have, for so many years, been uttered against the church of God in reference to the Scriptures? Above all, how can they _repeat_ them, after the often made and complete demonstration of their falsehood?

Still it is asked, _What, then, about these Bible burnings, this actual hinderance, in particular instances, to the use of the Bible? And why does not the Catholic Church join with the great Bible societies of the age in the diffusion of the Bible, or at least form societies of her own for the same purpose?_

These are important questions, and questions, too, which must be answered, if the preceding demonstration would have its full effect upon the mind; and for this reason we will now consider them.

What is the Bible? Very few Protestants ever seem to know, or at least to remember, what the Bible really is. Most of those whom we have met appear to regard it as a book, delivered in its present form directly by God to man. But this is not so. On the contrary, the Bible is a collection of different books, written at various periods during the space of more than fifteen hundred years. Some of them were originally in Hebrew, some in Chaldaic, some in Greek. They had no less than thirty-six different authors, most of whom were widely separated from each other either in place or time; and they were neither collected into one volume nor arranged in the shape of the present Bible, until many years after the establishment of the Christian church.

Now, it is evident that, when we say, "The Bible is inspired," "The Bible is the word of God," we mean just this, and nothing more, namely, that the original manuscript, which any one of these authors wrote with his own hand, exactly as dictated to him by the Holy Ghost, was inspired, and contained the revelation of God. When a copy of that original manuscript was made, the copy was not inspired. If it precisely corresponded with its original, it would give a perfectly correct idea of that original; if it differed from it, it would, so far, fail to give such idea; and would, to that extent, fail to be a sure guide to the knowledge of the written word of God. So with a translation; if it rendered the ideas contained in the original manuscript into another language so exactly that a reader of the translation would receive precisely the same impressions that were intended to be conveyed by the original--supposing them to be rightly understood by him--then would the translation, in its turn, make known the exact truth of God. But if there was in this the smallest deviation, and the ideas imparted by it were not precisely those imparted by the original, then it would not convey the word of God. And since not one of these original manuscripts is now preserved, it becomes evident that there is not an inspired book in existence; but, at the best, only copies and translations of books that were inspired, but have long ago been lost or destroyed.

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But even these copies which we now possess are not _first_ copies, made directly from the original manuscripts themselves. Moses wrote his five books of the Old Testament upward of three thousand years ago; and the oldest existing copy of them was made within the past nine hundred years. How many successive generations of copies, so to speak, filled up the intermediate two thousand years, no one can tell. The same is true, in their degree, of the remaining books; copy of these also being made from copy, and so on, until the art of printing was discovered. All of these copies, both of the Old and the New Testament, were made by hand, in rude characters, and with ruder implements, while languages were constantly changing, and different ideas were being conveyed to different generations by the same words and phrases. From these copies all of the modern translations have been made, and these translations are the "Bible," as commonly read and circulated among men.

Now, we ask in all candor, what certainty there is, on Protestant grounds, that any of these modern translations is the real word of God? To be such, the translation must be an infallible rendering from the copy; the copy must have been exactly like the preceding copy, and that, again, exactly like its predecessor, and so on back to the original inspired manuscript itself. And are Protestants so certain of this, that they have any right to feel sure that, when they open their Bible, the ideas which they receive are precisely those which God intended that the words of Moses, Samuel, Daniel, or the Evangelists should convey? And yet, unless they are sure of it, how can they really believe what they read in it, and stake the salvation of their souls on the correctness and fidelity of copies and translations, about which they can never, by any possible evidence short of a new revelation, become satisfied?

Our object is not, however, to destroy faith in the Bible as the word of God, (a truth which, on Catholic grounds, is thoroughly demonstrable,) although it is worth while to reflect on the difficulties which surround the attempt to make it the sole teacher of divine revelation; but to call to mind how important, how _absolutely necessary_, it is, that the Bible which we read should be a _true translation_ from a _correct copy_ of the original inspired book. And we think the reader will agree with us when we say, that the greatest care to secure correctness is none too great, and the most rigid exclusion of all erroneous, or even suspicious, copies and translations cannot be too rigid; but that, on the contrary, it is the duty of every Christian to obtain, and of the Christian church to provide, the very best and most perfect Bibles possible; and then to abandon and condemn all others.

And this is exactly what the Catholic Church has always done and is doing at this day. We have already mentioned the labors of St. Jerome. This holy man lived at an age when most of the old manuscripts were still existing, when those copies of the Old Testament which had been in use during the life of Christ had not all perished, and when the originals of the New Testament, or, at least, copies of them which had been made under apostolic supervision, were still attainable. All these, and many others--Hebrew, Syro-Chaldaic, Greek, Latin, and Syriac--he collected, and, having thoroughly compared them with each other, and restored the original text to its highest possible purity, he translated it into the Latin tongue, which was then, and probably always will be, the most definite and expressive of human languages. {664} This translation is called the "Vulgate." It is the most complete and accurate version of the Bible in existence, and the only one which was made from the originals, or first copies, of the New Testament, and from authoritative copies of the Old. Protestant critics have said of it: "The Vulgate may be reasonably pronounced, upon the whole, a good and faithful version." [Footnote 197] "It is allowed to be, in general, a faithful translation, and sometimes exhibits the sense of Scripture with greater accuracy than the more modern versions." [Footnote 198] "The Latin Vulgate preserves many true readings where the modern Hebrew copies are corrupted." [Footnote 199] "It is in general skilful and faithful, and often gives the sense of Scripture better than modern versions." [Footnote 200]

[Footnote 197: Campbell's _Dissertations on the Gospels._ Diss. X. part iii. § 10.]

[Footnote 198: Horne's _Int._ Vol. i. p. i. ch. iii. § iii. p. 277. Am. ed. 1836.]

[Footnote 199: _Ibid_.]

[Footnote 200: Gerard's _Institutes_. Chap. iv. sec. 4, p. 82. Am. ed. 1823.]

This most excellent Vulgate edition is the very one which the Catholic Church has sanctioned as the authorized text of Scripture. The Council of Trent decreed, "that the ancient and Vulgate edition ... should be deemed authentic in public readings, disputes, sermons, and expositions, and that no one should dare or presume, on any pretext, to reject it." [Footnote 201]

[Footnote 201: Sess. iv.]

Moreover, as the original manuscript of St. Jerome was no more imperishable than others which had gone before it, and as it could be perpetuated only in copies, the church has put forth every effort to secure these in abundance and perfection. They were all written in her own monasteries, under the very eyes of her priests and bishops. They have been subject to constant and thorough revision. When printing was invented, and Bibles began to multiply on every side, (some of them filled with dangerous errors and perversions,) she remedied this evil by stringent legislation. Thus, the same council says: "Desiring to impose some limit upon printers in this matter, who, ... without licenses from their ecclesiastical superiors, do print these books of Holy Scripture, ... this Holy Synod decrees and declares, that hereafter the Holy Scriptures, and especially the ancient and Vulgate edition, shall be printed with the utmost exactness; and that it shall be lawful for no one to print, or to have printed, any books concerning sacred things, ... unless they shall have been examined and approved by the ordinary. ... This approval shall be given in writing, and shall appear, either written or printed, authentically in the front of the book; and both the approval and the examination shall be made _gratis_, to the end that good things may be countenanced and evil things condemned." [Footnote 202]

[Footnote 202: Sess. iv.]

In this manner has the Catholic Church secured the preservation of the pure text of Scripture. Starting at an age when it was possible, if it ever was, to obtain an exact version of the word of God, she, by the hand of St. Jerome, prepared one which has stood the test of the most hostile criticism. Exercising over this her constant vigilance, she brought it down to the age of printing. Then, rigidly excluding all editions which could not undergo the most searching scrutiny, she openly endorses all those which are genuine and faithful, so that the Catholic reader of to-day, seeing in his Latin Bible the approval of his bishop, and knowing that no bishop could sanction any false version without being immediately discovered and punished, knows also that what he reads and studies is the Holy Scripture, as Moses and the prophets wrote it, as Christ and his apostles used it, and as the church of all ages has received it.

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Advancing one step further, the care of the church next manifests itself in the Bibles for the people. These are, of necessity, translations into the vulgar tongues. They are all made from the Vulgate by persons duly authorized for the purpose, and must also be certified as correct by ecclesiastical authority, before they can be printed, sold, or read. Take, for instance, the English translation, commonly called the Douay Bible. This version was prepared by some of the most eminent English scholars on the continent of Europe, who possessed a wide acquaintance with the Greek and Hebrew as well as with the Latin and more modern tongues. This version is admitted by all critics to be exact and literal, and to exhibit, as far as a translation can do so, the precise sense of the original text of Scripture. It has received the approbation of the Holy See and of innumerable bishops; and every new edition bears the official recommendation of the ecclesiastical superior, who vouches for its completeness and its purity. It is hardly possible that, with all these precautions, the Douay Bible should fail to be, in fidelity of rendering, the most perfect copy of the Scriptures that exists in the English tongue.

But the Catholic Church has not stopped even here. No one denies that in the Bible there are many passages difficult to understand, and that it is impossible for those who have no access to the original manuscript and no opportunities for critical research, to ascertain the true meaning of these passages without external aid. The object of commentaries and expositions is to supply this aid; but these have long ago grown so voluminous and costly as to be beyond the reach of ordinary men. And so, to meet this final difficulty, the church accompanies every translation into a vulgar tongue with proper notes and comments, prepared by competent and pious persons, for the illustration of the sacred text.

From this brief sketch of what the Catholic Church has done concerning the Bible, it will be perceived:

1. That the church possesses, in the Latin Vulgate, the earliest, purest, and most exact version of the Holy Scriptures which exists in the whole world;

2. That her translations of the Vulgate into the languages of the people present them with the purest and most exact version of the Bible which they can possibly obtain;

3. That by her notes and comments she affords to them freedom from serious error and mistake in their perusal of the sacred text.

Now, for a moment, let us turn to the Bibles which Protestantism offers, and inquire as to their reliability. The ordinary translations of Protestants are made from Greek and Hebrew manuscripts. These manuscripts, as we have seen, are copies, not originals, and, of course, are not inspired. They are, therefore, reliable so far as they present the exact ideas presented by their originals, and no further; and the fidelity with which they do this depends, in a great measure, upon their own antiquity and their nearness to the originals themselves. But not a manuscript of the Old Testament in Hebrew now exists which dates back further than the eleventh century. The oldest extant Greek manuscripts of the New Testament are not older than the fourth century; and these are confessedly imperfect, and, in some places, entirely wanting. {666} Out of these manuscripts and later ones, however, Protestant translators are first compelled to select a text which shall represent, as near as they can make it do so, the original Greek and Hebrew, and then, from this text make their translation.

To the first translation this work presented no small difficulties. They were unskilled in the languages in which these manuscripts were written. the manuscripts disagreed extensively among themselves, and many of them were without lines or punctuation marks, and in characters long fallen into disuse. It is not surprising, therefore, that the first Protestant versions were, both in the text and in the translation, exceedingly erroneous, and in some portions, utterly unreliable. Most of these difficulties have vanished with advancing years. Protestant scholars have become versed in Greek and Hebrew. They have learned to read with accuracy the ancient characters in which the manuscripts were written, and their extensive research among the various versions has done much to clear their text from ambiguity. But the fact still remains, that the best Greek or Hebrew text, which they can reach, is later by many centuries, and more fallible by numerous successive copyings, than those from which the Latin Vulgate was prepared; and, consequently, can bear no comparison in purity and genuineness with that which St. Jerome produced from the first copies, if not from the originals themselves, of the New Testament, and from versions of the Old, which Christ had sanctioned by his personal use. And it is this difference, between the sources of the text of Catholic and Protestant Bibles, which gives the Catholic version its deserved preeminence, and has won for it the encomiums to which we have referred.

Extending our view to the translations made and used by Protestants we perceive this difference still subsisting. Most of these were the result of private enterprise, and never have received the sanction of great ecclesiastical authority. Even the ordinary English, or "King James" version, (which is the one in common circulation in this country,) was a private venture of the king whose name it bears; and though indorsed by him as the head of the state church of England, it has never received the approval of any authority which can strictly be called ecclesiastical. The people who now use it have no other guarantee of its correctness than the fact that their fathers used it before them. They look in vain for any mark upon its pages which shall assure them, on an authority they know to be reliable, that what they read is the true word of God. On the contrary, if they examine their own writers, they find the sentiment prevailing the the "king's version" is _not_ the word of God. It is accused of being "without fidelity," "ambiguous and incorrect, even in matters of the highest importance;" [Footnote 203] and a well-known commentator has even said, "That it is not so just a representation of the inspired originals, as merits to be implicitly relied on for determining the controverted articles of the Christian faith." [Footnote 204]

[Footnote 203: _Horne's Int._ Bibliographical Appendix, p. 37, Am. ed. 1836.]

[Footnote 204: Macknight. _General Preface to Epistles_, sec, 2, vol i. p. 26, Am. ed. 1810.]

These general statements are applicable to other Protestant translations as well as to the English. None of them are perfect, or are even claimed to be so. Each is in turn vilified and condemned by the authors of the others; and not one of them has yet received the sanction of such an authority as can assure the reader that he will find upon its pages the revelations of God. [Footnote 205]

[Footnote 205: In 1833, the Rev. T. Curtis, an English Protestant clergyman, published a work _On the Errors and Corruptions in Modern Protestant Bibles_. The work contains "Four Letters to the Hon. and Rt. Rev. the Lord Bishop of London, with specimens of the intentional and other departures from the authorized standard, to which is added a postscript, containing the complaints of a London committee of ministers on the subject; the reply of the universities, and a report on the importance of the alterations made." In the course of his work, Mr. Curtis gives various instances of "the largest church Bibles" "found very erroneous." On one occasion "an important part of a text he had taken in the lesson of the day, to his great astonishment was not in the church Bible when he came to read the lesson. In a note on the same page, Mr. Curtis says: "The church Bible still in use in the parish church of St. Mary's, Islington, is a remarkably erroneous one. A clergyman, who some years ago officiated in this parish, assured me he was occasionally at a loss to proceed in reading the lessons from it. One passage (l John i. 4) has, I have reason to believe, been read erroneously in this church four times a year for many years." Mr. Curtis says, (page 80,) "The British and Foreign Bible Society _have never circulated a single copy of the Scriptures_ that has not contained THOUSANDS of _intentional departures_ from the authorized version!" Who can now say with truth that the pure word of God is read or heard in Protestant churches or families?]

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Here, then, the matter comes to a distinct issue between the Catholic and Protestant Churches. The Catholic Church has a reliable and accurate text from which to translate; a competent and literal translation, containing all sufficient notes and explanations; and never publishes a copy of even this without the express sanction of one whom her people know to be able to judge and impartial[ly] to decide on its fidelity and truth. The Protestant churches, on the other hand, have a text confessedly corrupt and unreliable; innumerable contradictory translations, each of which is admitted to be, in many respects, erroneous, and none of which enjoys the sanction of any spiritual authority. How could the Catholic Church do less than to command those of her children who wish to read the Bible, to read the one which she has provided for them? How could she do less than expose to them the faults and errors of the Protestant translations, and forbid their use by the faithful? What right would this church, what right would any church, have to be called a spiritual guide, if, having the pure wheat herself, she permitted those who follow her to feed on coarse grain, gathered from the store-house of her enemies? In reference to such a matter, reason and common-sense dictate a rigidly exclusive policy; and that is just the policy which has been, and is now, pursued by the Catholic Church. Her rules are few and simple, but sufficient. They are these:

1. That those who would read the Scriptures in a vulgar tongue must read a Catholic version.

2. That not only must this version be a Catholic one, but it must also have been approved by the proper spiritual authority.

3. That the version must not only be Catholic and properly approved, but must be accompanied by approved notes and explanations.

4. That those who in the judgment of their pastors would derive more hurt than good from the perusal of the Scriptures, may be forbidden to read them altogether.

Strict as these rules may seem, we believe that any one who reviews the reasons for them will now say, that at least the first three of them are eminently just, and that the Catholic Church, in prescribing and enforcing them, has acted wisely and for the best interests of men. And when we further state that she has never prevented the circulation of any Bible, or taken any Bible from her people, or burned any Bible, except those false, imperfect translations which, so far as they are imperfect, are not the word of God, we believe that it will be admitted that in this also she has done nothing but her duty toward the people committed to her care.

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But that the fourth rule is also just, we think a moment's reflection will determine. At the date of the Reformation, as we have seen, the Bible had been largely printed in many languages. When Luther and the other reformers began to preach, they pointed to their own translations of the Scriptures as the sole divine authority, and bade all the people to read them and examine for themselves. And hence arose a Babel of religions, of which we, at this day, can form no adequate conception. Text was pitted against text, author against author. Men claimed the most outrageous license under the name of Christian liberty. The sacred words of God were bandied from mouth to mouth in jest and song and ribaldry. The contagion spread even into the borders of the Catholic Church. The danger was most imminent that, by this fearful abuse, men might lose all respect, not only for true learning, but also for the Bible and for Christianity itself. It became absolutely necessary to put a check somewhere; and the Council of Trent, therefore, decreed that in order "to repress all that rashness by which the words of Holy Scripture are turned about and perverted to profane uses, to wit, to buffoonery, to fables, vanities, detractions, impious superstitions, devilish incantations, divinations, lots, and even impious libels," no one should dare to take the words of Holy Scripture in any manner for these uses, but that all such "presumers upon, and violators of, the word of God," should be punished. [Footnote 206]

[Footnote 206: Sess. iv.]

When further measures became necessary, on account of the increasing turmoil and disputes, the rule which we have cited was adopted; a rule under which no one who is able to be profited by the reading of the Bible was ever hindered from perusing it, and by which, probably, thousands who, but for it, might have made utter shipwreck of their souls through the abuse of God's holy word, have been saved from pride and error. But this rule is now virtually rescinded. The occasion for its exercise has long since passed away. The increasing learning of biblical scholars, the progress of intelligence among the masses, the subsidence of the wild storm of fanaticism and impiety which marked the age of its enactment, have removed the necessity for enforcing it; and the sole restraint now placed upon the reading of the Scriptures, is that contained in those three rules which we have seen to be so wise and just.

How then, when no conditions are imposed upon the use of the original Greek, Hebrew, or Latin texts of Scripture, and when only such ones are imposed upon the use of popular translations as tend to give the people a more accurate and reliable version of the word of God, how can it be said, with even the semblance of truth, that the Catholic Church forbids or even discourages the reading of the Bible; or how can it be denied that, in providing her children with complete and accurate Bibles, she has given them every inducement to their careful and continued study?

But now we think we hear it asked, with redoubled earnestness:

_If the Catholic Church possesses the most perfect of all copies of the Bible, and really desires it to be read among her people, why does she not coëperate with the existing Bible societies in its diffusion, or, at least, form such societies of her own?_

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The answer is an easy one. The commandment which the Catholic Church received from Christ was, "Go into all the world and preach the Gospel," not "Go, distribute Bibles;" and the commandment which she received she has obeyed. The energies, the money, which Protestants would have expended in printing and circulating translations of the Scriptures, she has expended in founding churches, hospitals, convents, and seminaries, and in providing the whole world with missionaries, by whose labors, nations, to whom the Bible could have no access, have been subjugated to the faith. She recognizes but one means for the conversion of mankind, and that is, the voice of the living teacher; and never can she substitute another in its stead.

Moreover, God gave the sacred books of the Old Testament to his own Israel, not to heathens. Our Lord, through his apostles, bestowed on Christians, not on pagans, the inestimable treasures of the New. The Bible is for those who believe already, for the "man of God," "that he may be thoroughly furnished unto all good works," not for the infidel and heathen, who perhaps read it, but are infidels and heathens still. Such is the will of God, as the Catholic Church has received the same, and the facts of history prove that she is right. For when Protestantism arose, its great aim was to spread the Bible. Its history has been the history of Bible-circulation, and in the Bible Society has culminated the Reformation. These societies have labored bravely,0. We read that previous to the year 1834, a single society in Germany had distributed nearly 3,000,000 copies of the entire Bible, and 2,000,000 more of the New Testament. That by another society in Great Britain, over 35,000,000 copies of the Bible, or New Testament, had been put into circulation before 1859; and that another in New York publishes every year more than 250,000 Bibles, and twice that number of New Testaments, and parts of Scripture. But what are the results? Where are the nations which have been added to the Christian fold? Where are the signs of well-developed and intelligent piety in the great Protestant empires of the age? Have not their own writers told us that the boundaries of Protestantism are the same to-day that they were when Luther left it--that no new nations have been added to its numbers, and, with the exception of the Anglo-Saxon portion of this continent, that no new territory has been subjected to its sway; that for the heathen it has done comparatively nothing, and for the irreligious of its own lands but little more? Look at the United States, for instance, all of whose people come of good Christian stock. The census of 1860 fixes the population at over 30,000,000, while a census of professing Christians, of all Protestant denominations, estimates their number at less than 6,000,000. Is the proportion greater in Germany or in England? And what a comment is this upon the boast of these societies, that they evangelize the world, and that the work they are performing is the work of God!

And has the Catholic Church by preaching done no better? While men yet lived who heard the voice of Luther, the Catholic preachers of Europe had won back to the church more than one half of what she lost by the Reformation. In a few years longer the continent of South America, the Canadas, and thousands of the inhabitants of India, China, and Japan, were sheltered in her bosom. Another century, and again the Catholic faith was blossoming in England, and springing green and vigorous from the soil of our own land. To-day where is the country in which she is not strong and valorous, strong in the blood of her martyrs, valorous in the surety of her victory?

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Does history leave a doubt upon the mind as to the true means of Christian labor? Or who can wonder that the Catholic Church refuses to substitute the human means for the divine, or even to waste her energies and money on what experience has shown to be so fruitless? She has the Bible for her children. She places it within the reach of all. Those who are able, can buy it for themselves. To those who are unable to buy, she gives it when they ask. But never has she taken pains to strew the pure pearls of written revelation underneath the feet of infidels and heathen--mindful that, as the Lord warned her, "they will turn again and rend you."

In conclusion, let us ask of every Christian reader a single favor more. It is, that he will candidly examine the best authorities upon this important subject; that he will carefully reflect upon the reasons we have offered, and decide for himself the great questions which we have tried to answer. And when he finds, as he surely will, that the Catholic Church does not condemn the Bible, or forbid her people to circulate and read it--that she has never prohibited or burned a Bible which she did not know to be erroneous and liable to lead her children into error--that she has never cast her lot in with the Bible society, simply because she follows the command of Christ--let him undo the evil he, perhaps, has done, in stating that concerning her which he now knows is false, and manfully assert the truth he now has learned, thus doing justice to the church of God.

[Footnote 207(No reference *): Macaulay's Misc., art. Ranke's _History of the Popes_.]

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Sketches Drawn From The Abbé Lagrange's Life Of St. Paula.

In Three Chapters.

Concluded.

## Chapter III.

The government of Paula in her newly founded monastery was admirable, and she herself was the example of all virtues, as was also Eustochium. The fame of her rule spread throughout the East, and went back to Rome, where Marcella still lived and gloried in her friend.

The chief happiness of the recluses was to study the Scriptures, which they now read from beginning to end. Jerome read with them, explaining everything. His grotto was not far off, and he passed his nights there, by the light of a lamp, surrounded with manuscripts and assisted by others copying for him; for he was now growing old, and his failing eyesight no longer allowed of his enduring the fatigue of writing. He resumed the study of the eastern dialects in order the better to comprehend the original of the holy works, and, encouraged by Paula and Eustochium, resumed his work of translation, which was continued for nearly twenty years under their saintly influence.

At the end of three years Paula's monasteries, church, and hospital were all finished, with their surrounding walls, which in those times were so necessary a protection from the raids of the neighboring Arabs.

{671}

The number of the recluses had increased, and Paula now divided them into three communities, each one having an abbess or mother at its head, after the plan of St. Pacomius.

During the week their vows of enclosure prevented all intercourse with the outer world. They all went on Sunday to the church at Bethlehem; for the holy sacrifice of the Mass was not offered up at their own chapel, St. Jerome never having deemed himself worthy to mount the steps of the altar, such was his profound humility; and Vincentius, the only priest they had beside, did not attempt to officiate where Jerome dared not.

Paula was the soul of her communities. Her austerities were as great as her charities, and these were without number. St. Jerome represents her like a devoted mother to each and all of her spiritual daughters, loving them all and studying their characters equally, in order to guide each one according to her individual nature and for the best. Intellectual activity was greatly encouraged among them by her, and she took care to furnish them with books and food for the mind. In this Jerome was of great assistance to her. His convent was the dwelling of science and letters as well as of asceticism. He had around him many men of vast erudition, who in taking care of their souls did not forswear the paths of learning, and in solitude pursued their studies. They also wrote books which were read with great avidity by Paula and her religious family. Jerome himself, in addition to his great works, composed many pious biographies, and among others the life of St. Epiphanius, at the particular request of Paula. The latter had now taught her daughters to copy the Psalms, which Jerome had translated at Rome by the order of Pope Damasus. This was a work of importance, as exactness was necessary in order to repair the harm done to the work by neglect of the original manuscripts. Copying thus became universal in all monasteries, owing to the impetus given to it by Paula, and to it we are indebted for the preservation of much that is of inestimable value to Christianity.

Paula now urged Jerome to revise all his various translations of the Holy Scriptures, and this prodigious work was concluded by him as early as the year 390. The book was dedicated to Paula and Eustochium. To Paula particularly, _palmam ferat qui meruit_, great praise is due for the holy influence she exercised for so many years over St. Jerome, to such a noble purpose, and which produced such fruits in the translation of the Bible called the Vulgate, still used in the church after the lapse of so many centuries.

All these pious labors gave great renown to Paula's monasteries, and she who had thought to hide herself from the world, saw the curious world appear at her gates, attracted by the beacon light of Bethlehem. Her buildings could scarcely contain the visitors who flocked to see her. St. Augustine himself had sent his beloved friend, Alypius, across the seas to witness these wonders and to see Jerome and Paula. Augustine afterward wrote to Jerome, thus beginning a friendship between these two great men, one of whom was just risen above the horizon of the church, while the other great luminary was on the decline, though spreading out his rays in all the splendor of the setting sun.

{672}

But that which most astonished the pilgrims to Bethlehem was not Jerome nor any other inhabitant of this holy place, but Paula in the midst of her virgins. "What country," says St. Jerome, "does not send hither its pilgrims to see Paula, who eclipses us all in humility? She has attained that earthly glory from which she fled; for in flying from it she found it, because glory follows virtue as shadows follow the light."

Among all the visits paid to the recluses, none filled them with so much joy as that of the venerable Epiphanius, whose early lessons had had so much to do with the religious training of Paula. He, too, was delighted; he had seen nothing more perfect in the desert. The order, the prayerful and fervent nuns, the austere and laborious monks, the wonderful intellectual activity, amazed him. He remained some time with his friends at Bethlehem, praising God for what he saw.

About this time the discussions on Origenism began to trouble the church of Alexandria, and finally penetrated to Jerusalem and to Bethlehem. Jerome was estranged from Rufinus and Melanie, and others of his early friends, by differing with them on the subject of this celebrated heresy. Paula was afflicted at this, and foresaw clouds in the future which did not fail to burst on her own monasteries. The great doctrinal combats of the fourth century, in which the church was destined to come off victorious, Paula would gladly have avoided entirely, but in spite of herself she became involved in them. Her sorrow was great when she saw her monasteries as well as St. Jerome and herself excluded from the Holy Sepulchre because of their clinging to their old friend St. Epiphanius, who was the champion of orthodoxy and the great antagonist of Origenism, The ordination of a priest for the monasteries was the ostensible cause of their being put under the ban. This priest was Paulinianus, the brother of Jerome, and the validity of his ordination by Epiphanius was questioned by John, the Bishop of Jerusalem, on the ground of the youth of Paulinianus, but in reality because John, instigated by Rufinus, was profoundly irritated against Jerome and Epiphanius on account of his own leanings toward the doctrine of Origen. He forbade the entrance of the church of the Nativity or of the Holy Sepulchre to all who considered the ordination of Paulinianus canonical. This, of course, included the recluses of Bethlehem. Their dismay was great.

Epiphanius did not consider it derogatory to his dignity for him to bend his white head before the younger bishop and sue for clemency for others. He explained the great want of a priest at the monasteries, and the motives for the ordination of Paulinianus, and he begged John, for the sake of charity, to cease such persecution; and then the illustrious patriarch, on his knees, conjured him to abjure the false doctrines that had divided them.

But John would not yield, and talked only of the offence of the uncanonical ordination. Whereupon, Epiphanius thought it his duty to expose him, and demanded of the recluses that they should suspend all communion with the bishop of Jerusalem until the latter should renounce his errors.

Notwithstanding this moderation, the rancor of John burst upon them. All ecclesiastical functions were forbidden Jerome and Vincentius. Paula's catechumens were refused baptism, and his wrath went so far as to deny religious burial to the hermits as if they were excommunicated. Paula suffered inwardly from this warfare, so different from the quiet and repose she longed for. {673} Herself untouched by the arguments of the heretics, she became an object of envy. But the voice of calumny could not disturb the serenity of her mind, and by no word or sign did she ever show impatience or anger. She endeavored also to console St. Jerome for the wounds he had received. She loved to quote Scripture to him, to soothe his mind. It was in the Bible that she always found strength to endure every evil.

Finally, Bishop John, carrying his hatred to Jerome to its climax, passed a decree of banishment against him. Jerome, worn out by contention, wished to depart at once, but Paula said to him these touching words: "They hate us and would crush us, but let us return patience for hatred, humility for arrogance. Does not St. Paul bid us return good for evil? And when our conscience tells us that our sufferings do not proceed from sin, we are very certain that the afflictions of this world are only the assurance of eternal reward. Bear, then, with the trials that assail you and do not quit our beloved Bethlehem."

In this way Paula sustained and soothed the old monk by the delicacy and serenity of her own noble soul, which lived so high up in the love of God that the storms of this world passed by leaving her unharmed.

After a while Jerome was freed from this phase of persecution by the Metropolitan of Palestine, Cesarius, who was a prudent and wise man. These perils ended, Paula encouraged him to recommence his great labors on the Bible, and also to renew his correspondence with his friends, and to think no more of this painful episode, but to suffer the tempest without to rage and no longer disturb him. [sic]

We will turn away from these discussions, at which we have glanced but cursorily, though unavoidably, to rest our minds in the contemplation of virtue.

Jerome now wrote more of his most admirable letters, and Paula continued the even tenor and pious practices of her life. She received a visit from Fabiola, who came from Rome in search of that peace and solitude which she believed could be best found in Bethlehem. This visit gave great joy to the recluses; for Fabiola could tell them of all their friends in Rome, of Paulina and Pammachius, of Toxotius and his wife Laeta, and of the young Paula, called after her venerable grandmother. She brought them messages from Marcella and the Aventine. While Fabiola was with them, they resumed the habits of former years, and read the Holy Scriptures together, Jerome explaining it to them. The ardor of Fabiola was wonderful. After she had ended her visit and left Bethlehem, much was done by Rufinus and Melanie to estrange her from her old friends. But she could not be moved and had determined to settle near them.

At this time, however, dark rumors of invasion threw consternation among the quiet inhabitants of the monasteries. It was rumored that the Huns threatened Jerusalem. Other cities had already been besieged, and they were now before Antioch. Arabia, Phoenicia, Palestine, and Egypt were filled with terror. On all sides preparations for defence were being made, and the walls of Jerusalem, too long neglected, were now under repair.

To save her monasteries from insult, Paula meditated flight, and conducted her whole community to the sea-shore, ready to embark if the barbarians made their appearance. But the Huns having suddenly diverged in another direction, Paula brought back her followers to their beloved monasteries, and with a joyful heart once more took possession of them.

{674}

These events decided Fabiola to return to Rome. When all the troubles had ceased, Jerome wrote to her: "You would not remain with us; you feared new alarms. So be it. You are now tranquil; but, notwithstanding your tranquillity, I venture to say that Babylon will often make you sigh for the fields of Bethlehem. We are now at peace, and from this manger, which has been restored to us, we once more hear the wail of the infant Christ, the echoes of which I send you across the seas."

Unfortunately, however, the peace and quiet did not last long. After three years the dispute with the Bishop of Jerusalem was renewed with great violence. But the bishop, Theophilus, having only declared himself against Origenism, John was finally brought to reason by him, and Jerome and Rufinus were reconciled in his presence, before the altar in the church of the Holy Sepulchre. Peace now reigned in the monasteries on what appeared to be a surer foundation.

But other sorrows came pouring in. News arrived from Rome of the death of Paulina, when she was but thirty, and Pammachius was left a widower and without posterity.

His loss in the daughter of Paula was great, for theirs was an admirable and holy union; for Paulina loved her husband and would have endeavored not only to make him happy, but virtuous. The grief of Pammachius was overwhelming. He had now but one wish on earth, which was to do something for the good of Paulina's soul.

It was an ancient custom in Rome at the obsequies of persons of distinction to give alms in honor of the dead, and to perpetuate their memory. This was called the _funeraticium_. On the day fixed for that of Paulina the streets of Rome were thronged. Troops of the poor, the lame, and the maimed wended their way to the church in answer to the invitation of Pammachius. The gilded door of the great basilica was open before them, and Pammachius himself was there distributing on all sides abundant alms in the name of Paulina.

Who can describe the grief of Paula when the news reached Bethlehem of the death of Paulina? She was ill for days afterward, and Eustochium feared for her life. Jerome wrote to Pammachius on the sorrowful event. "Who can see," cried he, "without grief, this beauteous rose gathered before her time and faded away? Our precious pearl, our emerald, is broken."

Paula's only consolation was in the admirable conduct of Pammachius. "This death was prolific," said St. Jerome, "for it gave a new life to Pammachius." He had always been a good Christian, he now became a heroic one. He thought of heaven, where his faith made him see his beloved Paulina; the example of Paula and Eustochium, and of his holy friend Jerome, all combined to detach him from the things of earth. He felt inspired with the noble resolution to consecrate to God the remaining years of his life. He assumed the dress of a monk and passed his time in charities and prayer. The jewels of Paulina were converted into money and given to the poor, and also her dower and the house of the noble senator was thrown open to all who were in want. Fabiola generously seconded him in founding hospitals, and their combined resources enabled them to accomplish great charities in Rome.

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"Ordinary husbands," said St. Jerome, "show their affection and love by scattering roses and lilies and violets over a grave. Our Pammachius has covered the tomb of his departed wife with holy ashes, and with the perfume of charity. These are the aromatics with which he has embalmed Paulina." Such fruits were a great solace to Paula. When she heard that he had given away Paulina's dower to the poor, she exclaimed, "These are indeed the heirs that I would see my daughter have! Pammachius has not given me time even to express my wish; he has been beforehand with me!"

In the midst of her grief a ray of joy came from Rome, in the proposition from Toxotius and Laeta to send young Paula to her grandmother. They had determined that, in order to secure such holy training for their child, she should leave Rome and go to the East, where Paula and Eustochium would bring her up in the way of truth. Eustochium begged her of Laeta, and young Paula did eventually come to Bethlehem to join her aunt; but her venerable grandmother was no longer there to receive her.

The burden of years was now beginning to be felt by Paula. Sorrow and sadness pressed upon her, yet the ineffable beauty of her soul was greater than ever. St. Francis de Sales says of her that "she was like a beautiful and sweet violet, so sweet to see in the garden of the church." It is this exquisite and rare perfume which we must enjoy more in speaking of her in the years just before her death, when God seemed to touch her soul with a singularly soft and mellow light, like the evening of a fair day. She had been much disturbed by the renewal of the dissensions between St. Jerome and the Origenists. We have already said how she had grieved over the first encounter, seeing bishops against bishops, friends against friends, hermits against hermits. But the new struggles were still more painful to her: they had become personal, and, notwithstanding the reconciliation with Rufinus, he had attacked St. Jerome's character and writings, and the latter was obliged to defend himself. Paula had also witnessed another painful sight. After the council condemning Origen, the monks accused of sharing his erroneous opinions were driven away from the desert, and among them were many whom Paula had formerly known and venerated, and who were now homeless wanderers. The severity of the Patriarch of Alexandria against them grieved her deeply; and, the most bitter of all, her tears were those she shed for the throes of the church and for the evil passions of men. New sorrows came upon her also. She heard of the death of Fabiola, her old and dear friend. Then came the death of St. Epiphanius, who had been to Paula like a beloved father.

Toxotius, her only son, was now taken away. All her children but Eustochium were dead. What was left for Paula but suffering? Physical infirmities accumulated upon her the result of her austerities. Of these she would merely say, "When I am weak, then it is that I am strong;" and again, "We must resign ourselves to carrying our treasure in brittle vases, until the day comes when this miserable body shall be robed in immortality." She also loved to repeat these words: "If the sufferings of Christ abound in us, his consolations abound also. Sharers of his bodily agony, we will also be partakers of his glory."

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The things of earth could no longer touch her, for she had seen how passing they are and knew that they could not last. The longing for the heavenly country grew in proportion. She would say with the patriarchs of the desert, "We are but travellers on the earth." And when her sufferings increased, she murmured gently, "Oh! who will give me the wings of a dove, that I may fly to everlasting rest?"

She no longer belonged to the earth, she was almost in heaven. Her soul had reached such extraordinary perfection that she seemed already to see the glory and to hear the harmonies of heaven. Peace and joy were suffused throughout her being, rising above her sufferings. Her love of God grew greater, and death seemed to her not a separation from those she loved on earth, but an indissoluble union with God, in whom all joys are found again. "Who," says St. Jerome, "can tell without tears how Paula died?" He himself wrote immortal pages on the subject, which have consoled many a dying soul since.

When Sainte Chantal was on her death-bed, she asked to have read to her once more St. Jerome's account of the death of Paula, to which she listened with wonderful attention, repeating several times these words: "What are we? Nothing but atoms alongside of these grand nuns."

It was in the year A.D. 403 that Paula fell ill. When it became known that her life was in imminent danger, the whole monastery was in consternation.

Eustochium could not be comforted; she who had never quit her mother from childhood could not bear the thought of separation. Her love for her mother, which had always been so touching, shone now in all the ardor and strength of her nature. She would yield her place by the bedside to no one by day or by night. Every remedy was administered by her hands, and she would throw herself on her knees by the bed, and implore God to suffer them to die together and be laid in one tomb. But these tears and these prayers could not postpone the hour marked by God for the end. Her time had expired; Paula had suffered enough and wept enough. She should now see joy, and put on the robes of glory. It became evident that her strength was failing, and that she had but a few days left to live. She bore her sufferings with admirable patience and heavenly serenity. She was grateful for the care bestowed on her by Eustochium and the devoted daughters of the house, but her whole mind was given up to the thought of opening Paradise. Her lips were heard to murmur her favorite verses from Scripture.

The Bishop of Jerusalem and all the bishops of Palestine, together with a great number of religious, flocked to her bedside to witness this saintly death. The monastery was filled with them. But Paula, absorbed in God, saw them not, heard them not. Several asked her questions, but she did not answer. Jerome then approached and wished to know if she were troubled and why she did not speak. She answered in Greek, "Oh! no; I have neither trouble nor regret; I feel, on the contrary, great inward peace."

After these words she spoke no more, but her fingers ceased not to make the sign of the cross. At last, however, she opened her eyes with joy, as if she saw a celestial vision, and as if hearing the divine voice of the canticle, "Rise up, come to me, O my dove, my beloved, for winter is past and the rain has disappeared." She spoke as if in answer, for she continued, in low but joyful tones, the words of the sacred song: "Flowers have appeared on the earth, the time for gathering them has arrived." Then she added, "I think I see the good things of the Lord in the land of the living." With these words on her lips Paula expired. {677} She had lived to the age of fifty-six years eight months and twenty-one days; of which time, twenty-five years had been passed since her widowhood in religious life.

Her obsequies were a marvel. Before consigning her body to the tomb, it was carried to the church of the Nativity at Bethlehem, which she loved and where she lay for three days with uncovered face, for the visitation and veneration of the faithful. Crowds flocked from all parts to do her honor, and bishops sought to take part in the funeral ceremonies and to show respect to the lamented deceased. Among the hermits of the desert, it was almost esteemed a sacrilege to stay away. John of Jerusalem himself officiated. But the most touching part of the spectacle was the long array of the poor, following in the procession, and weeping for their mother. Death had not altered the noble countenance of Paula; she was only pale, and looked as if sleeping. The people could not tear themselves away from this last view of her beloved features. She was finally interred under this same church, in a grotto, where her tomb may still be seen up to the present time. During the week following her burial, the crowd continued to linger about her tomb, singing psalms in Hebrew, in Greek, and in Latin or in Syriac.

All this time, the sorrow of Eustochium had been terrible to behold. Her very being was rent in twain. She could not be torn away from her mother's body up to the last, but would remain by her, tenderly kissing her eyes, throwing her arms around her, and beseeching to be buried in the tomb with her. This continued until the grave shut out the form of Paula from her for ever.

Jerome tried to console her, though himself bowed down by grief. Of all the souls he had directed, none were so lofty nor so intimately connected with his own as that of Paula. So crushed was he by this loss, that it was long before the world again heard his mighty voice.

He found some solace in composing two epitaphs in her honor, to be engraved, one at the entrance of the grotto where the grave lay, the other on the grave itself. The following is the translation of the inscription on the sepulchre of Paula:

"The daughter of the Scipios, of the Gracchi, the illustrious blood of Agamemnon, rests in this place. She bore the name of Paula. She was the mother of Eustochium. First in the senate of Roman matrons, she preferred the poverty of Christ and the humble fields of Bethlehem, to all the splendor of Rome."

In this epitaph, Paula's whole history is told. The other epitaph of St. Jerome, engraved on the entrance of the grotto, reproduces, in other terms, the same record of virtue, and, what is more, shows its sublime origin. It is in the following words:

"Seest thou that grotto cut in the rock? It is the tomb of Paula, now an inhabitant of the heavenly kingdom. She gave up her brother, her relations, Rome, her country, her wealth, her children, for the grotto of Bethlehem, where she is buried. It was there, O Christ! that your cradle was. It was there that the Magi came to make you their mystical offerings, O man God!"

Eustochium desired St. Jerome, besides these two epitaphs, to write a funeral eulogium on her mother. With a hand trembling with age and emotion, he performed this pious duty. We should here mention that most of the details we have endeavored to give in this short narrative, are taken from what is, perhaps, considered the most eloquent and touching of all his writings. {678} At the conclusion, he thus apostrophizes her:

"Farewell, O Paula! Sustain, by your prayers, the declining years of him who so revered you. United now by faith and good works with Christ, you will be more powerful above than you were here below. I have engraved your praise, O Paula! on the rock of your sepulchre, and to it I add these pages; for I wish to raise to you a monument more lasting than adamant, that all may learn that your memory was honored in Bethlehem, where your ashes repose."

Paula's good works died not with her. Her monasteries were continued piously and courageously by Eustochium, the worthy daughter of such a mother. With time, heresies arose to disturb the atmosphere anew; and the controversy of Pelagius aroused the latent powers of Jerome, and for some time absorbed him, to the detriment of his studies. But at the prayer of Eustochium, and in memory of Paula, he finally resumed his labors, and in the year 403 concluded his great work in the translation of the Bible, which is called the Vulgate, and was adopted by the church in the last universal council.

The Pelagians having set fire to the monasteries of Bethlehem, all the buildings erected by the pious care of Paula were burned to the ground. This act was odious to the whole world. It was admirable to see the serenity of Eustochium under this trial. She went to work, and, using for that purpose the noble dower brought to her by her niece Paula, who had come to her at Bethlehem, the monasteries were soon built up again, and filled with their former inhabitants. About this time, Alaric, King of the Huns, overran Rome with his barbarian hordes, and numberless Christian refugees from them came to the East in search of an asylum. Pammachius and Marcella were dead, but many of their friends were numbered among the exiles. Eustochium and Jerome received all who came with wide-open doors, and the hospitality of Paula still lived in her successors.

Eustochium survived her mother only sixteen years. She expired without a struggle, like one falling asleep. No further details are given of her last moments. This was on the 28th day of September, A.D. 418. Her remains were laid by those of her mother, according to her wish. St. Jerome did not long survive her. Her death was his last great sorrow; and he died in the following year. He was too old now to resist the final dispersion of what he had called his _domestic church_. Marcella, Asella, Paula, Fabiola, Pammachius, Eustochium, had all ceased to live. Rome itself was gone, for, to a Roman heart like that of Jerome's, her captivity was her death.

He fell into a state of settled melancholy, his voice having become so weak and feeble that it was with difficulty he could be heard at all. It was soon impossible for him to be raised from his miserable couch, but by means of a cord suspended from the roof of his grotto; and in this position he would recite his prayers, or give his instructions to the monks for the management of the monastery. He died at the age of seventy-two years, after living thirty-four years at Bethlehem. His eyes rested, when he was dying, on young Paula, who was beside him. She who had been his spiritual child from her cradle, now performed the last sad offices for him. We have no details of his obsequies. According to his request, she placed his remains in the grotto not far from the venerable Paula, her grandmother, and Eustochium. United in life, they were so also in death. {679} Jerome's principal disciple, Eusebius of Cremona, now assumed the head of his convents, while young Paula continued to rule those of her grandmother's. We know nothing more. With the correspondence of Jerome died all traces of these communities, and night fell upon the East.

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Glimpses Of Tuscany.