V.

O merciful God! by thy marvellous might Keep far from us slaughter and war’s fierce despair; ‘Neath the sway of the angel of peace and of light Let all be united in love and in prayer.

Great God! to thine altars we suppliants come; Give us back the blest freedom of faith, hearth, and home.

The soldiers, kneeling, repeated this in chorus, and, rising, gave another cheer for Poland. Then Gen. Chmielinski, who was standing to the right of Father Benvenuto, turned to them and said: “Now, my children, go and rest and recruit your strength. You will need it all; for the enemy we have to fight is strong and numerous, and many among us will appear before God to-morrow.”

The soldiers did as they were bid, and prepared themselves to pass the night as comfortably as they could, feeling that it was indeed the last many would spend on earth. I was going to do the same when I was sent for by Gen. Sokol, whom I found talking over plans with Gen. Chmielinski. “Lieut. L——,” he said to me, “we are very anxious for exact information as to the amount of the Russian force. Are you tired?”

“Yes, but not enough to refuse a perilous mission. What is there to be done?”

“To go with a picked body of men on whom you can rely, and reconnoitre the Russian strength and position; but, for heaven’s sake, be very prudent. You know the full extent of the danger.”

“Yes. Thanks for having chosen me,” I replied; and, bowing to the two officers, I withdrew and told Badecki to have my horse saddled immediately. Whilst I was looking to the loading of my pistols young Charles M—— came up.

“Lieutenant,” he exclaimed, “you are going to reconnoitre the Russian army?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”

“Will you let me go with you?”

“No, my boy. To-morrow’s fight may be a serious one, for which you will need all your strength.”

The poor little fellow made a wry face, but went and lay down again at the foot of a tree. I only took with me Badecki and an old soldier named Zeromski, who had distinguished himself in the campaign of 1830. He had an austere and severe countenance, which, however, brightened into the sweetest and gentlest smile possible when you spoke to him. He was as laconic as a Spartan and kept himself always aloof; but under fire his bravery was heroic, and almost amounted to rashness. His comrades had nicknamed him _Stalowy-serce_ (heart of steel).

We reconnoitred the enemy’s position without being discovered, and were returning towards the edge of the camp, when my horse stumbled against the root of a tree and fell on one knee. My orderly, Badecki, looked at me anxiously, shook his head, coughed, sighed, and turned uneasily in his saddle.

“What on earth is the matter, Badecki?” I exclaimed. “One would think you were sitting on a wasp’s nest.”

“Lieutenant,” he answered, sighing, “it is because your horse stumbled just now.”

“Well, and what is that to you?” I replied.

“Don’t you know, lieutenant, that if a horse stumbles before a battle it forebodes misfortune to his rider? I always remarked that in the campaign of 1830.”

“Oh! you believe that, do you?” I said, smiling. “And you, Zeromski—have you remarked it too?”

“No, I have not done so myself, but I have been always told so.”

Arrived at the camp, I hastened to give in my report to General Sokol. He thanked me warmly, and added:

“Now is your opportunity, lieutenant, to win your captain’s epaulets.”

“Yes, general, or a good sabre-cut. I hope it may be one or the other.”

Sokol laughed and said:

“It is certain that, if these unlicked cubs of Russians are as numerous as you say, they will give us trouble.”

Leaving the general’s quarters, I went and wrapped myself up in my bear-skin, and, throwing myself under a tree, fell asleep in a moment. I was completely worn out with fatigue.

Only two hours later, however, I was awakened by the sentries being relieved. The day had just dawned. The first thing which recurred to my memory was Badecki’s words. I had a sort of presentiment that they would turn out to be true. After a few moments of fervent prayer I took out my pocket-book and made a slight sketch of the spot where the battle would most likely be fought, and where, perhaps, that very night they would dig my grave. I wrote a few lines with the sketch, folded them up, and directed it.

Scarcely had I made my last preparations in this way than our advanced posts gave the signal that the enemy was approaching. It was part of the army of Gen. C——, and consisted of two battalions of infantry, several _soterias_ of Cossacks and dragoons, and four pieces of artillery. They numbered upwards of three thousand men. We had only twelve hundred, many of whom were but raw recruits.

Very soon every soul was on the alert and armed. Father Benvenuto was the first to appear.

“My children!” he cried, “many amongst us will fall this day. You are all, thank God! prepared for whatever may be his will. Kneel, and I will give you all a last absolution and benediction.”

Every one knelt with the venerable priest, who prayed for a few minutes in a low voice and commended us all to God. Then, rising, he added with emotion:

“My children, I absolve you and bless you all, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

“Amen!” we all responded, and rose filled with fresh strength and courage.

“Let every one of you do his duty,” continued he; “that is all I will say at this moment to patriots who wish to free our dear and holy Poland or die in the attempt.”

The men went silently to take each his place in the ranks. Gen. Zaremba was to assume the chief command that day.

“What will do us the most mischief and paralyze our operations,” he said, “are those field-pieces. If they had not those cannon we should win.”

Count S——, captain of artillery, came forward. “If you will give me leave, general, I will go and spike their guns. Are there two hundred men amongst you who will follow me to certain death? Let them make the sacrifice of their lives for the safety of all.”

Nearly a thousand men volunteered for this terrible service, though they knew perfectly well that, in all probability, not one would return alive.

“Well,” exclaimed the general, “we are twelve hundred men; let us draw lots.”

A few minutes later the two hundred, favored by fate and their own heroism, separated themselves from the rest and gathered round their intrepid leader, forming what might well be called the _phalanx of death_. Charles M—— burst into tears at not having been one of those selected.

“Don’t be afraid,” I said to him; “to-day we shall all be equally favored.”

The general then disposed of his small force in the best manner he could. He desired no one to fire a single shot till the enemy was within one hundred paces. Those among the sharpshooters and zouaves who had breech-loaders were to reserve their second shots till those who had only single-barrelled guns were reloading. In the event of confusion or defeat I was ordered with my Uhlans to charge the fugitives, always taking care to double back with my column behind the fusileers. These dispositions having been made, and distinct orders given to each corps, we all remained at our posts in silence, awaiting the enemy’s approach. On they came, in the well-known serried masses of the Russian troops, and not a shot was fired till they arrived at the appointed distance. Then, with a shout and a sharp cry, the signal was given, our men fired, and upwards of one hundred Russians fell. So unprepared were they for this sudden discharge that the men behind the front rank fell back, in spite of the efforts of their officers, and, scattering to the right and left, became the victims of my Uhlans or were cut to pieces by the scythes of the _kopinicry_. Then the Russians in their turn fired, and twenty of our Poles fell. This was the moment chosen by Count S—— and his two hundred heroes to dash in amidst the Russian artillery and try and silence their cannon. Passing through the Russian ranks like a flash of lightning, the count and my brave old Zeromski succeeded in spiking two of their field-pieces. Whilst ramming in his gun a ball broke the count’s arm; the next took off his head. Zeromski had his head broken by the butt-end of a musket, and fell at the very moment when he had succeeded in spiking a gun to the cry of “_Niech zeja Polske_!” (Hurrah for Poland!)

We could not look on in cold blood and see the horrible massacre of these two hundred. Comrades and all with one accord threw themselves into the enemy’s ranks. The voice of our officers fell on dead ears; we were engaged in a hand-to-hand fight with equal fury on both sides. Now and then, when our Poles gave way before superior numbers, the Russian artillery had time to load their remaining guns, and when our poor fellows came back to the charge they were simply mowed down before the heavy fire that opened upon them. But still no one thought of self-preservation, only how to deal the hardest blows. All strategy or tactics had become impossible, and officers and men alike fought inch by inch for their lives. From the first moment when the fighting had become general I was attacked by a quartermaster of dragoons. We both fought with swords; but I was so exhausted that I could hardly keep my saddle, and all I could do was to try and parry the strokes of my adversary. All of a sudden a violent cramp seized my right arm; but at that critical moment I heard the voice of little Charles behind me: “Hold on for a minute longer!” he cried; and, galloping with his pony across a heap of dead, he fired off his pistol close to the head of my enemy, who dropped without a word. But at the same instant I saw the heroic child stagger and turn deadly white; a ball had struck him in the chest.

“Adieu, lieutenant! Adieu, brother!” he murmured, as he slipped off his horse to the ground. “My poor mother! How she will cry! My Lord and my God, have mercy upon me!”

Those were his last words. I bore him on my shoulders, and carried him out of the field of battle, and laid him down under a tree. I put my hand on his heart; it had ceased to beat. The generous child had died to save me. He had a beautiful smile on his face, and two tears glistened on his cheeks. I closed his eyes, and, kissing his forehead, said: “Sleep in peace, my brave boy! If I survive this day I will carry these tears to your poor mother.”

I called two of the pioneers, and told them to dig a separate grave for poor Charles, that his body might not fall into the enemy’s hands; and then, jumping on the horse of a Cossack who had just been killed, I threw myself again into the fray. All my strength had come back. I fought like one possessed; and this over-excitement lasted till I felt the cold steel going through me. A Cossack had thrust his lance into my left breast. I lifted up my heart to God for one moment, and then fell, pressing my crucifix convulsively. My orderly, seeing me fall, carried me off rapidly to a carriage which was already full of wounded men. Thanks to Father Benvenuto, who never ceased watching over me, I came back to life again and met the loving and sisterly eyes of Mother Alexandra, who again insisted on my sharing her cell. I was in great danger for five days, and, if I did not sink under my sufferings, it was owing to the devoted care of which I was the object. One night my secret was well-nigh discovered. Mother Alexandra had been called away to some other patient and had left me to the care of a young sister. My fever ran high, and, being delirious, I tore off the bandages from my wound and threw them away. Frightened at my state, the sister luckily ran to fetch Mother Alexandra, exclaiming: “Come as quickly as you can; the lieutenant is dying!” She flew back to me, and remained alone by my bedside. Her presence calmed me at once, and I allowed her to bandage me up again and stop the blood, which had burst out in streams from the wound.

In the same house we had forty-five wounded from this battle, wherein the Poles had displayed prodigies of valor. The Russian loss was very great, and if they were not altogether crushed, it was owing to their numerical superiority. As it was, they retired in good order, for we had not sufficient men to follow them in their retreat. When I was allowed to go out of my cell I went to see my comrades. I helped the sisters in dressing their wounds, and, when my strength would allow me, I used to read aloud to them as we sat round the stove. At the end of a month, out of forty-five wounded thirty-two were convalescent.

At the end of six weeks I felt myself strong enough to bear the motion of a horse, and so accepted a mission for my old general, who, by the orders of the Central Committee, came to take the command of the forces in the place of General Iskra, who had been condemned to death for high treason. As ill-luck would have it, on this occasion my usual good-fortune deserted me and I fell into the hands of a Russian patrol, who seized me, tied my hands behind my back, and marched me off to the little town of Kielce. As I was still very weak and walked with difficulty, they accelerated my march by blows from the butt-ends of their muskets. At Kielce I was taken straight to the headquarters of Gen. C——. All Polish soldiers who had fallen into the hands of this brute since the beginning of the war had been hanged. From the window, close to which I had been placed, I could see the gibbet, with two shapeless bodies hanging from it on which birds of prey were already feasting. The sight filled me with horror, and feeling sure this time that my last hour was at hand, I recommended my soul to God, made a fervent act of contrition, and prepared myself as well as I could to die.

The general came in for the usual interrogatory, and frowned when he looked at me.

“You are from the rebel army?” he exclaimed in bad Polish.

“I do not know any rebels,” I replied proudly. “I am of the army of the Crusaders.” (We called the war a Crusade, and all of us wore a white cross sewed on our uniforms.)

At this reply General C——’s face darkened and, with a furious gesture, he made a step toward me. “Do you know,” he cried, “to what fate you have exposed yourself by falling into my hands?”

“Yes, perfectly,” I replied, turning my head in the direction of the dead bodies.

“And you are not afraid?”

“No. I belong to a nation which does not know the feeling.”

“Yet you are very pale.”

“Oh!” I replied eagerly, “do not think it is from fear. Six weeks ago I was wounded in an engagement with your troops, and to-day I have gone out for the first time.”

Here the Muscovite smiled.

“What is your age? Nineteen? Do you know that there are very few Poles as young as you are who would face death in this way without a shudder?”

“But I am not a Pole; I am French.”

“Do you speak the truth?”

“I never lie,” I replied, presenting him my man’s passport.

He examined it carefully.

“This saves you,” he said at last, beginning to be almost civil. “We have not yet the right to hang the French, even though they may have fought with the rebel troops. I shall send you with an escort across the frontier of Silesia; but if ever you again set foot on Russian soil you will be hanged without mercy and without shrift.”

I was sent out of his presence, escorted by two Cossacks, thoroughly unlicked bears, who had orders to shoot me on the least suspicious movement on my part. I had the pleasure of these gentlemen’s society in a third-class carriage during the whole journey from Myszkow to Szczakowa—that is, for four mortal hours. You can imagine, therefore, that I did not breathe freely till I had stepped out of the carriage and found myself once more on Silesian soil, released from their attentions.

I felt now that my vow had been kept and my promise fulfilled. I had shed my blood for Poland, and any further effort on my part would have been worse than useless.

I determined, therefore, to rejoin the countess and her children, who were at that moment at the waters of Altwasser. I pass over the joy of our reunion. We soon went on to Dresden for the winter, and once more that happy family were together, though in exile.

I heard soon after that Father Benvenuto had been struck by a ball in the heart at the battle of Swientz-Krszysz, at the very moment when he was lifting up the crucifix to bless his soldiers. The memory of this saint will be for ever revered in Poland, and in the hearts of all those who had the happiness of knowing him. With his heroic death I close my account of this episode in a war which, however mistaken on the part of those who first conceived so hopeless an attempt, was carried on to the last with a faith, a courage, and a patriotism that deserve to be immortalized in the history of any country, and will redound to the eternal honor of this persecuted and unhappy people.

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THE LATE DR. T. W. MARSHALL.

The _renaissance_ of English Catholic literature has been a growth of the last quarter of a century. From the time when Dr. Newman became a convert to the church there has been a continual stream of the most ardent Catholic literature, didactic, controversial, and devotional. Of devotional works we need hardly speak at all, since they are much the same in all Catholic countries, and are mostly modelled on one spirit of one faith. Of works which are didactic it is superfluous to say anything, for all teachers of the Catholic faith teach the same thing. But of works which are controversial it is desirable to take notice, because they indicate the peculiar spirit of the age, the nature of the anti-Catholic opposition, and the growth or the decay of old prejudices. There is probably no literature in any country in the world which is so full of original lines of pure controversy as that of the modern English school of Catholic converts. Nor is there any difficulty in accounting for this fact. When we remember that English converts have stepped across that huge gulf which divides old-fashioned Protestantism from Catholicity; that they have brought with them from the “Establishment” the most perfect knowledge of all the arguments which can be devised against the acceptance of “the faith”; that they are often highly educated men, who have been as “intellectually” as they have been “spiritually” converted—we should be surprised if they did not sometimes write controversy with both a newness and a richness of intuition.

For example, let us take the great Dr. Newman, whose vast stores of digested learning often sparkle or are sweetened with delicious touches of the perception of the humorous—a boon to his readers which is not only due to his wit but to the drolleries of the old heresy which he has left. Or let us take Dr. Faber—that “poet of Catholic dogmas,” as a Protestant lady has described him—and note the exquisite appreciation with which he contrasts Catholic truths with their denial or their imitation in Protestantism. These two writers could not have written as they have done unless they had been brought up as Protestants. They might have been equally luminous and profound; they might have wanted nothing of Catholic science; but their appreciation of contrast, which is one of the essentials of humor, could not have been nearly so developed.

Yet, delightful as it would be to dwell on the rich gifts of these two writers—the profound Newman and the poetical Faber—it is with reference to another writer that we would say something at this time—to one who has but recently passed away. Dr. T. W. Marshall, who twice visited the United States, and who gained great repute as a lecturer, was among the most gifted of the controversialists—in some senses he was unique—who have contributed to English Catholic literature. We are not speaking of his learning, though this was considerable; nor of his reasoning power, though this, too, was very striking; for there are many English Catholic writers who, both in learning and in reasoning, may be esteemed to have surpassed Dr. Marshall; but we are speaking of him as a “pure controversialist,” as one who made controversy his sole pursuit, or who, at least, will be always remembered as a polemic, and this both as a speaker and as a writer. Now, in the capacity of a polemic—of a “popular” polemic—we have affirmed that Dr. Marshall was unique; and let us indicate briefly in what respects.

We have spoken at the beginning of the immense advantage which is possessed by those Catholics who attempt to write controversy when their first years have been passed in the camp of the Anglican “Establishment,” and so they have learned all its secrets. Dr. Marshall was “bred and born” an Anglican. He was the descendant of a long line of Protestants. He was educated at two English public schools, and subsequently spent three years at Cambridge; emerging from the university to “take orders” in the Establishment, and soon becoming incumbent of a parish. Finding his lot cast in a pleasant rural district, where he had but very few clerical duties, he devoted his spare time to the study of the Fathers; and, while reading, he made copious notes. The present writer, who had the happiness to be his pupil, remembers well with what avidity he used to devour the big tomes which he borrowed from the not distant cathedral library. Finding, as he read on, that the Fathers were “strangely Roman Catholic,” that “they most distinctly were none of them Protestants,” he may be said to have read and to have written himself into the faith, which he embraced the moment that he realized it. And no sooner was he received into the Catholic Church than he devoted all his talents to the proving to English Protestants the truths of which he himself was convinced. _Christian Missions_ was his first great work, though it had been preceded by more than one brilliant pamphlet; and _My Clerical Friends_ and _Protestant Journalism_ followed in much later years. Besides these works there was the unceasing contribution to more than one of the English Catholic papers, to several magazines or periodicals, and also to a few secular weeklies. It may be remembered with what raciness, and at the same time with what depth, he used to punish “our Protestant contemporaries” for their inventions and their puerilities about the church. His series on the “Russian Church” was especially brilliant, and produced much sensation among High-Churchmen. But his many other series, such as “Fictitious Appeals to a General Council,” “Sketches of the Reformation,” “Two Churches,” “Modern Science,” were all deserving of most careful digestion, and produced their due effect upon Anglicans. It was when probing the Ritualists, week after week, with the most terrible weapons of Catholic logic, that Dr. Marshall was seized with his last illness, and he laid aside for ever that pen which, for thirty years, had been the dread of many insincere Protestants.

If we examine critically into the merits and demerits of this accomplished theologian and controversialist, we shall find three points in particular which mark him off from other men, and which render him, as we have said, unique. First, he had the capacity of uniting extensive learning with a lightness, even a gayety, of style; weaving scores of quotations into a few pages of easy writing, without ever for a moment becoming dull. He played and he toyed with any number of quotations, as though he had them all at his fingers’ ends; and he “brought them in” in such a way that, instead of cumbering his pages, they made them more diverting and light. Let it be asked whether this one particular art is not worthy of universal imitation? Nine out of every ten of even good polemical writers “drag their quotations in by the head and shoulders,” or hurl them down upon the pages as though they had been carted with pitch-forks and had to be uncarted in similar fashion. A lightness and a tripping ease in the introduction of quotations is one of the most captivating of gifts; for it takes the weight off the learning, the drag off the style, the “bore” off the effort of controversy. It would be very easy to name half a score of good books, vastly learned and admirably fitted for the shelves, which are simply rendered unreadable by that after-dinner sleepiness which comes from too heavy a table. Now, is it not desirable that even wise men should make a study of this art of trippingly weaving quotations?—for, as a matter of fact, a quotation badly used might just as well not be used at all. Dr. Marshall made quotations a grace of his style, instead of an interruption of his text; and so neatly did he “Tunbridge-ware” them into his pages that they fitted without joint and without fissure. This is, we think, a great merit; and if Dr. Marshall had done nothing more than suggest to learned writers that it is _possible_ to quote immensely yet trippingly, he would have rendered a service to all polemics. He has been, perhaps, “an original” in this respect; or, if not an original, he has at least been unique in the excellence of the practice of the art.

The second feature in his writings which strikes us as admirable is an individuality in the neatness of expression. Short sentences, quite as pithy as short, with a calm grace of defiant imperturbability, make his writings equally caustic and gay. Scholarly those writings certainly are; they have all the honeyed temperance of art and much of the perfection of habit. No one could write as Dr. Marshall could write unless he had made writing his study. No doubt style “is born, not made”; but most styles are better for education, and we could name but few writers of whom we could say that their style was apparently _more_ natural than it was acquired. Of Dr. Newman it might be said “the style is the man,” for there is a personal repose in his writings; and we could imagine Dr. Newman, even if he had not been a great student, still writing most beautifully and serenely. “The perfection of Dr. Newman’s style is that he has no style” was a very good remark of a learned critic; but then we cannot talk of such very exceptional men as giving a rule for lesser writers. Now, Dr. Marshall had a very marked style. It was ease, with equal art and equal care. The care was as striking as the ease. This, it will be said, proves at once that Dr. Marshall was not what is called “a genius.” Well, no one ever pretended that he was. A man may be both admirable and unique without having one spark of real genius; and a man may have graces of style, with highly cultured arts of fascination, and yet be no more than just sufficiently original to attract a marked popular attention. Few men attain even to this standard; and certainly, as writers of controversy, very few men even approach to it. What we assert is that to be “controversially unique” a writer must be exceptional in certain ways, and especially in the two ways we have particularized—namely, light quoting and light writing. We return, then, to the opinion that for neatness of phraseology; for the “art,” if you will, of suave cuttingness; for the clever combination of the caustic with the calm, of the profoundly indisputable with the playful, Dr. Marshall was really remarkable. He could say a thing quietly which, if robbed of its quietness, would have been, perhaps, a veritable insult. Perhaps it was the more pungent because quiet; and here we touch the third and last of the literary characteristics which we propose to notice briefly at this time.

“Milk and gall are not a pleasing combination,” observed a gentleman—who was an Anglican at the time—after reading _Our Protestant Contemporaries_. He added that he did not care for milk—he was too old to find it sufficiently stimulating—but he objected to gall, at least when it was directed against some favorite convictions of his own mind. Most persons will agree with this old gentleman, who, however, became a convert to the church. Yet it may be said that there are two apologies which may be offered for this defect—if defect, indeed, it be—of “milk and gall.” First, let it be remembered that the keen perception of the ridiculous, which is generally a characteristic of superior minds, finds its richest exploration in what, from a certain point of view, may be regarded as those immense fields of folly which are popularly denominated English Protestantism. To the humorous mind there is nothing so humorous as the mental gymnastics of Protestants. To suppress this humorous sense becomes impossible to any writer who does not look on gloom as a duty. Dr. Newman only suppresses it in this way: that his huge mind works above the mere playground, or avoids it as too provocative of games. He descended into it once in _Loss and Gain_, and he became fairly romping towards the close; now and then, too, we can detect the laughing spirit which only veils itself, for decorum, in his grave writings; but he feels probably that _his_ weapons are too sharp to need satire, for he is not a controversialist, but a reasoner. When he does, for the moment, write satire, he shows what he could do, if he would; but we are glad that the normal attitude of his mind is rather didactic than playful.

Of lesser writers we cannot expect that their discrimination should be hampered by a grave sense of doctorship; it is not necessary that they should sit in professors’ chairs; they are writing for the million, whose perceptions of what is true must be aided by their perceptions of what is false. Moreover, the English mind, not being normally humorous—which is a great national loss in all respects—requires to be jolted and jerked into an attitude which would be most useful for the intelligence of truth. If we could only get Englishmen to see the comedy of heresy, they might soon want the gravity of truth; but they are constitutionally dull in apprehending those fallacies which southern peoples can see through in a moment. Now, a writer who can teach Englishmen to laugh at their Protestantism, to appreciate its anomalies and its shams, to see the difference between a parson and a priest, between ten thousand opinions and one faith, and generally to get rid of morbid sentiment and prejudice, and to look at things in a thoroughly healthful way, has “taken a line” which is as salutary for feeble souls as is bright mountain air for feeble bodies. Dr. Marshall used to laugh _with_ Protestants at their shams much more than he used to laugh _at_ the victims. But it is true that there was sometimes an acerbity in his remarks which gave offence to those who loved not the humor. Could this be helped? Be it remembered that acerbity, in the apparent mood of expression, is often more intellectual than it is moral; it is simply an attitude of conviction, or it is the natural vexation of a profound religious faith which cannot calm itself when protesting against folly. Nor do we think it at all probable that, if there were _no_ gall in controversy, more converts would be made to the truth. And, after all, what do we mean by the word “gall”? Is humor gall? Is satire gall? Is even acerbity, when it is obviously but vexation, a fatal undoing of good? Much will depend on the mood of the reader. Some readers like spice and cayenne even in their “religious” opponents. Most readers know that mere literary temperament cannot make a syllogism out of a fallacy. All readers distinguish between caprices of temperament and the attitude of the reason and the soul. It is only on account of the mental babes among Protestants that it is to be regretted that all Catholics are human. For the ordinary, strong reader a good dash of human nature is much better than is too much of “the angel.” Take mankind for what they are, and we like the honesty of the irritation which sometimes puts the gall into the milk. It might be desirable that our first parent had not fallen. If he had not fallen we should not have had controversy. But since he has fallen, and since we must have controversy, we must also of necessity have gall.[183]

We have only to express regret that so useful a writer as Dr. Marshall has passed away out of the ranks of controversialists. As a speaker, too, Dr. Marshall was most delightful; indeed, he spoke quite as well as he wrote. At the time when he was in the United States it was thought by some persons that Dr. Marshall was quite the model of a speaker; for he was at once gentle and commanding, refined yet highly pungent, scholarly yet most easy to be understood. These praises were allowed by every one to be his due. We have, then, to lament the loss of a really richly-gifted Catholic, who, though an Englishman, was cosmopolitan. And when we remember that such men as Dr. Marshall (with Dr. Faber, or Mr. Allies, or Canon Oakeley) were born Protestant—intensely Protestant—Englishmen, we can appreciate what was involved in their conversion to the church, both in the intellectual and in the purely social sense. Conversion means more than a change of conviction to such Englishmen as have been born of Protestant parents; it means the revolution of the whole life of the _man_, as well as of the whole life of the Christian. Such men seem to be born over again. When they have passed away we can say for them, with as much hope as charity, _Requiescant in pace_.

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PAPAL ELECTIONS.