CHAPTER VIII.

AN ARRIVAL.

If Mr. Vane and the Signora felt any difficulty in meeting each other the next morning, it was soon over. _Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coûte_, and that one step brought them into the familiar path again, almost as though they had never left it. Almost, but not quite; for the entire unconsciousness of Mr. Vane’s manner impressed the lady strongly. It did not give her a new idea of him, but it emphasized the impressions she had for some time been receiving. She had never believed him to be so careless and indifferent as he often appeared to be, but it had grown upon her, little by little, that under that calm, and even _nonchalant_, exterior was hidden an immense self-control and watchfulness; that he could ignore things when he chose so perfectly that it was difficult to believe he had not forgotten them; and that, instead of being one of the most unobserving of men, he was, in reality, aware of everything that went on about him, seeing much which escaped ordinary lookers-on.

Such a disposition in a person in whose honesty we have not entire confidence is disconcerting, and increases our distrust of them; but it excites in us a greater interest when we know them to be honest and friendly. If they have had sorrows, we look at them with a tenderer sympathy, searching for signs of a suffering which they will not express; if they have revealed a peculiar affection for us, we feel either sweetly protected or painfully haunted by an attention which seldom betrays itself, and which will not be evaded.

The Signora could not have said clearly whether she was pleased or displeased. Mr. Vane had mistaken the nature of her sympathy, she thought, and, believing her to be attached to him, had spoken from gratitude; and though the conviction hurt her pride, she could not feel any resentment for a mistake kindly made on his part, and promptly corrected on hers. The only wise course was to put the matter completely out of her mind, as he seemed to have done, and to secure and enjoy the friendship she had no fear of his withdrawing.

Isabel was greatly exercised in her mind that morning on the subject of insects.

“I made up my mind in the middle of the night what I should do if I ever built a house in Italy,” she said. “I should have every stick and stone on the place carried away, a deep trench dug all around the land, and a high wall built all around the trench. Then I should have the whole surface of the ground covered with combustible material, and a fire kindled over it. When that had burned a day or two, I should have cellars, wells, drains, everything that had to be excavated, made thoroughly, and the garden-plot well turned over. Then I should have a second conflagration, covering everything. Next would come the house-building. For that every stone should be washed and fumigated before it was brought in at the gate, and all the earth and gravel should be baked in a furnace, and every tree and shrub, and cart and donkey and workman, should be washed seven times; and finally, when the house should be finished as to the stone-work and plaster, I would have it drenched inside and out with spirits of wine, and set fire to. By taking those precautions I believe that one might have a place free of fleas. What do you think, Signora?”

“My dear, I think you would have had your labor for your pains,” was the reply. “These little creatures would hop over your walls, come in snugly hidden in your furniture, ride grandly in on the horses and in the coaches of your visitors, and even enter triumphantly on your own person. They are invincible. One must have patience.”

“I would continue to burn the place over, furniture and all, till I had routed them,” the young woman declared. “I believe it could be done. I would have patience, but it should be the patience of continual resistance, not of submission. I would not give up though I should reduce the place to ashes.”

Mr. Vane asked his daughter if she ever heard of such a process as biting off one’s nose to spite one’s face; and then he told her a very pathetic story of a man and a flea: “Once there was a man who was greatly tormented by a flea which he could never catch. In vain he searched his garments and the house. The insect hopped from place to place, but always returned as soon as the search was over. At length, in a fit of impatience, the man hit upon a desperate project, which he did not doubt would succeed. He went softly to the seashore and, after waiting till the enemy was plainly to be felt between his shoulders, flung himself headlong into the water. But, alas! engrossed by the one thought of vengeance, he had not calculated his own peril. The waters drew him away from shore in spite of his struggles, and just as they were closing over him, with his last glimpse of earth, he saw the flea, which had hopped from him on to a passing plank, floating safely to shore again.”

“The moral is――” Mr. Vane was concluding, when his daughter interrupted him.

“I maintain that the man conquered!” she exclaimed. “That flea could never bite him again.”

This uncomfortable talk was carried on in the house, which naturally suggested it. But when they went out of doors, they left it behind them. The quaint, zigzag streets; the countless number of odd nooks in every direction; the narrow vistas here and there between close rows of houses, where a wedge of distant mountain, as blue as a lump of lapis-lazuli, seemed to be thrust between the very walls, or where the rough gray ribbon of the street became a ribbon of flowery green, silvering off into the horizon, with a city showing on it far away no larger than a daisy; the people in the streets, and all about, whose simple naturalness was more astonishing than the most unnatural behavior could have been――all these kept their eyes and minds alert.

In the midst of the town stands the church, the houses clustering about it like children about their mother’s knees. Some little children were playing on the steps outside; inside, a group of women, with white handkerchiefs on their heads, were kneeling about a confessional, waiting their turns. One of them, who had confessed, came slowly away, and went toward the high altar, touching here and there with a small staff she carried, her eyes looking straight ahead.

The Signora stepped quickly forward to remove a chair from her path. “You are blind!” she whispered pitifully.

The old woman smiled, and turned toward the voice a face of serious sweetness, as she made the reply of St. Clara: “She is not blind who sees God!”

She reached the altar-railing, and knelt there to wait for the Mass. Where she knelt the one sunbeam that found its way into the church so early fell over her. Feeling its warmth like a gentle touch, she lifted her face to it and smiled again.

The children, weary of their play, came in and wandered about the church. One, finding its mother among the penitents, went to lean on her lap. She smoothed its pretty curls absently with one hand, while the other slipped bead after bead of her chaplet, her lips moving rapidly. Another, seeing the hand of the priest resting on the door of the confessional, just under the curtain, went to kiss it, standing on tiptoe, and straining up to reach the fingers with its baby mouth. A third, seeing some one near it kneel before the altar, made a liliputian genuflection, and went down on its knees in the middle of the church, a mere dot in that space, and remained there looking innocently about, uncomprehending but unquestioning. Another dreamed along the side of the church, looking at the familiar pictures, and presently, climbing with some difficulty the steps of one of the altars, seated itself and began softly to stroke the cheeks of a marble cherub that supported the altar-table.

If a company of baby angels had come in, they would not have made less noise nor done less harm; perhaps, would not have done more good.

“How peaceful it is!” Mr. Vane exclaimed as they went out into the air again. “How heavenly peaceful!”

They saw only women and children on their way down through the town. Some of the men had gone off in the night to Rome, carrying wine in those carts of theirs, with the awning slung like a galley-sail over the driver’s seat, and the cluster of bells atop, each tinkling in a different tone, and the little white dog keeping watch over the barrels while the man dozed. Others had gone at day-dawn to work in the Campagna, and might be seen from the town moving, as small as spiders, among the vines or in the gardens.

Just below the great piazza, at the entrance of the town, beside the dip of the road into the hollow between _Monte Compatri_ and _Monte San Sylvestro_, a long, tiled roof was visible supported on arches. They leaned over the parapet supporting the road, and watched for a little while the lively scene below. All the space beneath this roof was an immense tank of water, or fountain, as it was called, divided into square compartments. Around these stood forty or fifty women washing. They soaped and dipped their clothes in the constantly-changing water, and beat them on the wide stone border of the fountain, working leisurely, and chatting with each other. The white handkerchiefs on their heads, and, now and then, a bit of bright drapery on their shoulders, shone out of the shadow made by the roof and the piers supporting it, and the rich green of that sheltered nook between the hills. It was, in fact, the town wash-tub, and this was the town wash-day. In this place the women washed the year round, in the open air, and with cold water, spreading their clothes out to dry on the grass and bushes.

The travellers went up _Monte San Sylvestro_, gathering flowers as they went. The path was rough and wild, winding to and fro among the bushes as it climbed, and hidden, from time to time, by tall trees. Half way up they met a man with a herd of goats rushing and tumbling down the steep way. A little farther on, at a turn of the road, was a large shrine holding a crucifix. The place seemed to be an absolute solitude, but the withered flowers drooping from the wire screen, and the sod, worn to dust, at the foot of the step, showed that faith and love had passed that way, and stopped in passing. Near this shrine was a protruding ledge, from under which the gravel had dropped away or been dug away, leaving a sort of cave. The place needed only a gray-bearded old man clad in rags, and bending over an open book, an hour-glass before him, and perhaps a lion lying at his feet. Or one might have placed there the Magdalen, with her long hair trailing in the sand, and her woful eyes looking off into the distant east, as she gazed across the blue ocean from her cave on the coast of France. There was still faith enough in this region to have honored and protected such a penitent.

The three women gathered some green to go with their flowers, cleared away all the withered stems and leaves, and wrote in pink and white and blue around the edge of the screen. When they had done all that they could well reach, Mr. Vane finished for them by writing last, over the head of the crucifix, the word that in reality came first. Then they went on, leaving the symbol of all that Heaven could do for earth encircled by the expression of all that earth can do for Heaven――“_Credo, Spero, Amo, Ringrazio, Pento_.” They wrote these words in flowers, Bianca weaving a verdant Hope at the right hand, Isabel a white Thanksgiving at the left, and the Signora placing a rose-red Love and Penitence under the feet. Over the head Mr. Vane had set in blue the word of Faith.

The summit of the mountain was crowned with the convent and church of St. Sylvester; but the buildings extended quite to the edge of the platform on the eastern side, and the fine view was from the gardens on the west side, and, of course, inaccessible to ladies. They could only obtain glimpses over the tops of trees that climbed from below, and through the trunks of trees that pressed close to the corners of the stone barriers. No person was visible but a monk in a brown robe and a broad-brimmed hat, who lingered near a moment, as if to give them an opportunity to speak to him if they wished, then entered a long court leading to the convent door, and disappeared under the portico.

A perfect silence reigned. They heard nothing but their own steps on the grassy pavement. The town of _Monte Compatri_, seen through the trees on the other height, looked more like a gray rock than a city. Not a sign of life was visible from it. The glimpses they caught of the Campagna had seemed fragments of a vast green solitude where grass had long overgrown the traces of men. No smallest cloud gave life or motion to the steady blue overhead; no song of bird wove a silver link between familiar scenes and that solemn retreat. The soul, stripped of its veiling cares and interests, was like Moses on the mountain, face to face with God. History, mythology, poetry――they were not! The buzzing of these golden bees that made the brow of Tusculum their hive was inaudible and forgotten. On this height was a station-house of eternity, and the electric current of the other world flowed through its blue and silent air.

“It seems to me one should prepare one’s mind before going there,” Bianca said, looking back from the foot of the mountain, after they had descended. They had scarcely spoken a word going down.

The impression made on them was, indeed, so strong that they scarcely observed anything about them for several hours; and it was only when they were going down to Frascati again in the afternoon that they roused themselves from their silence.

“We shall have time to go into Villa Aldobrandini a little while,” the Signora said, looking at her watch. “The train does not start for more than an hour. We can send the man on to the station with our bags, and walk down ourselves. Of course all these villas have very nearly the same view, but this is the finest of all.”

They had time for a short visit only, but their guide made the most of it. Going round one of the circling avenues, dark with ancient ilex-trees, she turned into a cross-road that led directly to the upper centre of the villa, where the cascades began. First, from under a tomb-like door in the side of a mound, flowed a swift ribbon of water between stone borders. It slanted with the hill, and flashed along silent in the sunshine, eager to leap through the mouth of the great mask below, to scatter its spray over carven stone and a hundred flowers.

They followed the cascades down to the lower front, with its niches, statues, chapel, and chambers, and the noble _casino_ facing it.

“Every story of the house, as you go up,” the Signora said, “brings you on a level with a new cascade, and from the topmost room you look into the heart of the upper thicket, where you might imagine yourself unseen. Indeed, splendid as these scenes are, there is, to me, a constant sense of discomfort in that frequent appearance of solitude where solitude is not. There seems to be no nook, however apparently remote, which is not perfectly overlooked from some almost invisible watch-tower. It may be necessary, but the suggestion is of suspicion and espionage.”

They left the villa by the front avenue and lawn, walking through grass and flowers ankle deep, and gathering handfuls of dear, familiar pennyroyal that they found growing all about.

When they reached the station there was yet a little time to wait, and they stood in the western windows and looked off to the distant ridges that showed their dark edges against intervening layers of silvery mist. They were ridges of jewels, marked thickly with spires, towers, and palaces. At the left the dome of the world’s temple was visible, making everything else of its sort puny, and next it, like the outline of a forest against the sky, the Quirinal stretched its royal front. All floated in that delicate mist that, from the distance, always veils the Campagna, as if the innumerable ghosts of the past became luminous when so seen, evading for ever the nearer spectator.

Framing this distant picture, a hill of olives at one side of the station-house sloped to a hill of vines at the other, and the railroad track, set in roses, curved round in the narrow strip of land between them.

The Signora, putting her arm around Bianca, and pointing to one of these ridges, whispered in her ear: “What does my darling think that is――the two dark spots shaped like two thimbles, and about as large, and the something that might be a lead-pencil standing up between them? What blessed _campanile_ and twin _cupole_ do you wish them to be?”

“Oh! I was searching for them,” the girl exclaimed, and kissed her hand to the far-away basilica. “We must go there a few minutes this evening,” she added――“go up the steps, at least, if it should be too late to go in.”

They started, and went trailing along through the enchanted land, happy to return to the city that already seemed to them like home, and, having learnt some landmarks in their outward passage, added to the number of their acquisitions in returning. The Signora indicated the principal tombs and named the aqueducts. “There are the Claudian and Marcian, side by side, galloping over the plain like a pair of coursers, each bringing a lake in its veins to quench the thirst of Rome. Sixtus V., who built our chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, Bianca, used those Claudian arches to bring a new stream in when the old one failed. It is called Aqua Felice. His name was Felice Peretti.”

“_Stia felice!_” said Bianca, smiling at the grand old arches.

“In what a circle water goes,” she added after a moment, “and what a beautiful circle!――down in the rain, running in the river, where the wheel touches the earth, rising on the sunbeams, running in clouds, where the wheel touches the sky, dropping in rain again, and so on round and round.”

“Apropos of Sixtus V.,” the Signora said to Mr. Vane, “see how the church recognizes and rewards merit. It is, in fact, the only true republic. That wonderful man was a swineherd in Montalto when he was a boy, and Cardinal of Montalto when he was a man, and he died one of the most brilliant popes that ever wore the tiara. One cannot help wondering what the boy Felice thought of in those days when he watched the swine, and if ever a vision came to him of kings kneeling to kiss his feet. And, more yet, I wonder what thoughts the mother had of his future when she watched over her sleeping child, or looked after him when he went out to his day’s task. He could not have been so great but that his mother gave the first impulse. One does not gather figs of thistles.”

“I agree with you about the mother,” Mr. Vane replied cordially. “I don’t believe any man ever accomplished much of real worth in life without his mother having set him on the track of it. Sometimes a noble mother has a son who does not do justice to her example and teaching. But even then, if her duty has been fully done, she may be sure that he is the better for it, though not so good as he should be. I am sure I owe it to my mother that, though my life has not benefited the world much, my sins have been rather of omission than of commission. Come to think of it, I have never done her any particular credit; but I am happy to be able to say that I have never done her any great discredit.”

While he spoke, his face half-turned toward the window, his manner more energetic than was usual with him, the large blue eyes of the Signora rested on him with an expression of grave kindness and interest. When he ended, she leaned slightly toward him, smiling, and tossed him a rose she had drawn from her belt, repeating Bianca’s exclamation: “_Stia felice!_”

His fingers closed on the stem of the rose which had touched his hand, and he held it, but did not turn his face, seeming to wait for her to go on.

“You should read Padre Ventura,” she said, “though, indeed, you have less need than most men. I would like to put his _La Donna Cattolica_ into the hands of every Catholic――yes, and of every Protestant. I would like the Woman’s Rights women, and those who think that Christianity and the church have degraded us, and some Catholics too, to learn from St. Chrysostom, St. Jerome, and Gregory the Great what estimate Christian women should be held in. It would do them good to read the works of this eloquent priest, who speaks with authority, and ennobles himself in honoring the sisters of the Queen of angels. Padre Ventura must have had a beautiful soul. I fancy that his ashes even must be whiter than the ashes of most men. I always judge men’s characters by their estimate of women, and what they seek in women by what they say is to be found in them.”

“This author is dead, then?” Mr. Vane remarked, looking attentively at the Signora in his turn.

“Yes. He died years before I had ever heard his name. When you have read something of his, you may like to visit his tomb in St. Andrea delle Valle. The stone over his sepulchre is in the pavement, about half way up the nave, and there’s a fine monument in the transept on the epistle side. I wish every Christian woman who visits Rome would drop a flower on the stone that covers all that was earthly of that man, and remember for a moment the place he assigns her in her home and in the world. ‘The man,’ he says, ‘is the king of the family; the woman is the priest.’”

She was silent, pursuing the subject mentally, then added: “He says so many beautiful things. Describing the different kinds of courage with which the Christian martyrs and certain celebrated pagans met death, he speaks of one as ‘the modesty and humility that throws itself into the arms of hope, to rest there,’ and the other as ‘the pride that immolates itself to desperation, in order to lose itself there.’ One he calls ‘the sublime of virtue,’ and the other ‘the sublime of vice.’ He had mentioned Socrates and Cato in the connection.”

They had reached the station while this talk was going on, and, coming out into the piazza, separated there, the Signora and Bianca coming down by one of the fine new streets to pay a visit to their basilica on the way home. They found the door just closed, it being half an hour before _Ave Maria_; but it was a pleasure to walk a while on the long platform at the head of the steps, bathed in the red gold of the setting sun, that gilded, but did not scorch; to look up at the fringe of pink flowers growing in spikes at the top of the façade, and at the flocks of little gray birds that flew about among them; and to glance up or down the streets that stretched off like rays from the sun, and then to stroll slowly homeward through the lounging, motley crowd.

They met Mr. Vane and Isabel at the door.

“Did you think we also might not visit a church?” Isabel said. “I invited papa to go into St. Bernard’s, and, though they were about closing, they kept open ten minutes for us. I am not sure but I may adopt that church as my favorite. It is not too large. The congregations are orderly, and all attend to one service; and, besides, I like a rotunda. If I should go there, papa, you must side with me, that the house may be equally divided.”

“I’m not sure I like those cherubic churches, all head and no nave,” Mr. Vane replied. “The basilica, being modelled on the human body, has a more human feeling.”

The door opened before they rang, and the servants, having been on the watch, welcomed them with smiling faces, kissing the hand of the Signora. It was impossible not to believe in, and be touched by, their sincerity and affection, which expressed themselves, not in looks and words alone, but in actions. The house showed plainly, by its exquisite cleanliness, that the absence of the mistress had not been a holiday for them; and they had prepared everything they could to please her, even to filling all the smaller vases with her favorite flowers.

“You haven’t been spending your money for violets, you extravagant children!” she exclaimed.

They had been watching to see if she would notice them, and were delighted with her surprise and pleasure.

No, they had not spent money, but only time and strength. They had gathered the flowers themselves in Villa Borghese.

“I do not take on myself to decide great social questions,” the Signora said, as they sat talking over their supper. “I could not decide them if I would. But this I must think: that, in most cases, little happiness is to be found for people except in the position in which they were born. Look at these two good creatures who serve us. Their parents before them were servants, and they do not expect or wish to be anything more. They want the rights their claim to which they understand perfectly――fair wages, not too hard work, and an occasional holiday. They know that the fatigues of the great, the wealthy, and the ambitious are greater than theirs, though of a different sort. If wealth were to drop upon them, they would grasp it, no doubt, but it would embarrass them. They would never strive for it. Do you know, I find their position dignified, even when they black my shoes. It’s a nicer thing to do than toadying for fine friends, or striving for place, or gnawing one’s heart out with envy.”

Mr. Vane smiled slightly.

“How is it about your swineherd, who changed his rough straw hat for a triple crown, and had the royalty and nobility of centuries come to kiss the foot that once hadn’t even a shoe to it?”

“Oh!” she replied, “the church is the beginning of the kingdom of heaven on earth, and the meek and the poor in spirit possess it already. Besides, I always make exception of those whom God has especially endowed with gifts of nature or grace, or with both. Besides, again, this man did not seek greatness; it was conferred on him.”

Isabel felt called on to show her colors.

“America for ever!” she said. “Europe will do very well for the great, and for those who are willing to remain small; but in _my_ country there’s a fair field for everybody. Everybody there is born to as high a position as he can work his way to, and his destiny is not in the beginning of his life, but in the end of it. We are like Adams and Eves new-made, and dominion is given us over the garden of the new world.”

She paused for breath, and the Signora applauded. “Brava! I am willing you should defeat me. I will call America not only the garden, but the nursery-garden, of the new world, if you like. Long live your seedlings!”

“How would you like it,” the girl went on, rather red in the cheeks――“how would you like it, if you had been born in some very humble position in life, instead of in the position of a lady, to have some one tell you not to try to rise, but to stay where you were? Just take it to yourself.”

“If I had been so born I should have been a different sort of person, and cannot say how I should have felt,” the Signora replied tranquilly. “If I had been a product of generations of obedience, instead of generations of command, do not you see that the marriages would have been different, the habits, the traditions, the education, everything but the immortal spark and the common human nature? Or, if I had been like what I am now, I think I should have looked for, and found, the beauties and pleasures in my path.” She had been speaking very quietly, but here she drew herself up a little, and a slight color rose to her face as she went on: “I have never striven for any of those things the chase of which seems so mean to me. It has never occurred to me that I might be honored by any association, except with a person either very good or very highly gifted by nature. The only rank which impresses me is that in the church. For the rest――you have heard the expression, ‘a distinction without a difference.’”

Isabel gave a puzzled sigh. “I never could understand you,” she said, a little impatiently. “Sometimes you seem to me the haughtiest of women; sometimes I think you not half proud enough. One moment you seem to be a red republican, the next an aristocrat. I can’t make out what you really are. You graduate your bows to an inch, according to the rank you salute. I’ve seen your eyes flash lightning at a person for being too familiar toward you; and then I find you talking about the rights of the people almost like a communist.”

The Signora was crumbling a bit of bread while she listened, and did not look up in answering: “I am quite ashamed of having made myself the subject of conversation for so long a time. Excuse me! Shall we go out to the _loggia_ for a little while? It is very warm here.”

“Permit me!” Mr. Vane interposed. He had been looking at his daughter with great displeasure. “I would say, Isabel, that when you shall have thought and learned more, you will, I hope, understand the Signora better than you do now, and will try to imitate the justice which can give to all their due, and not rob Peter to pay Paul. Moreover, I would remind you that an intrusive familiarity is not a right of any one, even to an inferior. And now, Signora, shall we go to the _loggia_?”

Perhaps it was because she had never before been so sharply criticised to her face; but the Signora had, certainly, never before known how pleasant it is to be defended. This pleasure showed itself in her manner as they went out. She usually held herself rather erect, and had an air of composure which might easily be called pride; but now there was a slight drooping of the head and bending of the form which gave her an appearance of softness, as of one who droops content under a protecting shadow. It was a softness which she, perhaps, needed.

They heard the door-bell ringing as they went up the _loggia_ steps, and presently an exclamation in Isabel’s clear voice. She had not followed them, they now perceived, being a little displeased or hurt at the reproof to which she had been subjected.

“Who can have come?” said the Signora, listening. “It seems to be some one whom Isabel knows.”

Bianca stood at the railing and looked intently at the windows of the _sala_, faintly lighted from the room beyond. Two figures passed through the dimness and disappeared. They might be coming to the _loggia_, or they might be going to the sofa under that picture of Penelope and Ulysses――the Signora and Mr. Vane, both a little preoccupied, did not notice or care which. If any one wished to see them, he could come to them.

Bianca, alone, stood looking steadily. The full moon, shining in her face, had showed it for one moment as red as a rose; but as the minutes passed, that lovely color faded, growing paler, till it was whiter than the light that veiled it, sparkling like silver on its beautiful outlines. Where was the sweet confidence that had been growing up in her heart for the last few weeks? Gone like a cloud-house built on a cloud. She was terrified at the fear and pain that had taken the place of it, and began to lose sight of the cause in trembling at the magnitude of the effect.

“It is surely wrong that anything in the world should make me feel so,” she murmured. “What have I been doing? I must have thought of this too much, and now is come my punishment. Here in Rome, where we shall stay but a few months, I ought to have given all my mind and heart to religion. It is a shame that I have not. I do not deserve the privilege of being here.”

She strove to gather about her mind the sacred thoughts and associations which the Christian finds in the heart of the Christian world, to dwarf with the grand interests of eternity the passing interests of time, and she was in some measure successful, to the extent, at least, of inspiring herself with resolution, if not with peace.

“Oh! how terrible is life,” she said, looking upward, as if to escape the sight of it. “How it catches us unawares, sometimes, and wrings the blood out of our hearts!” The prayer that always rose to her lips in any necessity, “We fly to thy patronage,” escaped them now; and then she swiftly and firmly read to herself her lesson: “I will be friendly and gentle toward him. I will neither seek him nor shrink from him, nor show any foolish consciousness, if I can help it; and I will not be angry with Isabel. If he should care for me in the way I have thought, he will come every step of the way for me; if he should not, I shall not win either respect or affection by putting myself in his way. For the rest, I will trust my future with God.”

“Bianca,” said her sister’s voice at her elbow, “who do you think has come?”

Whatever might happen, it was a pleasure to meet him, and there was no effort or embarrassment in her greeting. That moment of pain and recollection had lifted her merely earthly affection so that it became touched with the serious sweetness of heavenly charity, as the mist, lifting at morning from the bosom of the river, where it has hung through the dark hours, grows silver in the upper light. She held out her hand and smiled. “You are welcome! Papa, here is an old friend of ours.”

The Signora was instantly all attention. Her own affairs were quite forgotten in those of her beloved young favorite. She was eager to see this man, to watch him, to understand him. If he should suit her and be good to Bianca, there was nothing she would not do for him; if he should be lacking in principle, or in kindness to her darling, woe to him! She would most certainly――

And here, just as she was meditating in what way she could most fittingly punish him without hurting any one else, he turned, at Mr. Vane’s introduction, and saluted her with a smile and glance that won her completely. It was not the meeting of two strangers. He had thought of his lady’s guardian with almost as much interest, perhaps, as she had thought of her friend’s lover, and had expected to find in her either a help or a hindrance. Her searching regard had not disconcerted, then, but reassured him rather.

The Signora soon made an excuse to go into the house a moment, and left the Vanes and their visitor to renew their intercourse without interruption, and go through the mutual questioning of friends reunited after many and varied experiences. Returning quietly after a while, she stood in a corner of the _loggia_ and observed them. Mr. Vane sat with a daughter at either side, and Marion stood opposite them, leaning back against the railing and talking. The moon shone in his face and flowed down his form, investing both, or revealing in both, a beauty inexpressibly noble and graceful. One might say that he looked as if he had been formed to music. A gold bronze color in his hair showed where the light struck fully, a flash of dusky blue came now and then from under his thick eye-lashes, and when he smiled one knew that his teeth were perfect and snowy white. His voice, too, was very pleasant, with a sound of laughter in it when he talked gayly――a laughter like that we fancy in a brook. It was as though his thoughts and fancies sparkled as they passed into the air.

“He is certainly fascinating,” the Signora thought. “I hope he does not try to be so.”

He did not. No one could be more unconscious of the effect produced by what was personal in his talk than Marion. If he sometimes appeared, while talking, almost to forget his company, it was not because he thought of himself, but because he was absorbed in his subject. He saw plainly before his eyes that which he described, and he made others see it. Bright, animated, varied, passing, not abruptly, but with the grace of a bird that swims through the air, and alights for a moment, now here, now there, on a tree, a shrine, a house-top, a mountain-top, a window-ledge with an inside view, he carried his listeners along with him, charmed and unconscious of time. He knew that they were pleased, but gave the credit to the subject, and thought nothing of himself. He would have kept silent if he had believed he could be thought talking for effect.

The Signora stood a smiling and unseen listener to his description of his journey, and felt her sympathy and admiration increase every moment for the man who, in a hackneyed experience, had seen so much at every moment that was fresh and new, and, travelling the beaten ways of life, had found gems among the worn pebbles, had even broken the pebbles themselves, and revealed a precious color sparkling inside.

“If only he could find so much in worn and hackneyed people!” she thought. “If he could compel the cold, the conventional, and the mean to break the dull crust that has accumulated around the original nature of them, what a boon it would be! There must be something tolerable, perhaps a capacity for becoming even admirable, left in the lowest. I would like to have him point it out or call it out; for sometimes my charity fails.”

His recital finished, he stood an instant silent, looking down; then a swift glance probed the shadowed corner where the Signora stood, showing that he had all the while known she was there. It was not the inquisitive nor intrusive look of one who wishes to show a knowledge of what another has tried to hide from him, but a pleasant glance that sought her presence, and begged her not to separate herself from them.

She came forward immediately, more pleased at the frank invitation than if he had pretended to be unaware of her presence.

“I feel bound, in honor, to declare my intentions to you, Signora,” he said; “for you may look on me as a foe when you know them, and it is but right you should have fair warning. I have been told that you are disposed to win this family for Rome, and I am equally disposed to keep them in America. I should despair of success in such a rivalry but that I believe I have right on my side. Is it peace or war?”

“Peace,” she replied. “I cannot war against right, and I ought not to wish against it. Moreover, since the family are the majority, and have free will, we can only try to influence, but must leave them to decide. I am sorry, though, that you distrust Rome so.”

“Oh! it is not that,” he said quickly, “though, indeed, I do distrust Rome for some people――or rather, I distrust some people for Rome. I have known cases of the most deplorable deterioration of character here in persons who were considered at home a little better than the average. But that was not my thought in this instance. I hope our friends will return to America for other reasons. No one should, it seems to me, expatriate himself without a sort of necessity. The native land assigned us by Providence would seem to be the theatre in which it is our duty to act, and one of the motives of our visits to other countries should be to enrich our own with whatever of good we may find there. Every country needs its children; but America particularly needs all her good citizens, and the church in America needs good Catholics. That is not a true Christian who spends a whole life abroad without necessity. The climate is not an excuse, for we have every climate; economy has ceased to be a sufficient motive; and mere pleasure is no reason for a Catholic to give.”

“What, then, may be considered a good reason?” the Signora asked, wondering if she were to be included in the catalogue of the condemned.

“An artist may study here a good many years,” was the reply. “The sculptor or the painter finds here his school. But I maintain that when the sculptor and painter are out of school, and begin to work in the strength of their own genius, if they have any, their place and their subjects are to be found in their own land. If they stay here they will never come to anything. They will only produce trite and worn-out imitations. The writer has a longer mission here, perhaps the longest; for thoughts are at home in every land, and that is the best where thoughts can best clothe themselves in words. There is another class who must be allowed to choose for themselves, though it would be better if they would choose to endure to the end in their own country――that is, certain tender souls from whom have been stripped friends and home, leaving them bare to a world that wounds them too much. Here, I have been assured and can well believe, they find a contentment not possible to them anywhere else. Their imaginations had flown here in childhood and youth, and had unconsciously made a nest to which they could themselves follow at need, and find a sort of repose. If they have not the courage or the strength to stay in the midst of our ceaseless, and sometimes even merciless, activity, I have not a word of blame for them. I would not breathe, even gently, against the bruised reeds.”

He spoke with such tender feeling that for a moment no one said anything; then he added, smiling: “I hope the Signora does not think me too dogmatic.”

“I think you are quite right,” she replied.

“You have forgotten one large class of Americans who may be excused, and even lauded and encouraged, for taking up a permanent residence in Europe,” Mr. Vane said.

“What, pray?”

“Snobs,” he replied solemnly.

The subject was whirled away on a little laugh, and a change of position showed them Annunciata on the shadowed side of the _loggia_, making coffee at a little table there, at the same time that Adreano offered them ices and cake. The place where the girl stood was quite darkened by the wall of Carlin’s studio and by an over-growing grape-vine, and the moonlight about revealed of her only a dark outline. But the flame of the spirit she was burning threw a pale blue light into her face and over her hands, flickering so that the light seemed rather to shine from, than on, her.

“It looks Plutonian,” Marion said. “We are, perhaps, on a visit to Proserpine.”

“Speaking of Proserpine reminds, me of pomegranate-seeds,” the Signora said; “and pomegranate-seeds remind me of something I heard very prettily said last summer by a very pretty young lady. We were in Subiaco, and had risen very early in the morning to go up to the church of St. Benedict. I noticed that Lily was very serious and silent, so did not speak, but only looked at her while we waited a little in the _sala_ for another member of our party. She walked slowly up and down, and seemed to be praying; presently, as if recollecting that we had a difficult climb before us, she seated herself near a table on which a servant had just piled up the fruit she had been buying. Among it was a pomegranate, broken open, and bleeding a drop or two of crimson juice out on to the dark wood. Lily drew a small, pointed leaf from an orange stem, and made a knife of it to separate the grains of the pomegranate, presently lifted one, and then another, and another to her mouth. I only thought how pretty her daintiness was as she absently fed like a bird, when all at once she turned as crimson as the juicy grain she had just eaten, and sprang up from the table, throwing the leaf away, and uttering an exclamation of such distress that I thought she must have been poisoned. Her exclamation was odd: ‘O Pluto!’

“‘You see,’ she explained after a minute, ‘I was saying the rosary, and had finished it, when I caught sight of the fruit here. And I thought then that, though our prayers may be flowers before the throne, our actions are fruits. Then I sat down to look at the pomegranate, and wondered what sort of a good action it was like; and while I wondered, I got tangled in a thicket of similitudes, and wandered off into mythology; and as I divided the grains I remembered poor Proserpine, and how Pluto, who knew well she could not leave him after having eaten, induced her to eat three pomegranate grains. I wondered if they were just like these, and how they tasted to her, and put one and another in my mouth, imagining myself in her place, and that presently my mother would come seeking me, and want to carry me back to heaven with her, and would find that I could not go because of these same pomegranate seeds. And then, my mind catching on the word Mother, which I had just been repeating on my rosary so many times, I remembered the Mother of God, and began to search for some Christian meaning in the myth. I thought Ceres was the giver of wheat and grain, therefore of bread, and Mary gave us the Bread of Life. Ceres came searching and mourning for her daughter, snatched away by the prince of darkness, and Mary watches and prays over those whom the enemy has snatched away from the garden of God, and who cry out to her for help. Ceres found that her daughter, having tasted of the fruit of the lower regions, was bound to spend one-half of her life there. Before I had time to find a Christian parallel for that part of the story, it flashed over me that my three pomegranate-seeds had cost me heaven for to-day, and deprived me of a privilege I might never have again. O Signora! I was going to receive Communion to-day in the grotto of St. Benedict!’”

“It is not often,” the Signora added, “that one can retrace the wandering path of a reverie as my poor Lily did. Her story reminded me of an illustrated poem, with wheat and roses wreathed around the leaves and hanging in among the verses.”

The bell announcing visitors, they went into the house again, and found Mr. Coleman and Signor Leonardo, the latter having come to see when his pupils would wish to resume their lessons.

“I can assure you, Signor, that I am the only one who has thought of study during the last three days,” Isabel said. “You should commend me. I have faithfully learned an irregular verb every morning while taking my coffee. That is my rule; and it is becoming such a habit with me that the mere sight of a cup and saucer suggests to me an irregular verb. The night we spent at Monte Compatri I learned three, not being able to sleep for the fleas.”

The Italian murmured some inarticulate commendation of her industry, and dropped his eyes. Her perfectly free and off-hand manner confounded him. To his mind such a lack of the downcast reserve of the girls he was accustomed to regard as models of behavior indicated a very strange disposition and an education still more strange. Yet he could not doubt that Miss Vane was respectable.

Mr. Coleman, who was hovering near, begged permission to make a comment, which he would not be thought to intend as a criticism. “You say the night you ‘spent’ at Monte Compatri. Is it, may I ask, true that Americans always speak of _spending_ time? In England we say we _pass_ time. I have heard the peculiarity attributed to your nation, the reason given for it being that Americans are almost always engaged in business of some kind, and naturally use the expressions of trade.”

Isabel not being quite prepared with an answer, hesitating whether to regard the suave manner or the annoying matter of the speech, the Signora, who had overheard it, came to her aid.

“The fact is true, but the reason given is false,” she said. “I believe we Americans do almost always speak of spending time. It may be because we understand better the value of it. But you should be aware, Mr. Coleman, that the Italians also use the same expression, and they are the last people with whom you can associate the idea of trade and hurry. One of their critics cites the word as peculiarly beautiful so employed, as if time were held to be gold. Your English friends, when criticising the American expression, were probably thinking of their great clumsy pennies.”

Mr. Coleman, who had not known that the Signora was near, stammered out a deprecating word. He had only asked for information.

“The English are bound to criticise us, and to regard our differences as defects,” she went on, addressing Isabel. “You must not mind them, my dear. In fact, educated Americans speak and write the language better than the same class of English do, and use far less slang. One frequently finds inaccurate and cumbersome expressions in their very best writers. The exquisite Disraeli says, ‘I should have thought that you would have liked,’ which is ineffably clumsy. I can give you, however, a model of the most perfect English in an English writer, and I do not know an American who equals him. I refer to T. W. M. Marshall. I almost forget his thoughts while admiring the faultless language in which they are――not clothed so much as――armed. He has little color, but a great deal of point. One might say he writes in _chiar-oscuro_.

“I have not the least prejudice against, nor for, any nation,” she continued, regarding with a little mocking smile her disconcerted visitor. “English people are as good as Americans, when they behave themselves. They are not, however, so polite. Whatever peculiarities we may observe in our island neighbors, we are never guilty of the impropriety of mentioning them to their faces.”

Mr. Coleman was crushed, and the Signora left him to recover himself as best he might. She had thought him long since cured of his national habit of making such comments, and was not disposed to suffer the slightest relapse.

Marion, who had observed and watched for a moment the expression of Signor Leonardo’s face while Isabel spoke to him, began talking with him after a while, and soon found him a liberal――not one of those who make the name a cover for every species of disorder, but an honest man, of whom the worst that could be said was that he was mistaken.

“You think that we Italians are different from yourselves,” he said somewhat excitedly, as the talk progressed. “When you praise your country, and boast of it, you forget that we, too, may wish to have a country of which we can boast and be proud.”

Marion smiled quietly. “I should have said,” he replied, “that in the history of Italy, both past and present, there had been more pride felt and expressed than can be found in the histories of all the other nations of the earth put together; and that, besides this self-gratulation, no other nation on earth had been so praised, and loved, and feared, and sought as Italy. It has had every kind of boast――war-like, splendid, learned, poetic, and artistic. It has gone on through the centuries supreme in beauty and in interest, never failing to draw all hearts and eyes, and changing one attraction into another, instead of losing attraction. And all its changes have been ordered and harmonious till now. But I find neither beauty nor dignity in a manufacturing, trading Rome. She throws away her own _unique_ advantages in seeking to vie with her younger and more vigorous sisters. The _rôle_ does not suit her.”

“We will see!” the Italian said hotly. “We will make the trial, and find out for ourselves if our life and strength are so decayed that we can no longer boast of anything but ruins.”

“I beg your pardon; but you have already tried, and failed,” the other returned. “You have proved yourselves only strong in complaint, but worthless in action. The only vigor I have heard of as shown by liberal Rome was in throwing flowers on Victor Emanuel when he entered, and now in cursing him for having taxed you to the verge of starvation. He isn’t afraid of you, and takes no pains to conciliate you. The only vigor here, of the kind you praise, is in the northern men he has brought down with him; and in another generation, if they should stay so long, the blood in their hearts will have thickened to the rich, slow ichor of Roman veins. No, sir! You cannot succeed in being yourselves and everybody else. You are no longer the world, but only a part of it, and must be content to see yourselves surpassed in many things. Your true dignity is in not contending for the prize which you will never win. If you had sat here quietly, a mere looker-on, a judge, perhaps, of the contests going on in the world, who could have said surely that you might not win any success by the mere half trying? You have proved your own weakness, and merely exchanged an easy master for a hard one. You do not govern yourselves so much under the king as you did under the pope, and the complaints which were listened to in the old time nobody listens to now. You have been coaxed and petted for generations; now you are treated with contempt.”

The Italian was pale, less with anger at such plain speaking than with the bitter consciousness that it was true. “You have not seen the end yet,” was all he could say. “Great changes are not wrought here so easily as in America. There it was simply Greek meeting Greek, and there was no history or tradition in the way. Here, besides our visible opponents, who may be half a dozen nations, we have to fight against generations of ghosts.”

“O my country! how you have bewitched the world,” exclaimed the American. “I grant you there is a difference, sir, and it is even greater than you think; for it is a difference of nature as well as of circumstances. Italy is Calliope, with the scroll in her hand, and her proper position is a meditative and studious one; America is Atalanta, the swift runner, young, strong, and disdainful, with apples of gold to fling and stop her pursuers. Do you wish your muse to come down and join in the dusty race?”

“Do you know,” the Signora asked of Marion, joining the two, “Victor Emanuel, they say, has a special devotion to the good thief?”

The Italian rose. He had a great regard for the Signora, but, as she never spared him when politics was in question, he thought discretion the better part of valor.

“How odd it is,” the lady remarked, when they were left alone with Marion, “that when we are best pleased we are sometimes most impatient! I am exceedingly well contented to-night, yet I do not know when I have been so sharp toward Mr. Coleman or Leonardo. I begin to feel premonitory symptoms of compunction. What is the philosophy of it, Mr. Vane?”

“Marion could answer such a question better than I,” he replied. “But may not the reason be that, your mood and some of your circumstances being perfect, you cannot bear that all should not accord?――as, when we are listening to beautiful music, and are particularly inclined, to listen just then, the smallest interruption, especially if it be discordant, is intolerable.”

Marion had been saying good-night to the sisters, who stood before him arm in arm, speaking with, or rather listening to, him. He turned on being appealed to.

“Is it true,” he asked, “that the mood is one of perfect contentment? May it not be an exalted mood which demands contentment? I think we may sometimes feel an excitement and delight for which we can give no reason, unless it may be some rare moment of perfect physical health, like that which our first parents enjoyed in Eden. Naturally, in such a moment, we feel earth to be a paradise, and are impatient of anything which reminds us that it is not.”

The Signora was surprised to find herself blushing, and annoyed when she perceived that the others observed it and seemed, also, to be surprised. Only Marion, bowing a good-night as soon as he spoke, appeared not to see.

“Did you ever blush for nothing, dear?” she asked of Bianca, when the two went to their rooms together. “I can’t imagine what set me blushing to-night. I didn’t mean to blush, I had no reason, I didn’t know I was going to do so, and I have no idea what it was about.”

“I never blush at the right moment,” Bianca replied rather soberly. “When embarrassing incidents occur, and, according to the books and speakers, one would be doing the proper thing to be confused, I am almost always cool. And then all at once, just for nothing, for a surprise, for a thing which would find other people cool, I am as red as――”

“A rose,” finished the Signora, and kissed the girl’s cheek. “Good-night, dear. I like your friend exceedingly. I do not know when I have liked any one so much on short acquaintance.”

“He is very agreeable,” Bianca returned, and echoed the good-night without another word.

“That is one of the times you should have blushed, and didn’t,” thought her friend, and wondered a little.

TO BE CONTINUED.

ROMA――AMOR

“Strength is none on earth save Love.” ――AUBREY DE VERE.

SUGGESTED BY A STATUE BY MISS A. WHITNEY EXHIBITED IN BOSTON, APRIL, 1876.

I.

Upon the statue’s base I read its name―― “Rome,” nothing more; so leaving to each thought To mould in mind the form the sculptor wrought, The living soul within the dead clay’s frame. And was this Rome, so weak and sad and old, So crouching down with withered lip and cheek, With trembling fingers stretched as if to seek, The thoughtless wanderers’ idly-given gold?―― Some Roman coins loose-lying in her lap, Some treasure saved from out her ancient wealth, Or begged with downcast look as if by stealth, Fearing her end, and wishing still, mayhap, Enough to hold to pay stern Charon’s oar When the dead nations o’er the Styx it bore.

II.

And was this Rome――this shrunken, shivering form, This beggared greatness sitting abject down; Her throne a broken shaft’s acanthus crown Whose crumbling beauty still outlived the storm? Where were her legions? eagles? where her pride? The conqueror’s laurel binding once her head?―― She, the world’s mistress, begging so her bread At her own gates, her empire’s wreck beside! Withered and old, craven in form and face, Yet keeping still some gift from out the past In the broad mantle o’er her shoulders cast, Where lingered yet her ancient, haughty grace―― Conscious each fold of that far-sounding name, Imperial still in spite of loss and shame.

III.

And was this Rome? Nor faith, nor hope, nor love Writ in the wrinkled story of her face, Where weariness and sad old age had place, For earthly days no cheer, no light above! All earthly greatness to this measure shrunk? With burning heart I gazed. Was this the thought The sculptor in the answering clay had wrought―― Cæsar’s proud impress in the beggar sunk For men to mock at in her weak old age? Was this a living Rome, or one, long dead, That waked to life a modern Cæsar’s tread, Claiming with outstretched hand her heritage? While the strong nations she once triumphed o’er Scarce heeded her they served with awe before!

IV.

Where, then, was she that was Eternal called? Bore she no likeness of immortal youth? Did she lament her cruel dower in truth As once Tithonus by that gift enthralled? All joy of youth long perished, living on In dread possession of the pitiless gift, In hopeless age set helplessly adrift, Her bread the bitter thought of days bygone! No word immortal on the statue writ, Save the deep bitterness of graven name; No trumpet telling dumbly of her fame, Nor unquenched lamp by vestal virgin lit―― Youth, empire, and her people’s love all o’er, Unqueened, and still undying, evermore!

V.

O artist! lurks there in your sculptured thought No vision of another Rome than this? Along the antique border of her dress I sought in vain to see the symbol wrought That she has steadfast borne since first its touch Did her, the holy one, e’er consecrate The tender mother of the desolate, Consoler of poor hearts o’erburdened much, Pure spouse of Him who is Eternal Life, Inheritor of beauty ever new Yet ever ancient, ’missioned to subdue Beneath love’s yoke the nations lost in strife―― Rome’s eagles shadowed not a realm so wide As lights the cross, her trust from Him that died.

VI.

O Rome! imperial lady, Christian queen! Art thou discrowned and desolate indeed? All vainly doth thy smitten greatness plead? Reads none the sorrow of thy brow serene? Perished thy eagles, and o’erthrown thy cross? Thou banished from possession of thine own, While they who rob thee fling thee mocking down An ancient Roman robe to hide thy loss, That the world, seeing thy fair-seeming state, Shall greet the Cæsar who gives thee such grace, Nor heed the appealing sorrow in thy face, Nor hear thy cry like His who at the gate Of Jericho cried out! Bide thou thy day―― Thy Western children for thee weep and pray.

VII.

So once in Pilate’s hall thy Master stood In Roman purple robed, and none divined The holy mystery in those folds enshrined―― The sorrowing God-head lifted on the Rood. Such was his portion here; with thee he shares His grief divine. Ah! grandly art thou crowned―― Fair in the light of truth thy brows around―― With thorns like his, while thy strong hand uprears His wide-armed cross, thou leaning on its strength! What though thy constant sorrow shade thine eyes? Undying hope about thy sweet mouth lies; That faith is thine that has been all the length Of centuries past, that shall be centuries o’er; And on thy bosom writ I read――_Amor_.

VIII.

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

CHALDEAN ACCOUNT OF THE CREATION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE CREATION.

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE GARDEN OF EDEN.

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

THE FALL.

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

THE REBELLION OF THE EVIL ANGELS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE TOWER OF BABEL AND THE CONFUSION OF TONGUES.

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

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

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

THE DELUGE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[138] Chaldean Account of Genesis.

LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER.

FROM THE FRENCH.

SEPTEMBER 12, 1868.

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

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

SEPTEMBER 22, 1868.

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

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

Write to us again, dear Kate. It is in _your name_ that I have been acting. You are the good angel of Ireland.

SEPTEMBER 30, 1868.

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

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

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

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

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

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

OCTOBER 8, 1868.

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

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

Adieu and _à Dieu_, dear sister of my life.

OCTOBER 12, 1868.

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

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

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

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

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

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

May God keep you, my best beloved!

OCTOBER 23, 1868.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OCTOBER 31, 1868.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NOVEMBER 5, 1868.

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

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

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

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

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

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

NOVEMBER 18, 1868.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DECEMBER 9, 1868.

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

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

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

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

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

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

TO BE CONTINUED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[142] C. xxxv. 4-7.

MODERN THOUGHT IN SCIENCE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he adds:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A CHRISTMAS LEGEND.

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

* * * * *

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

SIR THOMAS MORE.

_A HISTORICAL ROMANCE_

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

XVII.

When the great city lay buried in that obscurity which the mantle of night had thrown over all, and while she seemed to sleep, resting on her bed of earth, by the banks of the river that flowed for ever with a measured sound――when she seemed to sleep at last, although neither the scholar, nor the afflicted, nor the criminal whom she enclosed in her bosom could have extinguished in the depths of their being the fire of intelligence which consumed them――there was to be seen a silent and fugitive figure gliding along by the walls of the Tower, upon which a noble and slender form was reflected. The light footfall made no sound, the sighs of her heart were stifled, and the folds of her veil hung motionless. She seated herself on the stone threshold of the awful gate, and for a long time wept in silence.

“Naught!” she said. “Not a sound to be heard. These walls are like the hearts of the judges. Children weep,” she said again. “What are tears but weakness and water? Not a gleam! It seems they have here neither fire nor life. What is this that consumes my heart? Weep, women! weep in your silken robes, under your downy coverings! As for me, it is the night wind dries my tears, and the damp earth drinks them up! When wilt thou cease to weep, and when will the heart of Margaret feel revived?… But why be astonished to feel it tremble? Has it not been broken like a precious vase which can never more be mended?

“‘Come, Margaret, white Margaret!’ they used to say when you trod on the grass of the fields, Come, death, or yet a moment of life.”

And the young girl, standing on tiptoe, with strong arm and powerful effort, raised the heavy bronze griffin, which fell resounding upon the brass of the doors, and then she started, for at times she was a woman.

But there was no response; and when the sound of the iron had ceased to vibrate, and, it seemed to her, had exhausted itself in the air, nothing was heard but the monotonous dashing of the waves which came to die at the foot of the wall; and nothing more disturbed the silence of the night.

“Deaf as the pity in their souls!” she said after some moments.

And this time she knocked without flinching; for already Margaret had recovered from her fears. But a long and mournful silence continued to reign.

Whilst she was trying so ineffectually to reach her father, Sir Thomas re-entered the Tower, exhausted by fatigue. He had been confined in a still more gloomy and narrow cell. A miserable lamp, high placed, dimly lighted the obscurity. He was seated in a corner, and, alone at least, he went over in his mind the agonies he had endured in that fatal journey. “Where is my daughter now?” he said to himself. “Alas! I saw her but an instant going out from before the judges. She will have seen that axe turned toward me. She will have said to herself there is no more hope; that I was branded with the seal of the condemned; that what she had heard was indeed true. If only she had returned to Chelsea! For they will not permit me to linger: Cromwell’s eyes gleamed with a ferocious light. Yet what have I done to this man to make him hate me so intensely? My God, permit me not to be betrayed into an emotion of hatred against” (Sir Thomas hesitated)――“against my brother,” he continued with courage; “for, after all, he is a man like myself, formed in the same mould, animated by the same intelligence; and it is better to be persecuted than to be the persecutor. Pardon him, then, O my God! Let your mercy be extended toward him, surround him on all sides, and never remember against him the evil he has wrought on me.”

While reflecting thus Sir Thomas suddenly heard a slight noise. He paused, and, seized with inexpressible anxiety, listened almost without breathing.

“It was in such manner he walked! It is he! It is Rochester!” he cried. “But no, I am mistaken; that cannot be,” he said, casting his eyes around him. “They have changed my cell; alas! I could not hear him even should he be there. It is an error of my troubled imagination.”

But the noise increased, and Sir Thomas soon heard them opening the doors which led to his cell. Some one was approaching.

“Again!” he said. “They will not, then, allow me a moment of repose.” And he saw Sir Thomas Pope coming in, bearing a roll of paper in his right hand.

Pope approached More and presented the paper.

Sir Thomas calmly took it from his hands, and, looking at Pope, said: “What! Master Pope, the king has already signed the death-warrant?” Glancing over the paper, he saw that his execution was set down for the next morning at nine o’clock.

“The king, in his ineffable clemency,” said Pope with an air of constraint, “commutes your punishment to that of decapitation.”

“I am much beholden to his majesty,” said Sir Thomas. “Still, good Master Pope, I hope that my children and my friends may never have need of any such favor.”

More smiled at first; then he regarded Pope with an expression of indefinable melancholy, and was silent.

“It is true――it is too true,” stammered Pope, “that this is not a great favor. But permit me, Sir Thomas, to avow to you that your conduct appears to me so strangely obstinate that I cannot explain it, and that you yourself seem to have had the wish to irritate the king against you to the last degree. Thus, you abandon your family, you leave your home, you lose your head, and all rather than take an oath to which our bishops have readily consented.”

“Yes, consented, and not wished to take,” replied Sir Thomas, “partly through fear, partly through surprise. They have taken it, you say; but I fear that they may be already repenting it. Good Master Pope, if you live you will surely see many strange events taking place in our unhappy country. In separating herself, in spite of the law of God, from the Church of Rome, you will see England change her face; intestine wars will rend her; the blood of her children will flow in every direction for centuries, perchance. Who can foretell whither the path of error will lead us when once we have taken the first step? Doubtless we are still Christians; but Christians who, separated from the mother that gave them birth, will soon have lost the revivifying spirit they have received from her. The Catholic faith, I know, cannot perish from the earth; but it can depart from one country into another. If, in three hundred years from now, we were permitted to return, you and I, to this world, we should find the faith, as to-day, pure from all error, one, and resting upon the indivisible truth, yet submitting to that supreme Head, to this key of St. Peter, which indeed some mortal men shall have carried a moment in their hands, and which is so violently attacked to-day. But my country, this land that I love――for it holds the ashes of my father――what is it destined to undergo? The incoherence and diversity of human opinions; the violence, the absurdities of the passions which shall have dictated them. Divided into a thousand sects, a thousand clashing opinions, you will not find a single family, perhaps, where they are united in one common faith, in the same hope and the same charity! And this divine Word, the Sacred Scriptures, which we have received from our fathers, abandoned to the ignorance and the pride of a pretended liberty, will have, perhaps, become only the source of horrible crimes and frightful cruelties, in place of being the foundation of all good and of every virtue!”

“Verily, Sir Thomas,” said Pope, “you frighten me! How can it hap that the ruin and disasters you have described should be in store for us? No, no, I do not believe it; because it is then you would see us all bound up around the centre of unity which they think to destroy to-day by a word!――expressions of a spiritual power which the prince may not, in fact, exercise.”

“He may not, as you say,” replied Sir Thomas; “but he will exercise it nevertheless, and at least I shall not have to reproach myself with having contributed to it. Oh! no,” he continued, “no; and I am happy to shed my blood in testimony of this truth. For listen, Master Pope: I have not sacrificed twenty years of my life in the service of the state without having studied what were her true interests, and consequently those of society, which is at the same time her foundation and support; and I declare to you that I have recognized and am thoroughly convinced that the Catholic religion, the realization of the figurative and prophetic law given to the Jews, the development and complete perfection of the natural law, can alone be the foundation of a prosperous and happy society, because it alone possesses the highest degree of morals possible to attain; it alone bears fruit in the heart; it alone can restrain, and is able even to destroy, that selfishness, natural to man, which leads him to sacrifice everything to his desires and gratifications――a selfishness which, abandoned to itself and carried to its greatest length, renders all social order impossible, and transforms men into a crowd of enraged enemies bent on mutual destruction.

“All that tends to disrupt, then, all that would alter or attack, this excellent religion, is a mortal blow aimed at the country and its citizens, and necessarily tends to deprive them of that which ensures their dignity, their safety, their happiness, their hopes, and their future. Look around you at the universe, and behold on its surface the people of those unhappy countries where the light of the Catholic faith has been extinguished or has not yet been kindled. Study their governments, and behold in them the most monstrous despotisms, where blood flows like water, and the life of man is considered of less value than that of the frivolous animal which amuses him. Read the cruel laws their ferocity has dictated; learn the still more crying acts of injustice they commit, and how they pursue, as with a tearing lash, those whose weakness and stupidity have delivered them up as slaves; tremble at the recital of the tortures and barbarities they inflict before death, to which they condemn their victims without appeal as without investigation; behold the arts, spiritual affection, sublime poesy, perish there; ignorance, instability, misery, and terror succeed them, and reign without interruption and without restraint. Ah! these noble ideas of right, of justice, of order and humanity, which govern us, and ensure among us the triumph of the incredulous and proud philosopher, which makes him say and think that they alone are sufficient for society――he perceives not, blind as he is, that these are prizes in the hand of religion, who, extends them to him, and that, if he speaks like her, she speaks still better than he. I do not say――no, I do not say――that we will fall as low as the Turk, the Indian, or the American savage. So long as one glimmer of the Gospel, one souvenir of its maxims, shall remain standing in the midst of us, we will not lose all that we have received since our ancestors came out of the forests where they wandered, subsisting on the flesh of wild animals; but we will begin to recede from the truth, we will cover it with clouds; they will become darker and darker, and soon, if we still go on, it will be no longer with a firm and resolute step, but rather like gloomy travellers wandering in a vast desert without a breath of air or a drop of water.”

Pope listened to Sir Thomas without daring to interrupt him, and felt his heart touched by what he said. For this admirable man possessed the faculty of attracting all who saw him immediately toward him; and when they heard him speak, the strength, the justness of his thoughts and his arguments penetrated little by little into their minds, until, almost without perceiving it, they found themselves entirely changed, and astonished to feel that they were of the same opinion as himself.

Pope leaned against a stool which was there, and remained very thoughtful; for he had taken the oath himself, without dreaming that it could result in such serious consequences. Neither his convictions, however, nor his courage were such as would make him desire to give his life for the truth; but he could not refrain from admiring this devotion in the illustrious man before him. He looked at him without speaking, and seemed entirely confounded.

Mistaking the cause, and seeing him abstracted and silent, Sir Thomas supposed the conversation had wearied Pope; he therefore ceased speaking, and, taking up the death-warrant, he read it a second time. At the end his eyes filled with tears and his sight grew dim.

“It is, then, fixed for to-morrow!” he exclaimed――“to-morrow morning. One night only! Oh! how I wish they would permit me to write to Erasmus.[143] Pope,” said he, “shall I not be permitted to see once more, for the last time, my dearly-beloved daughter? I fear that she may be still in the city. I would like her to be sent away――that Roper should take her. Ah! Master Pope, it is not the riches or honors of this world which are difficult to sacrifice, but the affections of the heart, of the soul that lives within us, which is entirely ourselves, without which the rest is nothing.” And he again relapsed into silence.

“I do not think you will be able to see her,” said Pope, replying to the question of Sir Thomas; “and――even――” he added with painful hesitation, “I am also charged to ask you not to make any remarks to the people on the scaffold. The king hath expressly so willed, and then he will permit your wife and children to assist at your interment.”

“Ah!” replied Sir Thomas, “I thank his majesty for manifesting so much solicitude about my poor interment; but it matters little where these miserable bones be laid when I have abandoned them. God, who has made them out of nothing, will be able to find the ashes and recall them a second time into being when it shall please him to restore them to that indestructible life which he has so graciously vouchsafed to promise them.”

“You wish to speak, then?” answered Pope. “Nevertheless, I believe it would be better not to anger the king more.”

“No, no!” replied Sir Thomas, “my dear Master Pope, you are mistaken. Since the king desires it, I will not speak. Most certainly I intended doing so; but since he forbids it, I will forbear. If they refuse me permission to see my daughter,” replied Sir Thomas, “I hope, at least, I may be able to see the Bishop of Rochester; since he has taken the oath, they will not fear.”

“Taken the oath!” cried Pope. “Why, he has been executed; he died to-day!”

“He died to-day!” repeated Sir Thomas. “My friend died to-day! O Cromwell! May God, whose power is infinite, hear my voice, grant my requests: may the same dangers unite us, that, following close in thy footsteps, my last sigh may be breathed with thine!”

And More, plunged in the deepest grief, slowly repeated the memorable words, the solemn words, which the holy bishop had pronounced in presence of the Lord and of his friend during the vigil of St. Thomas, when they were alone together in his home at Chelsea.

“Rochester would not take the oath, then!” continued More in a stifled voice, clasping his hands and elevating them toward heaven.

“Alas! no,” replied Pope.

“Cromwell told me he had.”

“He lied,” answered Pope, and his eyes filled with tears.

“He would not swear?”

“Never!”

“Pope,” said More, “I beg you to let me write to Erasmus. To-morrow I shall be no more! You are the last living man to whom I shall be able to speak.”

“Ah! Sir Thomas,” cried Pope uneasily, “if that letter were seized, what would become of me?”

“Let me write a few words on this leaf,” replied Sir Thomas, looking at a leaf of white paper belonging to the book which contained his condemnation――“a word on this leaf,” he continued. “Pope, you can cut it off and send it later when there will be no danger for you. Nay, good Pope, grant me this favor,” he added. “I have neither pen nor ink; but I have here a piece of charcoal, which I have already tried to sharpen.”

“Ah! Sir Thomas,” replied Pope, “I have not the heart to refuse you; however, I shall have cause, perhaps, to repent it.”

“No! no!” cried Sir Thomas. “If you cannot send him this last farewell without being afraid, you can burn it.”

“Write, then; I consent,” said Pope; and he handed the death-warrant to Sir Thomas, who had returned it to him.

More seized it, and wrote the following words:

“Erasmus! O Erasmus! my friend, this is the last time I shall have the happiness of pronouncing your name. An entire life, O my friend! is passed; it has glided by in a moment. Behold one about to end like a day that is closed. I have loved you as long as I have had breath; as long as I have felt my heart throb in my bosom the name of Erasmus has reigned there. Alas! I have so many things to say to you. Though the words die on my lips, your heart alone will be able to comprehend mine. May it enter; may it hear in my soul all that More has wished to say to Erasmus!

“When you receive this page, I shall be no more; it is still attached to the writ which contains my sentence of death. Erasmus, I am going to leave Margaret. I abandon my children! Our friend Pierre Gilles is here. I saw him for a moment――the moment when they were pronouncing sentence on me. Without doubt, to-morrow morning, I shall see him at the foot of the scaffold. I shall be kept at a distance from him; I shall not be able to say a single word to him. My eyes will be directed toward him, my hand will be stretched out; but my heart will not be permitted to speak to him! O Erasmus! how I suffer. And Margaret――O my friend! if you had seen her, how pale she was, what anguish was painted on all her features. I could wish that she loved me less: she would not suffer so much in seeing me die. Erasmus, not one minute! Time is short; the hour approaches. Oh! when I could write those long letters so peaceably, when science alone and the good of humanity occupied us both; when I saw those letters despatched so quietly to go in search of you, and said to myself: ‘In so many days I shall receive his reply!’… No more replies, Erasmus! If ever you come to England, you will ask in what corner they have thrown my ashes. Oh! what would become of me if I were not a Christian? What happiness to feel our faith rising up from the depths of wretchedness, to hear all our groans and lamentions, and to answer them! I die a Christian! I die for this faith so pure and beautiful! for that faith which is the happiness and glory of the human race. At this thought I feel myself reanimated; new strength inspires my heart; hope inundates my soul. I shall see you all again. Yes, one day――one day after a long absence――I shall clasp you once more to my bosom in the presence of God himself. I shall see again my daughter! We will find ourselves invested with our same bodies. ‘I shall see my God,’ said Job; ‘for I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that I shall rise again at the last day; I will go out of this world into that which I am about to enter, and then I shall see my God. It will be I who shall see him, and not another.’

“Erasmus, to live for ever, to love for ever! Farewell.

“Your brother, your friend, “THOMAS MORE.”

The charcoal began to crumble in his hands. He was scarcely able to trace the last words. He pressed his lips on them and returned the book to Pope.

Meanwhile, Margaret, tired of knocking, and losing all hope of reaching her father, was seated upon the stone step before the door of the prison, and, being wrapped in her veil, she remained motionless and mute, like a statue of stone whose head, bowed upon its garments, is the personification of sorrow and silence.

Thus she sat absorbed in thought, and the burning tears had bathed her hands and ran down on her knees, when the footstep of a man who was approaching from the quay aroused her from her reverie. Alarmed, she arose abruptly, and, placing her hand upon a long and sharp dagger she had attached to her side, she stood awaiting the intruder; but she recognized Roper.

“Margaret,” he exclaimed, “what are you doing there?” And he spoke these few words to her in a melancholy tone of voice more expressive of pain than reproach; because he sought her, knowing well where he would find her.

“It is you, Roper,” said the young girl, and she resumed her seat as before. William Roper then came and seated himself by her side; taking her cold and wet hand, he pressed it to his lips with an inexpressible oppression of heart. “O Margaret!” he said at last with a deep sigh, “why stay you here?”

“To see him again to-morrow――yes, to-morrow! But tell me, Roper, why I feel so weak; why my blood runs so cold in my veins; why I no longer have either strength or energy; why, in fact, I feel myself dying, without being able to cease to exist! O William! look at that dark river in front of us, and that black hill lifting its head beyond. Well! when the sky begins to grow white on that side, that will be the light of to-morrow which will dawn; that will be the hour of the execution approaching; and then you will see the eager crowd come pressing around the boards of the scaffold, come to feast on the cruelty of the misfortune it applauds, to enjoy the death its stupidity has not ordered. You will see them decked out in their ribbons, while the bells of the city will ring for the feast――the great feast of St. Thomas; for that is to-morrow, and to-morrow they will come to see my father die. Then all that I love will be torn from me, and nothing more will remain to me on earth. Oh! how happy are the strong: they break or perish. Roper, speak to me of Rochester. I loved him also, that venerable man. No, do not speak of him. Hush! I know all; I have seen everything. They dragged him to the scaffold; he prayed for them while holding his feeble, attenuated neck upon the fatal block; and, detached from the earth, his soul continued in heaven the canticle it had commenced in this world.”

“Alas! yes,” said Roper. “They had to carry him to the scaffold on a chair, because he was no longer able to sustain himself.”

“Ah! Roper,” cried Margaret, “behold the fatal light! Here is the day!” And she fell, almost deprived of consciousness.

“No, Margaret, no; the hour strikes, but it strikes only the small hours of the night. It is not yet day, my beloved――it is not day!”

“Oh! how cold I am,” said the young girl, shaking the veil which enveloped her, all humid with the dews of night. “Roper, is there no more hope, then? Do you believe it? Do you believe there is no more hope――that to-morrow I will see my father die?”

“Alas!” said Roper, “Pierre Gilles has gone to seek the queen and throw himself at her feet.”

“Say not the queen!” cried Margaret. “Give not the name of queen to that woman!”

“At least, so they call her,” said Roper. “She is all-powerful; if she would only ask his pardon! But they press her so much! But, no, she will not do it, Margaret; she is a hyena covered with a beautiful skin. She managed to procure the head of Rochester, and with her foul hand dealt it an infamous blow.[144] Ah! Margaret, I have done wrong in speaking to you thus.” And Roper was silent, regretting the words that indignation had forced him to utter.

“She struck it!” cried Margaret. “She recoiled not before those white locks dripping with the blood her crimes caused to flow! William, I shudder at it! Oh! can you believe it? The only time that I have seen my father he spoke to me of her with tears in his eyes; he said that he prayed God to raise her soul from out the miserable depths into which she had fallen. Roper, look!――there is day!”

“No, Margaret, no!”

“But it will come! Ah! how the hours fly, and yet I would be willing.… No! no! nothing. William, I feel as though I were dying! Yet I would wish to see him again――again once more!”

Roper took the hand of his affianced. It was burning; the irregular and rapid throbbing of her veins betokened the agony that her soul endured.

“Well,” she continued after a moment’s silence, “speak, then――speak to me of Rochester; tell me how the saints die.”

“Margaret, I can talk no more; I feel so crushed by the excess of these afflictions that I have not even dared to glance at them.”

“Yes, you were deaf and blind; you always will be, and for a long time I have been telling you so. It is a long time, also, since I saw all, since I felt this horrible hour coming on, since I measured the weakness of my hands and curbed the strength of my mind. It is long since I knew that I must remain alone in this world; for this life will not depart from my breast, and without crime I cannot tear it away! I must live, and live deprived of everything. Do you see this weapon, Roper?” And Margaret drew the poignard, the blade of which flashed. “Were I not the daughter of More; feared I not the Lord; if his law, like a seal of brass, had not engraven his commandments on my lips and in my heart, you should see if I would not deliver my father――if Cromwell, if Henry, struck down suddenly by the arm and the hatred of a woman, would not have already, while rolling in the dust and pronouncing my name, cried to the universe that cursed was the day when they had resolved to assassinate my father! In giving my life I became mistress of theirs! Ah! where would they be to-day――this brave king, this powerful favorite? A little infected dust, from which the drunken grave-digger would instinctively turn away! But, William, raise your eyes; look at those numberless stars that gleam so brightly above our heads! The word of Him who has suspended them thus in the immensity of the heavens humbles my spirit, enchains my will. He ordains, I am silent; he speaks, I obey. Impotent by his prohibition alone, I can die, but not resist him.”

And Margaret, pressing her lips upon the blade of the threatening weapon, cried: “Yes, I love thee because thou art able to defend or avenge me; and if thy tempered blade remains useless in my hands, say that it is God himself who has ordered it. Let them render thanks, then, to that God whom they provoke and despise; let them return thanks to him; for neither their guards nor their pride, their crimes nor their gold, could have prevented Margaret from sweeping them from the earth which they pollute, and breaking their audacious power like a wisp of straw that is given to the winds!”

She turned toward Roper, transported by courage and grief. But she saw that he was not listening, and that, entirely crushed by the misery he experienced, he had not sufficient energy in his soul to try to resist it.

“He is already resigned!” she said. An expression of scorn and disgust contracted the features of the young girl; she abruptly withdrew the hand he held in his own; moving away from him, she went and seated herself farther off, and, remaining with her eyes fixed upon the east, awaited the moment of harrowing joy which, while restoring her father to her, would tear him away from her for ever.

As the hours slowly tolled, each one awaking a dolorous echo in her heart――when at last she saw the first rays of morning stealing over the heavens, and the rosy tint which precedes the flame of Aurora――she turned again toward Roper; but, happy mortal! his heavy eyelids had lulled his afflicted soul to sleep. As a reaper reposes sweetly in a field covered with rich grain, so Roper slept peacefully with his head resting against the walls of a prison.

Margaret arose instantly, and, seized with indignation, she advanced toward him, and, with her hands clasped, stood regarding him. “He sleeps!” she said――“he sleeps! Truly, man is a noble being, full of courage, of energy, of impassibility, of strength of mind. It is thus that they accomplish such great things! Dear Roper, you belong to this mass of men which crowds us in on every side, absorbing and devouring our lives! You are their brother, their friend; like them, during the day, you love that which laughs, that which sings, and you sleep during the night. Well! I will laugh with you, with them. Are you worthy of beholding me weep? No; my father alone shall have my last tears, and carry with him the secret of my soul.”

And Margaret, seizing the hand of Roper, shook it violently. He awoke, startled.

“It is day!” he said. “Ah! it is day! Margaret――eh! you are weeping.”

“No, I am not weeping,” replied the young girl. “I have slept also, slept very well――and I am comforted!”

“Comforted! What do you mean? Has Pierre Gilles obtained his pardon? Have they granted his freedom?”

“Yes, they have granted his freedom――from life. In a word, they will shorten it, they will drag him from the midst of you. Is that a misfortune or a benefit, an injury or a favor? This is what I cannot decide. But as for me, I remain here!”

“Margaret,” cried Roper, “what is wrong with you?” And he gazed at her, astonished at the cutting irony and the bitter despair expressed in the tone of her voice and imprinted on her features. “I no longer recognize you.”

“Yes, I am changed, Roper. Henceforth you shall be my only model. Who is that young woman dressed in gauze, crowned with flowers, whom the light and rapid dance carries far from the banquet and the cups filled with fragrant cordials――who casts far away from her the memory of her father, and has forgotten the grave of her mother? That is the wife of William, Margaret Roper. No, I do not want that name. Go, keep it; give it to some one who resembles yourself, to whom you may bear presents, and who, on hearing you say it, will believe that one can be happy――yes, will believe that it is possible to be happy!”

“Margaret,” said Roper, more and more surprised, “I cannot comprehend what you would say.”

“Nor do I any more,” replied the young girl, wiping her forehead; for she was warm. “But do you understand at least, Roper, that the city is awake, that they are preparing the scaffold down below, that the soldiers are astir within, that I hear the clanking of their arms, that we are very soon going to see my father pass? Tell me, Roper, how do you contrive to become so unfeeling, to love nothing, to regret nothing? Have you a secret for this? Give it to me――give me that which makes one neither feel nor speak; that one can sleep beside the axe and the prison, when within the prison lies a father whom they are about to immolate!”

And she fixed her piercing eyes on him.

“Ah! Margaret. Yes, I have slept, I have done wrong; but fatigue overcame me. It seemed to me I saw him; I dreamed that I had rescued him.”

“Yes, your dreams are always happy; but look, Roper, here is the reality.”

Margaret withdrew to one side under the walls of the Tower; for the door of the fortress was opened, and they saw a troop of soldiers, fully armed, preparing to march out.

“Tower Hill!” cried their commander; and they filed out in great numbers. Others succeeded them; they arranged themselves in two columns, which extended from the gate of the lower to the place of execution, still dyed with the blood of Rochester.

Meanwhile, the rumor spread abroad rapidly that they had sent for the two sheriffs; that Sir Thomas More, former lord chancellor, was going to be executed; and from all directions crowds of people rushed precipitately――some remembering the lofty position the condemned had occupied; the greater number, without thinking of anything (coming to see the criminal as they would come to see any other), impelled by instinct, habit, or want of occupation, arrived without aim, as without reflection.

Who can paint the anguish of Margaret when she felt herself surrounded, jostled, elbowed, by this turbulent throng, crowding and shouting, which pushed her up against the prison walls, threatening to carry her forcibly from the inch of ground which she had held all night; and more still by this ignoble mob of malefactors, vagabonds, of adventurers of all kinds, who came in those days of murder to learn in the public square what their own end would be, and to behold the funeral couch society had destined for them on the day they should fail in audacity or skill. Who can describe, express, or feel the shame that overwhelmed her soul in spite of her reason, and suffused her pure brow with the blush of ignominy, when she heard them pronounce the name of her father, howling and clapping their hands because the criminal was slow in appearing and the tragedy they awaited did not begin? Her weary eyes sought Pierre Gilles in this tumult, and he was not there. He, at least, would have understood Margaret. She was unable to explain his absence; he had no more hope――unless the queen had detained him. But he must know that the execution was near, that the hour had arrived. And if he had obtained it, and should this pardon arrive too late! A thousand times Margaret, rendered desperate, was on the point of addressing the fickle crowd surrounding her. She wanted to say to them: “I am his daughter! Oh! save my father. He who sacrificed his life, his comforts, his happiness, to govern you wisely, to render you full justice, to reconcile your families, is going to perish unjustly!” But her anxious gaze fell only on faces coarse, stupid, indolent, impassible, or vicious. Then she felt the words die on her lips, while courage and hope expired in her heart.

The hours glide away in these mortal agonies; for they pass as rapidly in the excess of sorrow as during the intoxicating seasons of joy and happiness. Presently Margaret heard a confused noise arise. The masses moved; the soldiers drew up closer, brandishing their arms――they were afraid of being overwhelmed. The crowds climbed on everything they could find: the quay, the carts, carriages, steps――they took possession of all, made ladders of everything. Margaret is drawn into this frightful whirlpool; she struggles in vain, trying to make room and to stand firm. A loud clamor arose, re-echoed, increased, was reproduced in the distance. “He comes! he comes!” they cried on all sides. “How pale he is! That is he! that is Sir Thomas More, the old lord chancellor! Oh! how poor he looks. He walks with difficulty; he leans on a stick; he has a cross of red wood in his hand; he bows on each side of him. There are the sheriffs walking behind him. There is a tall black man who follows them. Do you see the lieutenant of the Tower? He is there also. Hush! he makes a sign with his hand. He smiles! How fast they carry him along! One has not time to see him. Are they afraid, then, that we will take him away by force? Eh! no person thinks of that. He has done something very bad, they say. We believed him so good! Ah! here is somebody stopping him. Look! look! He speaks! he speaks! Yes, he speaks!” For Margaret, reduced to despair, animated by a superhuman strength, has broken through the ranks, passed through the guards. She throws herself on the neck of More; she sees him, she embraces him, she clasps him to her throbbing, palpitating bosom.

“My daughter! my daughter!” said More, pressing her to his heart; “oh! what anguish to see you here.”

And his cheeks, pale and furrowed by suffering, were wet with tears that brought no relief to his soul.

At this spectacle the guards themselves were moved. “That is his daughter, his poor daughter!” they exclaimed on all sides; and by a unanimous movement of respect and compassion they stepped aside, forming a circle around him, while the tears flowed from all eyes.

“How beautiful she is!” said the men. “How young she is!” exclaimed the women.

“My father! my beloved father!” cried Margaret, shuddering, “beg of God that I may not survive you; that I also may soon leave this world when you abandon it! O my father! bless me again, and swear to me that you will ask God to let me die also.”

She threw herself on her knees without letting go his hands, which she bathed with a torrent of tears and pressed against her face as though without power to release them.

“Dearly beloved daughter!” said More, resting his hand upon her long, dishevelled locks, “oh! yes, may the Lord bless you as I love and bless you myself. You have been a sacred charge, a treasure of joy and happiness which he has given me; I return it to him! He is your first Father――he will never abandon you; and one day――a day not far distant, for the life of man is but a breath that passes in a moment――we shall be reunited, to be no more separated, in a blessed eternity! Margaret, since I have had the happiness of seeing you before I die, take my blessing to your brothers and your sisters; tell them, and also all my good friends, to pray the Lord for me! You know them? O Margaret! let Pierre Gilles learn from you how much I have loved him; how deeply I am touched, and grateful for this voyage he made, I doubt not for me alone. Alas! if I feel a regret in dying, it is because of not being able to tell him this myself. Why is he not with you? But I perceive Roper, my beloved daughter; give him also a thousand blessings. You know that I have regarded him for a long time as my son; love him as you have loved myself, and let your tears flow not without consolation, because, since it pleases God to permit me to die to-day, I am perfectly resigned to his will, and I would wish nothing changed.” And Sir Thomas, bending over her, clasped her closely to his heart.

“Let me follow you!” she gasped in a low voice; for she was no longer able to speak.

“Margaret, you give me pain.”

“I would follow you,” she said in still more stifled tones.

“Ah! Kingston,” exclaimed More (and the perspiration poured from his forehead), “my good friend, assist me in placing her in the hands of her husband.”

“I will do it,” cried a bellowing voice well known to Sir Thomas.

“Master Roper, come and take your wife away.” And they saw the hideous face of Cromwell pass, who surveyed those who accompanied the condemned.

In the meantime William Roper had succeeded in pushing his way through the crowd; he took the hand of More, and kissed it, weeping.

“Take her, my son,” said More, entirely occupied with Margaret. “I confide her to you, I give her to you; be her support, her friend, her defender!” And he turned to resume his march.

Margaret, observing this movement, again endeavored to rush toward him; but the crowd hurried on, the guards closed around, and she found herself separated from her father.

He cast upon her a last look, which he carried to the skies. She uttered a piercing cry; but already he had moved on and far away.

She rushed forward, endeavoring again to break through the crowd; but curiosity had made them form like a rampart, growing every instant around her.

She heard the commands of the military authorities; already she could not see beyond the group that surrounded her; then she almost lost the use of reason. “Save my father! save him!” she cried, extending her suppliant hands toward those who environed her, whose sympathies were diversely excited according to their different characters.

“Why have they brought this young woman to this place?” said the good ones. “His daughter, his poor daughter!” murmured the more compassionate. “She looks like a lunatic!” replied the others. “She will die from this; it will kill her. It is most cruel! If the king had only granted his pardon! He might have done it.”

“Yes, pardon, pardon!” repeated Margaret, frenzied and wandering. “They have granted his pardon, I assure you. Pierre Gilles has been to Hampton Court to find that woman. Roper, is it not so? Roper, I am dying; take me away.” And she grew pale and seemed ready to faint. Three or four hands were immediately advanced to sustain her; but Roper would not suffer them to touch her, and, raising her in his arms, he asked them to make way for him to lead her out of the crowd and from the place. The crowd opened with respect, and he assisted Margaret to the same place where she had passed the night awaiting, with her eyes fixed on the horizon, the terrible day which was to remove her for ever from her father.

“It is daylight, daylight,” said Margaret. “Yonder, Roper! And when night comes on, he will be already cold in death! O Roper! all this in one day. William, give him back to me! What have they done with him? Oh! no, he will not die. He is going to the king!”

She kept her eyes fast closed, and poor Roper regarded her with anxiety.

“They have forced him away! You know the place where the soldiers have taken him. I have seen it――I have seen everything. But that was yesterday, Roper. I have lost my reason,” she suddenly exclaimed, opening her eyes, filled with terror. “Tell me, where is he? They will let me bury his body, will they not? I will kiss his face, I will embalm him; and you will bury me beside him, will you not, Roper? They will not leave it on the bridge――that head; I will remain on my knees until they give it to me! O Heaven! dost thou hear――dost thou hear the cries of the people? All is ended; the crime is consummated! My father has left the earth! Roper, let us go to the church; I want to pray――to pray until eternity!”

Alas! Margaret spoke truly. Arriving at the scaffold, More, after having embraced the executioner and given him a gold angel in token of forgiveness, was beheaded by the same axe, upon the very block on which the head of his friend Rochester had fallen a few hours before.

Thus perished these two illustrious men, the glory and honor of England. Thus began the cruel schism which since then has torn so many children from the church, separated a great number of Christians from the common trunk, and deprived, in the course of centuries, so many souls of the knowledge of the eternal and indivisible truth.

And now, when old England unrolls before the eyes of the eager explorer of the past the long list of her kings, she places one of her fingers upon the bloody diadem which encircles the brow of Henry VIII., and with the other she points out to the moved heart the spot where, their dust mingled together, sleep within the walls of her most ancient fortress the victims of the fury of this king. For she also, that first cause of so many woes――the young Anne Boleyn, so proud of her fatal beauty――passed from the throne to the scaffold at the very moment when Catherine was dying of misery, pain, and neglect in the depths of an obscure city. The odious Cromwell, who had guided her to that scaffold, was not long in following her, and his ignoble blood was at last brought to expiate in the same place that of the illustrious More.

* * * * *

Such, reader, is the recital which as a faithful historian I resolved to set before you. A book is a thought. Mine has been written to emphasize a truth in our days too often forgotten――which is, that religion alone can lead men to happiness and perfection; that, being the most perfect law which it is possible to conceive of or attain, it is to her alone we should attach ourselves, and it is by her alone the state will see reared in its midst wise and just rulers or noble and generous citizens; that all, in fine, will see wisdom, science, order, and prosperity flourish.

PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

[143] The learned Erasmus was then at the height of his brilliant fame. After numerous visits to England, where he had formed an intimate friendship with Thomas More, he fixed his residence at Bâle, in Switzerland. Admired by all the princes of his time, by all his learned contemporaries and a crowd of illustrious men, he contributed by his powerful writings to restrain Germany from barbarism.

[144] This fact is related by an English historian, who has written the life of the Bishop of Rochester. The same author adds that Anne Boleyn, in giving the blow, cut her finger against one of the teeth which the axe had broken; that there came a sore on the finger; that they had the greatest difficulty in getting it healed, and she carried the scar until her death.

THE END.

ADVENT.

Clear as the silver call Of Israel’s trumpets on her holy days, Calling her children from all walks and ways, The church’s accents fall.

With sweet and solemn sound Where winter’s ice imprisons lake and stream, Where tropic woods with fadeless summer gleam They make their joyful round――

Joyful, and yet how grave; Bidding us kneel with faces to the east, And watch for Him, our sacrifice and priest, Who cometh, strong to save.

As, at a mother’s feet, The children of one household sit to learn Some sweet domestic lesson, each in turn His portion to repeat,

So, at this holy tide, Calling us round her for exalted talk, From each loved haunt, from each familiar walk, She bids us turn aside

And list while she relates The blessed story――old, yet ever new―― Of Him, the Sun of Righteousness, the True, Whose dawn she celebrates.

Now the rapt prophets sing Their anthems in each bowed and listening ear; Now the bold Baptist’s clarion voice we hear Down the glad centuries ring;

Till, fired with joy as they Who spread their garments ’neath his precious feet, With rapture we go forth our Lord to meet, Our glad hosannas pay.

Yet list! Another note Blends with the holy song our Mother sings, And, high above the harp’s exultant strings, Clear, trumpet-like doth float.

He comes to judge the world; To garner up his wheat, to purge his floor, While into flames of fire for evermore The worthless chaff is hurled.

Lord! we would put aside The gauds and baubles of this mortal life―― Weak self-conceit, the foolish tools of strife, The tawdry garb of pride――

And pray, in Christ’s dear name, Thy grace to deck us in the robes of light; That at his coming we may stand aright And fear no sudden shame.

THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1876.

The year has been one of grave anxiety to all the world. It opened in shadow; it closes in gloom. Among nations as among individuals there prevails a feeling of uneasiness, of dread at a something impending. Here at home we are happily removed from the dangers that the European nations have for centuries invited. We have no national crimes to answer for. We have not persecuted God’s church. We have not martyred his confessors. We have not sealed our Constitution with heresy. We have not betrayed a faith committed to our keeping. And these are things worth priding ourselves on, worth confirming ourselves in, in the centennial year of our Republic. They are the brightest jewels in the nation’s crown, and may they shine there for ever!

Of course we have had our faults――abundance of them. We have made mistakes, and in the course of human events will probably make many more, for nations never become great without suffering and sacrifice; they can no more hope to escape these fiery proofs than individuals. But at least we have, as a nation, been guiltless of the graver sins against God, his church, and humanity. And it is on this fact above all that men who believe in a God ruling over this world found their hopes for the future.

It is not our purpose here even to glance at our history in the past hundred years. Our present business is with the year just closing. Looking at the plain, level facts before us, we confess that they wear an ugly aspect. It is painful to be compelled to acknowledge that the dawn of the hundredth year of our national existence might have been far brighter. Unhappily, the legacy of many years of mistakes, misgovernment, and――let it be confessed with pain――of malfeasance in high places, both in State and national offices, has accumulated to fall upon this year of all others. One good, at least, has come from it. The nation, in American fashion, injured as it was, has at length faced the evil, which is in itself and due to no extraneous influence at all. The year opened with investigations. Indeed, it has been pre-eminently a year of investigations; and much matter there was to inquire into. The result showed a wide-spread corruption in the national administration. This corruption was probably one of the results of the war; but it was none the less corruption on that account. The Rebellion had been crushed, heroic deeds had been done. _Væ victis!_ There was an army of political heroes waiting for their reward. There are more ways than one of sacking a city. In these days we sack nations――as witness Germany and France――and arrange the terms of the sacking in peaceful convention. There are insects that thrive and grow fat on corruption. Some of these set on the carcase of the dead South. Others settled on the offices of national, State, and municipal government. They have been eating their way into the body politic for sixteen years. There is only a rotten shell left, and this year that shell fell to pieces.

In treating of the last Presidential election in our annual review of four years back, we wrote: “General Grant was re-elected. The opposition arrayed against him … utterly broke down. General Grant’s is undoubtedly a national election; we trust, therefore, that his future term may correspond with the confidence placed in his rule by the nation; may be productive of all the good which we expect of it for the nation at large; may heal up old wounds still sore; and may lead the country wisely into a new era of prosperity and peace.”

It is plain that we bore no ill-will to the President. What shall we say of his administration to-day? What need we say in face of the action of the country regarding the administration?

The heart sickens at going over the record of the year. It is only the culmination of the preceding years of ill-government which have been duly noted in this review, and which there is no special reason now to enumerate. We would not undertake to say that the government under President Grant has, _as a whole_, been a failure; but in great part it undoubtedly has been. We use a studiously mild term in describing it as eminently unsatisfactory, and the verdict of the nation, as given in the recent Presidential elections, endorses our opinion. Whoever may be seated in the President’s chair for the next four years, President Grant and his party have been condemned by the feeling and vote of the county, not because he was so foolish as to aspire to a third term on the strength of an administration that fell to pieces of its own rottenness and on a proposed anti-Catholic ticket, but simply because the country was sick of it. The disgrace and fall of the Secretary of War, the recall of the American Minister at the English court, the disclosures of corruption and inexcusable expenditure in the civil service, the plain traces of corruption in every department of the public service down to the most obscure, such as the peddling in post-traderships by the brother of the President――all of which came to a head within the present year; the stanch support given by the President to men whom he had appointed to office, many of whose dealings were shown to be of a most doubtful character, so much so that some of them just escaped the fate of thieves by technicalities of the law that in themselves were moral condemnation――all this was only the rotten ripeness of a growth diseased from the beginning.

But if the year, notwithstanding gloomy forebodings, to which we had grown accustomed, has been one of disgrace and disaster where pride and glory ought to have had place, it has not been without its bright side. The Presidential elections have been a series of surprises. Late in last year, as we noted at the time, President Grant made what not only we but all the world regarded as a bold and infamous bid for a third term in his speech at Des Moines. He aimed at riding into power on that favorite, and too often successful, hobby of a hard-pressed politician――an anti-Catholic ticket. This, in politics in these days, we take to be the last resource of an ignoble mind. Nevertheless, the bid was undoubtedly well timed. All the world is up in arms against the Catholic Church. No government dare hold out a hand to help her and hope to live. It is only recently that the President of Ecuador did so, and what was the result? He fell at the hand of an assassin, as De Rossi fell before him. The sentiment of English speaking peoples had been appealed to with all the force and violence of which such a man as Mr. Gladstone is capable, and his words were widely read in this country, being multiplied and confirmed by the secular and sectarian press. The President saw this opportunity, and took it at its flood-tide in a speech that was as ingenious as it was malignant. A Methodist bishop, in a large and important conclave of Methodist ministers, took up the cry, and, amid the acclamations of his brethren, nominated General Grant for a third term. Then came out from the holes and corners those imps of mischief, who are always at hand to do evil work at a time when the minds of men are excited――secret societies――and tendered their services and votes to President Grant. An adroit bidder for the Presidency bade higher and went further even than the President on the same ticket. He looked the winning man, and the secret societies transferred their allegiance to him.

This was undoubtedly a clever diversion for the Republican party. Dark clouds hovered over them, but there stood the Pope. He was their old ally in difficulties, and, if only they held him up to execration, the bull they were goading would turn aside from the lancers who were drawing his life-blood, and charge only on the red rag. How miserably they misread the people of this country has been seen.

The real issue was between a corrupt and an incorrupt government. No “making of demonstrations” could conceal this fact from an outraged people. To use homely but expressive language, “the pious dodge would not work,” especially in the hands of men like Grant and Blaine. The Pope was not the author of the rings, small and great, throughout the country; he had nothing to do with post-traderships; he had not stolen a penny from the civil service; Kellogg and Chamberlain were ruling in the South, and not he; Schenck was not his Minister to London, Babcock his private secretary, Belknap his Secretary of War, Robeson his Secretary of the Navy, Pierrepont and Williams his legal advisers, Shepherd his trusted confidant, and Chandler his pet minister. The time had gone by to fight with shadows when there were such glaring realities before the people. The corruption was homespun, unfortunately. It was of native growth. It had aggravated and increased the financial depression, in which foreign countries had a hand to some extent. It had fostered a lavish display and gilded vulgarity which were not only unbecoming republicans but rational beings of any class or kind. It had laid the road open to constitutional dangers, and honest citizens had good reason to dread a prolongation of the term of a man who had too military a way of looking at civil affairs, and regarded lawful opposition somewhat in the light of military insubordination. These things were before the people, and they laughed at the idea of dragging the Pope in.

General Grant was thrown aside; Blaine was thrown aside. A man whose record seems to be stainless was named in his place――Mr. Hayes, the Governor of Ohio. A far abler man was set up as the Democratic candidate――Mr. Tilden, the Governor of New York. The election was probably the most stubbornly contested ever known, and the day after showed Mr. Tilden with 184 electoral votes and his opponent with 166. Three States remained doubtful――three Southern States where the negro vote predominated, and two at least of which, by the confessions of both Republicans and Democrats, had been vilely misgoverned since the war. The country had to wait, as we still wait, for the returns from those States. At the very utmost they could only give the Republican candidate a majority of one in the Electoral College, while, whatever way they went, the votes of a vast majority of the people were undoubtedly given to the Democratic candidate. The fact was undeniable: the voice of the American people was for a total change.

Then ensued a scene unexampled, perhaps, in history, certainly in the history of this country. The administration came out in all its force. State rights were invaded by the military in South Carolina――as in the opening of the year they had been invaded in Louisiana for the purpose of sustaining the Republican candidates, right or wrong――while a nation looked sullenly on.

The country has undoubtedly been on the verge of danger; but we cannot despair of the Republic while so magnificent an exhibition is given by the people of calmness, forbearance, and good sense through days and weeks fraught with every incentive to exasperation and violence. We cannot foretell who will be the next President, but the will of the people is manifest and unmistakable. Politicians high and low have received a bitter lesson, which the nation has indeed dearly bought. Let us continue to be jealous of those whom we elect, of our own wills, to carry on the business of this great country, and we will force honesty even from the dishonest.

We have not space to deal with national topics of lesser moment, though of great interest and importance. With the centennial year came our first International Exhibition. It brought the eyes of friendly nations upon us, and, while the exhibition of the products of other and older peoples was a lesson to ourselves, a still greater lesson to them was the exhibition of our own industry and productiveness. The advance in the art and industry of the United States attracted the admiration of competent critics from all civilized nations. A more significant sign even than this is the alarm in England at the rapid growth of our iron trade, while our grain floods English markets. Ten years ago forty-four per cent. of the grain sent to England came from Russia, fourteen per cent. from the United States. Now forty four per cent. is sent from this country, and twenty-one per cent. from Russia; this, too, at a time when business generally at home was never duller――a dulness that the Presidential crisis has confirmed. Yet even at our present condition we are, as a people, more prosperous than most of the European nations. The money that people generally squandered, and that was allowed to be squandered in the national, State, and municipal governments, has at least not been spent in the forging of cannon and the mustering of dread armaments of war, in which so keen a rivalry is exhibited by the European monarchs. Such comfort, at least, as this consideration affords is fairly open to us.

THE PRESENT CONDITION OF EUROPE.

And now we turn to Europe. It would take the eye of a prophet to read the future, the pen of a Jeremias to paint the present, of the continent to which God, through his church, gave the leadership of the world. The European crisis that all men saw coming seems come at last. Four years ago we closed our review by saying: “War looms on the European horizon, gathers in silent thunder-clouds all around. A flash is enough to kindle the combustion and make the thunder speak. Who shall say when or whence it comes? Europe is arming, and we have good authority for saying that ‘the next war will rage over half a century’――Bismarck himself. For the church we foresee an increase of bitter and severe trials.…”

Well, the thunder-clouds have gathered and are now impending. During the greater part of the year the world has waited with bated breath to see them burst and the bolts that smite nations fall. The hand of Providence is in it. The sins of three centuries seem to be gathering to a head at last. There is no nation in Europe that can call the other friend. There is no such thing as the comity of nations. The big battalions alone take right and wrong into their hands. Treaties most solemnly and formally ratified within a quarter of a century are torn to pieces as waste paper. Such alliances as are patched up between the Powers are rather personal than national――the alliances of savage chieftains against some rival, to be broken as occasion requires when the allies may fly in turn at each other’s throats. France and Germany are sworn foes; Russia and England hate each other; Austria trembles between Germany and Russia; Turkey is doomed, but seems resolved to sell its life dearly, and draw all Europe in to witness and operate at the death. Italy seems ready to follow the beck of Germany, and Spain is consumed with her own troubles. Add to this that each nation is disorganized within itself. The war, as will be shown later on, has proved a curse to Prussia, and, through Prussia, to all Germany. The empire is far from consolidated; the Catholics have been alienated from the government; the socialists, who are now in the ascendant, have been denounced by Prince Bismarck; the Protestants have lost what unity they ever possessed, and have shown an example of weak subserviency to infamous laws that has won for them the contempt of the world. In Russia the emperor himself dreads the future. The long-pent up elements of discord are bursting through at last, and even his immense power cannot restrain the nation from a war which, it is generally believed, his mind and heart condemn. Austria has its Hungary, and its persecution like to that of Germany; England its Ireland and a people that, with all its wealth, it cannot find employment for or feed. It has its India, also, with Russia for a neighbor. France has its Imperialists, its Legitimists, its Socialists of the fiercest kind; Italy its secret societies, its persecutions, its people that groan under an incompetent government and scandalous monarch. What a picture! And in the background millions of armed men, millions of starving people, bankrupt treasuries, general disaffection, a thousand conflicting passions of race, of religion, of social and moral theories, and the pale ghosts of murdered kings vainly warning the handful of monarchs who are riding over the old ruts red with so many an awful disaster! Such is Europe in the year of our Lord 1876. Why is Europe not united? why is it not at rest? why is it ever on the verge of war? why is its surface being constantly changed? why are its governments so diverse? why is it the stronghold of the foes of all government? why is it bristling with armies and weighed down by armaments? why, wherever the eye turns, is it faced by cannon?

That the Reformation divided Europe into two hostile camps is a fact acknowledged by all students of history. We do not say that previous to the Reformation there were no wars among the Catholic European nations. There were――bloody, long sustained sometimes, and bitter. But they were wars of dynasties rather than of nations, for which the feudal system, that in its essence and construction was a pagan system, was chiefly accountable. The people hated not each other. They were one in faith, one in religion, one in their worship, one in their hopes of a hereafter and the means to attain it, one in their recognition of one supreme head of the church in which all believed. While they were just as much Germans, French, Italians, English, Irish, as they are to-day, they all worshipped one God in one manner. English saints were revered in Ireland, Irish saints in England, German saints in France, French saints in Italy. While Charlemagne was battling with pagan hordes and Moslem infidels, Irish missionaries went forth and spread themselves along the borders of the Rhine, diffusing the light of faith and knowledge in their path. They were welcomed as angels, not looked upon as aliens and foes, as are the missionaries of Protestant societies to-day in Catholic lands, who only stir up strife wherever they set their foot. Thus there existed something stronger, broader, more universal than nationalism, which destroyed not nationality, but taught all men that they were brethren, and that geographical lines were blotted out in the sight of God and in the common home of faith. Then was exemplified the sacred words of Scripture: “This is the victory which overcometh the world, your faith.” It was this faith that out of barbarism drew and moulded the mighty nations of Europe. It was this faith alone that saved Europe from being overrun by the Moslem as it already had been by the pagan North. Just at the moment when the Moslem power was about to receive its last check and overthrow came the Protestant Reformation, which was not only a religious revolt, but a disruption of Christendom. To that we owe the presence of the Turk in Europe and all the fatal consequences that have flowed from it, now at their ripest, when the moribund carcase that the faithless kings and nations allowed to lie there and rot threatens, in its final dissolution, their descendants with ruin. To that movement also we owe the bitterly hostile lines that have been set up between nations that once were brethren. To it we owe the persecutions and the cruelties that have resulted on either side from the day when a man’s religion assumed a political and geographical character. To it we owe something worse than all this――the substitution of doubt for faith, and the questioning of all authority, both human and divine. To the impious setting up of the monarch as the great high-priest of the nation we owe the absolutism which has crushed peoples, been overthrown and crushed in turn by them, and risen again only to repeat the old story of devastation.

Ever since that fatal outbreak Europe has been steadily drifting back into the old paganism to which such civilization as letters give is only a thin veneer; and paganism, at its highest, is only a step removed from barbarism. What is called progress would have come without Protestantism, and been estimated at its true value――as a means to a higher life for all the world; not as an end, not as the all in all in this life. Mere worshippers of progress make this world their heaven and self their god. This is the growing feeling in nations to-day, and the Reformation it was that, however unconsciously at the beginning, formulated it into a religion.

It seems to us that the present state of Europe is the logical and plain outcome of the great religious revolt in these last days. What nation to-day has a religion? Has Russia? Has England? Has Germany? Has France? They each have religions――fragments of religions or no religion――as apart from one another as the poles. At the very least this depriving men of a unity in their highest beliefs is fraught with interminable discord. And never were the minds of men more disturbed than they are to-day. Protestantism has almost run its course, and, by its own confession, disbelief in Catholicity is resolving itself more and more into disbelief in all things spiritual and necessary bowing to brute force in the material and moral order. Men look around blankly and ask, Where do we stand? And the answer is, Nowhere. Men are born and live, they eat and sleep, they sin and die in their sin, passing through life in a sort of dumb wonder that life should be. Life is a hopeless mystery to those from whose eyes heaven has been shut out. Then all those hard social problems become unanswerable. Why, they cry out in despair, should kings have our blood and sustenance? Why should we kill each other to make them great or small? Why should they live and we die? Why should our lives be spent in drill, portioned out by the corporal, and our means be dragged from us to buy cannon? These thoughts are boiling and seething in the hearts of the masses, and kings know it. They and those they favored have destroyed faith and religious unity. They have in its place what is called socialism, which means revolt against all things that be. The name of priest was made hateful by the calumnies of false teachers with the sanction of kings; and now the name of king is coupled with that of priest in the mouths of the irreligious masses. The first French Revolution was but the awful flash of a fire that smouldered and still smoulders under the thrones of Europe. It has set kings up and set them down like toys with which a child is pleased and then breaks, and then takes others to make its sport and break again. The history of Europe from the Reformation down is a continuous conflict between despotism and revolution. The fullest liberty is the only safeguard against it; but the fullest liberty may no longer be allowed to the peoples, for the Christian spirit and the Christian guiding hand have been withdrawn; deprived of which, liberty of the masses means license and lawlessness, government either absolutism or a strong tendency thereto.

SOCIALISM.

Let it not be thought that we are drawing a fancy picture. “Socialistic journals,” said Prince Bismarck in a speech delivered early in the year, “had recently done much harm, and had done so without let or hindrance. The poor people who subscribed for socialistic papers read but one journal, and were perverted by that one. They had an indistinct idea that they were badly off, which was no doubt true, and they therefore were ever ready to believe the insane promises held out by the socialistic journals. The result was that the German operative no longer worked as much and as well as did the English and French, and that German manufactories could no more compete in the great markets of the world. A nation that had been industrious and steady to a proverb had, by the incessant agitation of the socialistic press, been brought to this sad pass.”

Prince Bismarck cannot well complain. The only press he could not tolerate was the Catholic. The publication of a letter of the Pope was the signal for suppression of the paper, and fine and imprisonment of the publisher. He used the socialist press to inflame the hatred of the people against the Catholics, and now finds that in the unlawful use of dangerous weapons he has only cut his own fingers. In a debate in the Prussian Parliament Count Eulenburg, the Minister of the Interior, was compelled by a Catholic deputy to admit that “the government did tolerate the excesses of the socialist papers and societies for awhile, although the existing legislation enabled them to interfere.”

“I have always been _Intransigente_,” said Garibaldi last February. “Brought up with republican principles, through having served the Republic in America, I could not change my opinions, only I thought in the past that it was necessary to suppress our republican sentiments, because, in order to unite Italy, the monarchy was necessary. But not for this have we renounced our republican principles. As republican principles are the principles of honest people, there cannot be an honest government which is not republican. However, we are obliged to get on by compromises, which the force of circumstances demands. _I do not tell you to-day to make a revolution. We must adapt ourselves to the times._ Nevertheless, vindicate progress to the last gap. Keep yourselves in the path of progress. Do not let yourselves be weakened to-day; the country groans under depredations, the unjust acts of the government. When we compromised with the monarchy, we might have expected from it that the country would be well governed; but it is not. The monarchy must also complete its course; but the Guizots and the Polignacs of to-day do nothing but accelerate its fall.”

“In conducting the government of the world,” said Mr. Disraeli in his speech at Aylesbury in August last, “there are not only sovereigns and ministers, but secret societies, to be considered, which have agents everywhere――reckless agents, who countenance assassination, and, if necessary, can produce a massacre.” “I think,” he said, in speaking of the negotiations for adjusting matters in the East and staving off a little longer the fatal hour, “that in the spring of the present year the negotiations might have resulted in peace on principles which would have been approved by every good man; but unexpectedly Servia――that is to say, secret societies of Europe, acting through Servia――declared war on Turkey.”

On the eve of the German elections the _Provinzial Correspondenz_ warns Germany against the socialists in this solemn fashion: “As for the aim of socialism, we can have no doubt whatever about it. For on all occasions the members of the party make known this aim more or less openly. It is the utter overthrow of all order established in the state and in society, the destruction of all social culture, which has found its expression in religion and morality, in the family and in property, in art and science, in industry and commerce; and all this for the erection of a chimerical workingmen’s state, wherein would fall all the power of government and all the enjoyments of life to the pretended proletarians, or men who possess nothing.”

The invincible opposition of the Catholic Church to secret societies of every kind, the frequent warnings of the Holy Father and of the Catholic episcopate, clergy, and press throughout the world, have generally been laughed at as a clerical bugaboo, set up to frighten women and children. Well, we have not quoted from a single Catholic so far, and certainly the threats coming from so many different quarters, and from men whose words are not idle, are sufficiently strong.

THE COURSE OF EVENTS IN EUROPE.

Leaving this, the general and gravest aspect of European affairs, we proceed to touch on more specific topics of public interest which have arisen during the year. Many must necessarily be omitted.

Not even the gravity of the Eastern complications has been able to withdraw the eyes of the world from France. The story, repeated in these columns year after year, of the country’s wonderful advance in material prosperity is happily confirmed. We wish that the prospects of a satisfactory government were on a par with this material advance. There exists still a feeling of great unrest in France. The various political parties are as far apart as they ever were, and it seems impossible to bring them together so as to carry on the business of the country in that healthy constitutional fashion where opposition is a spur rather than a material hindrance to the government, where the government has not to deal constantly with a strong body of irreconcilables, and where cabinet crises need not be expected at any moment on what to outsiders often look like trivial points――as, for instance, the one of which we hear as we write: the concession by a Catholic nation of military honors at their burial to men who have lived and died unbelievers, and whose funerals, by their own expressed desire or the will of their relatives and friends, are devoid of all religious ceremony and a renunciation of the Catholic religion. Now, it seems to us that such a question as that should not be permitted to necessitate the resignation of a ministry and the consequent throwing out of gear of the chief government machinery.

For difficulties like this those who arrogate to themselves the exclusive title of republicans in France――the party that regards M. Gambetta as its leader and Victor Hugo as its prophet――is chiefly responsible. It has taken a distinctly anti-Catholic basis in what undoubtedly is a Catholic country. The name for it is “anti-clerical,” which is a distinction without a difference. It palliates the excesses of the _Commune_, while it opposes freedom of education.

There seems, unfortunately, to have been too much truth in what Mgr. Dupanloup said early in the year when speaking of the university question: “To make us love the republic, the first thing done is to identify it with a war against religion.” And the venerable prelate’s words received strong confirmation from so decidedly un-Catholic a writer as the Paris correspondent of the London _Times_, who wrote to that journal while the Chamber was still fresh from the elections: “On observing the attitude of the Chamber it is evident that the religious controversy is the great motive of all its passions. In the last Assembly, at least in its early days, every speaker courting applause had only to attack the Empire. In the present, as yet, the most frantic plaudits are reserved for whoever attacks not only the clergy, but any creed whatever. This is a fresh discord about to be added to so many old ones.”

If there is any truth in the report of Prince Bismarck’s views of the French elections as given in the letter of a German diplomatist, extracts from which appeared in a Rouen newspaper, the prince-chancellor agrees with both of these views. The report in question at least smacks of the man.

“The chancellor,” says the German diplomatist, “does not appear to be affected in any particular way by the result of the elections. In a conversation I had with him a few hours ago he remarked: ‘I doubt if the French Radicals will get into power; but should they, I am sure they will begin eating the priests before they tackle the Germans; the task is so much easier, and I have no desire to balk their appetite in that direction.’”

On December 31, 1875, the French National Assembly was dissolved, though its actual dissolution only took place in March, 1876, at the meeting of the new Chambers. The elections followed, and the voice of the people was certainly for a republic. The question of education immediately became a great subject of debate. In July, 1875, was passed a law allowing mixed juries, composed half of examiners appointed by the state and half of their own professors, to question the candidates for degrees, and decide whether or not to grant the degrees. Not a very monstrous concession, surely, yet on the strength of it the Catholic University of Paris was founded and inaugurated on January 10, 1876. This was too much for republicans of the Gambetta and Victor Hugo stamp. Accordingly, to M. Waddington, “an Englishman by birth and education, and moreover a stanch Protestant,” as the Paris correspondent of the London _Times_ triumphantly announced to that journal, was confided the Ministry of Education. It seems that M. Waddington was actually born in France, his father being an Englishman who was there naturalized, but the rest of the description is accurate enough. Of course M. Waddington’s stanch Protestant conscience could not allow of this concession to Catholics, whatever his English education might have done. He moved immediately to repeal clauses 13 and 14 of the law of July, 1875, which embodied the concessions above mentioned.

Now, what is this system of state monopoly of education in France against which the Catholic conscience rebelled? It owes its origin to the despotic genius of the first Napoleon, and we cannot do better than describe it in the words of a critic who will, in the eyes of non-Catholics at least, be above suspicion: “He [Napoleon I.] formed one great university,” says the London _Times_, “which was only the state acting as an autocratic teacher. The chief dignitary of that university was the Minister of Public Instruction, and all the officials, from the highest to the lowest, were servants of the government. The state appointed all the professors in the Sorbonne, the College de France, the law schools, the Polytechnic School, the Military College, and the crowd of Lycées throughout the country. Indeed, the state does so still.” It will be seen how open was such a system to abuse, particularly when the “state” in France has changed hands half a dozen times since Napoleon organized his system. “The state alone could grant degrees in Medicine, Law, and even Theology. The system was completed by the stipulation that no one could open even the pettiest of infant schools or the greatest of colleges without ministerial authority. Thus the state could despotically decide what books should be studied by every scholar in France, by whom and how each should be taught, what moral or political ideas should be spread through every school or college, and what amount or kind of knowledge should be exacted from every candidate for the practice of medicine or the bar. _No more rigid system of intellectual despotism was ever fashioned by the wit of man._”

After a prolonged, fierce, and bitter debate, M. Waddington carried his motion through the Chamber of Deputies, but it was happily thrown out in the Senate; and there the matter stands.

If French republicanism is made to assume a distinctly anti-Catholic character on the part of those who look upon themselves as the only true republicans in France, then France cannot hope for a good government from it. It remains for the Catholics to show and prove themselves the veritable republicans by devoting themselves absolutely to the country and the government as they stand. They have the game in their own hands. The French nation seems to be profoundly and reasonably mistrustful of kings and emperors. Yet a republic in which Victor Hugo, Gambetta, and the apologists and leaders of the _Commune_ are to be the chief actors would be worse than the Empire. France would have had revolution ere this only for the strong, wise, and just man who holds the reins of power with so firm a grasp, and swerves not an inch either to the “Right” or to the “Left.” What a contrast between Marshal MacMahon and our own soldier-President! We can only continue to hope for the best from all parties. Time may teach them to coalesce and deal fairly with all. Could they only do this, the mightiest bulwark would be raised up on the continent of Europe against the threatened encroachments of absolutism on the one hand and the madness of socialism on the other, and in this France would attain to a height of power and true greatness that no king or emperor ever brought to her.

Germany goes on its way resolutely. The persecution of the Catholics, which is now an old story, has not been abated a jot. To it is added, as has already been indicated, an attempted persecution of the socialists. But the socialists, besides being too strong, are hard to catch. The recent elections for the Prussian Chamber of Deputies show an immense gain for the party of National Liberals, who represent every wing of socialism from its highest to its lowest aspects. The Catholics remain much the same as before. The result is not favorable to Prince Bismarck, who seems to be growing more querulous than ever. An arrangement has been brought about by which the Prussian railways have been transferred to state control, and an attempt was made to extend it to all Germany, which has thus far proved unsuccessful. Still the military hand everywhere, and here is a result of it on which we have often dwelt, but which grows more sadly manifest every year. The Berlin correspondent of the London _Times_, writing of the accounts of Prussia for 1874 and the estimates for 1875, after struggling manfully but hopelessly to make the figures wear a favorable aspect, finally confesses: “These figures point a moral. Comparatively easy as it may be to balance the Budget in 1876, the present is the last year in which this can be done. Next year there will be few, if any, surpluses to draw upon. On the most favorable assumption the Prussian needs may be covered without having recourse to fresh imposts; but how about the wants of the Empire in 1877?[145] The Empire in the current year lives upon its usual income of custom, excise, and a modicum of state contributions, patching up its deficit by consuming the remnant of accumulated funds left. _A year hence realities both in Prussia and in the Empire will have to be faced with empty pockets._ If industry has revived by that time, the taxes will be augmented; if not, the only alternative will lie between a loan and the reduction of military expenditure. In any circumstances the situation in which Germany is placed by the military preparations all round will then be acutely felt.”

Such is the cost of military glory and power in these days. What doth it profit the people? We have seen Prince Bismarck’s views on the German workingmen, who, instead of becoming the strength and support of the Empire, are becoming its terror. How could it be otherwise with the means taken to educate them? No picture could be sadder than that drawn by the chancellor of the present condition of the German working classes. Industry cannot thrive on bayonets and cannon. Social order cannot prevail where the minds of men have been debauched for a purpose by the free dissemination of evil doctrines, and when they have ever before their eyes the steady persecution of the best citizens. He has outlawed the church of God. He cannot wonder at the devil stepping in and claiming his prey.

A still greater shock was given to German feeling by the report of Prof. Reuleaux, their chief commissioner at our Centennial Exhibition. His conclusions, in brief, were: 1. That the main object of the German manufacturers is to produce an article which shall be cheap and nasty. 2. That German manufacturers find it easy to succeed in this line, considering that the men they employ are deficient in skill and taste. 3. That judging by the German display at the Exhibition, the German nation seem to be steeped in utter servility, so great is the number of Bismarck statues, Red Princes, and other heroes of the war, in every conceivable material, from gilt bronze down to common soap.

“For the real cause of the decline [in prosperity] in Prussia,” says the London _Times_, “we must look to the military system of Germany. That system, as we have often pointed out, is the most costly in the world. By sending to the drill-ground for years all her best and most promising youth――by taking her most accomplished young men from the university, from the learned professions, from the factory or the laboratory, to fill the ranks of her army――she causes a greater interruption of trade, and lays a heavier burden on the nation, than that which the cost of the war has imposed on France.… In Germany all other interests are sacrificed to the needs of the greatest army ever supported by any state. The intellect of the nation is set to do military work with such rigor that civil pursuits are sensibly suffering. Trade is sacrificed in order that the country may be covered with troops drilled to the precision of machines. Military railways are made without regard to commercial necessities. So crushing is the blood-tax that crowds of the most stalwart peasantry and the most skilful artisans are crossing the Atlantic in spite of the depression of trade in America; and so soon as prosperity shall return to the United States the emigration from Germany may be multiplied two or three fold. Such is the price at which Germany bought the military dictatorship of Europe.”

Italy seems to be going from very bad to worse. The people groan under their burdens, and the successive ministries seem utterly incapable of coping with the difficulties by which they are beset on all sides. The telegram announcing the opening of the Italian Parliament on Nov. 20 tells us that in his speech from the throne Victor Emanuel, referring to the relations between church and state, said: “The extensive liberties granted the church ought not to impair public liberties. The government would therefore propose bills for rendering efficient the reservation in the laws respecting the Papal See.”

Here is an instance of the “extensive liberties” of the church. A report, dated March 14, informs us that “the fifty-sixth birthday of king Victor Emanuel, and the thirty-second of his eldest son, has been signalized in Rome by a ceremony of great interest. A new public library, which has been added to the Collegió Romano, and which has received the name of the king, was formally opened by the Minister of Public Instruction.” (We wonder if in the portfolio of the present Italian Minister of Public Instruction the good old commandment, “Thou shalt not steal,” is written.) “He explained that on the very site of the new building the Jesuits had striven for the triumph of principles against which King Victor Emanuel’s career has been an unceasing battle.” (This statement is crushingly true.) “The library is also the monument of a victory in another respect, for it contains 650,000 volumes which belonged to the suppressed monasteries.”

What a victory! “The opening of such a building,” said the London _Times_, with unconscious irony, “appropriately marked the birthday of a king whose name will forever be connected with the greatest of all changes in the political fortunes of the Papacy.” It notices with keen regret in the same article that there is a lamentable tendency among Italians “to forget how much they owe to this king.” “Her [Italy’s] people cannot speak too gratefully of the king whose rare combination of courage and political sagacity has helped to give them back their self-respect as well as their nationality.”

Well, when Englishmen worship a Garibaldi and cherish a Mazzini, we may expect their leading journal to speak in this strain of a Victor Emanuel. The Mantegazza affair will be too fresh in the memory of our readers to need our using it as one of many instances showing the kind of man this model king is, and how likely the Italians are to remember “how much they owe” him. One of the things they owe him is the suppression of monasteries and convents. It must be rather bad when a journal like the London _Saturday Review_ considers it as on the whole rather a useless measure in its results. A strong effort is undoubtedly being made by the Italian government to destroy the Papacy and dam up the Catholic religion at every vent. Only do this, it says to its subjects: Kill off these religious societies from the face of the earth; and, as for yourselves, join what devil’s societies you please――for this is liberal Italy.

In assuming charge of the religious properties, however, the Italian government assumed also the liabilities attached, and it met with many strange mishaps. Wonderful to read are the accounts of some of those bills presented by worthy citizens to the government officials. The Dominicans for instance, are certainly not famed as being great eaters of flesh either in Italy or anywhere else. Yet here are the worthy Dominicans of Sta. Maria sopra Minerva, whose property was seized, charged by a modest butcher with a “little bill” of 20,000 fr. for butcher’s meat! This is only one of many such that were presented.

The first report of the Commission of Vigilance charged with the ecclesiastical property seized was presented early in the year. It showed that, according to the schedule laid before Parliament in the spring of 1873, there were then in Rome 126 monasteries occupied by 2,375 monks, and 90 convents occupied by 2,183 nuns――in all, 216 religious houses with 4,558 inmates, exclusive of hospitals and pensions under monastic supervision or direction, the colleges and the houses of the generals. Of these 216 houses 119 were seized and 44 others declared exempt from the operation of the law. The property that thus passed into the hands of the Commission was disposed of as property usually is――put up at auction for the most part; 250 lots were put up at 13,042,629 fr., and knocked down at 16,142,697 fr. The total value of the property thus seized is estimated at 61,161,300 fr. To complete the pleasing picture it only remains to add that the receipts of the Commission from July 22, 1873, when it began its operations, up to the end of 1875, were 11,116,376 fr., while the expenditure was 11,570,428 fr.

Meanwhile, the dispossessed monks were left at liberty to run about the world and seek for a living wherever they could find it, while the Commission of Vigilance manipulated their property. As for the nuns, provision was made that all of them who within three months after the publication of the law made express and individual requests to remain in the houses they occupied should be permitted to do so until the number in each house should be mercifully reduced by death to six, when the government might concentrate them elsewhere. Signor Nicotera, however, seems resolved to root them out altogether.

Such is Catholic Italy. The readers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD have seen in a recent article[146] the tendency of the ecclesiastical policy of the Italian government. In this alone is it resolute. The country at large is as ill-governed as ever. The police are corrupt. In many districts life is still at the mercy of brigands, some of whom, as was recently shown, have their allies among those moving in the best circles of society. Scandals thicken around throne and government. As for the new government, that steadfast friend of young Italy, the London _Times_, wrote thus as long ago as May 4: “The new Italian ministry came into power just a month ago, and it has already had to declare the impossibility of its own former programme, and to adopt both the measures and the practice of the government it overthrew and supplanted. It deals with public meetings, with the press, and with the telegraphic office as conservatives, and even the Pope, had done before; and, what is more, it finds that if it is to save Italian finance from a downward career, it has no choice but to adopt the Grist-tax, which was the one particular crime of its predecessors.… The Left is disappointed and sullen. The populace of the country towns is furious. For some years the owners, the occupiers, and the tillers of land have found that ‘unification’ and representation are costly privileges. The fact is now brought home to them; and when all classes in an agricultural district are of one mind, they are apt to express themselves roughly.”

Like all petty persecutors, Switzerland shows itself the most virulent in its attack on the rights of conscience. Great Powers try to devise some pretext at least for their persecutions. Switzerland is troubled by no such scruples as this. The laws are strained to the utmost to punish Catholics, and, when they will not precisely fit the case, they are made to fit as speedily as possible. Indeed, law there has become a farce. The correspondent of the _Journal des Débats_, which is noted for its solid opposition to the Catholic Church, draws a lively picture of the proceedings at the “election” of an “Old Catholic” pastor; and as it is characteristic of a thousand things that are constantly occurring in Switzerland, we give it at length. The letter is dated Sept. 20: “The confessional contest continues at Geneva. I won’t trouble you with the details of the skirmishes which occur every day. That would be monotonous. As a _résumé_, here is what passes from month to month: A Catholic commune has a church, a _curé_, a parish, and one hundred electors. Fifteen or twenty of these declare themselves liberal Catholics. They demand a _curé_ who shall be elected by the parishioners, as the law requires. But the party chiefs do not always find a liberal clergyman to order. Plenty present themselves, it is true, but for the most part they are more liberal than Catholic, and more libertine than liberal. The Superior Council wishes for honest men only, who shall not be too ignorant, who are good speakers, with a conscience, if possible, and capable of making a good show. But this is a combination of qualities hard to find in those who go out from the Roman fold. As soon as they have found one whose recommendations are of the best, they write to the twenty electors: ‘We have found your man; vote away to-morrow.’ They vote; the eighty Roman Catholics go not to the ballot-box, therein obeying the stupid order received from Rome, and the _curé_ is elected. From that out the church and the parish are his. All he has to do is to take possession. The keys are demanded from the mayor. The mayor refuses to give them up. He is recalled; the gates are forced, and liberal Catholicism is duly installed in the holy place, where nothing is left but the four walls. So clean has been the picking that the new-comers cannot even find a bell. Whereupon the eighty Roman Catholics, with their wives, children, and friends, gather together in a barn around their _curé_, now become a martyr, while the official priest, installed in the church of the commune, preaches to a congregation of two――the gendarme and the rural guard. He has not even the benches to preach to, for they have all been taken away. In addition, he is pestered by the zealots of the opposite party, who insult him in the street, steal his vegetables, and eat his rabbits. To console himself he marries, which at least brings him a female parishioner.

“Behold what passes from month to month. But to be serious: It is in this way that three-fourths of the revolutions begin. The liberal electors are for the most part infidels; but they have children whom they send to catechism. There were more than nine hundred of these this year. Behold a future flock detached from Rome. Moreover, there are foreigners who second the movement. A fairly large number of young girls have already made their First Communion in the liberal churches. Many marriages have taken place there.”

In Spain the Carlists were utterly defeated by overwhelming numbers and faithlessness on the part of many of their chieftains early in the year. Don Carlos escaped, and the insurrection was at an end. While Spain was shifting from hand to hand, and presenting to the world a hopeless picture of internal disorder, we supported the cause of a resolute man who had certainly a strong and brave following, not all confined to the North; whose views of government were far more liberal than they were represented to be by his foes; who knew the meaning of morality; who displayed great capacity in welding into a formidable army a set of undisciplined hordes whose personal character was above suspicion; who, as kings’ claims go, had a strong claim to the Spanish crown, supported to this day by a formidable party in Spain; and who, had he once grasped the power of the throne, would not have been a likely man to relinquish it. What Spain wants to-day is a ruler, and we believe Don Carlos would have ruled the country wisely and well. We were always open, however, to just such a solution of the Spanish difficulty as has actually taken place. In our review of the year 1872, while saying that we did “not expect to find Amadeo’s name at the head of the Spanish government that day twelvemonth,” we added: “a good regent, not Montpensier, might bring about the restoration of Don. Alfonso; but where is such a regent?” Pavia did the work, and if the young king can only be surrounded by good advisers he need dread no domestic foe. He is undoubtedly the lawful king of the nation, and, as such, all good men are bound to support him. But Spain is still so uncertain that it is open to almost any surprise. Its debt is enormous. When Queen Isabella was driven from the throne, the capital of the debt was $1,250,000,000. To-day it is about $3,500,000,000 which represents in startling fashion what a country gains by revolution and the clash of dynasties.

Space does not allow of entering more largely into the internal affairs of Europe, or even of glancing at the disturbed condition of affairs in the states of South America, which is only a reflex of European life in its general and worst phases. With a brief mention of a few of the memorable dead, we pass on to consider the question which is uppermost in men’s minds to-day.

For the Catholic, during the past year, one name overshadows all――that of Cardinal Antonelli, whose official life in the service of his Holiness was a long and severe battle against overwhelming odds. The wonder is, not that he failed in the end but that he stood so long. He, together with his illustrious chief, was a true friend of liberty, but not of that liberty which means disorder. This he was to the end of his days, as is shown by his admiration for our own Republic and his rejoicing at the victory of the Union. His life was spent in storms; and in days when physical force takes all things into its hands, his was the gigantic task to beat back the flood, as he succeeded in doing for almost a quarter of a century. His name will be memorable not only in Catholic annals but in European history, and his example for steadfast courage, unwavering faith, and unswerving devotion to the chair of Peter one of the most conspicuous in all time. Another holy and venerable man, renowned in a different way――Cardinal Patrizzi――followed him close. Another man who has graven his name on the century, and who was, perhaps, the brightest intellectual light that the New World has yet given to the faith――Dr. Brownson――went out with the year. As his career and work have been treated at length in THE CATHOLIC WORLD, we need say no more of him here. His bright and promising daughter, Sarah (Mrs. Tenney), the author of the _Life of Prince Gallitzin_ and other works, followed him recently. The name of Francis Deák stands alone among the list of secular statesmen. His life teaches the value of patience against hope, and of persistent but lawful agitation for the rights and liberties of peoples. He went to his grave amid the tears of a nation and the sorrow of a world, a patriot of patriots and a Catholic of Catholics.

THE EASTERN QUESTION.

Russia, Austria, and England have been almost completely wrapped up in the Eastern difficulty, which we do not pretend to be able to solve, and which we doubt if any man could solve, however read in the secrets of European cabinets. Never was a question more shifting in its character, more unexpected in its surprises, more delicate to touch, more difficult to adjust. Time was when short work might have been made of it. Here are the facts: A nation steeped in corruption, foreign in every sense to Europe, which has steadfastly refused to enter European life and thought and action, occupying one of the fairest regions only to pollute the very dust where heroes trod, and which the ashes of saints once consecrated. Christian principalities and peoples are subject and made to pay tribute to this power, which has only strength enough to be cruel, and energy enough to sin. It is needless to point out what would be the action of Europe were Europe only one in faith. Its very faith would have revolted against such a people in such a place, and beyond doubt the Turks would have had the alternative of becoming subject to Christian rule or of leaving Christian shores.

But these thoughts enter not into the calculations of governments which are themselves no longer Christian. They approach the subject like robbers before whom is spread out a rich booty, and the question is, Who shall have the biggest share? Russia is resolved to have it; Austria trembles for her frontier; England sees all that she fought for in the Crimea slipping from her grasp, and is left without courage to fight and without a friend to help her.

It would take a volume to follow out all the intricacies of this affair, and at the end we should only be left at the very starting-point. If we may hazard an opinion, we believe that there will be no war, at least this winter. As for the alarm at the anticipated occupation of Constantinople by Russia――while, if the Russian Empire be not dissolved before the close of the present century, by one of the most terrific social and political convulsions that has ever yet come to pass, that occupation seems to lie very much in the order of possibilities――we doubt much whether it will occur so soon as people think. England is not the only rival of Russia. The alliance of the emperors is nothing more than an alliance _de convenance_ which would snap at any moment. Russia herself has recently given notable example of what value she sets on troublesome treaties, when she has the power to throw them aside. It would seem to us difficult for Russia to occupy Constantinople without first mastering and garrisoning Turkey; and Turkey is an empire of many millions, whom fanaticism can still rouse to something like heroic, as well as to the most cruel and repulsive, deeds. These millions, even if they would, could not well be transported to Asia at a moment’s notice. But even granting all this, granting Russia the governing power――and it will have that or nothing――in what now is Turkey, how would its more immediate neighbors, Austria and Germany, regard so enormous an accession of power to an empire that already grasps the East and West in its hands, that is brave, enterprising, aggressive, daily growing in intelligence,[147] as a nation one in religion, and subject to the will of one man, whose presumptive heir is the bitter foe of Germany? The religion of Russia is opposed to that of all Europe, with the exception of Greece. Russia is greedy, strong, poor, and cruel. So cold a nation, that has not yet quite thrown off the shell of barbarism, drifting down into one of the fairest European provinces, would take a century, at least, to thaw into civilization. Indeed, the possibilities that would arise from such a movement are beyond foreshadowing. Yet people who talk so glibly of Russia seizing Constantinople never seem to regard them. We may be very sure, however, that they are regarded by powers who, in such an event, would be neighbors and necessary rivals of Russia; and that they, while they are in a position, as to-day Germany is, to forbid trespass, will be very careful how far they allow a people to advance who, given an inch, take a country. Germany, it is believed by many, wants Austria. With Austria as part of Germany, Germany might well defy Russia, and the ambition of founding a consolidated empire extending from the borders of France to the borders of Russia, from the North Sea to the confines of Italy, seems to us worthy of the mind of Prince Bismarck. And it might have been, were he safer at home; but it needs something more powerful than blood and iron to frame and consolidate such an empire. It needs peace, unity of sentiment, unity of interests, unity of faith, the assurance of liberty, none of which Germany possesses to-day. Indeed, the chancellor himself has disavowed such designs, fearing that the welding of Austria into Germany would give the Catholics the preponderance in the empire which they now lack. Certain it is that some agreement has been made between the emperors which has imparted an ominous neutrality to Germany, and under which troubled and enfeebled Austria is in the eyes of all observers restive. But under all these combinations of the great European Powers there frowns the spectre of socialism, with allies wherever men are aggrieved, and which will not down for all the artillery of empires. From it an outburst may be expected at any moment, in the quarter most unexpected, and in situations the most critical. Its power cannot be weighed, measured, or calculated upon. It works in the dark, yet universally. It is as strong in the Southern States of America as in Europe. Its excesses shock all men for a time, but it feeds on discontent; and discontent to-day possesses the world. It can only be met and conquered by the Christian conscience, but it has long been the effort of kings to destroy that conscience, to deprive it of light, and render it a passive agent in the hands of force. Thus are empires for ever digging their own graves.

And what is the outlook? Bleak indeed to the eye of the world, but bright to the eye of faith. Throughout the pontificate of our Holy Father, Pope Pius IX., the church has been treading the weary way of the Cross. The world is only to be won to Christ by suffering and sacrifice. Christ himself no longer suffers in the flesh, but in his mystical spouse, the church. “When I shall be lifted up,” he said, “then will I draw all men to me.” It is the same with his spouse. She has had her hour of earthly triumph; she has had her agony; she has felt the kiss of many a Judas on her cheek; Sadducee and Pharisee alike hate her; she has been betrayed by her own into the hands of her enemies; she has been led before the rulers of this world, and they have pronounced, each in his way, sentence upon her, and the sentence is death. She has been delivered up to the hands of the rabble, mocked, derided, bruised, crowned with thorns, forced to bear her own cross. She has mounted to the very height of Calvary. Her garments have been stripped from her, and, naked, she stands before the world. The consummation is at hand. Despoiled of all things, and lifted up between earth and heaven, a spectacle to God, to angels, and to men, she draws all eyes to her, while the executioners, under the very shadow of the Cross, gamble for her garments. Free from all the trappings of this world, deserted, abandoned of men, it is then that the divinity within her shines forth with naught to dim its brightness. When Christ yielded up his spirit into the hands of his Heavenly Father, darkness covered the earth, the veil of the Temple was rent, the dead walked the streets of Jerusalem, and an earthquake shook the world. Nature was all confusion, and from that very hour began the victory of the Cross. Is not a like scene before us to-day? The darkest hour is on us; the future is God’s.

[145] This letter was written on January 19, 1876, consequently previous to the complications which have since arisen in Eastern Europe, and which, if war break out, would of necessity considerably add to “the wants of the Empire in 1877.”

[146] “How Rome stands To-day,” CATHOLIC WORLD, November, 1876.

[147] The Report of the Russian Education Department for 1875 showed, excluding Finland, the Caucasus, and Central Asia, 22,768 elementary schools, with 754,431 males and 185,056 females, and 1 school to 3,924 inhabitants. In the German provinces, there is 1 school to 2,044 persons, 1 scholar to 15 males and 24 females. In the Gymnasia, where the pupils have the option of learning French or German, 11,382 prefer German and 8,508 French, the preponderance for German being almost entirely furnished by the pupils who entered during the two years preceding. This latter fact we take to be a sign of the times.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

THE LITTLE BOOK OF THE MARTYRS OF THE CITY OF ROME. By the Rev. Henry Formby. London: Burns & Oates. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1877.

We can do no more now than call the attention of our readers to this exceedingly beautiful little work, advance sheets of which lie before us. It is full of admirable illustrations of scenes in the lives of the early martyrs, and nothing could be better adapted as a Christmas present for Catholic children.

THE NORMAL HIGHER ARITHMETIC. Designed for advanced classes in common schools, normal schools, high schools, academies, etc. By Edward Brooks, A.M. Published by Sower, Potts & Co., Philadelphia.

This excellent text book contains more than the average number of practical examples. This fact, considered in connection with the intelligent and exhaustive treatment of commercial arithmetic, commends the book to teachers in need of a manual for drill purposes. Besides, most of the material is new, and the author brings to his task a greater command of language than seems to have been possessed by the older authors, thus ensuring clearness and variety of statement. The treatment of exchange shows the peculiar merits of the volume to advantage.

A large portion of the first half of the volume is devoted to a scientific treatment of arithmetic. In many respects this is waste labor. No use can be made of it in the class-room. Who, for example, stops to consider the properties of the number eleven? Less science and more practice would mend the first two hundred and fifty pages. This done, and the answers carefully corrected, the book will rank first of its class.

EXCERPTA EX RITUALI ROMANO, PRO ADMINISTRATIONE SACRAMENTORUM, AD COMMODIOREM USUM MLSSIONARIORUM. Baltimori: apud Kelly, Piet et Socios, 1876.

This new edition of the ritual is an improvement upon previous ones in the beauty and clearness of the print. In other respects no changes have been made, except in the paging.

We notice a misprint, “Suspice” for “Suscipe,” on p. 159. There may be others, but hardly can be any of importance.

THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XXIV., No. 143.――FEBRUARY, 1877.

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

FREDERIC OZANAM.[148]

Ozanam’s name and writings were made known to the portion of the English-reading world interested in the Oxford movement by the brilliant pages of the _British Critic_ more than thirty years ago, while he was still in the bloom of his youthful fame and success as a professor of the Sorbonne. The preface to his biography says that he is not widely known in England, and the same is probably true of America, speaking in reference to non-Catholics. Among Catholic scholars here, and we fancy in England also, his name and works are well known and in high repute. They deserve, nevertheless, to be better known and more highly honored. There is scarcely a purer or more brilliant career to be found recorded in the annals of Catholic literature in this century than his. He was the founder of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul――a sufficient title to honor and gratitude. He was a model of moral loveliness and Christian virtue, a type of the true Catholic gentleman, adorning a high sphere in society, and at the same time heartily devoted to the welfare of the humblest, the poorest, and even the most degraded and vicious classes. He was a thoroughly learned man in his own department, a captivating writer, a master of the minds and hearts of the studious youth of France, a knightly champion of the faith without fear and without reproach, an author of classical works of peculiar and enduring value. The charm of his private, personal character, as a child, a friend, a husband and father, a member of the social circle, equals the lustre of his public career. Spotless and fascinating from the beginning to the end of his life, the bright and winning grace of the figure which he presents in the history of his life receives dignity and pathos from the suffering which overshadowed and eclipsed his light before its meridian was attained. He was born in 1813; his professorship at the Sorbonne filled the space between his twenty-seventh and thirty-ninth years of life――that is, from 1839 to 1852――and he died the next year at the age of forty, after seven years of repeated attacks of illness and a continued decline. We will pass in rapid review the incidents of this brief but fruitful career, and endeavor to place before our readers a reduced sketch of the character and work of Frederic Ozanam, as faithfully and artistically portrayed by his accomplished biographer.

The family records of the Ozanams trace their origin to Jeremiah Hozannam, a Jew, who was prætor in Julius Cæsar’s thirty-eighth legion, and received the township of Boulignieux, near Lyons, as his share in the military partition of the conquered Gallic territory. His lineal descendant, Samuel Hozannam, was converted by St. Didier in the seventh century. The name was altered to Ozanam by the grandfather of the subject of the present notice. Dr. Ozanam, Frederic’s father, was a distinguished man, and both of Frederic’s parents were persons of remarkable virtue and piety. He was born in Milan, but educated at Lyons, every possible care being taken of his intellectual, moral, and religious culture. In childhood and youth he was delicate, precocious, exemplary in morals and religion, extremely diligent and successful in his studies, and every way admirable and lovable in character. At one time during his boyhood he was tormented by temptations against faith, which were so rife, and to a multitude of the studious youth of France so dangerous, at that epoch. To him they were not dangerous, but salutary; for they had no other effect except to stimulate him to a study of the rational evidences of the Catholic religion, and to leave in his heart a vivid and tender sympathy for the victims of doubt and error. After a very thorough course of classical study under an eminent teacher――the Abbé Noirot――which he completed at seventeen years of age, Frederic Ozanam was placed in a lawyer’s office at Lyons, where he remained one year, employing all his leisure time in linguistic and literary studies. Before completing his nineteenth year he was sent to study at the great Law-School of Paris, where he remained six years, after which, at the age of twenty-five, he was admitted to the bar and to the degree of Doctor in Letters, taking the next year his degree of Doctor of Laws. Ozanam had studied well his jurisprudence, and was perfectly competent to practise his profession, or even to hold a chair as professor in a law-school. This was not, however, his vocation, and he had little taste or inclination for such a life. His legal career was, therefore, very brief and only an episode in his life. In respect to his true vocation he had many doubts and anxieties. He was extremely averse to the thought of marriage, and, being so fervently religious, he naturally felt certain predispositions toward the sacerdotal or monastic state. He visited the _Grande Chartreuse_, corresponded with his friend Lacordaire, and held many consultations with his director. The final result was that he chose the profession of literature, and married, with the full and hearty approbation of his friend and counsellor, the Abbé Noirot. His chief end in choosing his profession was the advancement of the cause of religion and the church; and the generous aspirations, directed by the most elevated and enlightened views, which developed into so glorious and successful, albeit in time so brief a fulfilment, already preoccupied his mind and heart from the time that he was seventeen years old.

In point of fact, he had really found his vocation at that time, and, notwithstanding his apparent divergence to the legal profession and his various waverings of purpose, he actually began to prosecute it steadily by his studies and by such active efforts as his age and condition permitted, from that early but prematurely ripe period of his life. The programme of his studies and literary labors is laid down in a letter to a friend, written when he was seventeen years old. Without neglecting his professional studies, he was able, thanks to his wonderful mental gifts, his retentive memory, and his habits of intense, continuous application, as well as to the definiteness and unity of the scope and plan which he followed, to acquire that solid and accurate erudition which furnished the material fused and moulded into such beautiful forms by the fire of his eloquence and the constructive art of his imagination.

The state of things among men of science and letters, and the youth studying at the great schools, when Frederic Ozanam went to Paris, was, in a religious aspect, most dreary. His father had feared to send him there on account of the infidelity and immorality with which the whole atmosphere was poisoned, but had at last resolved to trust to the firmness of his principles and the purity of his character. His trust was fully justified. During his student-life Ozanam began, in concert with a few other young men like-minded with himself, that counter-revolution or crusade for the restoration of the old religion of France, among the young students and also among the working-men of Paris, which we devoutly trust will end in the fulfilment of De Maistre’s prophecy that within this present century France will be once again completely Christianized.

There is nothing more melancholy in all history, after the apostasy of Juda from the standard of her Lion, than the lapse of France from her fidelity to the cross and to the vows of that national baptism in the deepest, purest waters of Catholicity, from which she derived her life, her strength, and her unparalleled glory in Christendom. It is like the fall of Solomon, so beautiful, so wise, so royal in magnanimity and splendor, so favored of God, so renowned as the builder of the Temple and the palaces of Sion, degrading those later years which ought to have been crowned with a venerable majesty by turning his heart to strange women and to the abominations of the heathen. It is a grief almost without consolation, and accompanied by surprise and indignation, that a people like that of France, and especially its intelligent and educated portion, living amid the monumental glories of their Catholic history, could be insensible to their own honor, mock at all which makes their nation venerable, destroy the noble work of their ancestors, and, like the Israelites defiling themselves with the base heathen of Chanaan, turn away to the worship of the fetich of the Revolution. How much more deeply must the bosoms of those Frenchmen who are not degenerate be stirred by such emotions! There were always among the sons of Israel of old elect souls, the true children of the promise, such as Joseph, Gideon, Samuel, David, Isaias, Daniel, Judas Machabeus, who burned with zeal and holy enthusiasm for the cause of the God of their fathers; and they never ceased to rise up when they were most needed until the final apostasy of the nation. The people of France have never apostatized from Christ as a body, although a great multitude of apostates have deserted the faith and loyalty of their ancestors, and the revolution which they stirred up under the traitorous banner of Voltaire, “the wickedest, the meanest, and the most unpatriotic Frenchman of the last century,”[149] has swayed to a great extent the politics and education of France for a hundred years. Paris has gone far beyond France in this road of apostasy, but even there impiety has never gained a complete and lasting conquest. On the contrary, martyrdom, heroic charity, and intellectual valor in the sacred cause have made it their most illustrious palestra, and, we trust, have expiated the guilt of that peerless city, and averted the doom which would seem to await it if the divine justice should exact the due meed of retribution.

Among the _élite_ of the youth of France, the class most immediately and universally exposed to the deadly influence of impious literature and education and withdrawn from the control of the clergy, gifted and pure souls have arisen, filled with the inspiration of genius and religion, like Daniel and his companions in the captivity, who have escaped the violence of fire and stopped the mouths of lions. First among these is Chateaubriand, who in his old age honored Frederic Ozanam with his special friendship and was loved reverently by him in return. Notwithstanding a short period of defection from the faith, and considerable faults in his character and writings, Chateaubriand deserves to be called the father of the new generation of Catholic youth in France. There is no similar autobiography of more exquisite charm than the history of that childhood and youth in which this great man shows us how he was trained and formed to that peculiar type of genius which so captivated, and to a great extent re-formed in a Catholic mould, the intellectual and imaginative youth of France. Lamartine deserves a considerable meed of recognition, also, for services of the same general nature, though he was far less true and constant to his first loyalty. Victor Hugo promised in the beginning to devote a genius of a much higher order than either of these two eminent men possessed to the true welfare of his country and mankind, but unhappily was seduced by the fell spirit of the Revolution. Even he shows a reaction from the unmitigated, fanatical hatred of the Catholic past of France and Christendom which animates the worst section of the anti-Catholic sect. The moderates or liberals, the men of compromise between the revolutionary section and some kind of vague natural religion or philosophy under a spiritual or semi-Christian semblance, who have had the predominance at Paris in government, education, and the general leadership of the public affairs of France, since the time of the First Empire, have also belonged to a half-way party, in which the effect of resurging Catholicity is visible. They have been allied with the outside row of Catholics, who were either only nominally such, or, if really, inconsistent and weak in their allegiance to the church. Their position presented, therefore, a much weaker and more easily assailable front to Catholic aggression than one more extreme and openly revolutionary would have done. Nevertheless, the young world of Paris students were as effectually, and more quietly and irresistibly, alienated from real faith in the religion of their baptism, and every principle or duty of practical Christian morals and piety, by their utterly secular and free-thinking education in the public schools, so long as no counter-influence was brought to bear upon them, as if the Catholic religion had been proscribed by penal laws. It was possible, however, to bring this influence to bear upon them. The liberty granted to indifferentism, infidelity, and atheism might be made use of to the advantage of Catholicity. In the schools where free thought and free expression were a law, the possessors might be invaded and overthrown by intellectual and moral weapons, if there were found aggressors able to wield them and bold enough to enter the arena. On such a battle-ground, where the field is in the domain of history and philosophy, where reason is umpire, and where facts and arguments, eloquence and logic, appeals to the intellect and the heart, the lessons of the past and the examples of those men to whom the verdict of time――the most impartial of judges――has decreed an apotheosis, are the arsenal of the combatants, the Catholic cause must win, if its champions are worthy of their cause.

When Frederic Ozanam came to Paris the other side had the field to themselves, like the challengers of Ashby-de-la-Zouche on the morning of the tournament, before the young Ivanhoe rode into the lists. The venerable Sorbonne, that ancient shrine of sacred learning, had become a theatre, where shallow, rationalistic philosophers like Jouffroy declaimed against revelation and the Catholic Church. Ozanam soon found a small number of resolute, high-spirited young men like himself, who had been well trained at home in their religion and were determined to adhere to it faithfully. Under his leadership they began to send in objections to the statements and arguments of their infidel professors, which necessarily commanded some attention and respect and had influence with their fellow-students. Jouffroy himself, at the hour of death abjured infidelity, received the Sacraments devoutly, and declared that one half-page of the catechism was worth more than all the philosophical systems. It was at this time that Ozanam founded the Society of St. Vincent de Paul. The Abbé Lacordaire, the Abbé Gerbet, and other eminent priests of Paris, and even the archbishop, interested themselves in the band of young Catholic students, and under their guidance the career of their leader, Frederic Ozanam, became, during his whole student-life, a truly noble and successful apostleship. Thus the way was prepared for him to carry on the same work in a much more efficacious manner as a professor at the Sorbonne.

In the year 1839 Ozanam, being then twenty-six years of age, a professorship of philosophy at Orleans and one of commercial law at Lyons were offered him, and the latter appointment accepted. He resigned it, however, after one year, in order to accept the position of assistant-professor of foreign literature at the Sorbonne. At this time an additional professorship of foreign literature at Lyons was offered to him, which would have secured to him, together with the law-professorship, an income of $3,000 a year. He was just about to be married to a young lady of Lyons. Nevertheless, he chose the position of assistant to the profesor of foreign literature at the Sorbonne, although it was a precarious one, and brought him an income of less than $500, in order that he might be better able to carry out the one noble purpose to which he had devoted his life. Together with his professorship at the Sorbonne he held also, for a few years, another at the _Collége Stanislas_, which he was obliged to relinquish when, in 1844, on the vacancy of the chair of foreign literature at the Sorbonne, he received the appointment to fill it from the government. For all these early and brilliant successes he was in great measure indebted to the warm friendship and patronage of M. Cousin and M. Villemain, a fact most honorable to these distinguished men, who, as is well known, were leaders of the rationalist school, yet nevertheless, like the eminent Protestant, M. Guizot, really carried out in respect to Catholics their professions of liberality. M. Ozanam continued to fulfil his duties at the Sorbonne during twelve years, with some considerable interruptions caused by illness. His published works are chiefly composed of the substance of the lectures which he delivered.

The great idea which was before the mind of Ozanam from the period of his early youth was, the justification of the Catholic religion by the philosophy of universal history. Eventually, he was led to concentrate his attention principally upon the period embraced between the fifth and fourteenth centuries, with especial reference to the German empire and to the mediæval philosophy reflected in the poems of Dante, whose strong attachment to the German party in Italy is well known, though perhaps not so generally well understood. Frederic Schlegel has said: “It is pre-eminently from the study of history that all endeavors after a higher mental culture derive their fixed centre and support, viz., their common reference to man, his destinies and energies. History, if it does not stop at the mere enumeration of names, dates, and external facts; if it seizes on and sets forth the spirit of great times, of great men, and great events, is in itself a true philosophy, intelligible to all, and certain, and in its manifold applications the most instructive. Then history, if not in itself the most brilliant, is yet the most indispensable link in that beautiful chain which encompasses man’s higher intellectual culture; and history it is which binds the others more closely together. It is the great merit of our age to have renovated the study of history, and to have cultivated it with extraordinary zeal. Within the last two or three decades alone so much has been achieved and produced in this department, that historical knowledge has been perhaps as much extended in that short space of time as formerly in many centuries.”[150] The scope and solution of universal history are found in the history of Christianity viewed in connection with the Judaic and patriarchal epochs of revealed religion which preceded the advent of the Messias. The most important portion of Christian history is that which relates to Western Christendom, the European family of nations which grew up under the immediate spiritual and temporal authority of the popes. This was the true _civiltà cattolica_, the millenial kingdom of Christ on earth, whose rise, progress, and gradual decadence occupied the space between the fifth and sixteenth centuries, whose remnants are all that has any moral grandeur or value in the modern age, whose restoration and triumph under a new form are the only future hope of humanity.

The foundations of heresy and infidelity are laid in the falsification and perversion of history, and in the general ignorance of historical facts which opens the way for sophists to spin their webs of lies around the deluded minds of the multitude. To find some other source of the greatness, virtue, happiness, evolution in the line of its destiny, already actually exhibited in its history by the human race, especially its elect portion, and still possible in futurity, besides the revealed religion and Catholic church of God, is the problem of the anti-Catholic, anti-Christian, anti-theistic sophists. Germany is their principal territory, the Gath and Ascalon of the Philistines who defy the armies of the Living God with their weapons of erudition and reasoning that are like a weaver’s beam. From the days of the old secular and ecclesiastical princes of Germany who revolted against the supremacy of Rome, down to Luther, his associates and successors, even to our modern German sophists, apostates and persecutors; the pretence of an autochthonous culture has been set up for Germany with a degree of pride, arrogance, and insolence which has no parallel, and is frequently so offensive and boastful as to be ridiculous not only in the eyes of the rest of the world but in those of all sensible and catholic-minded Germans. Christianity is considered by men of this school as the cause of a decline from the autocthonous civilization. War with the Christianity of the Latin races, and a return to unalloyed Teutonism, are regarded as the conditions of a magnificent future development, political, scientific, and literary, which shall create a German empire in every respect supreme mistress of the modern world.

Ozanam’s chief object was to combat this claim by showing, not that Germany has nothing to be proud of and no greatness to aspire after, but that she is indebted for her past and present glory, and must be indebted for any fulfilment of a glorious destiny in time to come, to Christianity and Roman unity, without which the Germans would have remained always, and will again become, barbarians. We must refer the reader to Miss O’Meara’s interesting pages for a fuller account of the way in which Ozanam prepared himself for his task, and afterwards fulfilled it by his lectures on German history.

Schlegel had given him a brilliant example of the way in which history can be brought up to that high standard of scientific, ethical, and literary excellence which is set forth in the quotation we have made above from his lectures. The value and practical utility of the ideas there presented and illustrated so nobly by the literary career of Ozanam cannot be too much insisted upon. History is emphatically the modern field most necessary and advantageous for Catholic polemics. The history of particular epochs, of special classes and orders in society, of individual men of mark, of institutions, of branches of science, art, or learning――in a word, of every kind of topic which can be made distinct and interesting by being localized, limited in respect to time, or otherwise so brought within clear and defined boundaries that it becomes vivid and real to the intellect and imagination――is that which we have specially within our intention. Moreover, the charms of style are essentially requisite. Happily, we have begun to supply the dearth of such books in the English language, partly by such as are originally written in English, partly by translations. John Henry Newman has given us a certain quantity of historical writing worthy of comparison with “Livy’s pictured page,” and justly meriting for him the title, so felicitously invented by an Italian critic, of “the Claude Lorraine of English literature.” The accomplished authoress of _Christian Schools and Scholars_ is another skilful miner in the gold-fields of Catholic history; and Mrs. Hope, also, has shown in her volumes on the conversion of the Teutons and Anglo-Saxons how specially adapted to labor successfully in this department are cultivated women. Montalembert’s _Monks of the West_ is an unrivalled masterpiece, as all know; and if we were to catalogue all the various pieces of historical composition on similar topics to be found in recent European literature, enough of them would be found to make a small library. All books of this kind in the English language would, however, make but a small collection, merely enough for a nucleus of a library of Catholic historical literature. The educated and reading classes in England and the United States have been, within a very recent period, shockingly ignorant of the history of all except a few nations during a few epochs, in regard to which they have received a certain amount of information from popular works, mixed up with a great amount of error and misrepresentation. There has doubtless been an improvement slowly taking place for the last thirty years, and becoming continually more rapid as it advances. Yet, rating this improvement at the highest value it can possibly be imagined to have, the amount of knowledge, especially in regard to the real, genuine history of Christendom, which is current among the readers of only English books, or even accessible to them, is lamentably small. Even the most of those who are supposed to know something of foreign literature may, without injustice, be taxed with the same lack of information. We consider, therefore, that the example of Ozanam is one which has a special fitness in it to allure and stimulate those whose vocation it is to give instruction, by lectures or writings, to a zealous imitation. There are Australian and Californian mines waiting for those who will work them, in which those who have not the ability to dig out great masses of the golden ore may find nuggets and gold-dust in abundance to increase the common treasure in general circulation. Historical works of original and thorough research are wanted. Where translations from German, French, and Italian works suffice, let them suffice, and original authors take up new topics. Would that, even by the easy method of translation from foreign languages, our English historical literature might be enriched, and that the taste for solid reading were sufficiently diffused to enable enterprising publishers to employ the hundreds of persons able and willing to undertake this work! Besides these more extensive historical works, there is a great need for others of lesser magnitude, for which the materials already exist in abundance. All that is necessary to make these rich materials available is, that they be worked up by those who possess the art of conveying instruction and imparting delight to inquisitive minds by the skilful use of their vernacular idiom in a way suited to the capacity and taste of their listeners or readers. Teachers in colleges and schools who are able to lecture to their pupils will, in our opinion, stimulate their minds to thought and study much more easily and efficaciously by lectures on topics of this kind than by adhering exclusively to the mere class routine. And we venture to suggest also to those who give lectures to literary associations or general audiences, that they would do well to exchange their usually trite and abstract topics of vague and general declamation for specific and individual subjects taken from the historical domain. We may say the same to those who undertake to write books, or articles for the periodicals. And here it occurs to our memory to refer to certain historical and biographical articles which have appeared in some of our magazines as specimens and illustrations. The _Civiltà Cattolica_ has published a long series of brief but remarkably accurate and graphic historical sketches of the lives and reigns of the Sovereign Pontiffs, under the title of _I Destini di Roma_. _The Month_ has repeatedly given short articles of the same kind, either singly or serially, which are perfect models of the popular historical style. Our children and young people, and indeed all people whatever who can be induced to hear or read anything instructive, with the exception of a small class of severely-disciplined minds, must be charmed in order to be taught. Truth must be made visible; in concrete, distinct, and brilliant pictures, images, representations of actual realities, living examples; as a splendid form in symmetrical figures. This is the reason why works of imaginative genius are so keenly relished by the multitude, and especially those fictitious narratives called novels and romances, whose particular form is most easily apprehended by the common imagination. Fiction, in so far as it is constructed according to the rules of true art, is but a shadow of real life. The reality is far more interesting. Compendiums and textbooks must indeed be dry, and they are necessary, as grammars and dictionaries are both extremely dry and extremely necessary. But, besides these dry skeletons of history, we need other books in which the epic and lyric harmony and dramatic life of man’s variegated action on the earth are reproduced――works which bear the same relation to dry annals that the _Æneid_ or the _Cid_ sustain to Latin and French grammar. They should be composed with such a charm of style that an intelligent boy or girl would eagerly take them under a tree of a fine summer-day, and beguile delightfully a long afternoon in their perusal, if they are for juvenile readers; and if they are of a more ambitious aim, that they allure their readers to burn the midnight oil over their pages. Nor would we exclude historical romances from the category of useful and instructive literature, if they are constructed in conformity to the truth of history and inculcate wholesome moral lessons.

It is an error to consider literature as merely a means of instruction for a secular purpose or of transitory pleasure, and to confine the effort at cultivating the spiritual faculties in view of the soul’s everlasting destiny, to the use of means directly religious. This is one form of the erroneous doctrine that the temporal order ought to be separated from the spiritual order, and therefore education be secularized. If there are any who think that the clergy have no interest in any but their own technical, professional studies, and that catechisms, didactic sermons, ascetic books, and biographies of saints written in that formal method which is so inexpressibly unnatural and tedious, with virtues tied up in separate bundles and commonplace dissertations overloading the narrative, are the only and sufficient means of salvation, we might say to them: Look at the Bible, and study the method which the divine Wisdom adopted. It is a book of history, poetry, eloquence; with little of professedly abstract, didactic instruction. It is an inspired literature, and the sermons of our Lord even are thrown into a popular and concrete form which addresses the imagination more directly than the understanding. The Bible, as well as nature, reason, and experience, teaches us the practical lesson that for the young and for the multitude object-teaching is the proper and only successful method. The divine philosophy, as well as the human, must be taught by example, and history is philosophy teaching by examples. In the history of Christendom, both public and private, the sacred history of the Old and New Testament is continued. The church is the spouse of Christ. The Evangelists paint the picture of the bridegroom, and Catholic historians of the bride. To win admiration and love for her, it is enough to represent her as she is.

Frederic Ozanam was inspired with this idea, which was infused into his soul by the Holy Spirit who consecrated him to his high vocation. He devoted himself to his literary and historical labors as a professor at the Sorbonne, not for the sake of science, fame, or any earthly advantage or emolument, but as an apostle of the Catholic religion; that he might win the studious youth of Paris to love Catholic truth and return to the church of their ancestors. For fifty years no Catholic lecturer, speaking as a Catholic, had been heard in that ancient, desecrated temple of the Christian philosophy of the glorious days gone by of France. The voice of Ozanam was heard, without the slightest flattening of its Catholic tone, with no timid reticence of his Catholic principles, and it captivated that crowd of turbulent, unbelieving youth by its magic eloquence. His biographer tells us:

“No man in his position was ever so much beloved in Paris; it was almost an adoration. After hanging upon his lips at the Sorbonne, bursting out every now and then, as if in spite of themselves, into sudden gusts of applause, and then hushing one another for fear they should lose one of the master’s words, his young audience would follow him out of the lecture-hall, shouting and cheering, putting questions, and elbowing their way up for a word of recognition, while a band of favored ones trooped on with him to his home across the gardens. They never suspected what an additional fatigue this affectionate demonstration was to the professor, already exhausted by the preceding hour and a half’s exertion, with its laborious proximate preparation. No matter how tired he was, they were never dismissed; he welcomed their noisy company, with its eager talk, its comments and questions, as if it were the most refreshing rest. There was, indeed, only one reward that Ozanam coveted more; this was when some young soul, who had come to the lecture in doubt or unbelief, suddenly moved by the orator’s exposition of the faith, as it was embodied or shadowed forth in his subject, opened his eyes to the truth, and, like the blind man in the Gospel, cried out, ‘giving thanks.’

“One day, on coming home from the Sorbonne, the following note was handed to him: ‘It is impossible that any one could speak with so much fervor and heart without believing what he affirms. If it be any satisfaction――I will even say happiness――to you to know it, enjoy it to the full, and learn that before hearing you I did not believe. What a great number of sermons failed to do for me you have done in an hour: you have made me a Christian!… Accept this expression of my joy and gratitude.’ _You have made me a Christian!_ Oh! let those who believe and love like Ozanam tell us what he felt, what joy inundated his soul when this cry went forth to him.”[151]

Ozanam’s authority over the students was never more strikingly manifested than on the occasion of the excitement caused by the public announcement which the celebrated historian Lenormant made of his conversion to Christianity. He had been an infidel, then a waverer between scepticism and faith, for years before he declared himself on the Catholic side. The leaders of the infidel party stirred up the students who attended his course of historical lectures to violent demonstrations of hostility. Ozanam espoused his cause with the most chivalrous courage, and took his place by the side of M. Lenormant in the lecture-hall. When the storm of yells, hisses, hootings, and blasphemous outcries burst forth in a deafening tumult, he sprang to his feet beside the lecturer with an attitude and a glance of indignant defiance which evoked at once from the fickle mob of youths a counter-storm of violent applause. A scornful gesture hushed them into a sudden silence, broken only by the thunder of Ozanam’s invectives and the eloquence of his appeals to their honor and the principles of liberty which they professed to respect, but had so grossly violated. He mastered them completely, and M. Lenormant then proceeded to deliver his lecture without interruption. The next day, however, through the influence of those consistent advocates of toleration, Michelet and Quinet, the course was closed by an order of the government.

The active labors of Ozanam were by no means restricted to his department of duty as a professor. He was a zealous leader in Catholic associations, a frequent contributor to the journals, an untiring workman in the cause of practical charity and all undertakings for the improvement of the class of artisans and laborers. It is impossible to make any accurate estimate of the actual results of his efforts in the cause of religion and humanity. In the words of his biographer: “The work that he accomplished in his sphere will never be known in this world. God only knows the harvest that others have reaped from his prodigal self-devotion, his knowledge, and that eloquence which so fully illustrated the ideal standard of human speech described by Fénelon as ‘the strong and persuasive utterance of a soul nobly inspired.’ For Ozanam was not merely a teacher in the Sorbonne――he was a teacher of the world; and his influence shone out to the world through the minds and lives of numbers of his contemporaries who did not know that they were reflecting his light.”

What is awaiting France we know not. The world, but especially all Catholics throughout the whole extent of the church’s domain in the world, have watched with intensest interest the events which have occurred in France since the reign of Pius IX. began under such unwonted and marvellous auspices, and has continued so much beyond the period of human expectation. They have never ceased to pray for France, to sympathize with the heroic efforts of genuine French patriots, the true children of Charlemagne and St. Louis, and to watch anxiously for the time when the prognostic of the learned and eloquent Dr. Marshall shall be fulfilled: “_When France falls upon her knees, let the enemies of France begin to tremble._” The blood of three martyred archbishops of Paris, the blood of Olivaint and his noble fellow-victims, the blood of Pimodan and those generous youth who fell at Castelfidardo, the chivalry of Lamoricière and La Charrette, the vows of the pilgrims of Lourdes and Paray-le-Monial, the valiant struggles of the champions of the faith, the prayers and sacrifices of that crowd of the noblest daughters of France which fills her renovated cloisters, cannot surely remain for ever powerless to lift the dark cloud which overhangs the kingdom of the _fleurs-de-lis_. There has been enough of the blood of the just poured out in France within the last century to redeem not only France but Christendom. If Christendom is to be regenerated, France must first come forth renewed out of her second baptism in blood and fire. The cry of anguish, though not of despair, which she sends up to heaven by the mouth of her eloquent spokesman, the bishop of the city of Joan of Arc, “_Où allons nous?_” must be answered: “We go to victory over traitors within and enemies without, and our triumph shall be that of the Catholic Church.”

Frederic Ozanam had once said to the young men of a literary circle: “Let us be ready to prove that we too have our battle-fields, and that, if need be, we can die on them.” In point of fact, he did really sacrifice his own life in the fulfilment of his task. Such a delicate physical constitution could not naturally long survive the intense, continuous strain to which it was subjected by a spirit which exercised a relentless despotism over the body. In a letter to his brother Charles he tells him, by way of encouraging him to follow his example, that in 1837, when he was preparing his examination for the higher degrees, he had, during five months, worked regularly ten hours, and during the last month fifteen, daily, without counting the time spent in classes. With much more _naïveté_ than good sense, he observes that “one has to be _prudent_, so as not to injure one’s health by the pressure; but little by little the constitution grows used to it. We become accustomed to a severe active life, and it benefits the temper as much as the intellect.” Notwithstanding the remonstrances of friends, he continued almost the same extent of application to study, until his health gave way entirely; and even during the journeys he was obliged to take for relaxation he rather varied the kind of labor in which his restless mind engaged than exchanged it for rest and recreation. His first severe illness attacked him only four years after he began lecturing at the Sorbonne. This was followed at intervals by other attacks, and a general failure of health which obliged him to intermit his courses and take several journeys in France, Italy, England, and Spain, during which he gathered the materials of some of the most delightful of his minor works. It is a curious and characteristic incident of his visit to England, worth recording, that he was turned out of Westminster Abbey by the pompous beadle, whom all tourists must well remember, for kneeling down to pray at the tomb of Edward the Confessor. His last lecture at the Sorbonne was given some time during the spring of 1852. It was a dying effort. He had persisted in dragging himself to the lecture-hall while a remnant of strength remained, in spite of the entreaties of friends and medical advisers. At length he had been forced to take to his bed, exhausted with weakness and consumed by fever. His cruel and unreasonable pupils clamored at the deprivation of the intellectual banquet to which they had been accustomed, and, with the inconsiderate spirit of youth, accused him of neglecting his duty through self-indulgence. Ozanam heard of this, and, in spite of all remonstrances, he rose from his bed, was dressed and taken in a carriage to the Sorbonne. Pale and haggard, unable to walk without support, but with an eye blazing with unwonted fire, and a voice clear and shrill as a silver clarion, he sang his death-song amid enthusiastic applause.

As the peroration of his last speech and of his life he exclaimed: “Gentlemen, our age is accused of being an age of egotism; we professors, it is said, are tainted with the general epidemic; and yet it is here that we use up our health; it is here that we wear ourselves out. I do not complain of it; our life belongs to you; we owe it to you to our last breath, and you shall have it. For my part, if I die it will be in your service.” With ardent but foreboding congratulations and applauses, which all felt to be farewells, the students of the Sorbonne heard and saw the last of Ozanam. The finale of his career had been reached; his coursers touched the goal, and the wreath and palm were decreed by acclamation to the hero who bore them away to die. The next morning it was feared that he might not survive ten days. He lived, however, about sixteen months longer, wandering in company with his wife and little daughter, from Eaux-Bonnes to Biarritz, from Biarritz to the Pyrenees, to Spain, and at last to Italy, then to Marseilles, where he closed his earthly life on the Feast of the Nativity of Our Lady, 1853, surrounded by his relatives and friends, and by his brothers of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul. His published works fill eleven volumes of considerable size, and for a just appreciation of their character and value we refer the reader to the twenty-fifth chapter of Miss O’Meara’s biography.

We have endeavored to excite rather than to allay the curiosity of our readers, by merely designating the salient points of a life which is crowded with a great variety of traits and incidents such as make up a subject worthy to be handled by a skilful artist in the painting of character. We have not by any means exhausted the material furnished by the intelligent and graceful narrator of Ozanam’s life, or even touched upon those personal and private details of his domestic history which lend so poetic a charm to the story of his public career. Those in whom we have awakened an interest for one who presents the living ideal of a perfect Catholic layman in an exalted sphere of action, will defraud themselves grievously if they fail to make themselves more fully acquainted with it by the perusal of his biography. The author, although she now appears for the first time under her own proper name, is already known by her _Life of Bishop Grant_, published under the _nom de plume_ of Grace Ramsay, and is a daughter of Dr. O’Meara, the author of _Napoleon in Exile; or, a Voice from St. Helena_. Her contributions to the pages of this magazine have been numerous and always considered as among the best of our literary articles. In the work we are reviewing she has done justice to the high estimate we had previously formed of her merit as a writer, and to her subject, the one most suited to call forth her power which she has thus far attempted. Besides a full knowledge of her subject; that ardent glow of admiration for the hero of her story which is so requisite, and is one of the special charms of portraits of noble men drawn by a feminine hand; and graphic power regulated by delicate and correct taste in delineation and description, the author has shown remarkable tact and good sense in respect to all those questions which have caused division and discussion between different Catholic parties in France. Without suppressing any part of the history of M. Ozanam and his period, or attempting to throw a veil over any of his opinions which involved him in the domestic controversies then existing, and not yet settled, respecting the relations of the Catholic cause and national politics, she has judiciously avoided taking the part of an advocate, and preserved the quiet, impartial attitude of a historian. We have occasionally noticed some evidences of haste, and neglect to put the last finishing touches upon the construction of sentences or the details of the narrative. We are also at a loss to understand the author’s motive for using certain French words, such as _angoisse_ and _découragement_, rather than the corresponding Englishman terms. For the incorrect title on the back of the cover, _Life and Works of F. Ozanam_, we suppose the publisher is accountable; for the author has entitled her own work very properly on the title-page, _Frederic Ozanam, Professor at the Sorbonne: His Life and Works_――a phrase whose meaning is essentially changed by the inversion of its parts, and made to convey the impression that the complete works of Ozanam are contained in one small volume, together with his life. Apart from this blemish, which can be easily corrected, the mechanical execution of the work is neat and tasteful. The _Life of Ozanam_ is another gem added to our small cabinet of treasures by the skill and industry of a gifted, cultivated woman. We trust the success of Miss O’Meara’s first appearance under her own name will encourage her to new efforts, and stimulate other women similarly gifted to follow her example by laboring in a department of literature for which they are specially competent. The example of Frederic Ozanam, mirrored in her clear, impartial pages, presents its own native, intrinsic beauty and splendor as a model for pure, disinterested, high-souled Catholic young men who aspire towards an ideal of true intellectual and moral greatness which is elevated and at the same time attainable in the laical state and a secular profession. It is to be hoped that the publication of this _Life_ will make the Catholic students of England and the United States generally acquainted both with Ozanam’s beautiful character and with his thoroughly erudite, yet classically elegant and attractive, works on the history and literature of the middle ages.

[148] _Frederic Ozanam, Professor at the Sorbonne: His Life and Works._ By Kathleen O’Meara. Edinburgh: Edmonston & Douglas. 1876.

[149] Lady Georgiana Fullerton.

[150] _Lectures on Modern History._ Bohn’s Ed. pp. 1-3.

[151] P. 200.

AMID IRISH SCENES.

II

“I do love these ancient ruins: We never tread upon them but we set Our foot upon some rev’rend history; And, questionless, here in this open court, Which now lies naked to the injuries Of stormy weather, some lie interred who Loved the church so well and gave so largely to ’t They thought it should have canopied their bones Till doomsday.”

“There is a joy in every spot Made known in days of old New to the feet, although each tale A hundred times be told.”

Who has not heard of the Rock of Cashel――Cashel of the Kings? “The first object,” exclaimed Richard Lalor Sheil, “that in childhood I learned to admire was that noble ruin, an emblem as well as a memorial of Ireland, which ascends before us, at once a temple and a fortress, the seat of religion and nationality; where councils were held, where princes assembled; the scene of courts and of synods; and on which it is impossible to look without feeling the heart at once elevated and touched by the noblest as well as the most solemn recollections.” From whatever side the traveller approaches the ancient metropolis and residence of the kings of Munster, the first object to meet his eye is the Rock, which lifts itself above the surrounding country, as proud to wear its monumental crown. From the earliest times this hill seems to have been dedicated to religion. Its Round Tower, which is still entire, would lead us to associate it with the pagan rites of the ancient Irish; and the tradition which designates the Rock as the place where the kings of Munster were proclaimed confirms this view. It is certainly associated with the early dawn of Christianity in Ireland; for St. Patrick, St. Declan, St. Ailbe, St. Kiran, and other holy men held a synod in Cashel.

St. Patrick’s visit was in 448; he baptized Prince Ængus and held solemn feast in Cashel of the Kings “till all the land was clothed with Christ.” Here on the Rock he gave the shamrock its immortal fame:

“From the grass The little three-leaved herb, stooping, I plucked, And preached the Trinity.”

Without entering into the controversy concerning the origin of the Round Towers, we will take Cormac’s Chapel to be the most ancient Christian ruin on the Rock.

This stone-roofed church was built, as is generally supposed, by Cormac McCullenan, the famous king-bishop, who began to reign in the year 902. But Petrie is of opinion that we owe this chapel to Cormac MacCarthy, King of Munster, and that it is the Teampul Chormaic of whose solemn consecration by the archbishops and bishops of Munster, in presence of the priests, princes, and people, the Annals of Innisfallen make mention in 1134.

However this may be, all agree that the chapel is one of the most curious and interesting specimens of early Christian architecture in Ireland. Like all the stone-roofed chapels of the primitive Irish Church, it is divided into nave and chancel, with a tall, square tower at their northern and southern juncture. Within the southern tower, which on the outside is ornamented with six projecting bands, there is a stone staircase leading to apartments above the chapel said to have been occupied by King Cormac. These rooms receive the light through windows which are circular on the outside, but square within, and were heated by hot air, conveyed into them through flues in the wall――the first instance known to us of the use of a method of warming houses generally thought to be of very recent invention. The doorways leading into the chapel are in its northern and southern walls, and are richly adorned with columns, capitals, mouldings, and sculptured figures. On the lintel of the northern entrance there is a group in basso-relievo representing a Centaur in the act of shooting a lion which is about to devour some smaller animal that is crouching at its feet. This is supposed to represent the contest between paganism and Christianity for the possession of Ireland during the repeated invasions of the Danes.

The cathedral stands between the Round Tower and Cormac’s Chapel, embracing them in such way that they all seem to be but parts of one magnificent ruin. This church, which consists of a choir, nave, and transepts, with a square tower in the centre, was built by Donald O’Brien, King of Limerick, in the year 1169. Its greatest length from east to west is two hundred and ten feet, and the breadth of the transepts is a hundred and seventy feet. It is both a fortress and a church――true symbol of the perfect union of the national and the religious spirit in Ireland. The walls, which are of great thickness, are hollow, so as to afford a safe passage from one part of the building to another in case of danger. At the western end, instead of the great doorway usually found in churches, there is a massive square guard-tower of great height, resembling the fortified castles which are common throughout the kingdom.

This formerly contained a vaulted apartment having no exterior windows, and but one small entrance. Over this vault was the great room of state, which could be reached only by stairs within the walls, barely wide enough to admit one person. The roof was surmounted by battlements and a parapet. The monuments whose ruins crown the Rock of Cashel were all built before the Saxon had set foot in Ireland, and it is impossible to look upon them without admiration for the men who called them into existence. They certainly had little to learn, in architecture at least, from the rude Norman barons who, taking advantage of the internal feuds which distracted the people, overran and subjugated the country.

It was in the year 1101 that Murtogh O’Brien, King of Munster, convened a great assembly of the clergy and people of Ireland at Cashel, “and made such an offering as king never made before him――namely, Cashel of the Kings, which he bestowed on the devout, without the intervention of a laic or an ecclesiastic, for the use of the religious of Ireland in general.” We have a letter of St. Anselm to Murtogh O’Brien, in which he praises him for his excellent administration of the kingdom. His successor, Cormac MacCarthy, by whom the chapel was built, was the intimate friend of St. Malachi.

Driven from his throne by Turlough O’Conor, King of Connaught, he refused to take up arms to regain it, but withdrew from strife and placed himself under the direction of this great saint. In his society he led a penitential life, taking no nourishment but bread and water, and wholly absorbed in heavenly contemplation. After some years he was replaced upon the throne, and, in gratitude, built two churches at Lismore, where he had been the companion of St. Malachi, and one at Cashel of the Kings.

The most famous of the bishops of Cashel was Cormac McCullenan, who was at the same time King of Munster, and who has been considered as the founder of the chapel on the Rock which still bears his name. In his reign, which began in 902, the throne of Cashel had become almost in every respect the equal of that of Tara. No longer content with his own provincial resources, he put forth a claim to tribute from the whole southern half of Ireland. This involved him in war with the people of Leinster, who, supported by the supreme monarch, met Cormac in battle and routed his army. The king himself was slain, and his body was conveyed to Cashel for interment.

In the northern wall of the chapel there is a recess, once filled by a sarcophagus which is now in the cathedral. Upon the slab which covered this tomb the name of Cormac, King and Bishop of Munster, was inscribed in Irish characters. Within the tomb itself, when opened some years ago, there was found a bronze crosier with gilt enamel, of great beauty and exquisite finish, which from its form and style of workmanship there is good reason for believing to be as old as the chapel itself; and this has led Petrie and other Irish antiquarians to maintain that King Cormac MacCarthy was also a bishop, though the tradition is that the tomb is not his, but that of the great Cormac McCullenan.

After Murtogh O’Brien’s gift of Cashel to the church in the year 1101, its bishops gained in importance and power. In the latter half of the twelfth century the see was filled by Donald O’Heney, who was of the royal family of the Dalcassians. The Four Masters declare that he was the fountain of religion in the western part of Europe, that he was second to no Irishman of his day in wisdom and piety, and that in the Roman Law he was the most learned doctor in the whole kingdom. He took part in a council held in 1097, in which Waterford was erected into a bishopric, and died in the following year.

In 1152 Pope Eugene III. sent Cardinal Paparo as legate to Ireland with authority to confer the pallium upon four of the Irish prelates. One of these was Donat O’Lonargan, Archbishop of Cashel, during the lifetime of whose immediate successor Henry II. invaded Ireland. He landed at Waterford on the 18th of October, 1171, with five hundred knights and four thousand men-at-arms, and appeared rather as a protector than as an enemy of the Irish people. From Waterford he marched with his army to Lismore, and thence to Cashel. Early in the following year, by his order, a synod was held in Cashel for the purpose of regulating ecclesiastical matters in Ireland. The chief pretext, as is known, for the Norman invasion was the correction of abuses in the Irish Church, and it was ostensibly with a view to effect this that the council was called. Its decrees have been preserved by Giraldus Cambrensis, the eulogist of Henry and the enemy of the Irish, and, far from confirming the prevailing notion concerning the existence of grave disorders, they furnish the strongest argument in favor of the purity of the Irish Church at that time; and even had there been serious abuses, the murderer of St. Thomas of Canterbury was, one would think, hardly a fit instrument for doing away with them.

Giraldus himself, the avowed partisan of the English and the author of innumerable falsehoods relating to Irish history, was forced to admit that the clergy were faithful in the discharge of their spiritual duties, pre-eminent in chastity, and remarkable for their exceeding abstinence from food.

“The clergy,” he says, “of this country are very commendable for religion, and, among the divers virtues which distinguish them, excel and are pre-eminent in the prerogative of chastity. They attend also diligently to their psalms and hours; to reading and prayer; and, remaining within the precincts of the churches, do not absent themselves from the divine offices to the celebration of which they have been appointed. They likewise pay great attention to abstinence and sparingness of food; so that the greatest part of them fast almost every day until dusk, and until they have completed all the canonical offices of the day.”

As an off-set to this confession, drawn from him unwillingly, he accuses the Irish clergy of drinking at night more than is becoming (_plusquam deceret_), but does not go the length of saying that they drank to inebriation, which, indeed, would be altogether incompatible with the virtues which he is forced to admit they possessed. Felix, Bishop of Ossory, who was present when Giraldus made this statement, resented as false his allusion to the indulgence of the Irish clergy in wine. But, even taking the account of Giraldus in its full extent, we must admit that the Irish priests, at the time of the Norman invasion, had nothing to learn from the example of the ecclesiastics who had followed the conquerors from England; and we are inclined to hold with Lanigan that there was in that day no church in Christendom in which there were fewer abuses.

It was to Maurice, Archbishop of Cashel, who died in 1191, that Giraldus made the objection that Ireland had never had any martyrs. “It is true,” replied the archbishop; “for, though the Irish are looked upon as barbarous and uncultivated, yet have they always paid reverence and honor to priests; nor have they ever raised their hands against the saints of God. But now there is come amongst us a people who know how and are accustomed to make martyrs. Henceforth Ireland, like other nations, shall have her martyrs.”

Giraldus has himself recorded this retort as a sharp saying. His heart would have failed him could he have looked into the future and beheld the whole people weltering in their martyr-blood; the sword always uplifted ready to strike, the land made desolate, the populous cities empty, the solemn cathedrals in ruins, the monasteries sacked and burned, until Ireland, that made no martyrs for Christ, became, for him, the great martyr-nation of all time. Cashel itself was to have its martyrs, chosen some of them from among its archbishops. Maurice Fitzgibbon, of the noble family of the earls of Desmond, filled this see when Elizabeth ascended the throne. His birth was not more eminent than his virtue. Every effort was made by the queen to induce him to prefer honors to conscience. But in vain. He spurned the royal favor which could be obtained only by the sacrifice of his faith, was arrested for refusing to take the oath of supremacy, and thrown into prison in Cork, where, after years of suffering and cruel treatment, he died on the 6th of May, 1578. His successor was Archbishop O’Hurley, who, through his mother, Honora O’Brien, was descended of the house of Thomond. A wretched informer was set to watch him, but, through the timely warning of a friend, he escaped just as he was on the point of being delivered into the hands of the officers of the government, and found an asylum in the castle of Slane. His place of refuge was soon discovered, and Lord Slane was ordered under the heaviest penalties to bring the archbishop with the least possible delay to the Castle of Dublin. On his trial he was put to torture, in the vain hope that his excruciating sufferings might bring him to renounce his faith. In the midst of his torments his only sister was sent into his prison to add her prayers to the cruelties of his tortures. He implored her to fall upon her knees and ask pardon for so great a crime. As a last resort he was offered pardon with the promise of high honors if he would yield. The heroic martyr replied that when he had health to enjoy the world, such things had not power to move him; and now that he was weak and broken, it would be folly to deny his God for pleasures which he could not enjoy. Sentence was then passed upon him, and on the 6th of May, 1583, in the sixty-fifth year of his age, he was dragged to the place of public execution in Stephen’s Green, and there hanged. His head was then cut off, and his body quartered and placed upon the four gates of the city.

The first Protestant Archbishop of Cashel was the notorious Miler Magragh, who apostatized during the reign of Elizabeth, and whom Camden calls “a man of uncertain faith and credit, and a depraved life.” During the fifty-two years of his occupancy of this see he squandered its revenues, alienated its lands, and, lest the memory of his misdeeds should perish, took care to erect in the cathedral a monument to himself to recall to succeeding generations the lavish manner in which he spent the ill-gotten goods of apostasy and servility. The epitaph, which he wrote himself, records among other things that for fifty years he worshipped England’s sceptre and pleased her princes. When Donald O’Brien’s grand cathedral passed into the hands of Protestant bishops, it began to be neglected. In 1647 Lord Inchiquin, one of Cromwell’s generals, laid siege to it, and, after a severe bombardment, took it by storm. Twenty priests who had taken refuge in the castle retired into the vault, and the soldiers, not being able to break in the door, brought turf and made a fire, by which they were either roasted or suffocated. The western tower, which was directly exposed to the battery of Inchiquin, was greatly damaged, and after the capture the roof of the cathedral was blown off with cannon. When the troubled times of the Commonwealth had passed away, the choir was again fitted up and used for religious worship, until in 1749 the Protestant Archbishop Price abandoned this hallowed sanctuary altogether, leaving it to the mercy of time and the elements. The groined arch underneath the belfry was broken down, and the bells were carried off to Fethard and Clonmel. The interior of the church was filled with the fragments of the fallen roof, beneath which were buried tombstones, capitals, corbels, and pillars; and the noble Rock where for ages the heroes and saints of Ireland had dwelled and prayed, abandoned of men, was given up to the owl and the bat. In 1848, while the people were dying from hunger, the great tower, that had been battered by Cromwell’s cannon, opened, and the southern half fell to the ground with a terrific crash; but so excellent was the mortar which had been used in the building that it remained firm while the stones were shattered. The walls of the cathedral still stand firm and unshaken as the Rock on which they are built. There is no nobler ruin in Great Britain. The abbeys of Melrose, Dryburgh, and Holyrood are contemptible when compared with the Rock of Cashel. Even in its fallen state it has the lofty bearing of a king.

“They dreamed not of a perishable life Who thus could build.”

When Cromwell beheld it he exclaimed: “Ireland is a country worth fighting for.”

A fairer country, in truth, could not easily be found than that which unfolds itself beneath the eye of the traveller who ascends the pentagon tower of the ancient castle of the kings of Munster. To the west the Golden Vale expands in tracts of emerald and gold; to the east rich pastures and well-cultivated uplands gradually rise towards the distant hills of Kilkenny; and on the north and the south the glorious prospect is bounded by the Slieve Bloom and Galty Mountains. In the distance, under the hill of Knockgrenagh, is the ruin which sheltered Sarsfield the night before he fell upon and destroyed the siege-train of William of Orange, which was on its way from Cashel to Limerick. In the vale under the Rock lies the noble ruin of Hore Abbey, originally founded by Benedictine monks, but transferred in 1272, by Archbishop McCarvill, to the Cistercians. He also united with it the hospital for lepers built by David le Latimer in 1230, the ruins of which may still be seen standing in a field on the road to Cahir. In 1561 Queen Elizabeth, having expelled the monks, gave the abbey with its appurtenances to Henry Radcliffe, and to-day only the roofless walls remain. While the Penal Code was in vigor no Catholic was allowed to dwell within the limits of the town of Cashel. At present, in a population of six thousand, there are but a hundred and eighty Protestants. Nevertheless, the venerable ruins of the Rock are still in the hands of the dignitaries of the Church of England. It is certainly a short-sighted and unwise policy which thus commits the ancient sanctuaries of Ireland, so dear to the hearts of her people, to the custody of those who look upon them as relics of a superstitious faith, and prize them only as trophies of conquest. The Irish people cling to memories and are governed more than others by their affections; and so long as the English government persists in maintaining a state of affairs which constantly places before their eyes the wrongs and outrages of which they have been the victims, so long will they be restless and dissatisfied.

To continue to allow an ecclesiastical establishment, which has never been and can never be anything else than a political contrivance for the humiliation and oppression of the Irish people, to retain possession of these shrines of religion, is a wanton insult to the double love they bear to their country and their faith. It was this twofold love, flowing in one channel, that upheld them in all the dark centuries of woe; and now that brighter days have come, England cannot fail to recognize the increasing strength of Irish patriotism and Irish faith.

Let the Rock of Cashel, with its holy ruins, its sacred tombs of kings and bishops, be given back to the people to whom it belongs. It is valueless except for its associations, and these associations are without value to the persons in whose hands it is allowed to remain. Let the glory of other days come back to these sacred walls. Millions of Catholics in the United States would consider it an honor and a privilege to be permitted to rebuild this sanctuary of God. Again on the holy mount let the lamp of Christ’s real presence burn as glowed the light that for a thousand years burned before St. Bridget’s shrine. Let the swelling notes of the deep-toned organ lift again the soul to God, while mitred bishops and surpliced priests, with all the believing throng, sing forth the song of thanks and praise. In the resurrection of a people, in the new rising of a faith, let this temple, given back to God and to Ireland, stand as a commemoration.

Seven miles north of Cashel, and three miles south of Thurles, on the banks of the river Suir, lie the ruins of the Abbey of Holy Cross. A convent was built on this spot at a very early period of the Christian history of Ireland. The fame of the sanctity of the monks attracted members to the community, and also pilgrims from a distance. In 1169, two years before the Norman invasion, Donald O’Brien, King of Limerick, accompanied by a brilliant retinue, visited the place, and was led by his devotion to found and endow the abbey. The charter of foundation, one of the witnesses to which was Maurice, Archbishop of Cashel, of whom we have already made mention, opens with these words: “Donald, by the grace of God, King of Limerick, to all kings, dukes, earls, barons, knights, and Christians of whatsoever degree, throughout Ireland, perpetual greeting in Christ.” This charter was afterwards confirmed by the English kings John, Henry III., Edward III., and Richard II. The abbey received its name from the possession of a portion of the true cross which was given in 1110, by Pope Pascal II., to Donough O’Brien, King of all Ireland and grandson of Brian Boru. Princes and bishops were eager to enrich this monastery, and the fame of the miracles wrought by the sacred relic drew to it crowds of worshippers. With increasing wealth, the buildings grew in splendor and extent. The church is built in the form of a cross, with nave, chancel, and transept. At the intersection of the cross there is a lofty square tower, and in the transepts two beautifully-groined chapels. In the monastery there were eight dormitories for the monks, besides numerous chambers for the entertainment of visitors attracted by devotion; for the laws of hospitality were never forgotten. The abbot, who was mitred, was a peer of Parliament and secular lord of the county of “The Cross of Tipperary.” When Henry VIII. suppressed the great abbeys of Ireland, he granted Holy Cross, with its temporalities and also the spiritual jurisdiction, to James, Earl of Ormond and Ossory, whom he regarded with special favor. Elizabeth confirmed this grant to Thomas, Earl of Ormond, who, though educated in the Anglican schism, became a Catholic several years before his death, and left his estates to Earl Walter, a stanch defender of the faith.

The monks who had been expelled from the abbey still lingered in its neighborhood, in the hope that they might somehow be permitted to return and end their days in the sacred cloisters in which they had given to God the best part of life. At times they met by night within the hallowed enclosure to offer up the divine Sacrifice; and when Mary ascended the throne, they once more took possession, but were again expelled by Elizabeth, and finally dispersed. The cells, dormitories, and guest-chambers, so long consecrated to meditation and all holy exercise, were converted into stables for the housing of cattle. The church, which contained the tombs of many noble families, escaped desecration, but not the ravages of time and neglect. From the year 1580 to the close of the century no priest dared appear in public throughout the province of Munster, and even the most careful disguises were not sufficient to hide them from the fury of their enemies; but in 1600 Hugh O’Neil turned his army towards the south of Ireland, and, proceeding by slow marches, finally encamped “at the gate of the monastery of Holy Cross.”

“They were not long there,” say the Four Masters, “when the holy Rood was brought to them, and the Irish gave large presents, alms, and offerings to its conservators and monks in honor of Almighty God; and they protected and respected the monastery, with its buildings, the lands appropriated for its use, and its inhabitants in general.”

The monks remained in possession of the abbey for several years, and for the first time since its suppression in 1536 an abbot of Holy Cross was chosen. The succession was kept up till the beginning of the eighteenth century, and expired in the first dark years of the Penal Code with Thomas Cogan, the last of the abbots of Holy Cross, who died on the 10th of August, 1700, and was buried in the choir of the old church, in the tomb where the bones of his predecessors are awaiting the day of resurrection.

O gray walls, sacred ruins of Holy Cross! ye have a spirit’s feeling, and work upon the soul till it forgets all glad and pleasant scenes to blend with the gloom and desolation that have come to abide with you. The gentle river still flows by, but where is the great strong life-current of faith and love that here was fed from God’s eternal fount? Cold are the burning lips of love that wore the pavement smooth; cold the great warm hearts that beat with highest impulse of divine charity. No more from their chalices mysterious monks drink deep love of God and men; no more at early morn is heard their matin song; no more to heaven ascends their evening hymn. Gone is the dim religious light that shone through mystic windows. The tapers are quenched, the belfries mute. No more floats on the breeze

“The heavenliest of all sounds That hill or vale prolongs or multiplies.”

The dead only are here, and around them the silence they so loved and broken walls, which, if they mourn not, make others grieve.

“Once ye were holy: ye are holy still; Your spirit let me freely drink and live.”

As a monastic ruin the Abbey of Holy Cross is, in the estimation of the people, second to no other in Ireland; and it owes this celebrity less to the beauty of its architecture than to the possession of the holy Rood.

The marble shrine in which this famous relic was preserved may still be seen in the southern transept of the church. The relic itself, at the time of the suppression of the abbey, passed into the hands of the Earl of Ormond, in whose family it remained for nearly a century, when Earl Walter gave it for safe-keeping to Dr. Fennell, who left it to James, second Duke of Ormond. It was finally deposited, in the early part of the present century, in a shrine in the chapel of the Ursuline Nuns at Blackrock, near Cork, where it is to remain “until such time as the church of the Holy Cross, with the monastery of Cistercian monks attached thereto, shall be rebuilt.”

Though Holy Cross is a ruin and in the hands of Protestants, the Cistercian Order still survives in Ireland in the monastery of Mount Melleray. It was, a few months ago, our privilege to pass a brief time in this sanctuary of religion, where the most unworldly life is made to subserve the highest social ends.

Mount Melleray is but a few hours’ ride from Cork. The excursion is made by railway to Youghal, an ancient town, once famous in Irish history, lying near the mouth of the Blackwater. At the entrance to its splendid and picturesque harbor, now almost entirely abandoned, there stands a ruined tower, which was formerly part of a convent of nuns who at night kept torches blazing in this lighthouse to enable vessels to enter port with safety. Near the town the house which Sir Walter Raleigh owned, and in which he lived for several years, is still pointed out to the traveller. In his garden here he planted in 1586 the first potatoes grown in Ireland.

A boat leaves Youghal twice a day and ascends the Blackwater as far as Cappoquin. The trip is made in about two hours. The scenery is unsurpassed even in Ireland. There is nothing finer on the Rhine. The river winds through fertile valleys with rich meadows and fields of waving corn, until a sudden turn brings us into the presence of barren mountains, which, in their desolation, seem to mock the smiling prospect below. From almost every jutting rock ruined castles or churches look down upon us. In these mountains above Cappoquin, and overlooking the Blackwater, lies the Trappist monastery of Mount Melleray.

Forty-five years ago a few poor monks, driven from their peaceful home, settled here in the midst of a dreary wilderness. They had obtained from the Protestant landlord of the place six hundred acres of mountain peat-land on a lease of ninety-nine years. No one but an Irish landlord would have thought of demanding rental for what had always been a desert, and, so far as he was concerned, might for ever remain a desert. The monks, however, paid him his price and set to work to make the desert bloom. On their land there was not a tree or blade of grass, and before they could begin to plough or dig they had to go over the ground and pick up the stones with which it was covered. But for them a life of solitude was to be a life of labor, and they were not discouraged. They knew that half the soil of Europe had been reclaimed and brought under cultivation by monks, whose lives were none the less consecrated to prayer and study. Half a century has not yet passed, and the barren waste is covered with rich fields of corn and green meadows. With their own hands the monks have built a large monastery and church, whose tall spire is seen from the whole surrounding country. In their gardens the finest vegetables grow, and in their dairy the best butter is made. A few years ago they opened a college, in which they give an excellent classical education to youths whose parents may not be able to pay the higher pensions of other institutions. The buildings are large and well provided with whatever is necessary to the health and comfort of the students; and the food, though plain, is of the best quality. A part of the monastery is fitted up for the accommodation of guests; and, as the hospitality of the monks is well known, they are rarely without visitors, drawn thither sometimes by curiosity, but oftener by the desire of spending a few days in solitude in communion with God. In the guests’ book we found the names of persons from almost every part of Europe and America. We have visited the monasteries of the Trappists in other countries, but nowhere else have we received the impressions made upon us at Mount Melleray. It was Edmund Burke who said that to his mind the Catholic Church of Ireland bore a closer resemblance than any other to the church of the apostles; and we could not help reflecting that these monks were more like the Fathers of the Desert than any men whom we had ever seen. How terrible is this place! How this life of honest religion lays bare the shams and pretexts with which weak and soft worldlings would hide the atheism of their faith! If God is all in all, and the soul more than the body, a Trappist is greater than a king. To these men the future world is more real than the present. The veil of time and space has fallen from their eyes; the immeasurable heavens break open, and God’s kingdom is revealed. Divine power of the love of Christ, which makes the desert beautiful, and solitude a perpetual feast! What heavenly privilege to forget the world and to be with God only; to turn from men, not in loathing or hate or bitterness, but with a heart as sweet as a child’s, and to follow Christ into the mount where the celestial glory encircles him! With St. Peter we exclaim: It is good to be here! A single day, O Lord! spent in thy tabernacles is more precious than a thousand years.

In this life in death is found a life the world dreams not of, as

“Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill the deepest notes of woe”;

as in the presence of the dying we see only the blackness and the gloom, when the soul already hears God’s angels sing, and beholds the light that never fades.

The highest joy is of the soul, and the more it lifts itself from flesh and earth the greater is its delight. In these solemn walls, with their silent monks clad in white, it seemed to us that we were upon the threshold of another world, far away from the ebb and flow of men’s affairs. We felt no more the feverish throb of the great world’s pulse, nor heard the noisy hum of commerce or the nations’ angry battle-cry. The blatant shout of Progress no longer deafened us. We were in the mood to ask ourselves: Is it not, after all has been said, progress towards death that men speak of? Do not all the lines along which they advance converge until they meet in the grave? But we crave life, not death. Is there no hope? Must we join the rabble, the common herd, that stands in wonderment in the world’s great toy-shop, eagerly peering at stones and metals and skins of beasts, gazing at blank walls and rattling machinery, and shouting: Ha! this is progress? Is there no room for the soul, no hope of life? Is mechanism all in all, and is all progress mechanical? Here, at least, were men who believed in the soul; who, despising all the counsels of fear and cowardice, had turned from the world and set their faces towards the life that is and is to be. They never speak except in prayer and psalmody. They rise in the night and spend hours in the thought of God and the soul. Silently they go forth to their work, and in silence return to pray. Their bed is a board, their food bread and coarse vegetables. And so from day to day and from year to year in their hearts they make the ascent to God.

It is easy for us to deride the life which we have not the courage or the strength to lead. These, at least, are men with brave hearts and great thoughts. They are not the creatures of circumstance, the slaves of routine, the self satisfied and unconscious victims of the universal tyrant. They are not held by bonds of flesh and blood. No mean ambition moves them. A king’s crown is but a bauble, like the toy of a child; and whatever ceases to be has no kindred with the soul that was not born to die. They wage battle for the possession of the infinite, and in the divine struggle take on the heroic mood that makes all things possible. And we who stood for a moment on this heavenly battle-ground, a looker-on, unfit to take part in such celestial warfare, would fain have lingered on the hallowed spot, knowing full well that the world to which we turned again has no happiness even to promise like that which is found in this holy mountain where God is seen and loved.

A STORY OF THE FAR WEST.

Gold City they had called it in its palmy days, though even then it was a city in name only. It was known as Gomorrah now; and its few inhabitants gloried in the title, for Edverson had struck a vein of gold there in the first flush of the mining fever, and a crowd of fortune-hunters flocked to the place, only to discover, when it was too late, that the first “lucky find” was the last. Then the tide of population ebbed away, leaving behind it the refuse――those who were too poor, too discouraged, too sunk in idleness or sin, to try for anything better. The houses were no more than shanties, which the women made no attempt to keep tidy; children lived and died there who never heard God’s holy name except in curses; to most of them even the day of the week was unknown.

Three men ruled the place, one by fear, one by kindness, one because he was tavern-keeper. They were familiarly known as the Lawyer, the Doctor, and the Parson. One day, worthy to be marked with red ink joyfully in the sad annals of Gomorrah, the Lawyer――most evil soul there, and most dreaded――announced his intention of going to England, and, when the next day dawned, he had departed with no more warning and with no word of farewell. Men, women, and children drew a long breath of relief, yet spoke of him for weeks afterwards in whispers and guarded words, as if they feared at any moment to see his hated presence among them once again, and feel his heel of iron on their necks.

One afternoon, early in November, his two associates sat together in the door-way of the tavern, the only decent dwelling within sight. He who was known as the Parson was a short, stout man, who boasted a collegiate and theological education of some sort, no one knew what, and a pastoral charge of five years, no one knew where. But it was a fact undisputed, either by himself or others, that he was now the very minister of Satan. Both he and the Lawyer knew how to sin as deeply as any one, but kept a kind of control over themselves. The man who was their boon companion, and yet hated them both with an impotent hatred, had no such power.

He was far superior to them in most respects. Gentle born, with wealthy surroundings, he had received a superior education, and gave promise of superior excellence in his profession, but had never been taught to curb a single passion. From one level to another he fell, till in Gomorrah he hid himself from all who had known him or his in his brighter days. Yet no man there was so liked and did so much to help as he. The love of his profession clung to him through everything, and it was impossible for him to see disease and accident without trying to alleviate the trouble. Boys and girls playing and quarrelling in the streets would stop the maddest sport, the bitterest fight, to help the Doctor home as he came reeling from the tavern, or to cover his face from the hot sun as he lay like a log by the roadside; would do it with a grateful remembrance of the time when “he nursed me in the fever” or “he splintered my broken leg”; and often he was saved from a midnight carousal by a call to some forlorn bedside, where he waited on filthy wretches with as quick skill and attention as once he had served the finest ladies in his great city home. No one knew how he hated the place in which he lived, and above all the man with whom he sat that autumn afternoon; but he had lost all hope of better things.

Through their gloomy silence and the clouds of tobacco-smoke the Parson and the Doctor beheld a sight which had not been seen in Gomorrah for many a day――the white cover of an emigrant wagon.

“Tom Townsend, from High Bend,” exclaimed Syles, “the Lawyer’s old chum there. Who’s he got with him?”

The Doctor made no reply, but stepped forward to meet the strangers. Behind the driver sat a young man with a good, kindly face, but lacking in practicality and force. On his arm he supported a woman, whose broad forehead, square chin, and firm mouth bespoke strong character, if one was able to think of that in noticing the serene holiness of the eyes and expression. Her face was pale as death.

“You’re wanted here, Doctor,” called the driver. “Here’s a case of chills and fever that’s not a common one, and I’ve seen ’em by hundreds.”

“Are you the Doctor?” the young man asked with a look of relief, as if he had heard of him before; and together they carried into the tavern and laid upon the settle the powerless form of the woman.

“Not this place!” the man exclaimed, lifting his head when he had laid his precious burden down. “Where is Mr. Dalzell’s house?”

“Mr. Dalzell?” the Doctor repeated. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Why, surely――yes, we must be right. He came from here, he said.”

“Who? What?” his hearers asked, with a grim suspicion in their hearts. “Where are you from, sir?”

“I am Reuben Armstrong, from Suffolk, England. A Mr. Dalzell sold me his house and claim in Gold City. Where are they?”

The Doctor’s eyes fell, and Syles slunk into the shadow of the door. It was long before they could make him understand the truth; and when at last he comprehended it, Syles stole out of his presence with a sense of shame such as he had never felt before, leaving the Doctor to give the almost heart-broken fellow the only reason for courage that he knew how to give him――to bear up bravely for his wife’s sake.

It was but too easy to grasp the sad story. Armstrong had been a well-to-do gardener, with a pleasant little house and a snug sum of money in the bank; but, as the Doctor inferred even then, he had married a woman much his superior in character and station, whose friends looked down upon him, and thought he could never do anything worthy of her. When the Lawyer told his plausible story and showed his well-planned map――when he described his possessions, to be sold at a very low figure, because, as the evil owner dared to affirm, he must be with his aged parents in Nottinghamshire during their declining years――Reuben was only too ready to drop into the net.

They told his wife――his “poor Esther”――nothing that night. Indeed, she was too ill to notice that they moved her from the tavern to the cabin next door, which was their home. In that tavern Reuben declared she should not stay one hour.

That night the first snows fell, shutting off Gomorrah for the winter from any intercourse with the outer world, and for weeks the Doctor strove against all odds to save Esther Armstrong’s life. But for her Reuben would soon have sunk to the level of his neighbors――not in sin, but in inertia. He seemed to have no courage left to begin life over again; he was sure that Esther must die, and then there would be no use of his living. He spent his time in watching beside her, doing everything about the house for her that was possible; refusing all help save the physician’s, and only accepting that because he could not avoid it.

When the Doctor came in to see Esther on the morning after her arrival, Reuben had made the room as comfortable as he could with the furniture which they had brought from home, and Esther was lying in her bed, everything white about her, and she herself looking more pure and white than even the falling snow without.

“Am I very ill?” she asked calmly; and before the grave eyes bent upon him the Doctor could return no answer but the truth.

“You are a very sick woman, Mrs. Armstrong,” he said, “but I hope we may see you pull through bravely yet.”

“Will you ask the priest to come to me?” she said.

The Doctor started to his feet and made a rapid stride across the room. It brought him face to face with a crucifix, a picture, and a rosary.

“Madam,” he said reverently――she seemed to him like a saint as she lay there――“do you know what sort of a place you are in? We have no such beings as priests here.”

“Oh!” she replied serenely, “you must mistake. Mr. Lazell certainly told us that there was one. We would never have come else.”

The Doctor bit his lip to keep back the oath which rose. “Mr. Lazell, as you call him, lied, madam.”

She asked no questions, but her searching eyes drew the truth from him. Sooner or later she must know all. Before that holy calm a tempting desire came over him to try how deep her religious feeling really was.

“Madam,” he said, “you call this place Gold City, but we know it as Gomorrah. There is no priest within miles of us. God isn’t here at all.”

She pressed her hands hard against her heart. He felt that she shrank from him inwardly.

“Is there any woman who will come to me?” she asked.

“There is not one who is fit to touch you,” he replied――“not one. We do not know what goodness is. You have been deceived into coming here. Now, if you love your husband, live for him; for nothing else can keep him from being like the rest of us.”

“You are mistaken,” she said gravely. “You do not know my husband. But, Doctor, if I must die, will you promise me to send in time for a priest?”

The Doctor bit back an oath. If “Mr. Lazell” had been there at that moment, not even Esther’s presence could have saved him from the hatred of nine wretched years kindled that day into relentless fury. The Doctor had known enough of Catholics at home――God help him! but his had been Catholic baptism in his babyhood――to fear the effect on her of what he had to say. Had it been of any use, he would have lied to her; but the next neighbor entering would have revealed all.

“There is no priest near us,” he replied, “and it is impossible to get one in the winter.”

She put her hand quickly to her heart again. “God’s will be done,” she said slowly; “God’s will be done” over and over and over again. They could not stop her. Reuben begged her to hear him, to rest, to grow calm, but it was of no avail. All day long, and far into the night, she tossed in fever, delirious always, but her holy self even in her delirium. Now she sang snatches of hymns; and now an exquisite strain of some old chant, which the Doctor had heard in great cathedrals, rose upon Gomorrah’s tainted air; but oftenest she called for a priest, or said: “God’s will be done.” Late that night the fever abated a little, and she opened her eyes calmly; but it was only to hear the clamor upon the night air of stamping feet, ringing sounds like tankards dashed on table or floor, the twang and clash of noisy instruments, scraps of vile song, brawls and oaths and blows.

“What is it?” she cried. “Where are we? Oh! I know”; and then sank into delirium again.

So for a week it lasted; then the fever died away, leaving her like a shadow. She made no complaint, never asked again for a priest, never spoke again of death; yet the Doctor knew, as well as if he had seen it, that hers was a broken heart. But another life was bound up with her life, and for its sake, as well as for Reuben’s, she tried and prayed to live. It was plain that her affection for her husband was intense; no matter what his weakness and imprudence had made her suffer, no one ever knew her fail in her honor and her love, and he seldom saw her otherwise than outwardly cheerful for his dear sake. What she endured perhaps only the Doctor truly fathomed, and his sounding-line was far too short. Reuben was too engrossed in her to care much personally for what passed about them; but the Doctor judged by what the place had been and was to him, even in his degraded life. Fallen as he was, he loathed it from the very bottom of his heart; still, with every gentlemanly instinct that was left in him, he shrank from the outcasts whom he lived with daily, though knowing himself to be fallen yet lower than they. By his own suffering, from which he did not try to escape; by his own horror of the pit whose vileness sickened him while still he chose to sink even deeper in it, he knew something of what it must be to Esther’s pure heart to live in Gomorrah. Something――that was all.

He and Reuben strove to keep sight and sound of evil from her; yet all their care could not banish at times strange visitors from her bedside――haggard women, flaunting women, all of them with evil tongues; no care could keep the children always from door or window, and often she saw, by frosty dawn or at high noon or in the early twilight, wild, wolfish eyes staring at her, gaunt fingers pointing, and heard children’s voices speak of her in terms wherewith oaths and low epithets were mixed――not through malice, but because they knew no other way.

No one knew what hours she lay awake by day and night in one agony of intercession; and she herself, praying often and hoping against hope for the sacraments to prepare her soul for death, never knew here into what union with her Lord that passion of prayer for souls was bringing her, as hour by hour the awful days wore on.

The Doctor saw her face, as it grew more sharp and thin, grow more holy, till he often felt unworthy to look upon it, and wondered how Reuben Armstrong had ever won a treasure of which it seemed to him no mortal man was worthy.

A poor, weak soul was Reuben’s, truly, in man’s sight. But God and the angels must have loved it with a special love. God knew how earnestly that sorrowful heart implored that the light of its eyes might be taken from it, if so Esther might escape from suffering and enter into peace; and when night shut him in with her alone, the angels heard how he strove to drown the riot next door by prayers and litanies beside her, till often he slept exhausted on the hard floor by her bed.

But the children most of all weighed heavily upon Esther’s soul. Even when she could not see them she heard their voices; even when she could not hear them, she fancied how their lives were spent, though even her keen fancy did not reach the whole of the painful truth; and as the birthday of the Holy Child drew nearer, she felt more keenly their ignorance of all sacred things, shuddered to think of her own child being born in such an atmosphere, then came to love those little ones as if they were her very own, and to plead for them with a mother’s insatiable pleading.

Eight days before Christmas they laid her baby in her arms and saw her smile a happy mother’s smile. Eight days they lived in trembling hope. On Christmas morning the Doctor saw the dreaded, unmistakable sign of fever. She had wakened very bright, Reuben said, and very early, with words of Christmas joy, as if she had forgotten where they were, and fancied it was home. Then some sound from the tavern had brought back the truth; there had come the quick pain at her heart, and then delirium. All day long she talked――there was no possibility of silencing her. She, so tender of others, now with no control over herself, laid her whole heart bare; and they, who thought they had known and prized her well, knew as if for the first time what a saint of God had been among them――prayers for her husband and for her baby, but not for them alone: prayers for every soul in that place of death; people named by name of whom they would have supposed she had never heard, but for whom she pleaded as if for her own flesh and blood; eager, loving, most frequent supplication for the little children; prayers for the very man who had lured them from their happy home; intensest pleading for pity and pardon for his and all these souls.

“Didst thou not die for them, Jesus, my Jesus――for them as well as for me? Save them with me, save them with me――with me, my Jesus! By thy Sacred Heart that broke for us, save us, have mercy on us!” And then, over and over, as if with some peculiar, long-sustained intention or compact, “Remember, O most pious Virgin Mary! Remember, remember!”

And there was one frequent supplication in which no name was mentioned, as if it were borne so constantly from her heart to the Sacred Heart that she had ceased to need to speak the name: “Gain thyself _that_ soul, my Jesus. By thy Cross, thy Heart, thy Mother, gain thyself _that_ soul.”

They heard only one petition for herself, but that so anguished, so desperate, that the strong man broke into sobs to hear it: one hungry cry for God’s holy sacraments, for God’s anointed priest, to come to her before her death, yet never uttered without a more intense prayer still――“My God, my God, _thy_ will be done, _thy_ will be done”; and even that was entirely merged at last in her prayers for those who had made her life one long agony at its close.

Suddenly she sat straight up in her bed, her eyes blazing as if with an unearthly, reflected light, her cheeks brilliant with more than the fever flush.

“Hark, hark, hark!” she said, with a ring of ecstatic joy through every word. “Do you not hear the sacring-bell? Kneel, all of you. The priest comes――comes with my Lord at last.”

Her eyes were fixed upon the door that no hand opened, yet she seemed to watch some one enter, and to see some one draw nearer, nearer to her, and she folded her hands reverently, and bent her head as if in adoration. They understood: she believed a priest was there; and they, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, of what she evidently was sure she saw and heard――they who watched her fell down upon their knees and hid their faces as in some divine presence. The next words that broke the stillness were the words of a dying penitent alone with a priest of God: “I confess to Almighty God and to you, my father.”

Steadily, as if for weeks she had prepared her soul for this in faith and penance, Esther Armstrong made her dying confession, with a contrition sore as if she were the lowest sinner in Gomorrah’s depths of sin, and then craved absolution humbly and in tears. When there was silence, and they dared to look at her, she was lying back among her pillows, whispering, “Forgiven, forgiven!”

They moved to give her nourishment, and the movement roused her, though not to recognition. She started up once more, lifting her hand.

“Hark, hark!” she said again. “Do you not hear him? He is saying Mass, and they sing sweetly as angels.”

All round the world, that Christmas day, one song of praise was rising, one pure offering was offered up to Him who was born and given for us on that day. Grand cathedrals were ablaze with lights and rich with bloom; far down the choir the altar tapers shone like stars through clouds of incense waving upward to the fretted roof, and the full tide of chant swelled high to join the chant of angels; in lowly chapel as in great cathedral the priest of God and the people of God adored the Holy Babe upon his Mother’s breast. In Gomorrah, in a decaying chapel, while oath and brawl sounded without, one soul heard seraphic music which no other ear could hear; one soul beheld a Priest whom no other eye could see――joined in his offering of the tremendous Sacrifice. For an hour, upheld by superhuman strength, she knelt upright, rapt in an ecstasy of spiritual communion that grew too deep for prayer. When the clock struck twelve, she said slowly, “_Ite missa est; Deo gratias_”; then, with a long-drawn, rapturous sigh, lay down again, but not as if she knew or remembered husband or child or friend.

The Doctor left her then, but at the close of the day he was summoned hastily, to see now without mistake that the battle of her life was almost ended.

“Stay with her, Doctor,” Reuben pleaded. “It’s a sore struggle. Try something more.”

“I can’t stay, man,” he answered. “There is no more to do. I’d give my right hand to save her; but I can’t see her suffer and be unable to help her. She’s the only white soul here, and now she is going.”

He turned to the bedside, and stood silently looking at the face with the dread shadow on it. Suddenly opening her eyes, her gaze fell first on him, and, startled out of her usual composure, she gave an irrepressible shudder. He understood what it meant. She had treated him always with perfect courtesy and confidence as her physician and true friend; he knew――for there had not been wanting those to tell him of it――that she had silenced with dignified rebuke the evil tales that more than one had tried to tell her of him, not because they disliked him, but because they loved to talk. But he knew also, what they did not, that in her pure heart she shrank from him, that his very presence was loathsome to her; and there had been times when, in her bodily weakness, she had been unable to control her aversion to his slightest touch. He had borne it quietly, humbling as it was, but it was doubly bitter to bear at the very last.

“I will bid you good-night, Mrs. Armstrong,” he said, trying hard to steady his voice. “You will not want me any more this evening, I think.”

“Good-by, Doctor,” she said, and he saw that she knew all.

“You will not want me,” he repeated mechanically.

“I want you――_there_,” she answered with a great effort. “Promise me that you will be there.”

He did not speak.

“Promise,” she repeated, and the tone brought back the memory of her prayers that morning. “I am dying――dying; and yet I cannot die. Night and day I prayed it: ‘Gain thyself _that_ soul, my Jesus. By thy Cross, thy Mother, thy broken Heart, gain thyself that soul.’ I prayed and prayed it; I am worn out with the praying, and yet I cannot die. Promise me to be there.”

The sweat stood on his forehead in great drops. “You do not know what you ask,” he cried. “There are sins enough upon me without adding that of a broken vow to you, and here. There is no saving a soul like mine.”

She did not answer him. She lifted up her eyes, away from him, away from earth, to God.

“Sacred Heart of my Jesus,” she prayed in agony, “win this soul, and let me die.”

For weeks he had kept himself sober and decent for her sake; now he had thought to rush out from her presence, to drown his grief in viler sin than ever; and, lo! she was still holding him, was binding eternal chains upon him, to draw him away from corruption unto God. As a physician he knew that it was a case where a mighty will alone was keeping life in a body nearly dead; it would have been an awful sight to see, even had he had no interest in it. She was living only to win him unto immortal life. Angels and devils may well have stood still before that struggle, where one dauntless soul at the point of death held Satan’s power at bay.

“I promise,” he said at last, as if the words were wrung from him. “But pray for me always.”

“The Mother of God prays for you,” she said with strange emphasis. “Call upon Jesus and Mary night and day. You will not need me.”

And then he saw that she needed him no longer, thought of him no longer, and he went away.

Reuben Armstrong shut and locked the door behind him. There was no more that science or skill could do. Now, for one brief hour, Esther was his alone. The eyes which the Doctor had seen grow dim to him lit up with untired affection as Reuben drew near the bed; a look of rest came over her, and she signed to him to lay her baby on her arm.

“My baby, my little Christmas baby,” she murmured tenderly. “Did the priest baptize her this morning, Reuben? Oh! how could you overlook it, dear? Then you must do it. Now――now!”

There was an excited ring in her voice, and Reuben hastened to do at once what he had felt from the first must soon be done; for the baby’s life evidently hung upon a thread. A few drops of water, a few divine words, and Esther’s eyes shone exultingly upon her child.

“She will never be anything but God’s child,” she said. “Oh! I am glad she cannot live. It is the other children, that are not his, that you must care for, Reuben.”

“No, no!” he cried. “No, Esther, I cannot live without you.”

“Listen, Reuben,” she said. Lying there with her child upon her arm, she looked like a vision of the Holy Mother herself, and when she spoke her voice had a tone in it which seemed divinely sweet. “Listen, Reuben. This place is God’s. He wants it. You must live and not die――_for him_.”

“O Esther!” he sobbed, “not without you――not without you.”

“Yes, Reuben, without me――all alone. My darling, my darling, save these little children’s souls for God.”

One greater than she spoke, on that holy night, through Esther’s lips, and touched and won her husband’s wounded heart.

“I will, Esther,” he sobbed. “I will try hard”; and even then, upon that solemn parting, as if to stamp the promise with an awful seal, the tavern clamor broke shrill and vile upon the Christmas air.

How long it was that she spoke no word――wrapped for the last time in her passion of intercession――Reuben did not notice; he only knelt on beside her, living upon every breath she drew. But, at the turn of the night, she looked full at him, clasped both his hands in hers, spoke so that the voice and the words rang in his heart through all his after-life――spoke not to him, but for him, and her words were those of the _Memorare_. Then, like one who has laid down for ever in most safe and tender keeping a heavy burden borne long and painfully, she crossed her hands upon her heart, but not now as if in pain; a look of glad surprise came upon her face.

“Hark!” she said. “He is coming _again_. My Lord and my God!”

When the Doctor entered Reuben’s cabin next morning, he found it in perfect order――the baby asleep in its cradle beside the hearth; Esther lying in a sort of funeral state, all done for her that could be done; and beside her knelt Reuben, whom the Doctor scarcely recognized at first for the change upon him. In that night he had become an old man, and his friend believed that but for the baby’s sake he would have died; yet, two days later, the baby died, and still Reuben lived.

* * * * *

“A poor fool!” people called him. He had lost all interest in temporal matters, seemed hardly to know the use of money, and barely supported himself by the odd bits of work which he did for the idle women from house to house. Soon, however, they discovered that he had one talent, and that was for managing children. A woman one day suggested to him that he should “bide at home, and mind some babies for ’em, to keep ’em out of harm’s way; and he might teach the five-year-olds their letters, too――being fit for naught else,” she added in a tone as clear as that she used for the other words; but Reuben did not mind.

The proposal met with general favor; the women promised to supply him with meals from their own poor tables, “better than he’d get hisself, anyhow,” they said; and that was all he needed to keep him through the winter.

It seemed at first sight a very forlorn life. Where others less careless and simple could have lived in comfort, he lived in cold and hunger; one by one everything which he had brought from his distant home disappeared――given away to people in distress, or yielded without question to exorbitant and unfounded demands. Yet that bare, poverty-stricken room grew to be the one fair place in Gomorrah. There, for long hours of the winter days, might be seen a cluster of children gathered about a man who seemed in some respects as much a child as any of them, and who taught them to be tidy and affectionate and good. A few learned their letters, but many learned their prayers, and the babies often said for their first word the name of Jesus, and all came to gaze lovingly upon the crucifix, and touch with pitying reverence the wounded hands and feet. Often the parents heard from childish lips the story of the Infant Saviour. No home now with a child in it where Sunday was not known. Men and women, large boys and girls, swore and fought in the streets still, but it soon became a rare sight to see a little child so forget itself; it would make Master Reuben sorry, and he said that it made the Heart of Jesus bleed. No one stopped him at such work; he was too poor a fool for them to mind him.

But he had another work with which they meddled much. The promise which the Doctor had made by Esther’s death-bed was not forgotten by him who made it, but it was broken again and again. His own lower nature which had ruled him all his life would have been enough, and more than enough, for such a man to struggle against; but, besides that, the fiends in human shape who peopled Gomorrah seemed leagued with invisible evil ones to work his utter ruin. They scoffed at his feeble efforts to do right; they lured him or they maddened him――it was all one to them――into the old haunts of temptation; and the very efforts which he made to escape, the very memory of Esther’s words and holy looks, the very thought of purity and self-control, seemed to make the evil deadlier and grosser, when, after sore struggle, he gave way.

And he did struggle, he did pray, poor soul! There were hours when he lay upon the earth in some cold hut or in the open air, fighting, it seemed to him, with no less than Satan’s self. But he had been a slave to self too long and too deliberately to be able to gain freedom easily. Scenes of the past rose before him; he knew himself in his true degradation. Sins about which a kind of lurid fascination can be thrown in books or real life for a time he saw more and more plainly in their actual shape and color, and it drove him mad with disgust and shame. Few were daring enough that winter to trust their sick folk to his skill. For days together he would join in riot and carousal, till _delirium tremens_ followed, and then strong men fled in fear before him.

But when that time came, and houses were locked tight and no one else dared face him as he went raging about the town, falling on the uneven streets, bruising and wounding himself, there was one who did go out to meet him. A tottering, feeble creature went meekly forth, stood in his path, took blows and curses without resistance, and presently――no one knew by what magic spell――led him to his own poor cabin and locked himself in with him alone.

That was the reason why Master Reuben never did what his tender and lonely heart yearned to do――to make a home for the orphan children of Gomorrah. No one but himself must be allowed to see what passed in his cabin while the Doctor was there; no one else must be exposed to the dangers he had to meet. But the room where they had watched the mysterious joy of Esther’s Christmas feast saw far other sights and echoed to far other sounds than angel music as the winter wore away. There were mornings when no children came to Reuben’s house, when some woman more pitiful, some man more brave than the others, crept near and laid food on the threshold, then fled away to tell in trembling of the cries they had heard as of some wild beast mad with fury, or some lost soul shrieking in the torment of despair. Sometimes, too, they told of blows or noises like a heavy fall; and often, when Reuben came among them again, he bore marks that proved the stories true, but they never learned the cause from him.

And he――as the winter passed, the only truly happy faces that Gomorrah saw were Reuben Armstrong’s and little children’s. By and by they heard him sing sweet carols and hymns and chants; he taught the children to sing with him, and used to lead them down the streets, and into the snowy fields, and to visit Esther’s grave, to the sound of holy song. People stopped in many an evil deed or word to listen; then left the word unsaid, the deed undone. It came to be a fashion in Gomorrah to stroll to Reuben’s cabin of a Sunday to see how joyfully the children kept the day. Nay, it was even known that once a whole party at the tavern had left their drinking-cups, to stand for an hour at the next door, listening to the music. Truly, good and evil were in strange contrast that winter in the almost forgotten place which had no intercourse with the outer world. There was a world, unseen, in which it was remembered night and day.

At length they asked Reuben why he looked so happy, and he answered: “It is almost spring. Then the priest will come.” And when they laughed and asked him how he knew, he answered simply: “God will send him.”

When the snow began to melt and the streams ran gayly down the hillside, and grass was green, one week, remembered for years after in that region, the whole place rang with the story of a carousal which even Gomorrah wondered at; the whole place waited to see whether the Doctor or Reuben would ever come forth alive from their self-imposed prison. When Reuben opened his door again, and gathered his children round him, there was a look of peculiar expectation on his face. He greeted each child with special gladness, and told one of the mothers that he was quite sure the priest was coming very soon, “for we need him a good deal now,” he said.

That afternoon there came into Gomorrah a man wearing the religious habit, and asked at the tavern if a Mrs. Armstrong was living in that place.

Syles stared at him blankly. “What do you know of her?” he said.

“I met some one,” the priest answered, “while on my way to the States, who begged me, if I ever came this way, to find such a woman and give her a message from him. Is she here?”

“Dead,” said Syles briefly.

“She had a husband. Where is he?”

“Next door with a madman. We leave him alone such times.”

“No, no, Parson,” said a lounger near by. “Where’ve ye been that ye haven’t heard? Doctor’s out of his fit to-day, and Reuben’s got his school again. I’ll take ye there, stranger. It’s a sight we’re proud of in Gomorrah.”

Out of the tavern into the filthy street, followed by a dozen or more wretches, the priest went sadly with a load upon his heart. The horrors he had seen already were enough to sicken him; he wondered what new evils he would meet with now of which Gomorrah was proud.

“They’re used to spectators,” said his guide. “We watch ’em as we like. Door or window――’tan’t no difference to them; we an’t particular here.”

It was a bare, small room, with a table and some benches, an empty fireplace, beside it a powerfully-built man trembling and crying by himself, like one unnerved by some long illness; on one wall was a print of the Blessed Babe and the Holy Mother, and below this was a crucifix. Facing these was a band of twenty little children in soiled and ragged garments, but with clean hands and faces, too absorbed by what was being said to them to heed what passed without. All eyes were fixed on a small man with a great fresh cut across his forehead and a bruised and very simple face.

“Yes, children,” he was saying, “it was the blessed child Jesus who was born on Christmas night. He loves us all very much indeed, and of course we all want to love him. Some time he is going to send his priest here to baptize you; then what will you all be?”

“God’s little children.” The answer rose sweetly and with a kind of merriment from every lip, and Reuben’s face shone.

“Surely, surely,” he said. “Now we will sing, because we love him and want to thank him. Yes, I know the song you want――‘The Three Poor Shepherds.’”

“We were but three poor shepherds, All keeping our flocks by night, When Monseigneur the blessed angel Came suddenly into sight――

“Came suddenly through the darkness, While a glory round him fell; I wot not if it were Michael Or the Angel Gabriel.

“But his voice was like a trumpet, So full, and glad, and true; ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘my children: There is good news for you――’

“‘Good news for men and maidens, A great, glad gift for them; For the faire Sire Christ, the blessed, Is born in Bethlehem.’

“Then a _Gloria in Excelsis_ They sang with glad accord; Peace and good-will to all mankind From the Sire Christ the Lord.

“And unto a lowly stable Silently went we three, And there the kine, each in its stall, Was on a bended knee.

“And there was Messire St. Joseph; And Mary the mother lay, With the Holy Child in swaddling bands, All on a cushion of hay.

“Each dumb beast looked in our faces, But never unbent the knee; Our sweet Ladye she raised her eyes And smiled full tenderly.

“‘Ah! faire Sire Christ,’ all humbly We cried with urgent plea, ‘Anneal us now of thy great mercie, For that we are so glad of thee.’

“‘For that we are glad and joyful That good days are begun, That the great God for a blessing Hath sent us his faire Childe Son.’

“Then Our Ladye the Holy Mary Took some wood in her hand, And crossed the pieces, and gave them, That we all might understand.

“And we kissed the token humbly, And bowed before the Childe; For we knew, like Monseigneurs the angels, That God had been reconciled.

“So joyfully and with gladness All softly we went our way, And with many an old _Te Deum_ We tell the tale to-day.”

Then once more, like a chorus which even the children just beginning to talk seemed to know in part:

“For that we are glad and joyful That good days are begun, That the great God for a blessing Hath sent us his faire Childe Son.”

The door opened slowly and a voice which all ears could hear said reverently, “_Pax vobiscum_.” The good days were begun.

Strange how calmly they all received him! Reuben never asked him how he came there; he had looked for him and prayed for him a long while, and he was there at last. God, of course, had sent him. One by one he brought the children to speak with him, and to have him pronounce on their fitness to be made God’s children; and the tears stood in the priest’s eyes as he listened to their simple, fearless answers, that witnessed to what Reuben’s work of faith had been. When they were gone away to their homes, which were far less homes to them than Reuben’s cabin was, Reuben came to the priest as simply as any one of them had come, and asked to be allowed to make confession.

“You’ll stay here and be good, Doctor,” he said soothingly. “I shall only be in the other room, and I’ve locked the door hard.”

The Doctor made a sort of moaning assent.

“He’s just had a very sad time,” explained Reuben, “and he needs you very much, father. By and by please let him speak to you.”

How wonderful to listen, in that place of revenge and murder, to Reuben’s quiet, brief confession――no complaints, no bitterness, no anger, except that for one day he had felt hatred toward some one, against whom, however, he brought no accusation, and for this sin he felt especial contrition.

“I met lately,” the priest said slowly, when the confession was finished, and marking with care the effect his words would have, “a man known sometimes as Lazell.”

Reuben gave a start as of joyful surprise, and would have spoken, but the priest continued:

“I saw him die a felon’s death upon the gallows.”

“No, no!” cried Reuben in distress――one might have supposed he had been told of a brother’s shameful death. “Oh! no, father.”

“It was a just punishment,” the priest replied.

“No, no!” cried Reuben. “You do not know this place. They do not have helps here like other people, or like me. Oh! but God saved his poor soul at the last?”

“He spoke to me,” said the priest, “of a woman named Esther Armstrong, to whom he had done a great injury. Was not that true?”

“He did not understand,” said Reuben with sorrowful compassion――“I am sure he did not understand what harm he did, because, you know, he _couldn’t_ have hurt _her_. And he did not see good women here; they have such hard times here, poor things.”

“He said he could not forget her――that something always reminded him of her. He begged me to find her out and ask her to forgive him.”

“She died,” said Reuben softly. “She forgave him. She prayed for him a great deal, I think.”

“God answered her, then,” the priest said. “I trust that he repented truly.”

A great light of joy woke upon Reuben’s face. “Then he will save the rest,” he exclaimed triumphantly.

“But you,” the priest asked――“do you forgive him?”

“I?” repeated Reuben with a puzzled look. “O father! it was very wrong of me; I was angry with him at first. But it was my fault, really, though Esther never blamed me; I was a poor fool, father, or I never should have brought her here.”

And so Reuben Armstrong took to himself his lifelong title humbly――so poor a fool, indeed, that he had forgotten that he had anything to forgive his fellow-men.

The next day Reuben saw his whole flock of little ones gathered into the Good Shepherd’s fold; and then the Holy Sacrifice was offered up, and Reuben’s soul was strengthened by the Divine Food.

The Doctor had sullenly refused to be present. Reuben found him, on his return, lying face downwards on the cabin floor, the picture of despair.

“There is no hope,” he said when Reuben knelt by him, and begged him to have recourse to confession. “I want drink――nothing but drink. I must have it. I cannot save myself.”

“That’s true enough,” said Reuben. “You can’t, and I can’t, but God can. You keep saying that I don’t know everything about you, and that nobody does, and that God will never forgive you. But he has sent his priest at last, and you need not be afraid to say anything to him. You must not hide anything, and he has the power to hear it and tell you what God says.”

Like one driven to a last resort, the Doctor turned to the waiting priest, and Reuben in the next room gave thanks and prayed, while, in the place where a saint had made her last confession, this man, who was indeed of “the scum of sinners,” made his first.

Truly, the Sacrament of Penance is a divine and awful thing. God grant that they who vilify and reject and misrepresent it know not what they do! The burden of souls which a missionary priest in the far West has to bear in the confessional is a tremendous one; this priest had been in prison-hulks of Australia, and through all the mining regions of California and Arizona, yet had never met a case so desperate as that before him now, where hope seemed so hopeless, the power for better things so nearly overcome. But the poor penitent, as one by one without reserve he revealed the sins so long kept secret, as well as those that were known of men and noised abroad, felt keen relief through all the degradation, tasted somewhat of the sweetness hid in this sacrament of blessed bitterness, won from it that strength which is a better thing to have than joy or consolation, met there and knew there Him “at whose feet Mary Magdalene came to kneel in the house of Simon the leper.”

“I am going away, Reuben,” the Doctor said that night, abruptly and sadly. “Yes,” seeing the other’s look of surprise, “there is hope for me, perhaps, but not here.”

“Away?” Reuben repeated. “Away from me? I thought I’d have you always, Doctor.”

“To be the hurt and the trouble I have been to you?” said the Doctor, deeply touched. “No, no, Reuben, I cannot keep my promise here. I must leave the past entirely, and the old associates, and go where I can repent――if I ever can. There is no such thing as an easy repentance for me.” And Reuben felt in his tender heart, once more to be bereaved, that the words were true.

When the priest left Gomorrah the next day, promising that it should not be forgotten, one went with him for whom no other hope remained but the total surrender of will and liberty, the total crucifixion of the flesh. Reuben heard from him once, in the course of his journey, then all tidings ceased; but he was too simple and too busy to wonder at it, too full of faith to doubt the final triumph. His character was not like Esther’s; the burden of souls could never be to him what it had been to her; God led him by a different path from that she trod in pain.

But in a lonely monastery, high up among frowning rocks and perpetual snows, a man who had come to it from far across the seas lived, for a few sad years, a life of deepest penance. Never by day or night did the battle with evil cease, yet over him there seemed to be by day and night a special heavenly care. That lonely cell was haunted constantly by visions of the past, by temptations that were maddening, by thoughts and words of evil import, which an increasing approach to holiness made flesh and heart shrink to recall. No sign of the cross, no prayer, no penance, could banish them. Pursued, haunted, tempted to the very end, yet to the very end he called on Jesus, Mary, and to the very end the answer came.

None but those whose lives were one of close union with the Sacred Heart of Jesus dared minister at that death-bed, learning there, in fear and trembling, new lessons of the hideousness of sin, and of the power which an evil life can give to Satan in the hour of death. But again and again they heard the poor lips whisper, “I deserve it, I deserve it; I thank God”; they saw the weak hands cling to the crucifix, the glaring eyes gaze in their anguish upon the Word made flesh; and he who endured to hear the last confession brought to him afterward, with awed and pitying reverence, the Body of the Lord. It was no saint, no life-long, scarred, victorious warrior of the Cross, whom they laid to rest at last, his hard fight done; yet over that body――which, even in their snow-clad region, they had to hurry to its burial――they dared to give God thanks in humble faith for another sinner ransomed.

Humbly and faithfully, in far-away Gomorrah, Reuben Armstrong lived to a good old age his poor fool’s life; and men and women came to look with gentle reverence upon the feeble form which went in and out among them on errands of daily mercy, never tiring. By and by the neighbors learned to know the place by a better name than the evil one which it grew to hate rather than glory in. “It cannot be so very bad,” they said, “when there are such good children in it.” And as from time to time a priest came there, he always found one more soul desirous for confession, or one more child or grown person ready for holy baptism, and Reuben never again knelt alone to receive holy Communion.

When the Doctor went away, Reuben opened his heart and home to the vagrant orphans, and there, some years after, he welcomed gladly the miserable Parson, more pitiably needy than any of them. “Master Reuben’s baby” they called him, and Reuben often told exultingly how good and obedient he was. No one envied him his charge――unless it was the angels, who share in such blessed work.

A railroad runs through the town now, and it is becoming a place of some importance――poor enough and bad enough, alas! but stamped outwardly and openly with the sign of the Cross. For over Esther’s grave loving hands have reared a little chapel――a constant token that the offering of her broken heart has been accepted, that her dying prayer has been _remembered_.

And there, troubled by no doubts and haunted by no fears, weak in body and weaker still in intellect, but very strong in his immortal soul, Reuben waits patiently and happily till his work is done.

THREE LECTURES ON EVOLUTION.

We live in a time when scientific men seem to acquire celebrity almost in proportion as they succeed in perverting the conclusions of natural science so as to make them contradict revealed truth. At this we are not surprised; for the management of the interests of science has lately fallen, to a great extent, into the hands of an anti-Christian sect, which is either unable to understand or unwilling to recognize the testimony that nature bears to the existence, power, and wisdom of its Creator, and to the veracity of his word. To this sect Professor Huxley belongs. They call him “a great scientist” and “a great philosopher”; and people invite him to lecture; and a certain press hastens to publish his thoughts, that the world may learn how religious dogmas can be swept away by “scientific” discoveries, and especially by “scientific” reasonings. Unfortunately for Prof. Huxley, his lectures on the _Evidences of Evolution_, which are the last effort of his mind, are as deficient in logic as most of his other productions. In other words, the conclusions of the lecturer are not legitimate, and the premises themselves are not always exempt from objectionable features. We hardly need tell our readers that neither any Christian dogma has been swept away by these lectures nor any evolution established, except in so far as the lectures themselves may be considered as an evolution of sophistry.

In the first of his three lectures Prof. Huxley begins with a false statement of facts:

“It has taken long indeed, and accumulations of often fruitless labor, to enable men to look steadily at the glaring phantasmagoria of nature, to notice her fluctuations and what is regular among her apparent irregularities; and it is only comparatively lately, within the last few centuries, that there has emerged the conception of a pervading order and definite force of things, which we term the course of nature. But out of this contemplation of nature, and out of man’s thought concerning her, there has in these later times arisen that conception of the constancy of nature to which I have referred, and that at length has become the guiding conception of modern thought. It has ceased to be almost conceivable to any person who has paid attention to modern thought that chance should have any place in the universe, or that events should follow anything but the natural order of cause and effect.”

The truth is that “modern thought” has had no part whatever in the discovery of the constancy of nature. This discovery is as old as mankind. All ancient philosophers, even before Aristotle, knew the constancy of the natural laws, and this knowledge has never died away, that modern thinkers should claim the honor of reviving it. The same is to be said of “the conception of a pervading order and definite force of things,” as we find that old Greek and Latin books are full of this conception, which is likewise common to all our mediæval writers, and, indeed, to all reasonable men. That “chance” could have no place in the universe was so well known to the ancients that Cicero emphatically declared any man to be silly who would suspect the possibility of the contrary.[152] Hence no person ever needed “to pay attention to modern thought” to conceive that chance could have no place in the government of the world. Finally, that events cannot but follow “the natural order of cause and effect” is the oldest of scientific truths, and the first principle of scientific reasoning. A lecturer who pretends that we owe these truths to “modern thought” shows no respect for his audience. On the other hand, if “modern thought” is so poor and barren that it envies the scientific claims of past generations, and stakes its reputation on fiction and plagiarism, what can we say of the wisdom of the modern thinker who affords a ground for arguing that “modern thought” stands convicted of dishonesty as much as of incapacity?

The professor a little later says:

“Though we are quite clear about the constancy of nature at the present time and in the present order of things, it by no means follows necessarily that we are justified in expanding this generalization into the past, and in denying absolutely that there may have been a time when evidence did not follow a first order, when the relations of cause and effect were not fixed and definite, and when external agencies did not intervene in the general course of nature. Cautious men will admit that such a change in the order of nature may have been possible, just as every candid thinker will admit that there may be a world in which two and two do not make four, and in which two straight lines do not enclose a space.”

This sentence shows that we are dealing rather with an empiricist than with a natural philosopher. Why should not the constancy of nature at the present time justify our conviction that nature has been no less constant in the past? Surely, if we proceed only empirically, the facts of the present will teach us nothing certain as to the facts of a remote and unknown past. But it is remarkable that this purely empirical method would leave us equally uncertain as to the facts of the future, though modern scientists assure us that “the future must be similar to the past.” The truth is that no valid induction can be made from mere facts without the aid of a rational principle as the ground of our generalization. If such a principle is certain, our inference is certain; and if the principle is only plausible, our inference will be plausible in the same degree. Now, have we not a certain principle from which the constancy of nature can be demonstrated with no reference to particular time? We have such a principle. We infer the constancy of nature from the constancy of the agencies by which the physical order is ruled. All elementary substances are permanent; their matter and their active power are never impaired; the law of their activity is as fixed and definite as their permanent constitution; and therefore they do not, and they cannot, act at present in a different manner from that in which they have acted from the beginning, or from that in which they will act as long as they last. This is the principle by which we are fully justified in extending the constancy of nature to all antiquity and to all futurity, and in averring that such a constancy is not an accidental result of circumstances, but a necessary consequence of the principle of causality.

But Mr. Huxley seems not to understand this principle. He imagines a time when the relations of cause and effect may not have been fixed and definite, and even conceives the possibility of a world in which two and two do not make four. This is modern thought indeed; for we do not believe that any indication can be found of a similar thought having ever been entertained in past ages. But we would ask: If in a certain world two and two did not make four, how could Mr. Huxley know that they make four in this world? And if the relations of cause and effect had at any given time remained vague and indefinite, how could he account for the fact that they are now definite and fixed? For the relation of cause and effect consists in this: that the impression produced by the cause is the exact equivalent of the exertion made in its production; and he who imagines a time when such a relation was not fixed and definite must assume that an effect can be greater than the exertion in which it originates, or that the exertion can be greater than the impression it produces. But if so, on what ground can the professor affirm that the relation of cause and effect has now become fixed and definite? We see the effect, but we cannot see the exertion; we see the fall of a body, but we cannot see the action of gravity. How, then, can Mr. Huxley ascertain that the action of gravity is neither greater nor less than the momentum impressed on the body? Thus the relation of cause and effect, in his theory, cannot be known; and mechanical science becomes impossible. In the same manner, if, in another world, two and two do not make four, mathematics are an imposition.

The lecturer says also that there may have been a time “when external agencies did not intervene in the general course of nature”; but we believe that this must be a _lapsus linguæ_; for, as he does not admit that external agencies do now intervene in the general course of nature, to say that the case may have been exactly the same in all remote times is not to adduce a reason of the supposed disturbance of the relations of cause and effect, of which he is speaking, nor would it serve to limit, as he wishes, our “generalization.” The context, therefore, shows that what the lecturer intended to say was that there may have been a time when external agencies _did_ intervene in the general course of nature. In fact, however, he said the contrary. Perhaps the professor, considering that he was speaking to an American audience with whose religious opinions he was little acquainted, thought it wise to give such a turn to his phrases as to avoid all profession of belief or disbelief in the existence of a Creator. But, however this may be, the idea that God’s intervention in the course of nature would disturb the relation of cause and effect is quite preposterous; for if God intervenes, his action carries with itself its proportionate effect, while the actions of other causes maintain their natural relations to their ordinary effects. When a man raises a stone from the ground, does he disturb the relation of cause and effect? or does he abolish gravitation? Certainly not. Gravity continues to urge down the body, while it is raised; but the effect corresponds to the combined actions of the two distinct causes. Now, the same must be said of God’s intervention with natural causes. The effect will always correspond to the combined causalities; and therefore the relation of the effect to its adequate cause remains undisturbed.

To assume, as the lecturer does, that at the present time God has ceased to intervene in the course of nature, is to assume something for which there is not the least warrant. God’s intervention in the course of nature is continuous; for without it nature can neither act nor exist for a single moment, as every one knows who is not absolutely ignorant of philosophy. But this is not all. God, seeing that men try to blind themselves to the fact of his intervention in the ordinary course of nature, gives us in his mercy not unfrequent proofs of his intervention by works so far above nature that no effort of scientific infidels can evade their testimony. These works are _miracles_. “Modern thought” denies miracles, as irreconcilable with the “constancy of nature”; but the history of the church is full of well-authenticated miracles, and there are to-day living in different countries thousands of unexceptionable witnesses who can testify that miracles are, even now, an almost daily occurrence among the Christian people. We, too, admit “the constancy of nature,” but we are not so dull as to interpret this constancy as modern thought strives to interpret it. It is the _laws_ of nature that are constant, not the _course_ of nature; the former alone are connected with the essence of things and are immutable; the latter depends on accidental conditions, and can be interfered with not only by God, but even by man, as daily experience shows. Hence the intervention of external agencies does not impair the constancy of nature, and the argument of modern thinkers against the possibility of miracles falls to the ground.

Mr. Huxley, after stating that the question with which he has to deal is essentially historical, affirms that “there are only three views――three hypotheses――respecting the past history of nature.” The first hypothesis is that

“The order of nature which now obtains has always obtained; in other words, that the present course of nature, the present order of things, has existed from all eternity. The second hypothesis is that the present state of things, the present order of nature, has had only a limited duration, and that at some period in the past the state of things which we now know――substantially, though not, of course, in all its details, the state of things which we now know――arose and came into existence without any precedent similar condition from which it could have proceeded. The third hypothesis also assumes that the present order of nature has had but a limited duration, but it supposes that the present order of things proceeded by a natural process from an antecedent order, and that from another antecedent order, and so on; and that on this hypothesis the attempt to fix any limit at which we could assign the commencement of this series of changes is given up.”

Of these three hypotheses, the first is discarded by the lecturer as untenable, because “circumstantial evidence absolutely negatives the conception of the eternity of the present condition of things.” In this we agree with him, not only on account of geological evidence, but also, and principally, because the world is mutable, and therefore contingent; which proves that it must have had a beginning. It is remarkable that he denies the eternity of the present condition of things, but does not deny the eternity of matter. Modern thought could not admit of such a denial; because, if matter is not eternal, the admission of a Creator becomes unavoidable.

The second hypothesis the professor calls the “Miltonic” hypothesis, and he proceeds to explain why he calls it so:

“I doubt not that it may have excited some surprise in your minds that I should have spoken of this as Milton’s hypothesis rather than I should choose the terms which are much more familiar to you, such as ‘the doctrine of creation,’ or ‘the Biblical doctrine’ or ‘the doctrine of Moses,’ all of which terms, as applied to the hypothesis to which I have just referred, are certainly much more familiar to you than the title of the Miltonic hypothesis. But I have had what I cannot but think are very weighty reasons for taking the course which I have pursued. For example, I have discarded the title of the hypothesis of creation, because my present business is not with the question as to how nature has originated, as to the causes which have led to her origination, but as to the manner and order of her origination. Our present inquiry is not why the objects which constitute nature came into existence, but when they came into existence, and in what order. This is a strictly historical question, as that about the date at which the Angles and Jutes invaded England. But the other question about creation is a philosophical question, and one which cannot be solved or approached or touched by the historical method.”

Then he gives his reasons why he avoids the title of Biblical hypothesis:

“In the first place, it is not my business to say what the Hebrew text contains, and what it does not; and, in the second place, were I to say that this was the Biblical hypothesis, I should be met by the authority of many eminent scholars, to say nothing of men of science, who, in recent times, have absolutely denied that this doctrine is to be found in Genesis at all. If we are to listen to them, we must believe that what seem so clearly defined as days of creation――as if very great pains had been taken that there should be no mistake――that these are not days at all, but periods that we may make just as long as convenience requires. We are also to understand that it is consistent with that phraseology to believe that plants and animals may have been evolved by natural processes, lasting for millions of years, out of similar rudiments. A person who is not a Hebrew scholar can only stand by and admire the marvelous flexibility of a language which admits of such diverse interpretations.” (At these last words the audience is said to have laughed and applauded.) “In the third place, I have carefully abstained from speaking of this as a Mosaic doctrine, because we are now assured upon the authority of the highest critics, and even of dignitaries of the church, that there is no evidence whatever that Moses ever wrote this chapter or knew anything about it. I don’t say――I give no opinion――it would be an impertinence upon my part to volunteer an opinion on such a subject; but that being the state of opinion among the scholars and the clergy, it is well for us, the laity, who stand outside, to avoid entangling ourselves in such a vexed question.”

Then the lecturer makes a short refutation of Milton’s hypothesis, and concludes his first lecture by promising to give in the following lectures the evidences in favor of the hypothesis of evolution.

It seems to us that the whole of the preceding reasoning is nothing but plausible talk, and that the explanations of the lecturer lack sincerity. First, he pretends that the “doctrine of creation” is a philosophical question, which cannot be solved by the historical method. Why can it not? Creation is no less a historical than a philosophical fact. The book in which we read it is a historical book, more than three thousand years old, whose high authority has been recognized by the wisest men of all past generations, and whose truthfulness has been confirmed by monuments of antiquity and by the study of profane histories. If, then, Prof. Huxley was truly anxious to follow the historical method, why did he not compare the details given in Genesis about the manner and order of the origination of nature with the manner and order suggested by geological discoveries? On the other hand, if the question was to be treated by the historical method, was it wise to appeal to a poet as the best interpreter of history?

As to the philosophical treatment of the doctrine of creation, we are glad to see that the professor has had the good sense of abstaining from it. This forbearance on his part was imperative for many reasons, and especially because, as appears from some expressions of his, he was quite incompetent to judge of the doctrine on its philosophical side. He says that it is not his present business to investigate “the causes which have led to the origination of nature,” nor to inquire “why the objects which constitute nature came into existence”; as if there were any other _why_ besides the will of the Creator, or any other _causes_ besides his omnipotence. But Mr. Huxley seems afraid of a Creator; hence he does not speak of a God, but of “causes” and “external agencies”; nor does he mention creation, but only “origination.” Vain efforts! For, if nature has had an origination, it either originated in something or in nothing: if in nothing, then such an origination is a real creation; if in something, then such an origination was only a modification of something pre-existing contingently (for nothing but the contingent is modifiable), whose existence must again be traced to creation. Had the lecturer honestly followed the historical method, he would have boldly started with those profound words of Genesis: “In the beginning God created heaven and earth,” and he would have found a solution, no less philosophical than historical, of his question.

These remarks go far to show that the professor’s reasons for ignoring the Biblical history (which he, of course, calls the “Biblical _hypothesis_”) are mere pretexts. Surely it was not his business to explain the Hebrew text; but this is no excuse. The only point which had a real importance in connection with the question at issue was whether the so-called _days_ of creation were natural days of twenty-four hours or periods of a much greater length. Now, this point could have been investigated with the Latin or the English text as well as with the Hebrew. Moreover, since “many eminent scholars,” and even “men of science,” as he states, have absolutely denied that the doctrine of the six natural days is found in Genesis at all, was it not plain that the geological epochs, wholly unknown to Milton, could not be considered as contradicting the Biblical record, but might rather coincide with that narrative, and help us to clear up some obscure phrases which we read in it? Prof. Huxley pretends that, if we listen to these eminent scholars and men of science, “we must believe that what seem so clearly defined as days of creation are not days at all, but periods that we may make just as long as convenience requires.” This is, indeed, the conclusion we draw from a full discussion of the subject; but we should like to know on what ground the professor assumes that the Genesis speaks _so clearly_ of natural days. It is the contrary that is _clearly_ implied in the language of the sacred writer; for it is evident that the three days which preceded the creation of the sun could not be natural days of twenty-four hours; and since their length has not been determined by the sacred writer, we are free “to make them just as long as convenience requires.” This reason, which may be strengthened by other expressions in the context, and by many other passages of the Bible where the word _day_ is used indefinitely for long periods of time, led many old interpreters, St. Augustine among others, to deny what Prof. Huxley so confidently asserts about the _clearness_ of the Scriptural testimony in favor of natural days. The professor evidently speaks of a subject which he has never studied, with the mischievous purpose of creating a conflict between science and faith.

What shall we say of his amusing hint at the “marvellous flexibility” of the Biblical language? Though greeted with _applause and laughter_ (by an audience that knew nothing about the Hebrew language), such a hint was a blunder. It is not the flexibility of the language that has ever been appealed to as the ground of different interpretations; it is the extreme conciseness of the narration, and the omission of numerous details, which might have proved interesting to the man of science, but which had nothing to do with the object pursued by the sacred writer. For the aim of the writer was to instruct men, not on science, but on the unity of God and his universal dominion. On the other hand, all languages have numbers of terms which can receive different interpretations; and the very word _day_, which the lecturer takes to mean _so clearly_ twenty-four hours, is used even by us in the sense of an indefinite length of time. We say, for instance, that _to-day_ anti-Christianity is rampant, just as well as that _to-day_ it has rained; and we hope that Professor Huxley will not on this account find fault with the English language, or sneer at its “marvellous flexibility.”

Finally, the professor says that he spoke of the Miltonic theory rather than of the “Mosaic doctrine,” because “we are now assured upon the authority of the highest critics, and even of dignitaries of the church, that there is no evidence whatever that Moses ever wrote this chapter or knew anything about it.” This allegation is not creditable to the judgment of the lecturer.

The Genesis is the undoubted work of Moses, as all ancient and modern scholars, both Jew and Christian, testify. If, however, Professor Huxley, upon the authority of his perverse or ignorant critics and of the rationalistic dignitaries of a false church, believes the contrary, it does not follow that the historical method obliged him to substitute the Miltonic theory for the Biblical history under pain of “entangling himself in a vexed question.” If there was a vexed question, he could discard it with a word. Nothing prevented him from speaking of “_what is styled_ the Mosaic doctrine.” The truth is that the professor labored all along to demolish the Mosaic doctrine under the name of Miltonic hypothesis, thinking, no doubt, that by this artifice he might just say enough to satisfy his friends the free-thinkers, without shocking too violently the public mind. The artifice, however, proved unsuccessful; and if the professor has seen the criticism passed on his lectures by the American press, he must now have acquired the conviction that the Miltonic hypothesis did not deserve the honor of a scientific refutation.

In his second lecture Mr. Huxley begins to deal with the evidences of evolution. He points out that such evidences are of three kinds――viz., _indifferent_, _favorable_, and _demonstrative_. The first two kinds he is prepared to examine at once, whilst the third he keeps in reserve for his last lecture. One might ask what an “indifferent evidence” is likely to mean. For, if any fact has no greater tendency to prove than to disprove a theory, such a fact does not constitute “evidence” on either side. This, of course, is true; but, in the language of the professor, “indifferent evidence” designates those facts which are brought against his theory, and which he believes to admit of a satisfactory explanation without abandoning the theory. Thus he relates how

“Cuvier endeavored to ascertain by a very just and proper method what foundation there was for the belief in a gradual and progressive change of animals, by comparing the skeletons of all accessible parts of these animals (old Egyptian remains)――such as crocodiles, birds, dogs, cats, and the like――with those which are now found in Egypt; and he came to the conclusion――a conclusion which has been verified by all subsequent research――that no appreciable change has taken place in the animals which inhabited Egypt, and he drew thence the conclusion, _and a hasty one_, that the evidence of such fact was altogether against the doctrine of evolution.”

Again, the professor states that the animal remains deposited in the beds of stone lining the Niagara “belong to exactly the same forms as now inhabit the still waters of Lake Erie”; and these remains, according to his calculation, are more than thirty thousand years old. Again:

“When we examine the rocks of the cretaceous epoch itself, we find the remains of some animals which the closest scrutiny cannot show to be in any respect different from those which live at the present time.” “More than that: At the very bottom of the Silurian series, in what is by some authorities termed the Cambrian formation, where all signs appear to be dying out, even there, among the few and scanty animal remains which exist, we find species of molluscous animals which are so closely allied to existing forms that at one time they were grouped under the same generic name.… Facts of this kind are undoubtedly fatal to any form of evolution which necessitates the supposition that there is an intrinsic necessity on the part of animal forms which once come into existence to undergo modifications; and they are still more distinctly opposed to any view which should lead to the belief that the modification in different types of animal or vegetable life goes on equally and evenly. The facts, as I have placed them before you, would obviously contradict directly any such form of the hypothesis of evolution as laid down in these two postulates.”

Here, then, we have facts which “contradict directly” any form of _necessary_ evolution. Now let us see how the professor strives to turn them into _indifferent evidences_ of _spontaneous_ evolution. He says:

“Now, the service that has been rendered by Mr. Darwin to the doctrine of evolution in general is this: that he has shown that there are two great factors in the process of evolution, and one of them is the tendency to vary, the existence of which may be proved by observation in all living forms; the other is the influence of surrounding conditions upon what I may call the parent form and the variations which are thus evolved from it. The cause of that production of variations is a matter not at all properly understood at present. Whether it depends upon some intricate machinery――if I may use the phrase――of the animal form itself, or whether it arises through the influence of conditions upon that form, is not certain, and the question may for the present be left open. But the important point is the tendency to the production of variations. Then whether those variations shall survive and supplant the parent, or whether the parent form shall survive and supplant the variations, is a matter which depends entirely on surrounding conditions.”

From this theory the lecturer concludes that the facts above mentioned as contradicting the doctrine of evolution are “no objection at all,” but belong to that class of evidence which he has called indifferent. “That is to say,” as he explains, “they may be no direct support to the doctrine of evolution but they are perfectly capable of being interpreted in consistency with it.” This is to tell us that Darwin, in order to evade the testimony of numerous facts which contradict evolution, had to resort to a very bold but gratuitous assumption. In fact, on what ground can he pretend that all living forms have a tendency to vary from one species to another, and that such a tendency may be proved by observation, when we have so many facts which prove that such a tendency has not shown itself for thousands and tens of thousands of years? As yet, no case of evolution from one species to another has been ascertained; and it surely requires a peculiar evolution of logic to affirm, in the presence of such a known fact, that the tendency to vary may be proved by observation. That there may be varieties within the range of one and the same species is a well-known truth; this is what observation has abundantly proved. But Mr. Darwin pretends that the tendency to vary is not confined within the range of the species, but extends from one species to another, so as to produce not only individual and accidental modifications, but also essential changes and differentiations; and this is what observation has hitherto been unable to prove. Thus the professor’s appeal to the Darwinian hypothesis is quite illogical, as it is nothing but a begging of the question.

It is singular that Professor Huxley himself, after telling us that the tendency to vary is proved by observation, immediately refutes his own assertion by showing that the whole theory of evolution rests on no actual observation, but on the mere hope of some possible observations which the future may keep in reserve for its triumph. Here is what he says:

“The great group of _lizards_, which abound so much at the present day, extends through the whole series of formations as far back as what is called the Permian epoch, which is represented by the strata lying just above the coal. These Permian lizards differ astonishingly little――in some respects――from the lizards which exist at the present day. Comparing the amount of difference between these Permian lizards and the lizards of the present day with the prodigious lapse of time between the Permian epoch and the present age, it maybe said that there has been no appreciable change. But the moment you carry the researches further back in time you find no trace whatever of lizards, nor any true reptile whatever, in the whole mass of formations beneath the Permian. Now, it is perfectly clear that if our existing palæontological collections, our existing specimens from stratified rock, exhaust the whole series of events which have ever taken place upon the surface of the globe, such a fact as this directly contravenes the whole theory of evolution, because that postulates that the existence of every form must have been preceded by that of some form comparatively little different from it.”

So far, then, as existing specimens of palæontology are concerned, everything “directly contravenes the whole theory of evolution”; that is to say that observation, far from proving the theory, tends to disprove it. The lecturer, however, not dismayed by this crushing evidence, appeals to “the whole series of events” which must have preceded the epoch of the oldest existing specimens; and he invites us to take into consideration “that important fact so well insisted upon by Lyell and Darwin――the imperfection of the geological record.” No doubt the geological record is imperfect; but this imperfection cannot be made the ground of an argument in favor of evolution. To make it such would be like interpreting the silence of a witness for positive information. Prof. Huxley saw this, and, anticipating the objection which was sure to rise in the minds of his hearers, made an effort to evade it by saying: “Those who have not attended to these matters are apt to say to themselves, ‘It is all very well; but when you get into difficulty with your theory of evolution, you appeal to the incompleteness and the imperfection of the geological record’; and I want to make it perfectly clear to you that that imperfection is a vast fact which must be taken into account with all our speculations, or we shall constantly be going wrong.” The reader will notice how bluntly the lecturer ignores the drift of the objection. The objection is: “When you appeal to the remotest epochs, about which geology gives us so very scanty information, you appeal to _the unknown_; and this is a very singular method of answering that series of _known_ facts which directly contravene the theory of evolution.” The answer of the professor is: “You have not attended to these matters. Do you think that the geological record is perfect? I tell you that it is most imperfect and incomplete, and I am going to show that such is the case.” This answer confirms the objection, and shows that the theory of evolution is illogical.

The professor then mentions “the tracks of some gigantic animal which walked on its hind legs,” and remarks that, although untold thousands of such tracks are found upon our shores, yet “up to this present time not a bone, not a fragment, of any one of the great creatures which certainly made these impressions has been found.” And he concludes: “I know of no more striking evidence than this fact affords from which it may be concluded, in the absence of organic remains, that such animals did exist.” Of course they did exist; but their existence is no argument against those innumerable facts which bear positive witness against the theory of evolution. And yet the lecturer ventures to say:

“I believe that having the right understanding of the doctrine of evolution on the one hand, and having a just estimation of the importance of the imperfection of the geological record on the other, would remove all difficulty from the kind of evidence to which I have thus adverted; and this appreciation allows us to believe that all such cases are examples of what I may here call, and have hitherto designated, negative or indifferent evidence――that is to say, they in no way directly advance the theory of evolution, but they are no obstacle in the way of our belief in the doctrine.” That a long series of positive facts establishing the fixity of species during a great many thousand years are no obstacle in the way of our belief in an opposite theory, owing to the mistiness of all older geological records, which allows us to dream of facts contrary to the course of things, ascertained by constant observation, is an idea which “modern thought” may consider brilliant, but which common sense absolutely rejects.

In the remaining part of this second lecture Mr. Huxley deals with the evidence of intermediate forms: “If the doctrine of evolution be true, it follows that animals and plants, however diverse they may be, must have all been connected together by gradational forms, so that from the highest animals, whatever they may be, down to the lowest speck of gelatinous matter in which life can be manifested, there must be a sure and progressive body of evidence――a series of gradations by which you could pass from one end of the series to the other.” Let us remark, by the way, that the phrase “the highest animals, _whatever they may be_,” comprises rational animals――that is, all mankind; which would imply that our rational soul should be traced “to the lowest speck of gelatinous matter” as its first origin. We need not dwell here on this absurdity. The professor confesses that “we have crocodiles, lizards, snakes, turtles, and tortoises, and yet there is nothing――no connecting link――between the crocodile and lizard, or between the lizard and snake, or between the snake and the crocodile, or between any two of these groups. They are separated by absolute breaks.” Such being the case, it would seem that the professor had a sufficient ground for denying the theory of evolution altogether. But, no; whilst confessing that there is “no connecting link,” he pretends that we must show that no connecting link has _ever_ existed. His words are:

“If, then, it could be shown that this state of things was from the beginning――had always existed――it would be fatal to the doctrine of evolution. If the intermediate gradations which the doctrine of evolution postulates must have existed between these groups――if they are not to be found anywhere in the records of the past history of the globe――all that is so much a strong and weighty argument against evolution. While, on the other hand, if such intermediate forms are to be found, that is so much to the good of evolution, although … we must be cautious in assuming such facts as proofs of the theory.”

The wisdom of this last caution is undeniable; but is there not a contradiction in the phrases “there is no connecting link” and “the intermediate forms may be found”?

He then proceeds to show some osteologic relations by which birds and reptiles seem to be connected, but from which, as he concedes, no proof of the theory of evolution can be formed, and he concludes in the following words: “In my next lecture I will take up what I venture to call the _demonstrative evidence_ of evolution.” Let us, then, give up all further examination of the second lecture, and proceed to a short inquiry upon the kind of evidence condensed in the third.

We must say at once that the evidence contained in the whole of this third lecture neither directly nor indirectly demonstrates that one species of animals has been evolved out of another species. Granting that the animal remains described by the professor correspond entirely to his description of them, and waiving all question about the correct interpretation of the same, we shall merely pass in review the logical process by which such remains are made to give testimony to the Darwinian view.

In the exordium Mr. Huxley assumes, as a point already established in his second lecture, that the evidence derived from fossil remains “is perfectly consistent with the doctrine of evolution.” We have seen that this is not true. The professor, entirely forgetful of all the facts which he himself had acknowledged to “directly contravene the whole theory of evolution,” insists on the relations between birds and reptiles and their intermediate forms. “We find,” he says, “in the mesozoic rocks animals which, if ranged in series, would so completely bridge over the interval between the reptile and the bird that it would be very hard to say where the reptile ends and where the bird begins.” And he adds that “evidence so distinctly favorable as this of evolution is far weightier than that upon which men undertake to say that they believe many important propositions; but it is not the highest kind of evidence attained.” If we ask the professor why this evidence is not the highest, he will give us this reason:

“That, as it happens, the intermediate forms to which I have referred do not occur in the exact order in which they ought to occur if they really had formed steps in the progression from the reptile to the bird; that is to say, we find these forms in contemporaneous deposits, whereas the requirements of the demonstrative evidence of evolution demand that we should find the series of gradations between one group of animals and another in such order as they must have followed if they had constituted a succession of stages in time of the development of the form at which they ultimately arrive. That is to say, the complete evidence of the evolution of the bird from the reptile should be of this character, that in some ancient formation reptiles alone should be found, in some later formation birds should first be met with, and in the intermediate formations we should discover in regular succession forms which I pointed out to you, which are intermediate between the reptile and the birds.”

This answer proves not only that the evidence alleged is not the highest kind of evidence in favor of evolution, but also that the evidence conflicts with the hypothesis of evolution in such a manner as to cut the ground from under the feet of the lecturer. For if the intermediate forms between the reptile and the bird are contemporaneous with the reptile and the bird, it follows that the bird has not been evolved from the reptile through those intermediate forms. It is therefore in vain that Mr. Huxley appeals to this evidence as “so distinctly favorable to evolution.”

The body of the lecture consists of an attempt to show, from the osteology of the genus _Equus_, that our modern horse proceeds from the _Orohippus_. The lecturer first describes the characteristics of the horse, using the term “horse” in a general sense as equivalent to the technical term _Equus_, and meaning not only what we now call the horse, but also asses and their modifications――zebras, etc. He invites us to pay a special attention to the foot and the teeth of the horse; and then he reasons as follows:

“If the hypothesis of evolution is true, what ought to happen when we investigate the history of this animal? We know that the mammalian type, as a whole, that mammalian animals are characterized by the possession of a perfectly distinct radius and ulna-two separate and distinct movable bones, We know, further, that mammals in general possess five toes, often unequal, but still as completely developed as the five digits of my hand. We know, further, that the general type of mammals possesses in the leg not only a complete tibia, but a complete fibula. The small bone of the leg is, as a general rule, a perfectly complete, distinct, movable bone. Moreover, in the hind-foot we find in animals in general five distinct toes, just as we do in the fore-foot. Hence it follows that we have a differentiated animal like the horse, which has proceeded by way of evolution or gradual modification from a similar form possessing all the characteristics we find in mammals in general. If that be true, it follows that, if there be anywhere preserved in the series of rocks a complete history of the horse――that is to say, of the various stages through which he has passed――those stages ought gradually to lead us back to some sort of animal which possessed a radius, and an ulna, and distinct complete tibia and fibula, and in which there were five toes upon the fore limb no less than upon the hind limb. Moreover, in the average general mammalian type, the higher mammalian, we find as a constant rule an approximation to the number of forty-four complete teeth, of which six are cutting teeth, two are canine, and the others of which are grinders. In unmodified mammals we find the incisors have no pit, and that the grinding teeth as a rule increase in size from that which lies in front towards those which lie in the middle or at the hinder part of the series. Consequently, if the theory of evolution be correct, if that hypothesis of the origin of living things have a foundation, we ought to find in the series the forms which have preceded the horse, animals in which the mark upon the incisor gradually more and more disappears, animals in which the canine teeth are present in both sexes, and animals in which the teeth gradually lose the complication of their crowns, and have a simpler and shorter crown, while at the same time they gradually increase in size from the anterior end of the series towards the posterior.”

The professor then proceeds to show that all these conditions are fulfilled:

“In the middle and earlier parts of the pliocene epoch, in deposits which belong to that age, and which occur in Germany and in Greece, to some extent in Britain and in France, there we find animals which are like horses in all the essential particulars which I have just described, … but they differ in some important particulars. There is a difference in the structure of the fore and hind limb, … but nevertheless we have here a horse in which the lateral toes, almost abortive in the existing horse, are fully developed.”

This horse is the _Hipparion_.

In the miocene formations “you find equine animals which differ essentially from the modern horse … in the character of their fore and hind limbs, and present important features of difference in the teeth. The forms to which I now refer are what are known to constitute the genus _Anchitherium_. We have here three toes, and the middle toe is smaller in proportion, the lower toes are larger … and in the fore arm you find the ulna, a very distinct bone,” etc., etc.

Lastly, in the oldest part of the eocene formation we find the _Orohippus_, which is the oldest specimen of equine animals:

“Here we have the four toes on the front limb complete, three toes on the hind limb complete, a well-developed ulna, a well-developed fibula, and the teeth of simple pattern. So you are able, thanks to these great researches, to show that, so far as present knowledge extends, the history of the horse type is exactly and precisely that which could have been predicted from a knowledge of the principles of evolution. And the knowledge we now possess justifies us completely in the anticipation that when the still lower eocene deposits and those which belong to the cretaceous epoch have yielded up their remains of equine animals, we shall find first an equine creature with four toes in front and a rudiment of the thumb. Then probably a rudiment of the fifth toe will be gradually supplied, until we come to the five-toed animals, in which most assuredly the whole series took its origin.”

To say plainly what we think of this long argumentation, we believe that it demonstrates nothing but the eminent talkative faculty of the lecturer. It all comes to this: Unmodified mammals have five fingers and five toes, whereas the modern horse has only one. Therefore the modern horse is but a modification of a pre-existing form, and is to be traced to the _hipparion_, the _anchitherium_, the _orohippus_, and other more ancient forms which we have not yet discovered, but which we hope to discover hereafter. Now, this style of reasoning is simply ridiculous.

First, even granting all the premises of the professor, the conclusion that one species is derived from another by evolution would still remain unproved. For who told Prof. Huxley that the animal remains on which he bases his argument belong to different species, and not to different varieties of one and the same species? Surely, a greater or less development of one or two bones cannot be considered a sufficient evidence of specific difference; for we know that even in the same variety there may be a different development; as in the hound, which sometimes possesses a spurious hind toe, and in the mastiff, which occasionally shows the same peculiarity. Hence the professor has no right to assume that the horse, the hipparion, the anchitherium, etc., are animals of different species; and therefore his argument has nothing to do with the evolution of one species from another.

Secondly, to assume without proof that “unmodified mammalia” have five fingers and five toes is to assume without proof the very conclusion which was to be demonstrated; for it is to assume that the modern horse, which has neither five fingers nor five toes, is not an unmodified mammal, but a product evolved by some more ancient form. Now, this is what logicians call _petitio principii_.

Thirdly, what does Prof. Huxley mean by _unmodified_ mammalia? What are they? For, in his theory of evolution, every animal is a _modification_ of a preceding form, and the whole series of living beings contains nothing but _modified_ organisms. To find, therefore, an unmodified mammal, it would be necessary to find the _first_ of all mammals from which all other mammals of the same class have proceeded. This first mammal is still to be discovered, as the professor concedes. How, then, could he know that the unmodified mammal has five fingers and five toes? And if he did not know this, how did he assume it as the very ground of his pretended demonstration?

Fourthly, how does Prof. Huxley know that the horse proceeds from the hipparion, the hipparion from the anchitherium, and the anchitherium from the orohippus? Of this he knows nothing whatever. He has no other ground for his assertion, except the different ages to which those deposits belong: but a difference of age does not prove that the older is the parent of the younger. Alexander the Great existed before Annibal, Annibal before Cæsar, Cæsar before Napoleon. Will our professor infer from this that Napoleon was the lineal descendant of Alexander the Great?

Fifthly, it is not true that “the history corresponds exactly with what one could construct _a priori_ from the principles of evolution.” The principles of the theory of evolution demand that the more complex organisms be considered as evolved from the less complex, and the more developed as evolved from the less developed; for, according to the theory, the further we go back towards the origin of life, the nearer we approach the “protoplasm” or the “gelatinous matter.” It would therefore be more in accordance with the theory of evolution to say that the five-toed animals must have proceeded from animals possessing a simpler and less developed organism, and that the horse is the parent of the hipparion, and of the anchitherium and of the orohippus, which is quite contrary to geological evidence. Hence geological evidence flatly contradicts the principles of evolution. In other terms, if mammalia of different species have been evolved from one another, those animals whose organism is more developed must be more modern. Now, the orohippus has an organism more developed than that of the horse. Therefore the orohippus, by the principles of the theory, is more modern than the existing horse. But geological evidence shows the contrary. Therefore geological evidence directly conflicts with the principles of evolution.

Sixthly, the whole argument of the professor may be condensed in the following syllogism: If the theory of evolution is true, then we must find such and such fossils. But we find such and such fossils. Therefore the theory of evolution is true. By this form of reasoning one would prove anything he likes. Thus, for example, we might say, if Professor Huxley has graduated at Yale College, New Haven, he must know the English language. But he knows the English language. Therefore he has graduated at Yale College, New Haven. The fallacy consists in supposing that such and such fossils could not be found, except in the hypothesis that evolution is true. Hence, to avoid the fallacy, the conditionate proposition should have been inverted――that is, it should have been: If we find such and such fossils in such and such deposits, then the theory of evolution is true. But this proposition could not be assumed without proofs.

But, says the lecturer:

“An inductive hypothesis is said to be demonstrated when the facts are shown to be in entire accordance with it. If that is not scientific proof, there are no inductive conclusions which can be said to be scientific. And the doctrine of evolution at the present time rests upon exactly as secure a foundation as the Copernican theory of the motion of the heavenly bodies. Its basis is precisely of the same character――the coincidence of the observed facts with theoretical requirements. As I mentioned just now, the only way of escape, if it be a way of escape, from the conclusions which I have just indicated, is the supposition that all these different forms have been created separately at separate epochs of time; and I repeat, as I said before, that of such a hypothesis as this there neither is nor can be any scientific evidence; and assuredly, so far as I know, there is none which is supported, or pretends to be supported, by evidence or authority of any other kind.”

These sweeping assertions are all founded on the assumption that the facts have been shown to be in entire accordance with the hypothesis. But we have shown that the facts contradict the hypothesis. It is therefore a scientific necessity to deny the hypothesis. Moreover, scientific hypotheses are not proved by the mere coincidence of the observed facts with theoretical requirements; it is necessary to show, further, that the observed facts cannot be reconciled with a different theory. Hence, even if the professor had shown the agreement of the facts with his hypothesis, he would still have had no right to conclude in favor of his hypothesis on that ground alone; for he would have been obliged to show also that the Mosaic theory does not agree with those facts. What he says about “the only way of escape” is a vain boast, which has no real importance except in as much as it may serve for rhetorical effect. We have no need of seeking a way of escape; for we still follow our own old way, which remains unobstructed. We need not “make the supposition that all different forms have been created at separate epochs of time,” though they may have been so created; nor do we require “scientific evidence” of the truth of creation, for we have sufficient Biblical and philosophical evidence of it; nor do we want evidence of certain distinct or “separate” creations, for we have this evidence in the Book of Genesis. If any one needs “a way of escape,” it is the professor himself, who has ventured to defend a theory equally condemned by the Mosaic history of the origin of things and by the characteristic peculiarities of the geological remains which he has produced. As for us, even if it were proved that the horse, the hipparion, the anchitherium, and the orohippus are animals of different species, nothing would oblige us to admit that these animals have been created “at separate epochs of time”――that is to say, in different Scriptural days; for these days, or epochs, are each sufficiently long to encompass the events to which the geological record bears testimony. On the other hand, were we to assume that such animals have been created at separate epochs of time, we do not see on what ground the professor could refute such a conjecture. He might say, of course, that there is no “scientific evidence” for the supposition; but we might reply that there are many facts which science must accept on other than scientific evidence; and we might even maintain that those fossil remains on which the lecturer has founded his pretended demonstration are themselves a _primâ facie_ evidence in favor of said supposition. But the supposition is not needed, as we have remarked.

The professor concludes his lecture thus: “I shall consider I have done you the greatest service which it was in my power in such a way to do, if I have thus convinced you that this great question which we are discussing is not one to be discussed, dealt with, by rhetorical flourishes or by loose and superficial talk, but that it requires the keenest attention of the trained intellect, and the patience of the most accurate observer.”

These words were applauded by the audience, and we too are glad to applaud. But we may be allowed to doubt if the lecturer, in dealing with the question of evolution, has shown much respect for the maxim which he proclaims. We do not mean, of course, that Professor Huxley’s intellect is untrained, or that his scientific observations are inaccurate, but we think we can safely say that his logic is not as accurate as his scientific observations, and that his trained intellect is apt to relish sham arguments and superficial talk. When a man can gravely express the opinion that “there may be a world where two and two do not make four,” the intellect of that man makes a poor show indeed; nor does it make a better show by assuming that “there may have been a time when the relation of cause and effect was still indefinite.” In like manner, when a man in the discussion of a historical question ignores all historical documents except those which he thinks favorable to his views; when he strives to evade the evidence of certain facts which cannot be reconciled with his theory; or when he brings as a proof of the theory what under examination is found to clash with the principles of the same theory, we must be excused if we cannot admire his logic.

The lecturer’s misfortune is that he is a victim of that proud and absurd system of knowledge which is named “modern thought.” The apostles of this system strive to suppress God. The universe, according to them, is not necessarily the work of an intelligent Being. Give them only a few specks of “gelatinous matter,” and they will tell you that nothing else is required to account for the origin of life, intellect, and reason. If you say that this is impossible, because the effect cannot be more perfect than its causality, they will inform you that the words _cause_ and _effect_, though still tolerated, are becoming obsolete, just as the ideas which they express. If you ask, How did the “gelatinous matter” itself originate? they will let you understand that their science cannot go so far as to attempt a clear answer; because, as Prof. Huxley adroitly puts it, “the attempt to fix any limit at which we should assign the commencement of the series of changes is given up.” This suffices to form a just estimate of the scientific hypotheses concocted by the leaders of “modern thought.” We are apt to boast of our superior knowledge: but it is one of the disasters of our time that the absurd theories of such a perverted science find ready acceptance among educated men.

[152] _Quis est tam vecors, qui ea quæ tanta mente fiunt, casu putet posse fieri?_――Who is so silly as to believe that things so wisely ruled can be the effect of chance?

UP THE NILE.

I.

When Philip’s son, on his way to the temple of Jupiter Ammon in the African desert, selected the abode of the fabulous Proteus for his future city, the gods encouraged their much-loved child with a favorable omen. For whilst Dinocrates, the architect, was marking out the lines upon the ground, the chalk he used was exhausted; whereupon the king, who was present, ordered the flour destined for the workmen’s food to be employed in its stead, thereby enabling him to complete the outline of many of the streets. An infinite number of birds, says Plutarch, of several kinds, rising suddenly like a black cloud out of the river and lake, devoured the flour. Alexander, troubled in mind――as the workmen, no doubt, were both in mind and body, although the historian does not so relate――consulted the augurs. These discreet men, who read the divine Mind in their own fashion, advised him to proceed, by observing that the occurrence was a sign the city he was about to build would enjoy such abundance of all things that it would contribute to the nourishment of many nations. The workmen having swallowed their indignation in place of their food, the work proceeded, and Alexander, before continuing his journey, witnessed the commencement of his flourishing city, B.C. 323. Thus rose up Alexandria, the gate of the Orient. Centuries are as naught in its calendar; nay, thousands of years give but a feeble idea of the length of its civilized existence. Enter the portals of the Alexandria of to-day. What a new world spreads out before you! Is it not all a masquerade? These strange boatmen with their bright-colored robes, their magpie chattering――are they real? Color――color everywhere: the cloudless blue sky above, the green waters beneath, the dark complexions, the red, green, yellow of their garments, the endless confusion of colors in, around, and about. Close the eyes, or they will be dazzled. Struggle now, or see, those fellows will tear you apart and carry you in pieces to the shore, head in one boat, legs in another――happy you if even both legs are in the same boat. Fight hard now to retain your entire individuality. Well done! Now follow this handsome Arab; he is a dragoman and will protect you. Take his olive-green suit and bright red fez for a guide. See how he strikes right and left; and, by Allah! down go a score of boatmen. Are they hurt? No matter; they are only Arabs, and menials at that. He has you in his own boat now――sound, too, nothing wanting; feel, if you are in doubt――yes, head, arms, legs, body, all here; and he stands in the stern and smiles complacently. He will talk to you in any language, unintelligibly perhaps, but then with such grace and dignity; you must pretend to understand him. He will give you any information, from the cost of building the pyramids to the price of donkey-hire; will take you anywhere――to Pompey’s Pillar, Assouan, the Mountains of the Moon. And when you timidly inquire where the mountains are, thinking you might like to make a short visit, he smiles patronizingly, and waves his hand gracefully to the south. Up there!――three thousand miles or more. But what is that to him? You are surprised that he should have creditors, a man of his appearance; but you are relieved, for he pays his debts, and the custom-house officials smile, place their hands on their hearts, and bow your luggage out of the custom-house. You are already beginning to feel proud at being the friend of so great a man. That famous flirt Cleopatra lived here, and toyed with the hearts of men――some of them real men, too; not the Egyptian fops of the day, the Greek society men, or the Roman swells, but such men as Antony, who lost half the world for her at Actium. She it was who amused herself by swallowing pearls, and finally left this world to avoid the honor of adorning the triumph of Octavius. The augurs were right. Alexander’s city did contribute to the nourishment of many nations, physically and intellectually. Its sails whitened every sea, bearing to the capital and provinces of the empire the treasures of Egypt, Arabia, and India. Students flocked to its schools; its great library contained over seven hundred thousand volumes. Even as late as A.D. 641, when Amru captured the city after a siege of fourteen months, in his letter to Omar he tells him that he found there four thousand palaces, as many baths, four hundred places of amusement, and twelve thousand gardens. Amru was inclined to spare the library, being urged to do so by John Philopanus; but Omar sent orders: “If the books contain the same matter as the Koran, they are useless; if not the same, they are worse than useless. Therefore, in either case, they are to be burnt.” Even in their destruction they were made useful; for Abdollatiff says there were so many books that the baths of Alexandria were heated by them for the space of six months. Those mystical enigmas of Western childhood――Cleopatra’s Needles――turn out to be but obelisks after all, and not of the best. They stood originally at Heliopolis, but Tiberius set them up in front of the Cæsarium in honor of himself. Those old emperors were fond of raising monuments to themselves, that future generations might wonder at their exploits, which many times were performed in imagination only. One has fallen, and is a white elephant on the hands of England. The English do not know what to do with it. Mohammed Ali gave it to them, and even offered to transport it free of expense to the shore and put it on any vessel sent to remove it. Possibly he thought it reminded the people too much of Tiberius, and wanted to set up one for his own glorification. No vessel was sent, and here it remains, half covered with _débris_. Pompey’s Pillar is a column of highly-polished red granite ninety-eight feet nine inches in height, twenty-nine feet eight inches in circumference, erected by another of those modest Roman emperors――Diocletian by name――for the same purpose that Tiberius set up the old obelisk. It is a wonder that some of these unpretentious rulers, with their characteristic modesty, did not carry out the idea proposed to Alexander by Dinocrates, and have Mount Athos cut into a statue of themselves, holding in one hand a city of ten thousand inhabitants, and from the other pouring a copious river into the sea. Perhaps they thought this city would be deserted, the inhabitants fearing that natural instinct would cause the hand to close and grab up everything, people and all. What a motley mass of humanity throng its narrow streets――Greeks, Jews, Turks, and people of almost every nation in Europe, but few Copts, the descendants of the old Egyptians. When Cambyses made his trip to Egypt, 524 B.C., he persuaded most of them to leave the Delta and retire to the Thebaid, where their descendants are found to this day. It is hard to understand the Copt. In other parts of the world a man who can trace his pedigree a few centuries back carries that fact in his face, and considers himself, and is considered, above other men. Here we talk in an off-hand, familiar way with Copts living in the same place where their ancestors have lived for six thousand years or more――men who can trace their ancestry through a long roll of illustrious names to the world’s conquerors, the Rameses and Ositarsens; and they were not proud of it――in fact, they did not seem to know anything about it. Perhaps it was such an old, old story that it had been forgotten ages before.

A well-managed railway leads to Cairo. Strange!――a railway in the land where the grandson of Noe settled, where Joseph outwitted the king’s cunning ministers: Mash el Káheral, the victorious city, called Cairo by the Western barbarians, with donkeys and camels, eunuchs and harems, palm-trees and dahabeeáhs, all within sight of the station, and yet to be pushed into an omnibus! O Western civilization! will you never let this picturesque world alone? To travel five thousand miles, thinking all the way of riding on donkeys like Ali Baba, or perched high on a camel like Mohammed, and then be conveyed to the hotel in an omnibus, as though in London or New York! I thought I could detect a frown on the Sphinx’s usually impassible face, as one passed it the other day. You can easily imagine the pyramids holding serious debate as to the advisability of ruining themselves as objects of interest by tumbling over and crushing out these new-fangled contrivances. We are going up the Nile, so we steal a hasty glance at the pyramids, nod to the Sphinx as though we had been on speaking terms for three or four thousand years, visit the citadel at sunset, get bewildered at the strange sights, do and see everything in the orthodox style, and are off. Going up the Nile, I determined to write a book, so voluminous notes were taken――measurements and statistics enough to puzzle the brain of an antiquarian; such meteorological observations, too!――Probabilities would have found it hard to digest them. All travellers do this. Coming down the Nile, I concluded that I would not write a book. Most travellers do this. Before going to the East I had no idea of the vast amount of literature existing touching Egypt, the Egyptians, and the Nile trip. Returning, I was conversant with it. I had seen the people through the richly-tinted glasses of euphonious Curtis, had studied them through the sombre spectacles of erudite Wilkinson and Lane. I had watched them through the soft lens of a woman’s tender mind, and been startled at their wondrous doings under the magnifying-glasses of highly marvellous Prime. I intended telling why I went to the East. Most writers think an apology due their readers for leaving home, or, at least, that they should give their reasons, the difficulties of engaging a dahabeeáh, to report what the reis said, and how our dragoman answered him――all in broken English, of course. But I will simply tell a short story――how certain pale-faced howadjii from the West sailed up to the second cataract of the Nile and back again, and what befell them.

The wind blew from the north, and we started. Now, it is a peculiarity of the Nile trip that the wind always blows from the north before the dahabeeáhs start, although it generally takes four or five pages to tell it, after “everything is on board and all impatient for the start,” and the reader is left in some doubt as to whether the boat is going at all. But as the course is to the south, and these boats cannot tack, the reader may now understand why he is kept so long waiting until “the breeze blows fresh from the north, the great sail drops down like the graceful plumage of some giant bird, and the shores glide past like the land of the poet’s dream.” We commenced the voyage by running aground, and we continued it somewhat in the same way. We did not travel on land; for I said something above about the direction of the wind and its connection with our starting, so that one might infer we were on a boat. But scarce a day passed that we did not run aground at least once, and often three or four times. Finally we became so used to it that, seated in the cabin, we could tell by the shouting what means were being employed to shove the boat off. The invocations were always the same. Would a good Moslem, think you, call upon any but the two sacred names, Allah, Mohammed――the God and the Prophet? But the intonations of the voice told the story. Grunting out these sacred names, starting from the extremity of the toes, struggling and fighting with each nerve and muscle as they came up, told us unmistakably that they were pushing with long poles. Now a fearful colic seizes the crew; they groan and cry, and in the deepest misery implore God and the Prophet to free them from their sufferings; and we are well aware that they are in the water, making pretended strenuous efforts to raise the boat with their backs. A bright, lively chorus tells us that they are setting sail. A dead silence informs us to a moral certainty that they are eating their meals. Let me tell you something about the dahabeeáh; for it is to be our home for many weeks. The _Sitta Mariam_, as we called it, was ninety-seven feet long, sixteen in width, and drew three feet of water. The forward part was reserved for the use of the crew. In the hold they kept food and clothes. On the deck they slept――the more fastidious ones on sheepskins, the others upon the bare boards. In the Orient everything is just the reverse of the Occident. We cover our feet and expose the head while sleeping. They wrap up the head with care, and expose the feet to the sometimes chilly air of the night. A box placed near the bow, six feet high, the same width, and two feet deep, served for a kitchen. Aft of the forecastle were nine state-rooms, and a dining-saloon fifteen feet square. A flight of steps led to the upper deck, which extended to the stern of the boat. Handsome Turkey rugs, divans, and easy-chairs made this a most comfortable lounging place for the howadjii; and, in sooth, when not eating or sleeping, we spent all our time here. Near the stern we had a poultry-yard, several coops filled with turkeys, chickens, and squabs. We always had one or two live sheep with us, carried in the rowboat――called felluka――which floated astern. The foremast was placed near the bow, and from its summit, forty-two feet from the deck, swung the large yard or trinkeet, one hundred and fifteen feet long. From this was suspended the triangular sail called “lateen.” When furled, the rope was so bound around it that, although securely held, yet, by a strong pull directly downwards, it was immediately let loose. In the rear, aft the rudder, we carried a smaller sail of the same description, called a “balakoom.” The boat was of three hundred and eighty ardebs――about forty tons――burden. I have said that we called it the _Sitta Mariam_, or “Lady Mary.” Originally it was named _The Swallow_, and the year before a native artist had been engaged to paint this name upon it. Thinking the word should be written as an Arabic one, he commenced at the wrong end. To add to this, by some mischance he omitted a letter; the result was the name on the side of the boat in large, bold letters, “Wallow.”

A few words concerning the ship’s company. The howadjii were four Americans. The next most important personage is Ahmud Abdallah――_i.e._, servant of God――our dragoman, he of the olive-green suit and red fez. Has any one ever determined the precise etymology of the word dragoman? Often I am constrained to think that it is an abbreviation of the words “dragger-of-man.” On one point I am clear: this will give a more accurate idea of the position of the individual than any other yet suggested. From the time you come in contact with one of this species until you run away from him――for he will never leave you, unless your money should become exhausted――he is continually dragging you around. Do not think the howadji is bullied by his dragoman. On the contrary, the meekness, suavity, and urbanity of that individual are beyond description. He receives his master’s orders in silence and with bowed head, but a keen observer might often detect a sneering smile, showing how little he thinks of obeying them. Ahmud was a handsome Arab, thirty-six years of age and an Oriental Brummel. What a wardrobe of bright-colored trousers and richly-embroidered vests he had! Each afternoon he would squat cross-legged upon his bed, and ponder for an hour or more over the sacred mysteries of the Koran. An hour scarce sufficed to dress, and then he would appear on deck in his suit of bright Algerine cloth, the little jacket relieved by a white vest set off with red or blue, his feet encased in red slippers beautifully contrasting with his stockings of immaculate whiteness, on his head the jaunty fez. When the sweet breezes were wafting us softly up the stream, and a stillness and repose unknown in other lands seemed to pervade all nature, Ahmud, in his gorgeous attire, would appear on the quarter-deck, seat himself in the most complacent manner, light his cigarette, and appear the ideal of self-satisfaction and contentment. We had contracted to pay him a certain sum _per diem_; in return he was to supply boat, sailors, food, and everything requisite for the voyage――as he expressed it: “You pay me so much every day; no put hand in pocket at all.” When reproved, he would become sulky like a spoilt child, and remain in that state for several days, replying as concisely to our questions as politeness would permit, and otherwise having nothing whatsoever to say to us. Ali Abdakadra, his brother-in-law, was a fine-looking young Arab of twenty-three. He was supposed to be the assistant dragoman. My private opinion――of course not communicated to him――is that he was solely interested in supplying those materials with which the highways of another and still warmer clime are thought to be paved. This is not a very lucrative occupation, nor one conducive to man’s advancement in this world; but, notwithstanding our advice, he persisted in it. I do not think there ever issued from the lips of any man so many resolutions of doing so much, so many good intentions; and I am morally certain that so many resolutions and intentions never before were so utterly fruitless. Shortly after we started he came to me full of excitement, and informed me that he was going to write a guide-book for the Nile. “Now,” said he, “there is Ibrahim, our waiter; he has made this trip several times, and yet knows nothing about the temples or tombs――I doubt whether he has even seen them. This is my first trip. I will take notes and write a book. Will you lend me your Murray to assist me?” I consented. The book remained unopen in his room for two months. I then called the loan. He took not a note, but left many, on temples, obelisks, and tombs. When visiting temples, Ali was the first to arrive, and when we came up we were informed by enormous letters, written with a burnt stick, that Ali Abdakadra had visited that temple on the current day. When sent upon an errand he did not wish to perform, he would proceed at a pace which could be easily excelled by a not overfed crab. One of our party, at Ali’s earnest request, spent some time instructing him in taxidermy. He would take back to Cairo any number of birds and sell them; had even counted his profits, and told us how he would expend them. Result: He half-skinned a hawk in the most bungling manner, and then left it hanging up until the offensive odor caused us to order it to be cast overboard. Ibrahim Saleem is our waiter――not a talker, but a worker, a model of neatness and propriety, performing his duties with perfect regularity and order. Reis Mohammed Suleyman, a short, well-built man, is the most laborious of them all. The responsibility of the boat is upon him, and he is fully equal to it. He is a very quiet man, except when angered, and then through his set teeth swears by Allah and the Prophet to wreak the direst vengeance upon the offender. He is pious, however, and prays frequently. When a sheep is to be killed, he is the butcher; and never was sheep more skilfully killed and prepared for the table. Any sewing of sails, clothes, or of anything else that is to be done is brought to him and, squatted cross-legged on the deck, he is transformed into a tailor. In the evenings, when the rest of the sailors amuse themselves with song and dance, Reis Mohammed will sit for hours in perfect silence, holding the line in his hand, and, after thus patiently waiting, will draw up a catfish weighing from twenty to thirty pounds. He is devotedly attached to his merkeb (boat), and woe betide the unfortunate sailor who injures it in the slightest manner! It is customary, when we reach the towns wherein any of the sailors reside, for them to leave the boat for a few hours――or for the night, if we remain so long――and visit their homes. Reis Mohammed lived at Minieh; when we reached it he would not leave, preferring to stay with his boat to the pleasure of seeing his wife or wives. I can see Reis Ahmud, the second captain, before me now, leaning like a statue upon the broad handle of the rudder, the only evidence of life being the thin clouds of smoke issuing from his lips. Hour after hour he would maintain that position, moving only when it was necessary to shift the helm, and then not using his hands, but moving it by the weight of his body resting against it. His eyes were most singular in appearance, and for a long while I was puzzled to account for their strange effect. Coming on the quarter very early one morning, I found him kneeling before a small glass and staining around his eyes with a black substance called kohl. He is the drummer of the crew, and in the evenings, seated with the sailors, he plays the darbooka, or native drum. This instrument is of the same shape and material as those used at the festive gatherings of the Egyptians ere Moses was――nay, even before the wrath of God had showered the deluge of waters upon the iniquitous world. It is made of earthenware in the shape of a hollow cylinder surmounted by a truncated cone; this is covered with sheepskin. It is played with the fingers. Ali Aboo Abdallah, our cook, is to be noticed principally on account of his name, which illustrates the system of nomenclature in vogue among certain Mohammedans. Before he was married his name was Ali something or other. His first boy was named Abdallah, and the father then became Ali Aboo――_i.e._, the father of Abdallah――the son giving the name to the father, to show the world that the latter was the proud possessor of an heir. A seeming bundle of old clothes lying on the deck, but showing, by faint signs of animation at meal-time, that animal life existed within it, represented Ali el Delhamawi, Reis Mohammed’s uncle, the oldest man of the crew. The duty of this animated rag-bag was to hold the tail of the sail during the upward voyage, and to go through the movements of rowing on the home-trip. Next in order come Haleel en Negaddeh, a surly, well-built Arab, appointed by the owner to look after the welfare of the boat; Mahsood el Genawi, a slim, cross-eyed fellow; Ahmud Said el Genawi, a fine specimen of a man, the most powerful and the hardest worker among them all; Hassein Sethawi, a tough, wiry little fellow, the barber of the crew; Ashmawi Ashman, the baby of the party, the best-dressed man, petted by the others, and, as a natural consequence, doing but little work; Gad Abdallah, another servant of the Deity; Ahmud es Soeffle and Hassein es Soeffle, known to us by their most striking non-Arabic peculiarity――silence――and Haleel el Deny, the queer-looking old man who cooks for the crew. Last, but not least, comes Mohammed el Abiad, or Mohammed the White, the blackest man of all. He was the funny man, the court-jester. He was always saying funny things, so we were told, and whenever he opened his lips the others burst out laughing, including sober old Reis Mohammed. He was useful to us by keeping the crew in good-humor. All his physical strength was exhausted in expelling the sallies of wit from his mouth. He had his own ideas concerning manual labor, which, summed up into a maxim, were about as follows: Make it appear to others that you do more work than any one else; do as little as you possibly can. For squatting and doing nothing he was unsurpassed. In grunting, singing, and contorting every lineament of his visage when at work he excelled all the others taken together. Here is a specimen of his funny sayings: On asking him, through Ahmud, why he was called “the white” when he was so black, he said it was because his father was called Mohammed the Green, and he was the blacker of the two. At this the crew laughed immoderately. Oriental wit or humor is doubtless unappreciable by the dull minds of the Western Christian dogs.

Now that you know us all――boat, crew, and howadjii――come, sail with us, see the strange scenes, watch the moving panorama, and witness the daily comedies enacted around us.

We are about to stop under the cliffs of Gebel Aboo Layda, the Arabian chain, which here borders immediately on the river――not a very safe place, either; for Ali requests me to fire some pistol-shots to frighten away the thieves. There is no village near, and we have no guard. When we stop near a village, two or three miserable-looking creatures crouch around a fire on the bank. They are our guard. I feel morally certain that as soon as we leave the quarter-deck the guard goes to sleep. I have come to this determination from a study of these Arabs. Their idea of worldly happiness is eating, smoking, and sleeping; of heavenly bliss, the same, with the beautiful houri added. The next day we reach Manfaloot. It is market-day, and the sailors are going ashore to buy provisions. The strange sights and scenes so confused me that I was not quite sure of being awake. Sometimes it seemed like a play; I was nervous, and hurried for fear the curtain should fall before everything could be seen. How I wished my ears changed into eyes, and a pair set in the back of my head! Now I begin to comprehend the scenes about me. Perhaps this is real life after all. That tall, handsome woman carrying herself so erect, with the jar balanced on her head, is perhaps not doing this for our amusement merely. I can sleep now without laughing. I am becoming part of this strange world. Let us look around Manfaloot while the sailors are laying in our stock of provisions. Here is the shopping street. Nature has kindly spared these people the need of a committee on highways. Each individual has resolved himself into a pavier. No taxes for these streets――two rows of houses built of sun-dried bricks, running parallel, with a space of seventy feet between. Sidewalks and gutters are trodden hard by the passers-by――a cheap, primitive mode of paving; a little dusty at times, ’tis true, but then Allah sends the dust: it can do no great harm, and there is no need of repairs. Look at this house. The owner has visited Mecca. How do we know it? See that railway train painted over the door, with a bright blue engine; two engineers, each three times as tall as the engine, smoke-stack and all; the cars red, green, yellow, running up and down hill at the same time. Six of them are filled with giants painted green――apt color, too, for men who would travel on such a train. It looks like the slate-drawing of a school-boy. Yes; but these are modern Egyptian hieroglyphics. The train tells us that the owner has travelled; and where should a good Moslem go but to Mecca? So the owner is a hadji and wears a green turban. All the children suffer with ophthalmia. This ophthalmia must be something like lumps of sugar; the flies seem to think so, at least. What a crowd is following us! But they are respectful; seem amused at the pale faces and curious garments of the howadjii. How their eyes dilate at the sight of Madam’s gloves! “The Sitta has a white face and black hands. Allah preserve us! she is actually taking off her hands. No, it is the outer skin; and now they are pale like her face. By the Prophet! this is strange.” They crowd around her, touch her hands, then her gloves, timidly and respectfully; no, they cannot understand it. Abiad is going to ask for a sheep; the crew have selected him, for they feel confident we cannot refuse him when he asks in his humorous way. Followed by the grinning crew, he appears before us, and, putting up his hands to the sides of his head to represent long ears, ejaculates, “Ba-a! ba-a!” We were not convulsed with laughter, but the good-hearted “Sitta” promised them a sheep for Christmas-time, which was near at hand.

This fertile country contains about five millions of inhabitants. Above Cairo the valley of the Nile and Egypt are synonymous. For, where neither artificial irrigation nor the magic waters of the Nile give life to the parched soil, the sand of the desert renders the country as utterly unproductive as the bitter waters of the Dead Sea. The river varies in width from three hundred and sixty-five yards at Hagar Silseleh to a mile or more in other parts. The narrow strip of productive soil is in no part more than ten miles in width, save where the quasi-oasis of the Fyoom joins the west bank near Benisoeef. In many places the banks of the river mark the boundaries of the available soil. The cultivation of the land follows the receding waters. The rising of the Nile commences in July, and the greatest height is reached about the end of September, from which time the waters gradually recede. In December we grounded upon a certain sandbank covered with two feet of water. I noted the spot, and when we passed it on our return voyage, about the 6th of March following, the natives were planting melons upon it in a layer of the richest and most productive soil, left there by the receding waters, borne upon their bosom from the far-distant sources of the Blue Nile. From its far-off Abyssinian home the fertilizing Blue Nile flows on to Khartoom, where it meets the White Nile coming from still more distant parts, and from there the single river rushes on in its long, uninterrupted voyage to the sea. Until quite recently the cause of the annual overflow of the Nile was unknown. The priests, the most learned men of ancient Egypt, were unable to give Herodotus any reason for it. Some of the Greeks, wishing, says he, to be distinguished for their wisdom, attempted to account for these inundations in three different ways. But the careful historian, placing no confidence in them, repeats them, as he says, merely to show what they are: The Etesian winds, preventing the Nile from discharging itself into the sea, cause the river to swell. The ocean flowing all around the world, and the Nile flowing from it, produce this effect――an opinion, he observes, showing more ignorance than the former, but more marvellous. The third way of resolving this difficulty is by far the most specious, but most untrue: the Nile flowing from melted snow. For how, he asks in his quaint way, since it runs from a very hot, from Libya through the middle of Ethiopia to a colder region――Egypt――can it flow from snow? And he then goes on, with seeming modesty, to venture his own opinion: “During the winter season the sun being driven from his former course by storms, retires to the upper part of Libya. This, in a few words, comprehends the whole matter; for it is natural that the country which the god is nearest to, and over which he is, should be most in want of water, and that the native river streams (_i.e._, the sources of the Nile) should be dried up. He attracts the water to himself, and, having so attracted it, throws it back upon the higher regions. I do not think, however, that the sun on each occasion discharges the annual supply of water from the Nile, but that some remains about him. When the winter grows mild, the sun returns again to the middle of the heavens, and from that time attracts water equally from all rivers. Up to this time those other rivers, having much rain-water mixed with them, flow with full streams; but when the showers fail them, and they are attracted in summer by the sun, they become weak, and the Nile alone, being destitute of rain, is hard pressed by the sun’s attraction in winter. In summer it is equally attracted with all other waters, but in winter it alone is attracted. Thus I consider the sun is the cause of these things” (Herodotus, _Euterpe_). From that time many able minds have given to the world vain conjectures upon this most interesting subject. The extensive discoveries of modern African explorers have furnished a much clearer idea of the cause of this beneficent overflow than the ingenious theory of Herodotus or the opinions of his wise Grecian friends. During the first few days of the inundation the water has a green tint, which is supposed to be caused by the first rush of the descending torrents, carrying off the stagnant waters from the interior of Darfour. This is thought to be unwholesome, and the natives store up beforehand what water they may need for these few days. A red tint follows this, caused by the surface-washing of red-soiled districts. When the inundation subsides, the water is of a muddy color, pleasant to drink, and quite innocuous. The paintings of the old Egyptians represent these three conditions of the river by waters colored green, red, and blue.

SIX SUNNY MONTHS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE HOUSE OF YORKE,” “GRAPES AND THORNS,” ETC.