CHAPTER VII.

Upon a sultry evening which did follow an exceeding hot day, with no clouds in the sky, and a great store of dust on the road, we entered London, that great fair of the whole world, as some have titled it. When for many years we do think of a place we have not seen, a picture forms itself in the mind as distinct as if the eye had taken cognizance thereof, and a singular curiosity attends the actual vision of what the imagination hath so oft portrayed. On this occasion my eyes were slow servants to my desires, which longed to embrace in the compass of one glance the various objects they craved to behold. Albeit the sky was cloudless above our heads, I feared it would rain in London, by reason of a dark vapor which did hang over it; but Mistress Ward informed me that this appearance was owing to the smoke of sea-coal, of which so great a store is used in the houses that the air is filled with it. "And do those in London always live in that smoke?" I inquired, not greatly contented to think it should be so; but she said Mr. Congleton's house was not in the city, but in a very pleasant suburb outside of it, close unto Holborn Hill and Ely Place, the bishop's palace, in whose garden the roses were so plentiful that in June the air is perfumed with their odor. I troubled her not with further questions at that time, being soon wholly taken up with the new sights which then did meet us at every step. So great a number of gay horsemen, and litters carried by footmen with fine liveries, and coaches drawn by horses richly caparisoned and men running alongside of them, and withal so many carts, that I was constrained to give over the guiding of mine own horse by reason of the confusion which the noise of wheels and men's cries and the rapid motion of so many vehicles did cause in me, who had never rode before in so great a crowd.

At about six o'clock of the afternoon we did reach Ely Place, and passing by the bishop's palace stopped at the gate of Mr. Congleton's house, which doth stand somewhat retired from the high-road, and the first sight of which did greatly content me. It is built of fair and strong stone, not affecting fineness, but honorably representing a firm stateliness, for it was handsome without curiosity, and homely without negligence. At the front of it was a well-arranged ground cunningly set with trees, through which we rode to the foot of the stairs, where we were met by a gentleman dressed in a coat of black satin and a quilted waistcoat, with a white beaver in his hand, whom I guessed to be my good uncle. He shook Mistress Ward by the hand, saluted me on both cheeks, and vowed I was the precise counterpart of my mother, who at my age, he said, was the prettiest Lancashire witch that ever he had looked upon. He seemed to me not so old as I did suppose him to be, lean of body and something low of stature, with a long visage and a little sharp beard upon the chin of a brown color; a countenance not very grave, and, for his age, wanting the authority of gray hairs. He conducted me to mine aunt's chamber, who was seated in an easy-chair near unto the window, with a cat upon her knees and {359} a tambour-frame before her. She oped her arms and kissed me with great affection, and I, sliding down, knelt at her feet and prayed her to be a good mother to me, which was what my father had charged me to do when I should come into her presence. She raised me with her hand and made me sit on a stool beside her, and stroking my face gently, gazed upon it, and said it put her in mind of both of my parents, for that I had my father's brow and eyes, and my mother's mouth and dimpling smiles.

"Mr. Congleton," she cried, "you do hear what this wench saith. I pray you to bear it in mind, and how near in blood she is to me, so that you may show her favor when I am gone, which may be sooner than you think for."

I looked up into her face greatly concerned that she was like so soon to die. Methought she had the semblance of one in good health and a reasonable good color in her cheeks, and I perceived Mr. Congleton did smile as he answered:

"I will show favor to thy pretty niece, good Moll, I promise thee, be thou alive or be thou dead; but if the leeches are to be credited, who do affirm thou hast the best strength and stomach of the twain, thou art more like to bury me than I thee."

Upon which the good lady did sigh deeply and cast up her eyes and lifted up her hands as one grievously injured, and he cried:

"Prithee, sweetheart, take it not amiss, for beshrew me if I be not willing to grant thee to be as diseased as will pleasure thee, so that thou wilt continue to eat and sleep as well as thou dost at the present and so keep thyself from dying."

Upon which she said that she did admire how a man could have so much cruelty as to jest and jeer at her ill-health, but that she would spend no more of her breath upon him; and turning toward me she asked a store of questions anent my father, whom for many years she had not seen, and touching the manner of my mother's death, at the mention of which my tears flowed afresh, which caused her also to weep; and calling for her women she bade one of them bring her some hartshorn, for that sorrow, she said, would occasion the vapors to rise in her head, and the other she sent for to fetch her case of trinkets, for that she would wear the ring her brother had presented her with some years back, in which was a stone which doth cure melancholy. When the case was brought she displayed before my eyes its rich contents, and gifted me with a brooch set with turquoises, the wearing of which, she said, doth often keep persons from falling into divers sorts of peril. Then presently kissing me she said she felt fatigued, and would send for her daughters to take charge of me; who, when they came, embraced me with exceeding great affection, and carried me to what had been their schoolroom and was now Mrs. Ward's chamber, who no longer was their governess, they said, but as a friend abode in the house for to go abroad with them, their mother being of so delicate a constitution that she seldom left her room. Next to this chamber was a closet, wherein Kate said I should lie, and as it is one I inhabited for a long space of time, and the remembrance of which doth connect itself with very many events which, as they did take place, I therein mused on, and prayed or wept, or sometimes laughed over in solitude, I will here set down what it was like when first I saw it.

The bed was in an alcove, closed in the day by fair curtains of taffety; and the walls, which were in wood, had carvings above the door and over the chimney of very dainty workmanship. The floor was strewn with dried neatly-cut rushes, and in the projecting space where the window was, a table was set, and two chairs with backs and seats cunningly furnished with tapestry. In another recess betwixt the alcove and the chimney stood a praying stool and a desk with a cushion for a book to lie on. Ah, me! how often has my head {360} rested on that cushion and my knees on that stool when my heart has been too full to utter other prayers than a "God ha' mercy on me!" which at such times broke as a cry from an overcharged breast. But, oh! what a vain pleasure I did take on that first day in the bravery of this little chamber, which Kate said was to be mine own! With what great contentment I viewed each part of it, and looked out of the window on the beds of flowers which did form a mosaical floor in the garden around the house, in the midst of which was a fair pond whose shaking crystal mirrored the shrubs which grew about it, and a thicket beyond, which did appear to me a place for pleasantness and not unfit to flatter solitariness, albeit so close unto the city. Beyond were the bishop's grounds, and I could smell the scent of roses coming thence as the wind blew. I could have stood there many hours gazing on this new scene, but that my cousins brought me down to sup with them in the garden, which was not fairer in natural ornaments than in artificial inventions. The table was set in a small banqueting-house among certain pleasant trees near to a pretty water-work; and now I had leisure to scan my cousins' faces and compare what I did notice in them with what Mistress Ward had said the first night of our journey.

Kate, the eldest of the three, was in sooth a very fair creature, proportioned without any fault, and by nature endowed with the most delightful colors; but there was a made countenance about her mouth, between simpering and smiling, and somewhat in her bowed-down head which seemed to languish with over-much idleness, and an inviting look in her eyes as if they would over-persuade those she spoke to, which betokened a lack of those nobler powers of the mind which are the highest gifts of womanhood. Polly's face fault-finding wits might scoff at as too little for the rest of the body, her features as not so well proportioned as Kate's, and her skin somewhat browner than doth consist with beauty; but in her eyes there was a cheerfulness as if nature smiled in them, in her mouth so pretty a demureness, and in her countenance such a spark of wit that, if it struck not with admiration, filled with delight. No indifferent soul there was which, if it resisted making her its princess, would not long to have such a playfellow. Muriel, the youngest of these sisters, was deformed in shape, sallow in hue, in speech, as Mistress Ward had said, slow; but withal in her eyes, which were deep-set, there was lacking neither the fire which betokens intelligence, nor the sweetness which commands affection, and somewhat in her plain face which, though it may not be called beauty, had some of its qualities. Methought it savored more of heaven than earth. The ill-shaped body seemed but a case for a soul the fairness of which did shine through the foul lineaments which enclosed it. Albeit her lips opened but seldom that evening, only twice or thrice, and they were common words she uttered and fraught with hesitation, my heart did more incline toward her than to the pretty Kate or the lively Polly.

An hour before we retired to rest, Mr. Congleton came into the garden, and brought with him Mr. Swithin Wells and Mr. Bryan Lacy, two gentlemen who lived also in Holborn; the latter of which, Polly whispered in mine ear, was her sister Kate's suitor. Talk was ministered among them touching the queen's marriage with Monsieur; which, as Mr. Rookwood had said, was broken off; but that day they had heard that M. de la Motte had proposed to her majesty the Due d'Alençon, who would be more complying, he promised, touching religion than his brother. She inquired of the prince's age, and of his height; to the which he did answer, "About your majesty's own height." But her highness would not be so put off, and willed the ambassador to write for the precise measurement of the prince's stature.

"She will never marry," quoth Mr. Wells, "but only amuse the French {361} court and her council with further negotiations touching this new suitor, as heretofore anent the archduke and Monsieur. But I would to God her majesty were well married, and to a Catholic prince; which would do us more good than anything else which can be thought of."

"What news did you hear, sir, of Mr. Felton?" Mistress Ward asked. Upon which their countenances fell; and one of them answered that that gentleman had been racked the day before, but steadily refused, though in the extremity of torture, to name his accomplices; and would give her majesty no title but that of the Pretender; which they said was greatly to be regretted, and what no other Catholic had done. But when his sentence was read to him, for that he was to die on Friday, he drew from his finger a ring, which had diamonds in it, and was worth four hundred pounds, and requested the Earl of Sussex to give it to the queen, in token that he bore her no ill-will or malice, but rather the contrary.

Mr. Wells said he was a gentleman of very great heart and noble disposition, but for his part he would as lief this ring had been sold, and the money bestowed on the poorer sort of prisoners in Newgate, than see it grace her majesty's finger; who would thus play the hangman's part, who inherits the spoils of such as he doth put to death. But the others affirmed it was done in a Christian manner, and so greatly to be commended; and that Mr. Felton, albeit he was somewhat rash in his actions, and by some titled Don Magnifico, by reason of a certain bravery in his style of dress and fashion of speaking, which smacked of Monsieur Traveller, was a right worthy gentleman, and his death a blow to his friends, amongst whom there were some, nevertheless, to be found who did blame him for the act which had brought him into trouble. Mistress Ward cried, that such as fell into trouble, be the cause ever so good, did always find those who would blame them. Mr. Lacy said, one should not cast himself into danger wilfully, but when occasion offered take it with patience. Polly replied, that some were so prudent, occasions never came to them. And then those two fell to disputing, in a merry but withal sharp fashion. As he did pick his words, and used new-fangled terms, and she spoke roundly and to the point, methinks she was the nimblest in this encounter of wit.

Meanwhile Mr. Wells asked Mr. Congleton if he had had news from the north, where much blood was spilt since the rising; and he apprehended that his kinsmen in Richmondshire should suffer under the last orders sent to Sir George Bowes by my Lord Sussex. But Mr. Congleton did minister to him this comfort, that if they were noted wealthy, and had freeholds, it was the queen's special commandment they should not be executed, but two hundred of the commoner sort to lose their lives in each town; which was about one to each five.

"But none of note?" quoth Mr. Wells.

"None which can pay the worth of their heads," Mr. Congleton replied.

"And who, then, doth price them?" asked Kate, in a languishing voice.

"Nay, sister," quoth Polly, "I warrant thee they do price themselves; for he that will not pay well for his head must needs opine he hath a worthless one."

Upon which Mr. Lacy said to Kate, "One hundred angels would not pay for thine, sweet Kate."

"Then she must needs be an archangel, sir," quoth Polly, "if she be of greater worth than one hundred angels."

"Ah, me!" cried Kate, very earnestly, "I would I had but half one hundred gold-pieces to buy me a gown with!"

"Hast thou not gowns enough, wench?" asked her father. "Methought thou wert indifferently well provided in that respect."

"Ah, but I would have, sir, such a {362} velvet suit as I did see some weeks back at the Italian house in Cheapside, where the ladies of the court do buy their vestures. It had a border the daintiest I ever beheld, all powdered with gold and pearls. Ruffiano said it was the rarest suit he had ever made; and he is the Queen of France's tailor, which Sir Nicholas Throgmorton did secretly entice away, by the queen's desire, from that court to her own."

"And what fair nymph owns this rare suit, sweetest Kate?" Mr. Lacy asked. "I'll warrant none so fair that it should become her, or rather that she should become it, more than her who doth covet it."

"I know not if she be fair or foul," quoth Kate, "but she is the Lady Mary Howard, one of the maids of honor of her majesty, and so may wear what pleaseth her."

"By that token of the gold and pearls," cried Mr. Wells, "I doubt not but 'tis the very suit anent which the court have been wagging their tongues for the last week; and if it be so, indeed, Mistress Kate, you have no need to envy the poor lady that doth own it."

Kate protested she had not envied her, and taxed Mr. Wells with unkindness that he did charge her with it; and for all he could say would not be pacified, but kept casting up her eyes, and the tears streaming down her lovely cheeks. Upon which Mr. Lacy cried:

"Sweet one, thou hast indeed no cause to envy her or any one else, howsoever rare or dainty their suits may be; for thy teeth are more beauteous than pearls, and thine hair more bright than the purest gold, and thine eyes more black and soft than the finest velvet, which nature so made that we might bear their wonderful shining, which else had dazzled us:" and so went on till her weeping was stayed, and then Mr. Wells said:

"The lady who owned that rich suit, which I did falsely and feloniously advance Mistress Kate did envy, had not great or long comfort in its possession; for it is very well known at court, and hence bruited in the city, what passed at Richmond last week concerning this rare vesture. It pleased not the queen, who thought it did exceed her own. And one day her majesty did send privately for it, and put it on herself, and came forth into the chamber among the ladies. The kirtle and border was far too short for her majesty's height, and she asked every one how they liked her new fancied suit. At length she asked the owner herself if it was not made too short and ill-becoming; which the poor lady did presently consent to. Upon which her highness cried: 'Why, then, if it become me not as being too short, I am minded it shall never become thee as being too fine, so it fitteth neither well.' This sharp rebuke so abashed the poor lady that she never adorned her herewith any more."

"Ah," cried Mr. Congleton, laughing, "her majesty's bishops do come by reproofs as well as her maids. Have you heard how one Sunday, last April, my Lord of London preached to the queen's majesty, and seemed to touch on the vanity of decking the body too finely. Her grace told the ladies after the sermon, that if the bishop held more discourse on such matters she would fit him for heaven, but he should walk thither without a staff and leave his mantle behind him."

"Nay," quoth Mr. Wells, "but if she makes such as be Catholics taste of the sharpness of the rack, and the edge of the axe, she doth then treat those of her own way of thinking with the edge of her wit and the sharpness of her tongue. 'Tis reported, Mr. Congleton, I know not with what truth, that a near neighbor of yours has been served with a letter, by which a new sheep is let into his pastures."

"What," cried Polly, "is Pecora Campi to roam amidst the roses, and go in and out at his pleasure through the bishop's gate? The 'sweet lids' have then danced away a large slice of the Church's acres. But what, I pray you, sir, did her majesty write?"

"Even this," quoth her father, "I {363} had it from Sir Robert Arundell: 'Proud Prelate! you know what you were before I made you, and what you are now. If you do not immediately comply with my request, I will unfrock you, by God!--ELIZABETH R.'"

"Our good neighbor," saith Polly, "must show a like patience with Job, and cry out touching his bishopric, 'The queen did give it; the queen doth take it away; the will of the queen be done.'"

"He is like to be encroached upon yet further by yon cunning Sir Christopher," Mr. Wells said; "I'll warrant Ely Place will soon be Hatton Garden."

"Well, for a neighbor," answered Polly, "I'd as soon have the queen's lids as her hedge-bishop, and her sheep as her shepherd. 'Tis not all for love of her sweet dancer her majesty doth despoil him. She never, 'tis said, hath forgiven him that he did remonstrate with her for keeping a crucifix and lighted tapers in her own chapel, and that her fool, set on by such as were of the same mind with him, did one day put them out."

In suchlike talk the time was spent; and when the gentlemen had taken leave, we retired to rest; and being greatly tired, I slept heavily, and had many quaint dreams, in which past scenes and present objects were curiously blended with the tales I had read on the journey, and the discourse I had heard that evening. When I awoke in the morning, my thoughts first flew to my father, of whom I had a very passionate desire to receive tidings. When my waiting-woman entered, with a letter in her hand, I foolishly did fancy it came from him, which could scarcely be, so soon after our coming to town; but I quickly discerned, by the rose-colored string which it was bounden with, and then the handwriting, that it was not from him, but from her whom, next to him, I most desired to hear from, to wit, the Countess of Surrey. That sweet lady wrote that she had an exceeding great desire to see me, and would be more beholden to my aunt than she could well express, if she would confer on her so great a benefit as to permit me to spend the day with her at the Charter House, and she would send her coach for to convey me there, which should never have done her so much good pleasure before as in that service. And more to that effect, with many kind and gracious words touching our previous meeting and correspondence.

When I was dressed, I took her ladyship's letter to Mrs. Ward, who was pleased to say she would herself ask permission for me to wait upon that noble lady; but that her ladyship might not be at the charge of sending for me, she would herself, if my aunt gave her license, carry me to the Charter House, for that she was to spend some hours that day with friends in the city, and "it would greatly content her," she added, "to further the expressed wish of the young countess, whose grandmother, Lady Mounteagle, and so many of her kinsfolk, were Catholics, or at the least, good friends to such as were so." My aunt did give leave for me to go, as she mostly did to whatsoever Mrs. Ward proposed, whom she trusted entirely, with a singular great affection, only bidding her to pray that she might not die in her absence, for that she feared some peaches she had eaten the day before had disordered her, and that she had heard of one who had died of the plague some weeks before in the Tower. Mrs. Ward exhorted her to be of good cheer, and to comfort herself both ways, for that the air of Holborn was so good, the plague was not likely to come into it, and that the kernels of peaches being medicinal, would rather prove an antidote to pestilence than an occasion to it; and left her better satisfied, insomuch that she sent for another dish of peaches for to secure the benefit. Before I left, Kate bade me note the fashion of the suit my Lady Surrey did wear, and if she had on her own hair, and if she dyed it, and if she covered her bosom, or wore plaits, and if her stomacher was straight {364} and broad, or formed a long waist, extending downward, and many more points touching her attire, which I cannot now call to mind. As I went through the hall to the steps where Mistress Ward was already standing, Muriel came hurrying toward me, with a faint color coming and going in her sallow cheek, and twice she tried to speak and failed. But when I kissed her she put her lips close to my ear and whispered,

"Sweet little cousin, there be in London prisoners in a very bad plight, in filthy dungeons, because of their religion. The noble young Lady Surrey hath a tender heart toward such if she do but hear of them. Prithee, sweet coz, move her to send them relief in food, money, or clothing."

Then Mistress Ward called to me to hasten, and I ran away, but Muriel stood at the window, and as we passed she kissed her hand, in which was a gold angel, which my father had gifted me with at parting.

"Mrs. Ward," I said, as we went along, "my cousin Muriel is not fair, and yet her face doth commend itself to my fancy more than many fair ones I have seen; it is so kindly."

"I have even from her infancy loved her," she answered, "and thus much I will say of her, that many have been titled saints who had not, methinks, more virtue than I have noticed in Muriel."

"Doth she herself visit the prisoners she spoke of?"

"She and I do visit them and carry them relief when we can by any means prevail with the gaolers from compassion or through bribing of them to admit us. But it is not always convenient to let this be known, not even at home, but I ween, Constance, as thou wilt have me to call thee so, that Muriel saw in thee--for she has a wonderful penetrative spirit--that thou dost know when to speak and when to keep silence."

"And may I go with you to the prisons?" I asked with a hot feeling in my heart, which I had not felt since I had left home.

"Thou art far too young," she answered. "But I will tell thee what thou canst do. Thou mayst work and beg for these good men, and not be ashamed of so doing. None may visit them who have not made up their minds to die, if they should be denounced for their charity."

"But Muriel is young," I answered. "Hath she so resolved?"

"Muriel is young," was the reply; "but she is one in whom wisdom and holiness have forestalled age. For two years that she hath been my companion on such occasions, she has each day prepared for martyrdom by such devout exercises as strengthen the soul at the approach of death."

"And Kate and Polly," I asked, "are they privy to the dangers that you do run, and have they no like ambition?"

"Rather the contrary," she answered; "but neither they nor any one else in the house is fully acquainted with these secret errands save Mr. Congleton, and he did for a long time refuse his daughter license to go with me, until at last, by prayers and tears, she won him over to suffer it. But he will never permit thee to do the like, for that thy father hath intrusted thee to his care for greater safety in these troublesome times."

"Pish!" I cried pettishly, "safety has a dull mean sound in it which I mislike. I would I were mine own mistress."

"Wish no such thing, Constance Sherwood," was her grave answer. "Wilfulness was never nurse to virtue, but rather her foe; nor ever did a rebellious spirit prove the herald of true greatness. And now, mark my words. Almighty God hath given thee a friend far above thee in rank, and I doubt not in merit also, but whose faith, if report saith true, doth run great dangers, and with few to advise her in these evil days in which we live. Peradventure he hath appointed thee a work in a palace as weighty as that of {365} others in a dungeon. Set thyself to it with thy whole heart, and such prayers as draw down blessings from above. There be great need in these times to bear in remembrance what the Lord says, that he will be ashamed in heaven before his angels of such as be ashamed of him on earth. And many there are, I greatly fear, who though they be Catholics, do assist the heretics by their cowardice to suppress the true religion in this land; and I pray to God this may never be our case. Yet I would not have thee to be rash in speech, using harsh words, or needlessly rebuking others, which would not become thy age, or be fitting and modest in one of inferior rank, but only where faith and conscience be in question not to be afraid to speak. And now God bless thee, who should be an Esther in this house, wherein so many true confessors of Christ some years ago surrendered their lives in great misery and torments, rather than yield up their faith."

This she said as we stopped at the gate of the Charter House, where one of the serving-men of the Countess of Surrey was waiting to conduct me to her lodgings, having had orders to that effect. She left me in his charge, and I followed him across the square, and through the cloisters and passages which led to the gallery, where my lady's chamber was situated. My heart fluttered like a frightened caged bird during that walk, for there was a solemnity about the place such as I had not been used to, and which filled me with apprehension lest I should be wanting in due respect where so much state was carried on. But when the door was opened at one end of the gallery, and my sweet lady ran out to meet me with a cry of joy, the silly heart, like a caught bird, nestled in her embrace, and my lips joined themselves to hers in a fond manner, as if not willing to part again, but by fervent kisses supplying the place of words, which were lacking, to express the great mutual joy of that meeting, until at last my lady raised her head, and still holding my hands, cried out as she gazed on my face:

"You are more welcome, sweet one, than my poor words can say. I pray you, doff your hat and mantle, and come and sit by me, for 'tis a weary while since we have met, and those are gone from us who loved us then, and for their sakes we must needs love one another dearly, if our hearts did not of themselves move us unto it, which indeed they do, if I may judge of yours, Mistress Constance, by mine own."

Then we kissed again, and she passed her arm around my neck with so many graceful endearments, in which were blended girlish simplicity and a youthful yet matronly dignity, that I felt that day the love which, methinks, up to that time had had its seat mostly in the fancy, take such root in mine heart, that it never lost its hold on it.

At the first our tongues were somewhat tied by joy and lack of knowledge how to begin to converse on the many subjects whereon both desired to hear the other speak, and the disuse of such intercourse as maketh it easy to discourse on what the heart is full of. Howsoever, Lady Surrey questioned me touching my father, and what had befallen us since my mother's death. I told her that he had left his home, and sent me to London by reason of the present troubles; but without mention of what I did apprehend to be his further intent. And she then said that the concern she was in anent her good father the Duke of Norfolk did cause her to pity those who were also in trouble.

"But his grace," I answered, "is, I hope, in safety at present, and in his own house?"

"In this house, indeed," she did reply, "but a strait prisoner in Sir Henry Neville's custody, and not suffered to see his friends without her majesty's especial permission. He did send for his son and me last evening, having obtained leave for to see us, which he had not done since the day my lord and I were married again, by {366} his order, from the Tower, out of fear lest our first marriage, being made before Phil was quite twelve years old, it should have been annulled by order of the queen, or by some other means. It grieved me much to notice how gray his hair had grown, and that his eyes lacked their wonted fire. When we entered he was sitting in a chair, leaning backward, with his head almost over the back of it, looking at a candle which burnt before him, and a letter in his hand. He smiled when he saw us, and said the greatest comfort he had in the world was that we were now so joined together that nothing could ever part us. You see, Mistress Constance," she said, with a pretty blush and smile, "I now do wear my wedding-ring below the middle joint."

"And do you live alone with my lord now in these grand chambers?" I said, looking round at the walls, which were hung with rare tapestry and fine pictures.

"Bess is with me," she answered, "and so will remain I hope until she is fourteen, when she will be married to my Lord William, my lord's brother. Our Moll is likewise here, and was to have wedded my Lord Thomas when she did grow up; but she is not like to live, the physicians do say."

The sweet lady's eyes filled with tears, but, as if unwilling to entertain me with her griefs, she quickly changed discourse, and spoke of my coming unto London, and inquired if my aunt's house were a pleasant one, and if she was like to prove a good kinswoman to me. I told her how comfortable had been the manner of my reception, and of my cousins' goodness to me; at the which she did express great contentment, and would not be satisfied until I had described each of them in turn, and what good looks or what good qualities they had; which I could the more easily do that the first could be discerned even at first sight, and touching the last, I had warrant from Mrs. Ward's commendations, which had more weight than my own speerings, even if I had been a year and not solely a day in their company. She was vastly taken with what I related to her of Muriel, and that she did visit and relieve poor persons and prisoners, and wished she had liberty to do the like; and with a lovely blush and a modest confusion, as of one who doth not willingly disclose her good deeds, she told me all the time she could spare she did employ in making clothes for such as she could hear of, and also salves and cordials (such as she had learnt to compound from her dear grandmother), and privately sent them by her waiting-maid, who was a young gentlewoman of good family, who had lost her parents, and was most excellently endowed with virtue and piety.

"Come to my closet, Miss Constance," she said, "and I doubt not but we shall find Milicent at work, if so be she has not gone abroad to-day on some such errand of charity." Upon which she led the way through a second chamber, still more richly fitted up than the first, into a smaller one, wherein, when she opened the door, I saw a pretty living picture of two girls at a table, busily engaged with a store of bottles and herbs and ointments, which were strewn upon it in great abundance. One of them was a young maid, who was measuring drops into a phial, with a look so attentive upon it as if that little bottle had been the circle of her thoughts. She was very fair and slim, and had a delicate appearance, which minded me of a snow-drop; and indeed, by what my lady said, she was a floweret which had blossomed amidst the frosts and cold winds of adversity. By her side was the most gleesome wench, of not more than eight years, I ever did set eyes on; of a fatness that at her age was comely, and a face so full of waggery and saucy mirth, that but to look upon it drove away melancholy. She was compounding in a cup a store of various liquids, which she said did cure shrewishness, and said she would pour some into her nurse's night-draught, to mend her of that disorder.

{367}

"Ah, Nan," she cried, as we entered, "I'll help thee to a taste of this rare medicine, for methinks thou art somewhat shrewish also and not so conformable to thy husband's will, my lady, as a good wife should be. By that same token that my lord willed to take me behind him on his horse a gay ride round the square, and, forsooth, because I had not learnt my lesson, thou didst shut me up to die of melancholy. Ah, me! My mother had a maid called Barbara--

'Sing willow, willow, willow.'

That is one of Phil's favorite songs. Milicent, methinks I will call thee Barbara, and thou shalt sing with me--

'The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,-- Sing all a green willow; Her hand on her bosom,'--

There, put thy hand in that fashion--

'her head on her knee,'--

Nay, prithee, thou must bend thy head lower--

'Sing willow, willow, willow.'"

"My lady," said the gentlewoman, smiling, "I promise you I dare not take upon me to fulfil my tasks with credit to myself or your ladyship, if Mistress Bess hath the run of this room, and doth prepare cordials after her fashion from your ladyship's stores."

"Ah, Bess!" quoth my lady, shaking her finger at the saucy one; "I'll deliver thee up to Mrs. Fawcett, who will give thee a taste of the place of correction; and Phil is not here to-day to beg thee off. And now, good Milicent, prithee make a bundle of such clothes as we have in hand, and such comforts as be suitable to such as are sick and in prison, for this sweet young lady hath need of them for some who be in that sad plight."

"And, my lady," quoth the gentlewoman, "I would fain learn how to dress wounds when the flesh is galled; for I do sometimes meet with poor men who do suffer in that way, and would relieve them if I could."

"I know," I cried, "of a rare ointment my mother used to make for that sort of hurt; and if my Lady Surrey gives me license, I will remember you, mistress, with the receipt of it."

My lady, with a kindly smile and expressed thanks, assented; and when we left the closet, I greatly commending the young gentlewoman's beauty, she said that beauty in her was the worst half of her merit.

"But, Mistress Constance," she said, when we had returned to the saloon, "I may not send her to such poor men, and above all, priests, who be in prison for their faith, as I hear, to my great sorrow, there be so many at this time, and who suffer great hardships, more than can be easily believed, for she is Protestant, and not through conforming to the times, but so settled in her way of thinking, and earnest therein, having been brought up to it, that she would not so much as open a Catholic book or listen to a word in defence of papists."

"But how, then, doth she serve a Catholic lady?" I asked, with a beating heart; and oh, with what a sad one did hear her answer, for it was as follows:

"Dear Constance, I must needs obey those who have a right to command me, such as his grace my good father and my husband; and they are both very urgent and resolved that by all means I shall conform to the times. So I do go to Protestant service; but I use at home my prayers, as my grandmother did teach me; and Phil says them too, when I can get him to say any."

"Then you do not hear mass," I said, sorrowfully, "or confess your sins to a priest?"

"No," she answered, in a sad manner; "I once asked my Lady Lumley, who is a good Catholic, if she could procure I should see a priest with that intent at Arundel House; but she turned pale as a sheet, and said that to get any one to be reconciled who had {368} once conformed to the Protestant religion, was to run danger of death; and albeit for her own part she would not refuse to die for so good a cause, she dared not bring her father's gray hairs to the block."

As we were holding this discourse--and she so intent in speaking, and I in listening, that we had not heard the door open--Lord Surrey suddenly stood before us. His height made him more than a boy, and his face would not allow him a man; for the rest, he was well-proportioned, and did all things with so notable a grace, that nature had stamped him with the mark of true nobility. He made a slight obeisance to me, and I noticed that his cheek was flushed, and that he grasped the handle of his sword with an anger which took not away the sweetness of his countenance, but gave it an amiable sort of fierceness. Then, as if unable to restrain himself, he burst forth,

"Nan, an order is come for his grace to be forthwith removed to the Tower, and I'll warrant that was the cause he was suffered to see us yesterday. God send it prove not a final parting!"

"Is his grace gone?" cried the countess, starting to her feet, and clasping her hands with a sorrowful gesture.

"He goes even now," answered the earl; and both went to the window, whence they could see the coach in which the duke was for the third time carried from his home to the last lodging he was to have on this earth. Oh, what a sorrowful sight it was for those young eyes which gazed on the sad removal of the sole parent both had left! How her tears did flow silently like a stream from a deep fount, and his with wild bursts of grief, like the gushings of a torrent over rocks! His head fell on her shoulder, and as she threw her arms round him, her tears wetted his hair. Methought then that in the pensive tenderness of her downcast face there was somewhat of motherly as well as of wifely affection. She put her arm in his, and led him from the room; and I remained alone for a short time entertaining myself with sad thoughts anent these two young noble creatures, who at so early an age had become acquainted with so much sorrow, and hoping that the darkness which did beset the morning of their lives might prove but as the clouds which at times deface the sky before a brilliant sunshine doth take possession of it, and dislodge these deceitful harbingers, which do but heighten in the end by contrast the resplendency they did threaten to obscure.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

{369}

From Temple Bar.

FRENCH COCHIN CHINA.

Between India and the Chinese empire lies the peninsula of Indo-China, jutting out far into the Indian Ocean. The south-eastern portion of this peninsula is occupied by the empire of Anam, of which the chief maritime province is known to Europeans as Cochin China, but to the natives as Dang-trong, or the outer kingdom. It is in lower Cochin China that the French have succeeded in recently establishing a military settlement. In extent these new territorial acquisitions of our somewhat ambitious neighbors may be compared to Brittany, though in no other respect can any resemblance be detected. The country is, in fact, a strictly alluvial formation. Not only is it watered by the Dong-nai and Saigon rivers, but it also embraces the delta of the Mekong, at the mouth of which noble stream the Portuguese poet Camoens was ship-wrecked in the year 1556, swimming to the shore with his left hand, while in his right he held above the waters his manuscript copy of the _Lusiad_. It is almost needless to add that a level plain spreads far and wide, except quite in the north, and that fevers and dysentery prevail throughout the greater part of the year. The climate is certainly not a healthy one for Europeans. The rainy season lasts from April to December, during which the inhabitants live in a vapor-bath. The consequence is, that the French soldiers die off with such frightful rapidity that it has been urgently recommended that every regiment should be relieved after two years' service. The authorities, however, have lost no time in improving the sanitary condition of the new settlement. By means of native labor large tracts of marsh-land have been drained, and good roads made in lieu of the shallow tidal canals which previously constituted the sole channels of traffic and mutual intercourse. Formerly every villager owned a small boat, in which he moved about from place to place, taking with him his small merchandise, or conveying home to his family the proceeds of his marketing. The town of Saigon itself is estimated to contain one hundred thousand inhabitants. The houses are exceedingly mean, being constructed either of wood or of palm-leaves fastened together. Though situated seventy miles inland, Ghia-din, as it is called by the natives, is a very flourishing port, and exhibits a very active movement at all seasons of the year. It is frequented by a large number of Chinese vessels, and is now rising into importance as the head of the French possessions in the East. So far back, indeed, as the ninth century Saigon was noted for its muslin manufactures, the fineness of which was such that an entire dress could be drawn through the circumference of a signet-ring. Owing to the comparative absence of noxious insects it is regarded by Europeans as a not altogether unpleasant residence.

The population of the empire of Anam has been estimated at thirty millions; but on this point there are not sufficient data to form a very accurate opinion. But whatever may be their exact number, the inhabitants are derived from three sources. The Anamites proper--that is, the Cochin Chinese and the Tonkinese--are of a Chinese origin; while the people of Camboge are descended from Hindoo ancestors; and those in the interior--such as the Lao, Moi, and others--claim to be the sons of the soil, with Malay blood flowing in their veins. Of the early history of the Anamites few authentic details have reached us, nor {370} are these of a nature to interest the general reader. Although from an early date European missionaries appear to have labored in their self-denying task of converting these disciples of Buddhism to the purer tenets of Christianity, it was not until the latter part of the eighteenth century that their influence was sensibly appreciated. Even then they were indebted to an accident for the increased importance they have since continued to possess. Fleeing from a formidable and partially successful insurrection, the only survivor of the royal family and heir to the throne--afterward the celebrated Ghia-loung--took refuge in the house of Father Pigneau, a French missionary of unblemished life and reputation. That worthy man bravely afforded shelter not only to the fugitive, but also to his wife, his sister, and his son, and even encouraged him to make a strenuous effort to recover his rights. Foiled, however, for a time by the superior forces of the rebels, the prince and his faithful counsellor were compelled to flee for their lives to a small island in the Gulf of Siam. Yielding to the advice of the missionary, Ghia-loung now resolved to despatch an embassy to France, in the hope of obtaining sufficient assistance to place himself on the throne of his ancestors. Accordingly, in the year 1787, Father Pigneau, accompanied by the youthful son of the unfortunate prince, proceeded to Versailles, and actually prevailed upon Louis XVI. to conclude an alliance, offensive and defensive, with his royal client. The terms of this treaty are so far curious that they illustrate the practical and realistic notion of an "idea" which characterized the old French monarchy quite as much as it does the second Napoleonic empire. Convinced of the justice of the Anamite prince's claim to the crown, and moved by a desire to afford him a signal mark of his friendship, as well as of his love of justice, his most Christian majesty agreed to despatch immediately to the coasts of Cochin China a squadron consisting of four frigates, conveying a land force of 1,200 foot-soldiers, 200 artillerymen, and 250 Caffres, thoroughly equipped for service, and supported by an efficient field-battery. In return for--or rather in expectation of receiving--this succor, the king of Cochin China surrendered the absolute ownership and sovereignty of the islands of Hoi-nan and Pulo Condor, together with a half-share in the port of Touron, where the French were authorized to establish whatever works and factories they might deem requisite for their safety and commercial advantage. They were further to enjoy the exclusive privilege of trading with the Cochin Chinese, and of introducing their merchandise free of all charges and imposts. Neither was any trading vessel or ship of war to be permitted to enter any port on the Cochin China coast save only under the French flag. And in the event of his most Christian majesty becoming involved in hostilities with any other power, whether Asiatic or European, his faithful ally undertook to fit out at his own expense both naval and land forces to co-operate with the French troops anywhere in the Indian seas, but not beyond the Moluccas or the Straits of Malacca. In consideration of his services in negotiating this treaty, the ratifications of which were to be exchanged within twelve months at the latest, Father Pigneau was raised to the dignity of Bishop of Adran, and appointed ambassador extraordinary from the court of Versailles to that of Cochin China. The next step was to select a commander for the projected expedition; and on the new prelate's urgent solicitation the king consented, though with marked reluctance, to confer that distinction upon the Count de Conway, at that time governor of the French establishments in India. The selection proved an unfortunate one. Bishop Pigneau had omitted one very important element from his calculation. He had made no allowance for the disturbing influences of an improper {371} connection with a "lovely woman." He may even have been ignorant of M. de Conway's misplaced devotion to Mdme. de Vienne. Be this as it may, on his arrival at Pondicherry he refused to wait upon that all-potent lady, and offered her such slights that she became his avowed and bitter enemy. It was through her, indeed, that the expedition was never organized, and that the king of Cochin China was left to his own resources to bring about his restoration. This he at length accomplished, and in some small degree by the aid of a handful of volunteers whom the Bishop of Adran had induced to accompany him to Saigon. A sincere friendship appears to have existed between the French prelate and the Anamite prince, which terminated only with the death of the former in the last year of the eighteenth century. But though Ghia-loung was fully sensible of the advantages to be derived from maintaining a friendly intercourse with European nations, he was not blind to the inconveniences likely to arise from allowing the subjects of a foreign power to form independent settlements within his dominions. Feeling that his end was at hand, the aged monarch emphatically warned his son not to allow the French to possess a single inch of land in his territories; but at the same time advised him to cultivate amicable relations with that people. His successor obeyed the paternal counsels only in part. He took care, indeed, to prevent the French from settling permanently in his country; but he went very much further, for he actively persecuted the Christian converts, and exerted himself to the utmost to oppose the introduction of western ideas and civilization. In the year 1825 Miñ-mâng--for so was this emperor called--refused even to receive a letter and presents forwarded by Louis XVIII., and expressed his determination to keep aloof from all intercourse with European powers.

As Captain de Bougainville was provided neither with instructions how to act under such circumstances, nor "with a sufficient force to compel the acceptance of what was declined to be taken with a good grace"--we quote from M. Leon de Rosny's _Tableau de Cochinchine_, to which we are indebted for the matter of this article he formed the wise resolution of withdrawing from those inhospitable shores. But before he did so, he succeeded in landing Father Régéreau, a French priest who had devoted himself to the work of making Christians of the Anamites, whether they would or not. No sooner did this unwelcome news reach the ears of the monarch, than it caused an edict to appear enjoining the mandarins to exercise the utmost vigilance in preventing the ingress of the teachers of "the perverse religion of the Europeans," which is described as prejudicial to the rectitude and right-mindedness of mankind. The doctrine of the missionaries was further represented, in a petition said to have been inspired by the emperor himself, as of a nature to corrupt and seduce the common people by abusing their credulity. They employ, it was said, the fear of hell and eternal punishment to terrify the timid; while, to attract individuals of a different temperament, they promise the enjoyment of heavenly bliss as the reward of virtue. By degrees the ill-feeling entertained by the emperor toward the missionaries grew in intensity, until they became the object of his bitter aversion; and as his subordinates, according to custom, were anxious to recommend themselves to favor by their demonstrative zeal, it was not long before "the church of Cochin China was enriched by the crown of numerous martyrs." The first of these martyrs was the Abbe Gagelin, who was strangled on the 17th October, 1833; but then his offence was twofold, for he had not only preached the forbidden doctrines, but, in contravention of the king's commands, had quitted the town of Dong-nai to do so. A very naive letter from a missionary named Jacquard conveyed to the abbe the tidings of his forthcoming martyrdom. "Your sentence," {372} he wrote, "has been irrevocably pronounced. As soon as you have undergone the punishment of the cord, your head will be cut off and sent into the provinces in which you have preached Christianity. Behold you, then, a martyr! How fortunate you are!" To this pious effusion the abbe replied in a similar strain: "The news you announce of my being irrevocably condemned to death penetrates my very heart's core with joy. No; I do not hesitate to avow it, never did any news give me so much pleasure."

In the following year another missionary was tortured to death, not merely as a teacher of the new religion, but because he was found in the company of some rebels who had seized upon a fort. No other martyrdom occurred after this until 1837, in which year the Abbé Cornay was beheaded and quartered, after being imprisoned for three months; and, in 1838, M. Jacquard himself escaped by strangulation from the insults and outrages to which he had been for some time subjected. Nor was it the missionaries alone who shared the fate and emulated the calm heroism of the early apostles. The native neophytes were not a whit less zealous to suffer in their Master's cause, and to bear witness to the truth, in death as in life. The common people eagerly flocked to behold their execution, not indeed to taunt and revile the patient victims, but to secure some relic, however trifling or otherwise disgusting, and to dip their garments in the still-flowing blood. Pagans and Christians alike yielded to this superstition or veneration, while the soldiers on duty drove a lucrative trade in selling to the scrambling crowd fragments of the dress and person of the yet-quivering martyr. Even the executioners are reported to have affirmed that at the moment the head was severed from the body a certain perfume exhaled from the gushing blood, as if anticipating glorification in heaven. M. de Rosny, however, frankly admits that Miñ-mâng was chiefly moved by political considerations to persecute the followers of the new religion, whom he believed to be in league with his worst enemies, especially after the capture of a missionary in one of the rebel forts. His policy, whatever may have been its real springs, was adopted by his son Thieou-tri, one of whose first public acts was to command the governors of provinces to track out the Christians to their most secret asylums. These orders were only too faithfully obeyed. The French missionaries were ferreted out of their lurking-places, thrown into prison, and otherwise ill-treated, throughout this reign, which did not terminate before the end of 1847.

The new monarch, commonly known as Tu-Duk, walked in the footsteps of his father. An edict was issued almost immediately after his accession to the throne, commanding that every European missionary found in Anam should be thrown into the sea with a rope round his neck. And when the mandarins hesitated to execute such sanguinary orders, a second edict appeared enjoining that whosoever concealed in his house a propagator of the Christian faith should be cut in two and thrown into the river. The fiendish work then began in earnest. The sword of the executioner was again called into request, and several most estimable men suffered death on the scaffold. At last even a bishop, Monseigneur Diaz, experienced the fate of his humbler brethren, on the 20th July, 1857; and as this prelate happened to be a Spaniard, his death was avenged by an allied Franco-Spanish expedition, which resulted in the conquest of Lower Cochin China, and the cession of the provinces of Saigon, Bien-hoa, and Myt-ho to the French. Let us now see what manner of men were these Anamites whom the French, failing to convert, were compelled, by their sense of spiritual duty, to conquer and subjugate. M. de Rosny shall continue to be our guide.

The people of Anam Proper are evidently of Mongol extraction. Their complexion is of a dark sallow hue, varying from a dirty white to a yellowish {373} olive color. In stature they are short, but thickset, and remarkably active. Their features are by no means beautiful according to the European idea of beauty. They have short square noses, prominent cheek-bones, thin lips, an small black eyes--the eyeball being rather yellow than white. Their teeth, which are naturally of a pure white, are stained almost black and otherwise disfigured by the excessive use of betel-nut. Their countenances are chiefly marked by the breadth and height of the cheek-bones, and are nearly of the shape of a lozenge. The women are better-looking, and decidedly more graceful, than the men, even in the lower classes, but both sexes are particularly cheerful and vivacious. The upper classes, however, affect the solemn air and grave deportment of the Chinese, and are consequently much less agreeable to strangers than are the less-dignified orders. Corpulence is considered a great beauty--a fat face and a protuberant stomach constituting the ideal of an Adonis. Both men and women wear their hair long, but gathered up at the back of the head in a knot. It is never cut save in early youth, when it is all shaved off with the exception of a small tuft on the top of the crown. A close-cropped head of hair, indeed, is looked upon as a badge of infamy, and is one of the distinguishing marks of a convicted criminal. The beard is allowed to grow naturally, but consists of little more than a few scattered hairs at the end of the chin; the upper lip being as scantily furnished. The nails should be very long, thin, and sharp-pointed, and by the women are usually stained of a red color.

The Anamites dress themselves in silk or cotton according to their means; but whatever the material, the form of their garb is always the same. In addition to wide trousers fastened round the waist by a silken girdle, they wear a robe descending to the knees, and occasionally a shorter one over that; both equally opening on the right side, but closed by five or six buttons. The men's sleeves are very wide, and so long that they descend considerably lower than the ends of the fingers. The women, however, who in other respects dress precisely as do the men, have their sleeves somewhat shorter, in order to display their metal or pearl bracelets. The under-garment is generally made of country cotton, but the upper one, as worn by the higher classes, is invariably of silk or flowered muslin, of Chinese manufacture. Cotton trousers are often dyed brown, but even the laboring population make use of silk as much as possible. For mourning garments cotton alone is employed, white being the funereal color.

Out of doors men and women alike wear varnished straw hats, upward of two feet in diameter, fastened under the chin, and very useful as a protection against sun and rain, though somewhat grotesque in appearance. Within doors the women go bareheaded, not unfrequently allowing their fine black tresses to hang loose down their backs almost to the ground. Ear-rings, bracelets, and rings on their fingers are favorite objects of female vanity; but a modest demeanor is a thing unknown; a bold, dashing manner being most admired by the men. They are certainly not good-looking; but their natural gaiety and liveliness amply compensate for the absence of personal charms.

Old men and persons of distinction alone wear sandals, the people generally preferring to go barefooted. A pair of silken purses, or bags, to carry betel, money, and tobacco, may be seen in the hand, or hanging over the shoulder, of every man and woman not actually employed in hard labor. They are, for the most part, of blue satin, and sometimes richly embroidered. Like their neighbors the Chinese, the Anamites are scrupulous observers of the distinctive insignia of rank, but pay no regard to personal cleanliness. Notwithstanding their frequent ablutions, their clothes, their hair, their fingers and nails, are disgustingly filthy. Even wealthy persons wear dirty cotton dresses within doors, over which {374} they throw their smart silken robes when they go out.

Taste is proverbially a matter beyond dispute; but it would be very hard for any European to agree with an Anamite as to what constituted a delicacy and what an abomination. A Cochin Chinese epicure delights, for instance, in rotten eggs, and is especially fond of them after they have been under a hen for ten or twelve days. From stale fish, again, he extracts his choicest sauce, and feasts greedily upon meat in a state of putrefaction. Vermin of all sorts is highly appreciated. Crocodile's flesh is also greatly prized; though boiled rice and a little fish fresh,--smoked, or salted--are the ordinary food of the poor. Among delicacies may be mentioned silk-worms fried in fat, ants and ants' eggs, bees, insects, swallows'-nests, and a large white worm found in decayed wood; but no dainty is more dearly relished than a still-born calf served up whole in its skin and almost raw. In the way of pastry the women greatly affect _beignets_ made of herbs, sugar, and clay. Among the rich the dishes are placed on low tables a foot or two in height, round which the diners seat themselves on the ground in the attitude of tailors. Forks and spoons are equally unknown, but chop-sticks are used after the Chinese fashion. The dinner usually begins, instead of ending, with fruit and pastry. During the meal nothing liquid is taken, but before sitting down it is customary to take a gulp or two of strong spirits distilled from fermented rice, and after dinner several small cups of tea are drunk by those who can afford to do so. Cold or unadulterated water is thought unwholesome, and is therefore never taken by itself. Betel-nut mixed with quicklime is constantly chewed by both men and women, and of late years the use of opium has partially crept in.

The houses of the Anamites are only one story high, and very low in the roof. They are, in fact, mere halls, the roof of which is usually supported on bamboo pillars, on which are pasted strips of many-colored paper inscribed with Chinese proverbs. The roof slopes rather sharply, and consists of reed or straw. Neither windows nor chimneys are seen. The smoke escapes and the light enters by the door. The walls are made of palm leaves, though rich people often employ wood for that purpose. In either case they are filthily dirty and swarm with insects. At the further end of the house is a raised platform, which serves as a bed for the entire family. The floor is of earth, not unfrequently traversed by channels hollowed out by the rain which descends through the roof. In every household one member remains awake all night, to give the alarm in case of thieves attempting to come in.

It is usual for the men to marry as soon as they have the means to purchase a wife. The price of such an article varies, according to circumstances, from two to ten shillings, though rich people will give as much as twice or three times that sum for anything out of the common run. Polygamy is permitted by the laws; but practically it is a luxury confined to the wealthy, and even with them the first wife reigns supreme over the household. The privilege of divorce is reserved exclusively for the husbands, who can put away a disagreeable partner by breaking in twain a copper coin or a piece of wood, in the presence of a witness. Parents cannot dispose of their daughters in marriage without their free consent. Previous to marriage the Cochin Chinese are perfectly unrestrained; but as chastity is nothing thought of, this is not a matter of much moment. Infanticide is punished as a crime, but not so abortion. Adultery is a capital offense. The guilty woman is trampled to death under the feet of an elephant, while her lover is strangled or beheaded; but these sentences are frequently commuted into exile. Wives are not locked up as in Mohammedan countries, but with that exception they are quite as badly treated, being altogether at the mercy of their husbands. They are, in truth, little better than slaves or {375} beasts of burden. It is they who build the houses, who cultivate the ground, who manufacture the clothes, who prepare the food, who, in short, do everything. They have nine lives, say their ungrateful husbands, and can afford to lose one without being the worse for it. They are described as being less timid than the men, more intelligent, more gay, and quite ready to adapt themselves to the manners and customs of their French rulers. The men, though by no means destitute of strength and courage, are lazy, indolent, and averse to bodily exercise, and chiefly at home in the petty intrigues of an almost retail commerce.

Great importance is attached to the funeral ceremonies. The dead are interred--not burnt, according to the custom of neighboring nations-- and much taste is displayed in their burial-places. There is no more acceptable present than a coffin, and thus it usually happens that one is provided years before it can be turned to a proper account. The deceased is clothed in his choicest apparel, and in his coffin is placed an abundant supply of whatever he is likely to want in the new life upon which he has entered through the portals of death. The obsequies are generally deferred for six months, or for even a whole year, in order to give more time for the necessary preparations. On such occasions friends and relatives flock from afar to the "funeral baked meats;" for a handsome banquet forms an essential part of the otherwise melancholy details. From twenty to thirty bearers convey the corpse to its last abode, amid the deafening discord of drums, cymbals, and tom-toms. The procession moves with slow and measured step, and on the coffin is placed a shell filled with water, which enables the master of the ceremonies to ascertain that the coffin is borne with becoming steadiness. Mourning is worn for twenty-seven months for a father, mother, or husband; but only twelve months for a wife. During this period it is forbidden to be present at any spectacle, to attend any meeting, or to marry. At various intervals after the interment, offerings of eatables are presented to the dead, but which are scrupulously consumed by the offerers themselves. Respect, bordering on reverence, is shown to old age; but then old people are a rarity, few individuals attaining to half a century. Sickness of all kinds is rife, including "the whole cohort of fevers." The want of cleanliness is undoubtedly at the bottom of most of the complaints from which the natives suffer. The system of medicine most in vogue is borrowed from the Chinese. Every well-to-do family maintains its own physician, who physics all its members to their heart's content. Doctors, however, agree no more in Cochin China than in any other region of the globe. There are two schools of medicine--the one employing nothing but stimulants, the other adhering solely to refrigerants, and both citing in favor of their respective systems the most astounding and well-nigh miraculous cures.

The rules of politeness and etiquette are distinctly drawn and rigidly observed. An inferior meeting a superior prostrates himself at full length upon the ground, and repeats the act again and again according to the amount of deference he wishes to exhibit. To address one by the title of great-grand-father is to show the highest possible respect, while grandfather, father, uncle, and elder brother mark the downward gradations from that supreme point. There is, in truth, somewhat too much of veneering visible in all that pertains to the private life and character of the Anamites. Their moral code, based on the precepts of Confucius, is irreproachable, but they seldom pause to regulate their conduct after its wholesome doctrines. Pleasure, indeed, is more thought of than morality, and gambling is a raging passion with all classes. Cock-fighting, and even the combats of red-fishes, fill them with especial delight; and when thoroughly excited they will stake on any chance their wives and children, and even {376} themselves. Music, dancing, and theatrical exhibitions are likewise much to their taste, though the dancers are invariably women hired for the purpose.

The laws and police regulations are for the most part wise and sensible, but are more frequently neglected than observed. Here, as in other Asiatic countries, a gift in the hand perverteth the wisdom of the wise, and thus only the poor and the stingy need suffer for their sins. For most offences the bastinado is inflicted, but for heinous crimes capital punishments are enforced. There is a sufficient variety in the modes of execution. Sometimes the criminal is sentenced to be strangled; at other time's he is decapitated, or trampled to death by an elephant, or even hacked to pieces if his crime has been in any way extraordinary. For minor delinquencies recourse is had to transportation in irons to a distant province, or to hard labor, such as cutting grass for the emperor's elephants.

Society is divided into two classes--the people and the mandarins. Nobility is hereditary, but the son of a mandarin of the first order ranks only with the second until he has done something to merit promotion to his father's rank. In like manner the son of a second-class mandarin belongs to the third rank, and so on to the lowest grade; and there are nine of these--the highest two sitting in the imperial council. But the most exalted honors are open to the most humble. No man is so low born as to despair of becoming one of the pillars of the empire. The competition system prevails here in its full vigor. Everything depends upon the passing certain examinations; but for all that the mandarins are described as oppressors of the poor, evil advisers of the sovereign, addicted to fraud, given up to their appetites, wasting their time in sensual and frivolous pursuits, corrupt and venal in the administration of justice.

The patrimony is distributed equally among all the sons, whether legitimate or otherwise, except that the eldest receives one-tenth of the entire property in addition to his own share; in return for which he is expected to guard the interests of the family, and above all to look after his sisters, who cannot marry without his consent. The daughters have no part in the inheritance save in the absence of male heirs, but in that case they are treated as if they were sons. Through extreme poverty children are often sold as slaves by their parents. An insolvent debtor likewise becomes the bondsman of his creditor; and as the legal rate of interest is thirty per cent., a debt rapidly accumulates.

An Anamite hour is twice the length of a European one, and the night is divided into five watches. A year consists of twelve lunar months; so that every two or three years it becomes necessary to add another month: in nineteen years there are seventeen of these intercalated months. The lapse of time is marked by periods of twelve years, five of which constitute a "grand cycle;" but in historical narratives the dates are calculated from the accession of the reigning monarch. The year begins with the month of February. The decimal system of enumeration is the one adopted by the Cochin Chinese.

The religion of the people is a superstitious Buddhism; that of the lettered classes a dormant belief in the moral teachings of Confucius. Whatever temples there are, are of a mean order, and are served by an ignorant and ill-paid priesthood. The malignant spirits are propitiated by offerings of burnt paper inscribed with prayers, of bundles of sweet-scented wood, and of other articles of trifling value; the good spirits are mostly neglected. Sincere veneration, however, is shown to the manes of deceased ancestors. The priests take a vow of celibacy, to which they occasionally adhere. They abstain entirely from animal food, and affect a yellow or red hue in their apparel. After death their bodies are burned, and not buried as is the case with the laity.

{377}

The inhabitants of Cochin China are naturally industrious, and possess considerable skill as carpenters and upholsterers. They also work in iron with some success, and display no mean taste in their pottery. Their cotton and silk manufactures are, however, coarse and greatly inferior to the Chinese. Their lackered boxes are famous throughout the world, nor are their filigree ornaments unworthy of admiration. But though skilful and intelligent as artisans, and abundantly endowed with the faculty of imitation, they are wretchedly deficient in imagination, and have no idea of invention. This defect is perhaps of less consequence now that they have the benefit of receiving their impulses from the most inventive nation in the world. Without doubt, their material prosperity will be largely augmented by the French domination, nor have they anything to lose in moral and social respects. The conquest of Cochin China may therefore be regarded as an advantage to the people themselves; but how far it is likely to yield any profit to the French is altogether another question, and one which at present we are not called upon to discuss. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.

From The Dublin Review.

CONSALVI'S MEMOIRS.

_Memoires du Cardinal Consalvi, Secrétaire d'État du Pape Pie VII., avec une Introduction et des Notes._ Par J. CRÉTINEAU-JOLY. 2 vols. 8vo. Paris: Plon. 1864.

M. Crétineau-Joly is a Vendéan, and there seems to be in his blood something of that pugnacious and warlike quality which so distinguished his forefathers. Each of his former publications betrays this combative propensity, and the introduction which accompanies Cardinal Consalvi's Memoirs is worthy of its predecessors. M. Crétineau-Joly is well known on the continent by his "History of the Jesuits"--a work containing a considerable amount of valuable information concerning that celebrated and much maligned order; but, at the same time, it may be considered in the light of an Armstrong gun, which batters and reduces to dust the bastions of an enemy. Indeed, it was ushered forth at the very height of the warfare which raged against the Church in France, a few years previous to the downfall of Louis Philippe. In 1858 the same writer produced a brochure bearing the following title, "The Church versus the Revolution," another broadside fired against crowned revolutionists, no less than against the sectarian hordes of a Mazzini and a Garibaldi. Hardly a year had elapsed when the French emperor invaded Lombardy, with what result the whole world is aware. So M. Crétineau-Joly had taken time by the forelock. And now, again, he comes forth with these highly interesting and authentic memoirs, written by the cardinal and prime minister of Pius VII. In every respect they may be proclaimed the most important, if not the most voluminous, of the editor's publications. No one, at the same time, will fail to perceive that between the actual situation of the Holy See and that which marked its history in the eventful years between 1799 and 1811, there underlies a startling similarity. Singularly enough, the second half of the nineteenth {378} century begins with the same picture of violence, the same hypocrisy, the same contempt of right by might, that characterized the dawn of the present age. On the one side, an all-powerful ruler, intoxicated by success, backed by a host of servile demagogues, and hardly less servile, though royal infidels; on the other, a weak old man, backed by a calm, deliberate, truly Christian genius--both wielding no other weapons but faith, hope, and charity--both torn from their home and judgment-seat by the iron hand of revolutionary despotism--and yet both riding triumphant over the seething waves, whilst the grim corpses of their enemies are washed to the shore, or startle the traveller as he comes suddenly upon them in his wanderings through Russian wilds. Ay, there she goes, that tiny ship of Peter's, with a Pius at her helm; now, as in bygone days, with an Antonelli as a commander--much about the same man as a Consalvi.

"Blow fair, thou breeze! She anchors ere the dark. Already doubled is the cape--our bay Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. How gloriously her gallant course she goes! Her white wings flying--never from her foes-- She walks the waters like a thing of life, And seems to dare the elements to strife."

Setting aside metaphors and poetry, these memoirs are certainly one of the most remarkable instances of calm self-possession and confidence in a just cause that are to be met with in any time or country. Here is a man, and prime minister of a captive sovereign, himself a prisoner, who undertakes to write the history of the important events in which he had played a most conspicuous part. He is closely watched, and consequently obliged to write by fits and starts; he is deprived of every source of documentary information, and consequently must trust to his own memory. Will these hasty yet truthful sheets escape his jailer's eye? He cannot tell. Will he ever recover his liberty, be restored to his dear master's bosom and confidence? He cannot tell: but nevertheless the great cardinal--for great he was universally acknowledged--goes on bringing forth certain facts, known to himself alone, and which throw more light on the true character of the first Napoleon than the ponderous and garbled evidence of a Thiers, or even the more trustworthy pages of M. Artaud, in his "Life of Pius VII." Indeed, there are few comparisons of higher interest than to open those two works at the parts which refer to the events narrated in these memoirs. A labor of this kind, first originating in a spirit of fair play, soon becomes a labor of love, so strong is the contrast between the worldly, scheming, truckling, infidel historian of the first empire, and the unassuming and conscientious, though bold and resolute cardinal. One may safely say, that M. Thiers would have never dreamt of bearding the headstrong Bonaparte, as Consalvi did on a memorable occasion, which reminds us of those legates of old, who daunted by their steady looks and unruffled patience the burly violence of a Richard, or unveiled the cunning of a Frederic Hohenstaufen.

At the very outset of these memoirs, the cardinal gives us their true and solemn character. His last will, which accompanies them, and may be considered as a sort of preface, contains the following lines:

"My heir and trustee, as well as those who may hereafter take charge of my inheritance, are bound to bestow the greatest care on my personal writings relative to the conclave held at Venice in 1799 and 1800; to the concordat of 1801; to the marriage of the Emperor Napoleon with the Archduchess Maria Louisa of Austria; and, lastly, to the papers on different periods of my life and ministry. These five papers, some of which are nearly finished, and the others in course of preparation, are not to be published before the death of those eminent personages who are mentioned therein. In this way many disputes may be avoided, for, though utterly unfounded, as my own writings rest on truth alone, still {379} they might injure that very truth, and the interests of the Holy See, to which I am desirous of leaving the means of repelling any false attack published hereafter on these matters. These memoirs on the conclave, the concordat of 1801, the marriage, and the ministry, belonging more especially to the Holy Sec, and to the pontifical government, my heir and trustee shall present them to the reigning pontiff, and beseech the Holy Father to preserve them carefully within the archives of the Vatican. They may be of use to the Holy See on many occasions, but more particularly if any future history be published of the events which form the object of the present writings, or if it should become necessary to refute any false statement. In regard to the memoirs concerning the different periods of my own life, as the extinction of my family will leave behind me no one directly interested in the following pages, they are to remain in the hands of my heir and trustee, or in those of the successive administrators of my fortune; or, again, they may be likewise handed over to the archives of the Vatican, if they be deemed worthy of preservation. My only desire is, that in case of the biography of the cardinals being continued, my heir and executors shall cause these memoirs to be known, so that nothing may be published contrary to truth about myself; for I am ambitious of maintaining immaculate my own reputation--a wish grounded on the prescriptions of Scripture. As for the truth of the facts brought forward in my writings, I may make bold to say, _Deus scit quia non mentior._"

Cardinal Consalvi was born at Rome, of a noble family, in 1757, and was the eldest of five children, two of whom died at an early age. His father bore the title of marquess, and his mother, the Marchioness Claudia Carandini, was of Modenese origin.

The family itself, on the father's side, had sprung up in Tuscany at Pisa, though not under the same name; but emigrated about a century and a half ago to the Roman States, where it expanded, and gradually grew into political, or rather ecclesiastical importance. Consalvi's forefathers still, however, held in Tuscany some property, to which he would have been entitled had he felt disposed to dispute the equity of certain Leopoldine laws concerning trustees. But, with characteristic disinterestedness the future cardinal never gave the matter a second thought.

"I never felt (says he) a passion for riches; beside, my resources, though far from opulent, were sufficient for a modest way of living, thanks to the income arising out of the different offices which I held successively. And thus being lifted, by Divine Providence, above vanity and ambition, I never was tempted to prove that I was descended from the Brunaccis and not from the Consalvis, whenever envy or ignorance represented me as belonging to a stock unblessed with old nobility. It would have been an easy matter to dispel these imputations or errors. Being fully convinced that the best nobility springs from the heart and from good deeds; knowing, likewise, that I was a genuine Brunacci and not a Consalvi, I despised all such rumors. . . . Nor did I alter my views when the high position which I afterward attained afforded so many opportunities for putting an end to those idle reports."

In the above passage we have already the whole man. During his long and chequered life he never once exposed himself to the charge of making his own fortune out of the numerous and even honorable occasions which would have tempted a less exalted soul. It would be useless to follow the young Consalvi through his course of studies, which were brilliant, and partly gone through under the eye of Cardinal York, the last of a fated race, who entertained for the future minister an affectionate friendship that never cooled until his death.

Hercules Consalvi had hardly finished his academical curriculum at {380} Rome when he was called to the prelature, in 1783, as reporter to the tribunal of the Curia. His talents and deep knowledge, though so young, in canon and civil law, soon made him conspicuous among his competitors. In 1786, the Pope Pius VI. appointed him _Ponente del buono govemo_, a board, or congregation, charged with giving its opinion on all municipal questions. This promotion was due to his merit, but the cardinal himself confesses that it was a tardy one, not on account of any neglect on the part of the pontifical government, but merely because he did not avail himself of favorable opportunities. "On the one hand," observes he, "my own disposition never inclined to ask for favor, and still less to court the patronage of those placed in high positions; whilst, on the other hand, I had before my eyes, in such respects, the fine example of my own guardian, the Cardinal Negroni. . . . He was wont to say, 'We never ought to ask for anything; we must never flatter to obtain preferment; but manage in such a way as to overcome every obstacle, through a most punctual fulfilment of our duties, and the enjoyment of a sound reputation.' To this piece of advice I strictly adhered through life." To those who are so prone to malign the pomp and splendor of the Roman prelature, it will be a matter of surprise to learn that at this very time the only benefice conferred upon Consalvi amounted to the paltry stipend of £12 a year.

The Pope, however, who seems to have been an excellent judge of true merit, soon placed the young prelate at the head of the hospital of San Michele, the largest and most important in Rome. The establishment required a thorough reform; and Consalvi soon worked wonders, being led on by his own innate ardor, and by a strong predilection for the management of charitable institutions. But he had hardly realized his intended labor of reformation, when he was superseded by another prelate. Pius VI., in fact, did not wish Consalvi to wear out his energies in the routine of administrative bureaucracy. The incident which led to his promotion is so truly characteristic of both personages, that we cannot refrain from a copious quotation:

"The sudden death of one of the _votanti di segnatura_, or Supreme Court of Cassation, made a vacancy in that court. All my friends engaged me not to lose a moment in applying for it. I did not yield to their entreaties, nor, indeed, did the Pope allow me time for that purpose. The above death had taken place on Maunday Thursday. The very next morning, though it was Good Friday, and the sacred services of the day were about to be solemnized; though all the public offices were closed, according to custom, the Pope sent to the Secretary of State an order to forward my immediate appointment as _votanti di segnatura_. As soon as it arrived, I hastened to the Pope to thank him. His Holiness was not in the habit of receiving any one merely for the sake of hearing expressions of gratitude; still less did I expect to be introduced on such a day, when the Pope, after attending at the holy function, had retired to his apartments, with a view of coming back for _Tenebra_, and was in the very act of reciting Complin, which was to be followed by his dinner.

"On learning that I was in the antechamber, where he had previously given orders that I should not be sent away in case I should come, he admitted me at once. After finishing Complin in my presence, he addressed me so kindly that I shall remember his words as long as I live. 'My dear Monsignor,' said he, 'you are well aware that we receive no one merely to hear thanksgivings; and yet we have gone against our usual custom, notwithstanding this busy day, and though our dinner has just been served up, in order that we may have the pleasure of making you the present communication. If you were not included in the last promotion, it was {381} because we were obliged to hand over to another the post really destined to yourself; and in doing so we felt as much aggrieved as we are now delighted to offer you immediately the vacant charge of _votanti di segnatura_. We do it to show you the satisfaction which you afford us by your conduct, We took you away from an administrative station merely to place you on higher ground.'

"The Holy Father then added a few words concerning the opinion which his kindness, and by no means my own merit, suggested to him relatively to my future career. Indeed, the knowledge which I have of myself would not allow me to transcribe those words. He then continued as follows: 'What we now bestow upon you is really not worth much, but I have nothing else for the present. Take it, however, as a positive pledge of what I am disposed to do as soon as an opportunity offers.'

"It is easy to understand that after such a speech, uttered in that easy, affable, and yet majestic manner so peculiar to Pius VI., I was at a loss for expressions to answer him. I could hardly stammer out, that after the language he had just used about my promotion--language showing that I had not incurred his disapproval by my conduct at San Michele--my mind was quite at ease as to the future. Indeed, I had no other ambition but to please him, and to fulfil my duty in any station he might think fit to confer upon me.

"Here I was interrupted. 'I am satisfied--nay, highly satisfied'--said the Pope, 'by your behavior at San Michele; but I again say that I destine you to other purposes. What I promised formerly was sincere, but still it was but empty words. This is something matter of fact; not much, indeed, but yet better than words. So don't refuse it; and now be off, for, you see, our dinner is getting cold, and we must soon go back to chapel.'"

It would be doubtless congenial to our feelings to dwell upon these touching details; but we are already in the year 1790, and the knell of the old French monarchy is tolling. Let us plunge, therefore, at once _in medias res_, and skip over the eight intervening years between the time which saw Rome invaded by a revolutionary army, the Pope torn from his throne, and led a prisoner, first to Florence, then to Valence, where he was to die a martyr. On reading this part of the memoirs, one is particularly struck with the similarity which it presents with the history of Piedmontese invasion--the same hypocrisy, the same attempts at provoking to insurrection the inhabitants at Rome, and, these failing, the same recourse to violence. The accidental death of General Duphot at last appears in its true colors, but of course it supplied the Directory with a pretence for seizing the Papal States, an act of spoliation it had been long preparing. [Footnote 77] Thanks to the energy of Consalvi, to whom had been entrusted the maintenance of public order, previous to the entry of the French troops into the capital, no insurrection took place; but for that very reason he was obnoxious to the government of the invaders. After the Pope's departure he was thrown into prison, with the prospect of being transported, together with many Roman ecclesiastical and pontifical officers, to the fatal colony of Cayenne. {382} To the honor of the French commander it must be said, that he did all in his power to defend the energetic prelate against his contemptible enemies, and to alleviate his captivity. The Paris Directory had first banished him to Civita Vecchia, and then altered his destination to Naples. But the Roman demagogues were determined upon wreaking their vengeance on Consalvi:

[Footnote 77: As a proof of this, we may produce the secret instructions forwarded, two months and a half before the general's death and the Roman insurrection, by the French government to Joseph Bonaparte, their plenipotentiary at Rome: "You have two things to bear in mind: (1) To prevent the King of Naples from coming to Rome; (2) To help, instead of opposing, the favorable dispositions of those who believe that it is time for the Papal dominion to come to an end. In short, you must encourage the impulse toward freedom by which the people of Rome seems to be animated." Instructions like these (observes, very justly, M. Crétineau-Joly) could have no other object but to lay a diplomatical snare, or to provoke an insurrection. The fact is so clear that Cacault, who succeeded to Joseph Bonaparte at Rome, wrote in 1801 to the First Consul--"You know, quite as well as I do, the details of this melancholy event. Nobody in Rome ordered either to fire or to kill any one. General Duphot was imprudent; nay, more--let us out with the word--he was guilty. There is a law of nations at Rome not a whit less than elsewhere." The admission does credit to the honest man who contributed so largely to bring about the concordat of 1801.]

"I had been detained (says he) about four or five and twenty days, when I was visited in my prison by my dear brother Andrea, as well as by my two friends, the Princes Chigi and Teano. This piece of good fortune I owed to the kind commander of the fortress. They informed me that they were bearers of both good and bad news. I was at last to be transported, not, indeed, to Tuscany, but to Naples, so that I might not join the Pope. At the same time, it had been ordained that I was to ride through the streets of the city mounted on an ass, escorted by policemen, and lashed all along with a horsewhip. Many a window under which I was to pass by was already hired; and our Jacobins, as well as the wives of our consuls, promised themselves much pleasure at the sight of this execution. My friends were quite amazed at my indifference on receiving this last piece of news, which, indeed, caused me but little pain; for I really considered it rather as a source of triumph and glory. On the contrary, I was deeply vexed at not being able to proceed to Tuscany, where I was so desirous of meeting the Pope."

The humanity of the French general prevented the Roman demagogues from carrying into execution the latter part of the sentence; but he remained inflexible as to Consalvi's removal to Naples. The latter had, therefore, but to obey; and started for his destination, in company with a band of eighteen convicts, and several political prisoners like himself. After many difficulties, arising out of Acton's tortuous policy, he succeeded at length in reaching Leghorn, where he had to encounter obstacles of a different nature. His very first step was to proceed to Florence, in hopes that the Duke of Tuscany would facilitate his access to the captive Pontiff, who was detained in a neighboring Carthusian monastery. But the jealous watchfulness of the French plenipotentiary struck terror into the heart of the Tuscan minister, who peremptorily refused to have anything to do with the matter. Consalvi was not, however, to be daunted when on the path of duty; he consequently set out on foot for the Chartreuse, situated at about three miles from Florence, and contrived his visit so secretly that he baffled detection. On approaching the foot of the hill, the faithful servant could hardly repress his emotions. But let us hear him in his own words:

"Every step which brought me nearer to the Holy Father increased the strong feelings that welled up from my soul. The poverty and solitude of the place, the sight of the two or three unfortunates who attended him, brought tears to my eyes. At last I was introduced into his presence. O God! what were my emotions at that moment; my heart throbbed almost to breaking!

"Pius VI. was seated before a table, a posture which concealed his weakness, for he had almost lost the use of his legs, and he could not move without the help of two strong men. The beauty and majesty of his features were still the same as at Rome; he still inspired a deep veneration and a most ardent attachment. I fell prostrate at his feet, which I bathed with my tears; I told him the difficulties I had to encounter, and how ardently I desired to remain with him, in order to serve him, assist him--in fact, share his fate. I promised not to spare any effort for the furtherance of this object."

A full hour quickly fled in thus communing with each other, and Consalvi was obliged to take his leave. The aged Pope foresaw that this prop of {383} his declining and martyred life would not be allowed him; but still he clung fondly to the idea, and when his faithful adherent, on a second and last visit, admitted that he had failed in every endeavor to gain his end, and had even been ordered out of the country, Pius evinced a strong feeling of regret, though no surprise. This farewell visit is related in terms no less touching than the former:

"During this audience, which lasted also a full hour, he bestowed upon me the greatest marks of kindness, exhorting me successively to practise resignation, wisdom, and those acts of firmness of which his own life and his whole demeanor set such a fine example. He appeared to me quite as great, and even far greater, than when he reigned at Rome. I besought him to give me his blessing. He laid his hands on my head, and, like the most venerable among the patriarchs of old, raising his eyes toward heaven, he prayed unto the Lord, and blessed me, with an attitude so resigned, so august, so holy, so full of real tenderness, that to the last day of my life the remembrance will remain graven on my heart in indelible characters.

"When I retired, my eyes were swimming with tears; I was beside myself with grief; and yet I felt both encouraged and re-assured by the inexpressible calmness of my sovereign, and the sweet serenity of his features. It was indeed the greatness of a good man struggling against misfortune."

Four-and-twenty hours afterward, Consalvi was obliged to leave Florence for Venice; the Pope was hurried through Alpine snows to Valence, in Dauphine, where he died of his sufferings on the 29th of August, 1799.

And what a time for the election of a new pope! Italy overrun by the French revolutionary armies, Rome in their possession, and ruled by a horde of incendiary demagogues; the Russians, headed by Suwarow, pouring into the Peninsula to oppose the French; whilst Austria, governed by a Thugut, was watching her opportunity to get hold of the new Pope--if there should be a Pope--and make him the pliant tool of her ambition. Nor let us forget that Bonaparte was on his way back from Egypt, preparing to swoop down, eagle-like, on those very Austrian possessions wherein the conclave was to meet. And yet the conclave _did_ meet at Venice, on an island of that famous republic, which had so often defied the bans and interdicts of the Roman pontiffs;--the cardinals hurried from their neighboring cities or secret abodes, though with views and intentions not perhaps exactly in accordance with the solemnity and urgency of the occasion. It is, indeed, a curious picture of human passions, though blended with higher motives and purposes,--that truthful memoir drawn up by Consalvi on the conclave of 1800, wherein he was unanimously elected secretary to the assembly. The election lasted more than three long months, on account of the two contending factions, headed by Cardinal Herzan, on the part of Austria, and by the celebrated Maury, then Bishop of Montefiascone in the Papal States. Consalvi, notwithstanding his wonted moderation, boldly proclaims these divisions to have been _scandalous_ in such circumstances, and animadverts severely on the intrigues of the imperial court. And yet he cannot help observing that, on such occasions, the Sacred College seem led on, little by little, as it were, by some higher power, to sacrifice their own private views and interests to the common weal of Christendom. So it was, indeed, in the present juncture, thanks to the extraordinary ability, to the self-renouncement, prudence, and true Catholic spirit displayed throughout by the youthful secretary. The votes were gradually won over to Cardinal Chiaramonti, so well known afterward by the name of Pius VII. Consalvi had truly displayed a master-mind; and the new pontiff immediately showed how highly he appreciated his merit, by appointing him Secretary of State. We can easily believe the surprise and {384} alarm of the new minister; for doubtless his was no easy task. The Austrians possessed nearly all the Papal States, whilst the King of Naples held Rome itself. The court of Vienna, intent upon keeping at least the three legations, which had recently been wrested from the French, offered at the same time to restore to the Pope the remaining parts of his dominions. To such a proposal the latter could but oppose a flat denial, accompanied by a firm resolution to return to Rome without delay. The imperial negotiator, Ghislieri, then reduced his demands to the two legations of Bologna and Ferrara; but he met with no better success. The spoliation of the Holy See, as the reader may now perceive, is after all an old story. The Pope, indeed, went so far as to write to the emperor a letter, in which he formally demanded the restitution of all his provinces. No notice whatsoever was taken of the Papal missive. At last, utterly worn out by Austrian duplicity, Pius one day addressed Ghislieri in the following terms: "Since the emperor refuses obstinately a restitution, which both religion and equity require, I really do not see what new argument I can produce to convince him. Let his majesty take care, however, not to lay by in his wardrobe any clothes belonging, not to himself, but to the Church. For not only will his majesty be unable to wear them, but most probably they will pester with the grub his own hereditary dominions, which may be worm-eaten in a short time."

The Marquess Ghislieri hurried out of the Papal presence in a rage, which found vent when he met Consalvi. "The new Pope," he exclaimed, "has hardly donned his own clothes; he is not yet accustomed to his own craft, and he talks of the Austrian wardrobe being worm-eaten! He knows but little of our power; it would require thousands of moths to nibble it to dust." Two months after, the battle of Marengo had been fought and won: the legations, Lombardy, Venetia, the hereditary German states, the capital itself, had fallen a prey to the Corsican conqueror! Pius VII. had scarcely set his foot on the shore of his own dominions when the news of the famous defeat arrived: "Ah!" exclaimed Ghislieri, a religious man, after all, "I now see fulfilled the Pope's prediction: our wardrobe has truly been worm-eaten to tatters."

Pius VII. had but just returned to Rome, in the midst of a delighted and grateful population, when he received the astounding news that the conqueror of the Austrians was desirous of negotiating with the Holy See for the restoration of religion in France. Whilst at Vercelli, Bonaparte had met with Cardinal Martiniana, who was returning from the conclave at Venice; and he expressed himself so clearly, so pointedly, as to his future plans, that both Consalvi and the Pope were taken by surprise. Their approbation was immediately given, and the Pope himself wrote to Martiniana: "You may tell the First Consul that we will readily enter into a negotiation tending to an object so truly honorable, so congenial to our apostolical administration, and so thoroughly conformable to our own views."

The history of this celebrated treaty, on which so much hangs in France even in our own time, has been often related, and yet many a detail of the intricate negotiations which preceded its conclusion had remained secret until the publication of the present memoirs. Three personages stand out in strong relief on that occasion, each with his individual character: Cacault, the French ambassador at Rome, Bonaparte, and Consalvi himself. Of the second, little need be said; but M. Cacault is, we believe, hardly known in England. He was a Breton by birth, and, as such, had imbibed those religious feelings which stamp so strongly the most western province of France. As a republican representative of the Directory, he did all in his power to avert from the Papal See those evils and that invasion which {385} ended in the captivity of Pius VI. When Napoleon's star was in the ascendant, M. Cacault quickly discovered the depth and extent of his genius, and thenceforward abetted his plans. At the same time, he was by no means a flatterer, but ever plain-spoken to bluntness. A time came, indeed, when the greatest conqueror of modern times found the noble-hearted Breton rather too sincere, and consigned him to the peaceful life of a seat in his new-fangled senate. But that day was yet to come. In 1801, M. Cacault enjoyed the whole confidence of the First Consul.

On leaving Bonaparte, the ambassador heard him utter those famous words, which have been so often quoted: "Mind you treat the Pope as if he had 200,000 men at his back. Remember, also, that in October, 1796, I wrote to you how much I wished to save the Holy See, not to overthrow it, and that both you and I entertained the same feelings in this respect." With credentials like these, M. Cacault should have found it an easy matter to negotiate with Rome; but, singularly enough, the conservative government of Austria threw many an obstacle in the way. The very idea of a reconciliation between revolutionary France and the Papacy seems to have disquieted M. de Thugut, and he did all in his power to breed a feeling of distrust, on the part of Rome at least. The court of Naples was animated by the same policy; and even Bonaparte himself, at one time, appeared to waver between the impulse of his own good sense and the suggestions of his infidel advisers. In the eyes of M. Cacault, the Pope stood too much on theological tenets and opinions, when dealing with a victorious adventurer. At any rate, matters soon grew from bad to worse. In a fit of impatience, the consul ordered his ambassador to leave Rome in five days, if the concordat sent from Paris was not signed at the expiration of that short time.

At this critical juncture, the Breton came to a determination so truly characteristic of the man, that we must allow him to speak for himself. We borrow the following narrative from his secretary, M. Artaud:

"We are bound to obey our government," said he, addressing himself to me; "but then a government must be guided by a head capable of understanding negotiations, by ministers capable of advising him properly, and lastly, all must agree together. Every government ought to have a plan, a will, an aim of its own. But this is no easy matter with a new government. Now, though in a secondary station, I am really master of this business; but if we go on in Rome as they are going on in Paris, nothing can come out of it but a sort of chaos. .... It is fully understood that the head of the state wished for a concordat; he wished for it so far back as Tolentino, and even before, when he called himself _the best friend of the Pope_.... In fact, he has sent me here to negotiate a concordat, and for that purpose has given me in yourself the prop I myself desired. But then his ministers probably don't wish for a concordat, and they have constant access to his ear. Now the character most easy to irritate and to deceive, is that of a warrior, who as yet understands nothing about politics, and is ever returning to military orders and to the sword.... Shall we, like two fools, leave Rome in this way because the despatch orders us to do so, and give up France to _irreligiosity_--a word no less barbarous than the thing itself? Shall we leave her to a sort of spurious Catholicism, or that hybrid system which advises the establishment of a patriarch? God knows, then, that the future destinies of the First Consul will probably never be fulfilled....

"I am fond of Bonaparte, fond of the general; but this patch-work name of a First Consul is in itself ridiculous; he borrowed it from Rome, where he has never set his foot. But in my eyes he is still nothing more than an {386} Italian general. As for the fate of this terrible general, it is now in my hands more than in his own; he is turning into a sort of Henry the Eighth, flattering and scaring the Holy See by turns; but how many sources of true glory will be dried up for him, if he merely mimics Henry the Eighth! The measure is full; nations now-a-days will not allow their rulers to dispose of them in regard to religious matters. With concordats, on the contrary, miracles may be wrought, more especially by him, or if not by him, supposing him to be unwise, by France herself. Be sure, my dear sir, that great deeds brought about at the proper moment, and bearing fruitful results, no matter by what genius they are accomplished, are a wealthy dowry for any country. In case of embarrassments, that country may ward off many an attack by pointing to its history. France, with all her faults, requires true grandeur. Our consul jeopardizes all by this pistol-shot fired in time of peace, merely for the sake of pleasing his generals whom he loves, but whose soldierlike jokes he fears, because he himself now and then gives way to them. He thus breaks off a negotiation which he wishes to succeed, and goes on casting rotten seed. What can really be a religious concordat, that most solemn of all human undertakings, if it is to be signed in five days? It reminds one of the twelve hours granted by a general to a besieged town, which can hope for no succor."

The result of the above conversation on the part of M. Cacault was a determination to quit Rome, but to leave his secretary in that city, whilst Consalvi himself was to set out immediately for Paris, as the only means of preventing a positive rupture between the two courts, for Bonaparte had already both a court and courtiers. The French minister was by no means blind to the consequences of his boldness in undertaking to correct the false steps of his own government; but, to his credit be it said, the fear of those consequences did not make him swerve one minute from his purpose. His very first step was, therefore, to request an interview with Consalvi, and an audience from the Pope. On meeting the cardinal, he began by reading_ in extenso_ the angry despatch which he had received, not even omitting the epithets _"turbulent and guilty priest"_ which the Consul applied to his eminence. M. Cacault then resumed as follows:

"There must be some misunderstanding; the First Consul is unacquainted with your person, and still more with your talents, your ability, your precedents, your adroitness, and your anxiety to terminate this business. So you must start for Paris." "When?" "To-morrow: you will please him; you are fit to understand each other; he will then learn to know a statesmanlike cardinal, and you will draw up the concordat together. But if you don't go to Paris, I shall be obliged to break off all intercourse with you; and there are yonder certain ministers, who advised the Directory to transport Pius VI. to Guyana....

"I again repeat it, you must go to Paris, you will draw up the concordat yourself--nay more, you will dictate a part of it, obtaining at the same time far better conditions than I could ever do, fettered as I am by so many shackles.... One word more: In a place like this, where there is so much gossipping, I can't allow you to bear alone the responsibility of this action. I consider it as something truly grand; but as it may turn out a false step, to-morrow I must see the Pope, and take the whole upon my shoulders. I shall not bore the Pope, having but a few words to tell him, in order to fulfil the Consul's former instructions."

Consalvi, fired at the boldness of the plan, hurried to the Pope, rather to prepare him for this unforeseen separation than to ask for permission. When, on the other hand, the French diplomatist was admitted to his presence, {387} he showed so much candor, such a true spirit of Christian feeling, such a total forgetfulness of self, that the pontiff could not refrain from shedding tears, and ended by breaking out into these words: "Indeed, indeed, you are a true friend, and we love you as we loved our own mother. At this very moment, we will retire to our oratory, in order to implore God's blessing on this journey, as well as for the successful issue of an undertaking, which may afford us some consolation in the midst of so much affliction."

It was indeed a bereavement for the Pope, who, having hardly ascended the throne, was accustomed to consider Consalvi as his main prop and right hand in every affair of any importance. He, however, readily consented to the separation, and on the following day the cardinal left Rome, accompanied by M. Cacault, in an open carriage, to show the gossipping Romans that no real coolness existed between the two governments. This, in fact, strengthened the hands of the Papal administration, as reports were already rife that a French army was about to march once more into Rome, with a view of restoring the republic.

At the distance of more than half a century Consalvi's determination scarcely seems an act of daring; but, at that period, it was considered in a different light. We must remember that France had been for ten long years the scene of anarchy and bloodshed within, while she had proved the terror of Europe on the field of battle. She was but just emerging from that anarchy, thanks to the iron grasp of a fortunate soldier, who might yet, for aught the world knew, turn out to be a bloody tyrant quite as well as a sagacious ruler. For a priest, and still more for a cardinal, to venture alone of his own accord into the lair of those beasts of prey, as they were then termed, certainly showed an extraordinary degree of moral courage, however M. Thiers may taunt Consalvi with his fears. Those fears the Papal minister _did_ really entertain, as is proved by a few unwary lines which he addressed before his departure to Acton at Naples, and which were betrayed to Bonaparte in Paris. But then the cardinal, prompted by a strong feeling of duty, overcame these apprehensions, which is more perhaps than M. Thiers would vouch to have done on a similar occasion, if we may judge from the infidel spirit and intriguing disposition that are conspicuous alike throughout his own career and writings. Success, not principle, ever appears to be his leading star.

Once in Paris, Consalvi was not long in conquering that position which the keenness of his friend Cacault foresaw that he was destined to assume. Bonaparte approved in every respect the conduct of his ambassador at Rome, appeared even flattered at being feared, at first received the cardinal with affected coolness, but little by little yielded to better feelings, and ended by turning into ridicule "that fool Acton, who thought that he could stop the rush of a torrent with cobwebs." To these friendly dispositions soon succeeded on both sides a sincere confidence, and on one occasion the First Consul laughingly inquired of Consalvi whether he was not considered as a _priest-eater_ in Italy; and then suddenly launched into one of those splendid expositions of his future plans, by which he endeavored to fascinate and charm those he aimed at winning over to his own views. In this sparkling conversation the concordat held a foremost place. Napoleon developed, just as he pleased, opinions half Protestant, half Jansenist--in other words, exactly what he wanted the concordat to be, and exactly what Consalvi could not allow. The contest between those two rival spirits may well detain us a few moments longer. And why not say at once that by degrees the master-genius of the age was obliged to modify his own views, yielding, _nolens volens_, as he himself admitted, to the graceful bearing and sound good sense of the man whose countrymen had named him the Roman Syren?

{388}

We may gather from M. Thiers' work that Consalvi had undertaken a most arduous task. Paris itself must have offered a strange sight to a Roman cardinal in the very first year of the present century. The churches were still shut, and bore upon their porches such inscriptions as savored more of heathenism than of Christianity. Wherever the legate's eye fell he was sure to meet with a temple of plenty, of fraternity, of liberty, of trade, of abundance, and so forth. And then when he went to court he found a ruler disposed to break out into the most violent fits of anger if his will was disputed, whilst on every hand he had to encounter a host of scoffers and infidels, belonging to every hue and grade. The army, the bench, the schools, the _savants_, and the very clergy, all vied in showing off Rome as the hotbed of an obsolete superstition which it was high time to do away with altogether. And when we mention the clergy, we mean the remains of that schismatic body which had hailed the civil constitution so formally condemned by the Holy See in 1791. They were active, intriguing, influential, and had the ear of Bonaparte himself. He was intent upon distributing among them a portion of the new sees about to be erected, and it required all the firmness of Consalvi to ward off this impending danger. If we may believe M. Thiers, many among them were by no means of dissolute lives; yet he cannot disguise the fact that they were ambitious, servile, and disposed to bend to every caprice of the ruling power. But that power was fully aware that the French population had no confidence whatever in their ministrations; the non-jurors, or priests who had unflinchingly remained faithful to their duty, were, on the contrary, sought out and held in high esteem. In this strange society the functions of Catholicism and the rites of our religion were openly resumed by believers, who attended them in back streets, in by-ways, in dark warehouses, whither some aged priest repaired at dawn, after escaping but shortly before from the dungeons of the Directory or the scaffolds of the Revolutionary Committee. The writer of these lines has known more than one man who was baptized at that period in a miserable garret by some ecclesiastic disguised as a common laborer, before the eyes of his parents, though without any sponsors, for fear of detection. That such men should turn round in the streets of Paris and stare with wonder at the sight of a cardinal publicly making for the Tuileries in one of the Consul's carriages is by no means surprising; but the fact increases our admiration for the two eminent statesmen who both cast such a firm glance into the depths of futurity.

Consalvi had only been a few hours in Paris when he was summoned before the First Consul, who sent him word that "he was to show off as much of a cardinal as possible." The able diplomatist was, however, not in the least disposed to "show off," and contented himself with wearing the indispensable insignia of his dignity. It will be well to remember that, at the time we are speaking of, no priest would have ventured to put on the clerical costume in the French capital. This first audience took place in public, in the midst of all the high functionaries of the state. On the cardinal approaching, Bonaparte rose and said abruptly: "I am aware of the object of your journey to France. My will is, that the conferences shall begin immediately. I give you five days for the purpose, and tell you beforehand that, if on the fifth day the negotiations have not come to a conclusion, you may return to Rome; for, within my own mind, I have come to a determination should such an event take place."

"By sending his prime minister to Paris (replied coolly the cardinal) His Holiness proves at any rate the interest he takes in the conclusion of a concordat with the French government, and I fully hope to terminate this business in the time you have marked." {389} Apparently satisfied with this answer, Bonaparte immediately broke forth into one of those eloquent displays for which he was remarkable--the concordat, the Holy See, the interests of religion, the articles which had been rejected by the Pope, all became, on his part, the subject of a most vehement and exhaustive speech, which was silently listened to by the surrounding audience.

One of the most amusing and almost ludicrous instances of the Consul's ignorance in regard to religious matters took place on this occasion. He bore a bitter hatred to the Jesuits, and was constantly harping on the subject. "I am quite astounded and scandalized (said he all of a sudden) that the Pope should be allied to a non-Catholic power like Russia, as is evident by the restoration of the Jesuits in that country. Such a union ought surely to wound and irritate a Catholic sovereign, since it contributes to please a schismatical monarch."

"I must answer candidly (resumed the cardinal) that your informations are incorrect on this matter. Doubtless the Pope has deemed it advisable not to refuse the request of the Russian emperor for the restoration of the Jesuits in his own states, but, at the same time, His Holiness has shown no less fatherly affection and deference for the King of Spain, since an interval of several months has elapsed between Paul's request and the bull, which was not sent before the court of Spain had expressly stated that it would in no way complain of the act."

When Bonaparte had fixed such a short term for the conclusion of the concordat, he fully intended that not a single jot of his own plan should be rejected by Rome. That plan, as we have already observed, was half schismatic, and would have bound over the French Church to the supreme will and power of the ruling government. But Consalvi showed himself equally firm as to essentials, whilst he gracefully yielded to every demand of minor importance. As to the wisdom of this conduct, the present circumstances bear ample testimony; for, had the cardinal been less firm, what might not be in 1865 the painful situation of the French episcopacy? But the negotiations, instead of ending in five days, were prolonged for more than three weeks, during which the Abbé Bernier, who represented his government, was constantly starting new difficulties, and threatening Consalvi with some new outbreak of violence on the part of the First Consul.

At last, toward the middle of July, every difficulty being overcome, and Bonaparte having formally promised to accept every article of the concordat as it had been agreed to at Rome, nothing remained but to copy and sign that famous treaty. The First Consul was to give a grand dinner on the 14th of July to foreigners of distinction, and to men of high standing in the country. His intention was to inform publicly his guests of this happy event, and on the 13th the _Moniteur_ published the following laconic piece of news: "Cardinal Consalvi has succeeded in the object which brought him to Paris." Bonaparte had selected his brother Joseph, a councillor of state, and Bernier to sign the deed, whilst on the other side were Consalvi, Monsignor Spina, and a theologian named Father Caselli. But at the last moment there occurred one of the most astounding incidents contained in the history of diplomacy. As it has never been mentioned in any memoirs or documents of those times, we cannot do better than let the cardinal relate it in his own words:

"Toward four o'clock in the afternoon, Bernier arrived with a roll of paper, which he did not unfold, but stated to be a copy of the concordat that we were about to sign. We took our own with us, and set out all together for the house of citizen Joseph, as was the slang of the day, the brother to the First Consul. He received me with the utmost politeness. Though he had been ambassador at Rome, I had not been introduced to him, being yet but {390} a prelate. During the few days I passed in Paris, I had not met him on a formal visit which I paid him, for he often resided in the country. This was, therefore, the first time we saw each other. After the usual compliments, he bade us to sit down round a table, adding: 'We shall have soon done, having but to sign the compact, as all is concluded.'

"On being seated round the table, the question arose who should sign first. Joseph Bonaparte claimed the right as brother to the head of the government. I observed with great mildness and firmness, that both as a cardinal and a legate of the Holy See, I could not consent to assume the second rank in signing; beside, under the old _régime_ in France, as well as everywhere else, the cardinals enjoyed a right of precedence, which I could not give up, not indeed from any personal motive, but on account of the dignity with which I was invested. It is but due to Joseph to state, that after a momentary hesitation, he yielded with very good grace, and begged of me to sign first. He himself was to come after, followed by the prelate Spina, Councillor Cretet, Father Caselli, and the Abbé Bernier.

"We set to work at once, and I had taken up the pen, when to my great surprise the Abbé Bernier presented to me his copy, with the view of making me sign it without examining its contents. On casting my eyes upon it in order to ascertain its identity with my own copy, I perceived that this ecclesiastical treaty was not the one agreed to by the respective commissioners, not the one adopted by the First Consul himself, but another totally different! The difference existing at the very first outset induced me to examine the whole with the most scrupulous attention, and I soon found out that this copy contained the draught which the Pope had refused to accept without his correction, the very refusal that had provoked an order to the French agent to leave Rome; nay more, that this self-same draught was modified in many respects by the insertion of certain clauses, previously declared to be inacceptable even before it had been sent to Rome.

"A proceeding of this character, so truly incredible, and yet so real, which I shall not venture to qualify--for the fact speaks sufficiently for itself--a proceeding of this kind literally paralyzed my hand. I expressed my astonishment, declaring positively that on no condition could I give my approval to such a deed. The First Consul's brother did not appear less surprised than myself, pretending not to understand the matter. The First Consul, he added, had assured him that, everything being agreed to, nothing remained but to sign. As for himself, he had just come up from the country, where he was busy with Count Cobenzel about the affairs of Austria, being called upon merely for the formality of signing the treaty. Concerning the matter itself, he absolutely knew nothing about it."

Cardinal Consalvi, even when writing the above lines, does not seem to doubt Joseph's sincerity, nor that of Councillor Cretet, who affirmed his own innocence in terms equally strong. The latter could hardly believe his own eyes, when the legate pointed out to him the glaring discrepancies between both copies. The Pope's minister then turning suddenly to Bernier: "Nobody better than yourself," said he, "can attest the truth of what I affirm; I am highly astonished at the studied silence which you maintain, and I must therefore call upon you positively to communicate to us what you must know so pertinently."

"Then, with an air of confusion and an embarrassed countenance, he faltered out that doubtless my language was but too true, and that he would not deny the difference of the documents now proposed for our signatures. 'But the First Consul has so ordained,' continued he, 'telling me that as long as no signature has been given, one is always at liberty to make any alteration. So he requires these alterations, {391} after duly considering the whole matter, he is not satisfied with the previous stipulations.'"

The doctrine was so contrary to all precedents, that Consalvi had no difficulty in convincing his auditors of its futility. He moreover maintained his ground steadfastly, and refused to make any further concession contrary to his duties. They cajoled him, they threatened him with the violence and "fury" of the omnipotent Consul; he remained unshaken. Joseph entreated him at least to go over the same ground once more, following the Papal copy, and to this the cardinal consented, firmly resolved not to give up one single point of importance, but to modify such expressions as might induce Bonaparte to accept the original treaty. So these six men sat down again at five o'clock in the afternoon to discuss the whole question. The discussion was laborious, precise, searching, and heated on both sides. It lasted nineteen long hours, without interruption, without rest, without food, without even sending away the servants or the carriages, as will often happen when people hope to conclude at every minute some important business. On one article alone they could never agree, and it was specially reserved to the Pope's own decision. It was twelve o'clock the next day before they came to a conclusion. But would the First Consul adopt this plan? Would he not break all bounds, on finding his duplicity discovered, and himself balked by the cardinal's firmness? Joseph hurried to the Tuileries, in order to lay the whole before his imperious brother, and in less than one hour came back, his features evidently showing the grief of his soul. Says Consalvi:

"He told us that the First Consul had broken forth into the greatest fury on being apprised of what had taken place. In his fit of anger he had torn to pieces the concordat we had drawn up among us; but at last, yielding to Joseph's entreaties and arguments, he had promised, though with the most extreme repugnance, to accept every article we had agreed to, except the one we had reserved, and about which he was no less inflexible than irritated. The First Consul, added Joseph, had closed the interview by telling him to inform me that he (Bonaparte) was decided upon maintaining this article as it was expressed in Bernier's copy:--consequently I had but two ways before me: either to adopt this article just as it was in the concordat, or to give up the negotiations. As for him, he had made up his mind to announce either the signature or the rupture of the affair at the grand dinner he was to give on that day.

"The reader will easily imagine our consternation at this message. We had yet three hours until five o'clock, the time appointed for the dinner, at which we were all to attend. I really am unable to repeat all the Consul's brother and the two other commissioners said, to conquer my resistance. The picture of the consequences likely to ensue upon the rupture was indeed of the darkest color; they gave me to understand that I alone should become responsible for those evils in the face of France and Europe, as well as to my own sovereign and Rome. I should be accused of an unreasonable stiffness, and of having brought on the results of such a refusal. I felt a death-like anguish, on conjuring up before my eyes the realization of these prophecies, and I was--if I may be allowed such words--like unto the man of sorrow. But my duty won the victory: thanks to heaven, I did not betray it. I persisted in my refusal during the two hours of this contest, and the negotiation was broken off.

"Such was the ending of this sad debate, which had lasted four-and-twenty hours, having begun at four o'clock on the preceding day, and closed toward the same hour of this unfortunate one. Our bodily sufferings were doubtless very great, but they were nothing when compared to our moral anxiety, which rose to such a pitch that one must really have undergone {392} such tortures to form an idea of them.

"I was condemned--and this was indeed a most cruel circumstance at such a moment--to appear in an hour after at the famous banquet. I was bound to front in public the very first shock of that headstrong anger which the General Bonaparte would feel on being apprised by his brother of the rupture.

"We hastened back to our hotel, in order to make a few rapid preparations, and then hurried all three to the Tuileries. We had hardly entered the saloon where the First Consul was standing--a saloon filled with a crowd of magistrates, officers, state grandees, ministers, ambassadors, and illustrious foreigners, who had been invited to the dinner--when we were greeted in a way which may easily be imagined, as he had already seen his brother. As soon as he perceived me, he exclaimed, his face flushed with anger, and in a loud and indignant tone:

"'Well, Monsieur le Cardinal, you have had your fling; you have broken off: be it so! I don't stand in need of Rome. I will act for myself. I don't stand in need of the Pope. If Henry the Eighth, who had not one-twentieth part of my power, was enabled to change the religion of his country, and to succeed in his plans, far better shall I know how to do it, and to will it. By changing the religion in France, I shall change it throughout the best part of Europe--everywhere, in fact, where my power is felt. Rome will soon perceive her own faults; she will rue them, but it will then be too late. You may take your leave; it is the best thing you can do. You have willed a rupture: be it so! When do you intend setting out?'

"'After dinner, general,' replied I, with the greatest calmness.

"These few words acted as an electric shock on the First Consul. He stared at me for a few minutes; and, taking advantage of his surprise, I replied to his vehement outbreak, that I neither could nor would go beyond my instructions on matters which were positively opposed to the maxims of the Holy See."

Here the Consul interrupted Consalvi, though in a milder tone, to tell him that he insisted upon having the concordat signed according to his own views, or not at all. "Well, then," retorted the cardinal, "in that form I neither shall nor will ever subscribe to it; no--never." "And that is the very reason," cried out Bonaparte, "why I tell you that you are bent upon breaking off, and why Rome will shed tears of blood on this rupture."

What a scene! and how finely the bold, calm demeanor of the Pope's legate shows in strong relief against that dark, passionate, and ominous, though intelligent face of Napoleon Bonaparte! What a splendid subject for a painter, and how it calls up at once to our mind those barbaric chieftains of old, fit enough to wield the sword--fit enough even to lay the snares of a savage, but unable to cope with the spiritual strength of a Christian bishop, and utterly cowed by the meek sedateness of some missionary monk, just wafted over from the shores of Ireland! Write the seventh, or the thirteenth, instead of the nineteenth century, and say if the incident would be clothed in different colors; for, in fact, what was Bonaparte himself but the Hohenstaufen of his age--a strange mixture of real grandeur, of seething passions, and of mean, crafty, fox-like cunning?

The French editor of these memoirs very justly observes that some vestige of the above scene must still exist in the documents of the Imperial archives, and expresses the wish that the charge of duplicity so terribly brought home to the first Bonaparte may be properly sifted and repelled. Of the existence of such information we have scarcely any doubt, but we hardly believe that the select committee, headed by Prince Napoleon, who have already so unscrupulously tampered with {393} the correspondence of the great founder of the present dynasty, will ever rebut the accusation, or even take notice of the narrative. And yet it bears the stamp of truth in every line, so prone was Napoleon to those fits of anger, which he sometimes used, Thiers himself admits it, as tools for his policy, and to serve his end.

After all, the First Consul was glad to escape from the consequences of his own violence, since, on the personal interference of the Austrian ambassador, he again consented that the conferences should be renewed. The two cardinal points on which, in the eyes of Rome, the whole fabric of the concordat rested, were the freedom and publicity of the Catholic worship. Without these two essential conditions, the Pope and his ministers deemed that the Church obtained no compensation for the numerous sacrifices which she consented to undergo in other respects. The French government, on the contrary, admitted that freedom and publicity, only so far as they were allowed to other forms of worship, and saddled the article with the following rider: "The public worship shall be free, as long as it conforms to the police regulations." Such was the final difficulty against which Consalvi maintained a most obstinate opposition, and it must be admitted that his grounds were of a very serious nature. Taught by the experience of other times and countries, he considered the obnoxious condition as a bold attempt to enslave the Church by subjecting her to the secular power. On the flimsy pretext of acting as the protector and defender of the Church, a government was enabled to lord it over her, and cripple her best endeavors for the fulfilment of her divine mission. If such had been the case, even under the old French monarchy, notwithstanding the strong Catholic dispositions of the Bourbon sovereigns in general, as well as in the times of a Joseph II. and a Leopold of Tuscany, what greater changes were to be feared on the part of the revolutionary powers, which now swayed over France? The cardinal readily admitted that, in the present state of the country, it might be proper for the government to restrict on certain occasions the publicity of the Catholic worship, for the very sake of protecting its followers against the outbreaks of popular frenzy; but why lay down such a sweeping and such an elastic rule? "With a clause of this kind," said the legate, "the police, or rather the government, will be enabled to lay their hands on everything, and may subject all to their own will and discretion, whilst the Church, constantly fettered by the words, 'As long as it conforms,' will have no right even to complain." To these arguments the Consul constantly replied, "Well, if the Pope can't accept such an indefinite and mild restriction, let him omit the article, and give up publicity of worship altogether." As a curious specimen of sincerity and candor, we must observe that Consalvi was not even allowed to consult with his own court, nor to send a courier, the French government refusing to supply him with the necessary passports. So much for the international privileges of ambassadors. Who can be astonished that the Papal minister should feel but little confidence in the good faith of those he had to deal with?

Their attitude, indeed, seems to have strengthened his own unbending firmness. In the course of these everlasting debates, he clenched the subject in the following terms: "Either you are sincere in maintaining that the government is obliged to impose a restriction upon the publicity of the religious worship, being impelled thereunto by the necessity of upholding the public peace and order, and in that case the government cannot and ought not to hesitate as to asserting the fact in the article itself; or the government does not wish it to be so expressed; and in that case they show their bad faith, as also that the only object of the aforesaid restriction is {394} the enslavement of the Church to their own will."

The commissioners found nothing to reply to this dilemma; for, in fact, Consalvi only asked that the reserve itself should be laid down as a temporary restriction. At last they yielded, despairing of ever overcoming, on this subject, their unflinching and powerful antagonist. The concordat, duly signed and authenticated, was sent up for approval to the First Consul, who, after another fit of anger, gave his consent; but, as Consalvi himself presumes, from that hour he resolved to annul the intrinsic and most beneficial effects of the concordat by those celebrated organic articles which are even at this moment a bone of contention between the French clergy and the Imperial government.

It is, indeed, a most remarkable fact that the same man who imperiously prescribed that the concordat should be drawn up and signed in the course of five days, allowed a full year to elapse before he published it and sent the official ratifications to Rome. When he did fulfil these formalities, he coupled them with the promulgation of those famous laws which, in reality, tended to cut off all free communication between the Holy See and the Gallican clergy, and to spread throughout Europe the false belief that the Pope himself had concurred in the adoption of these obnoxious measures. In vain did Pius VII. protest against them--in vain, at a later period, was he induced to crown the emperor in Paris, in hopes of obtaining the fulfilment of his own promises. Napoleon turned a deaf ear to the most touching importunities. On considering the whole of his conduct, it is hardly possible to refrain from concluding that Bonaparte ever looked upon the Pope's supremacy and power as an appendage and satellite of his own paramount omnipotence. Viewed by this light, many of his acts in latter years will appear at least consistent, though by no means justifiable on any principle whatsoever. Is there not often a certain consistency in madness? And if so in ordinary life, why not in the freaks and starts of despotism? And again, is not despotism itself madness in disguise?

But why indulge in our own speculations and surmises, when we have before us positive evidence that in 1801, as well as ten years afterward, Napoleon entertained and maintained a plan for arrogating to himself both the spiritual and temporal power? The examples set by Henry VIII., Albert of Brandenburg, and Peter I. of Russia, were ever before his eyes, blinding his own innate good sense, and exerting a sort of ominous fascination over his best impulses. The reader has doubtless heard of, if not perused, those wonderful pages in which the fallen giant whiled away his tedious hours at St. Helena, pretending to write his own history, but in reality veiling truth under fiction, and endeavoring to palm upon the world certain far-fetched views of benevolence or civilization, which he never dreamt of whilst he was on the throne. Still, that strange _Memorial of St. Helena_ often contains many a startling proof of candor, as if the mask suddenly fell, and revealed to our astonished gaze the inner man. Among such passages, none perhaps are so remarkable as those referring to the concordat and to the religious difficulties of later years. One day Napoleon dictated to General Montholon these lines, which so strongly justify Consalvi's fears and opposition:

"When I seized the helm, I already held the most precise and definite ideas on all those principles which cement together the social body. I fully weighed the importance of religion--on that head I was convinced--and had resolved to restore it. But one can hardly realize the difficulties I had to contend with when about to bring back Catholicism. I should have been readily supported had I unfurled the Protestant standard. This feeling went so far that, in the {395} council of state, where I met with the strongest opposition against the concordat, many a man tacitly determined to plot its destruction. 'Well,' used they to say, 'let us turn Protestants at once, and then we may wash our hands of the business.' It is, indeed, quite true that, in the midst of so much confusion and so many errors, I was at liberty to choose between Catholicism and Protestantism; and still truer that everything favored the latter. But, _beside_ my own personal bias inclining toward my national religion, I had most weighty reasons to decide otherwise. I should thus have created in France two great parties of equal strength, though I was determined to do away with every party whatsoever; I should have conjured up all the frenzy of religious warfare, whilst the enlightenment of the age and my own will aimed at crushing it altogether. By their mutual strife these two parties would have torn France asunder, and made her a slave to Europe, whilst my ambition was to make her its mistress. Through Catholicism I was far surer of attaining all my great objects. At home, the majority absorbed the minority, which I was disposed to treat with so much equity that any difference between both would soon disappear; abroad, Catholicism kept me on good terms with the Pope. Beside, thanks to my own influence and to our forces in Italy, I did not despair, sooner or later, by some means or other, _to obtain the direction and guidance of the Pope; and then what a new source of influence! what a lever to act upon public opinion, and to govern the world!"_

A few moments after the emperor resumed:

"Francis I. had a capital opportunity to embrace Protestantism, and to become its acknowledged head throughout Europe. His rival, Charles V., resolutely sided with Rome, because he considered this the best way to subject Europe. This alone should have induced Francis to defend European independence. Instead of that, he left a reality to run after a shadow, following up his pitiful quarrels in Italy, allying himself with the Pope, and burning the reformers in Paris.

"Had Francis I. embraced Lutheranism, which is so favorable to the royal supremacy, he would have spared France those dreadful convulsions which were afterward brought on by the Calvinists, whose republican organization was so near ruining both the throne and our fine monarchy. Unfortunately, Francis was unable to understand anything of the kind. As to his scruples, they are quite out of the question, since this self-same man made an alliance with the Turks, whom he introduced among us. Oh, those stupid times! Oh, that feudal intellect! After all, Francis I. was but a tilting king--a drawing-room dandy--a would-be giant, but a real pigmy."

It is scarce necessary to add, that at the time Napoleon is speaking of he was an unbeliever, though a lurking respect for his national religion still lingered at the bottom of his heart. But then, how fully does he admit that religion was but a tool of his ambition! How openly does he confess his plan to get hold of the Pope _by some means or other!_ How glaringly true must now appear in our eyes that narrative of Consalvi's in which he exposes the mean trick that Napoleon endeavored to play upon his vigilance! Lastly, how faithfully does the emperor adhere to the plans secretly laid within the dark mind of the First Consul! For, as if to leave no doubt as to the fulfilment of those plans, he related to Montholon the most minute details of what took place during the Pope's captivity at Fontainebleau:

"The English," said Napoleon, "plotted an escape for him from Savona; the very thing I could have wished for. I had him brought to Fontainebleau, where his misfortunes were to end, and his splendor to be restored. All my grand views had been thus fulfilled under disguise and in secrecy. I had so managed that {396} success was infallible, even without an effort. Indeed, the Pope adopted the famous concordat of Fontainebleau, notwithstanding my reverses in Russia. But how far different had I returned triumphant and victorious! So at last I had obtained the long-wished-for separation of the spiritual and temporal powers; whilst their confusion is so fatal to the former, by causing trouble and disorder within society in the name of him who ought to become a centre of union and harmony. Henceforward I intended to place the Pope on a pinnacle; we would not even have regretted his temporal power, for I would have made an idol of him, and he would have dwelt close to me. Paris should have become the capital of the Christian world, and _I would have governed the spiritual as well as the political world._ By this means I should have been enabled to strengthen the federative portions of the empire, and to maintain peace in such parts as were beyond its limits. I should have had my religious sessions, just the same as my legislative sessions: my councils would have represented, all Christendom, and the popes would have merely acted as their presidents. I should myself have opened their assemblies, approved and promulgated their decrees, as was the case under Constantine and Charlemagne. In fact, if the emperors lost this kind of supremacy, it was because they allowed the spiritual ruler to reside at a distance from them; and those rulers took advantage of this act of weakness, or this result of the times, to escape from the prince's government, and even to overrule it."

What words of ours could add to the bold significance of these? How the proud spirit of the despot towers even within his prison! and how little had he profited by the bitter lessons of experience! Never before, do we believe, since the advent of Christianity, did any king or conqueror profess such a barefaced contempt for the deepest feelings of a Christian soul--the freedom of his spiritual being! This pretended liberation from the court of Rome, this religious government concentrated within the hands of the sovereign, became, indeed, at one time, the constant object of Napoleon's thoughts and meditations:

"England, Russia, Sweden, a large part of Germany (was he wont to say), are in possession of it; Venice and Naples enjoyed it in former times. Indeed, there is no doing without it, for otherwise a nation is ever and anon wounded in its peace, in its dignity, in its independence. But then such an undertaking is most arduous; at every attempt I was beset with new dangers; and, once thoroughly embarked in it, the nation would have abandoned me. More than once I tried to awaken public opinion; but all was in vain, and I was obliged to acknowledge that the people would not follow me."

On reading these last words, who will not remember Cacault's apothegm, uttered in 1801: "Nations now-a-days will not allow their rulers to dispose of them in regard to religious matters."

We hope that the reader will not accuse us of prolixity for having related rather fully the negotiations which proceeded the concordat of 1801. Hitherto the main facts of this important event have been gleaned from French sources of information. No voice had been raised, we believe, on the part of Rome, and no one, it must be admitted, had a better right to speak of that celebrated treaty than the man who contributed so largely, so exclusively, we might almost say, to its final adoption. And then, throughout the whole of his simple and unpretending, yet clear and spirited memoirs, the great cardinal reads us a grand lesson, which may be felt and understood by every human soul. During the perusal of these two volumes, we have ever before our eyes the struggle of right against might, of duty against tyranny, of a true Christian soul against the truckling, shuffling, intriguing spirit of the world. Ever {397} and anon, this able, firm, and yet amiable diplomatist allows some expression to escape him which shows that his heart and soul are elsewhere, that his beacon is on high, and that he views everything and all things in this nether world from the light of the gospel. And this, perhaps, is the very reason why, throughout a long career of such numerous difficulties and dangers, he moved serene, undaunted, unblemished in his honor, proclaimed wisest amongst the wise, until kings, princes, warriors, and statesmen, Protestants and Catholics, counted his friendship and esteem of priceless value.

----

From Once a Week.

HYMN BY MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.

O Domine Deus, speravi in te! O care mi Jesu, nunc libera me! In dura catena, in misera pcena, Desidero te; Languendo, gemendo et genuflectendo, Adoro, imploro, ut liberes me!

(TRANSLATION.)

O Lord, O my God, I have hoped but in thee; Jesu, my dearest, now liberate me: In hard chains, in fierce pains, I am longing for thee: Languishing, groaning and bending the knee, I adore, I implore thou wouldst liberate me!

ASTLEY H. BALDWIN.

----

{398}

From The Lamp.

MANY YEARS AGO AT UPFIELD.

In the last decade of the last century, Upfield was a very healthy, pretty, prosperous town in Suffolk. Its centre was a green; undulating, irregular, and from four to five acres in area. Round it were laborers' cottages, a forge, the inn, the veterinary surgeon's house, the doctor's, the vicarage, and the Grey House, each with land proportioned to its character. A little, very little way off, was the church; belonging anciently to a Carthusian monastery, of which some ruins still existed; and beyond that, but within a quarter of a mile of Upfield, was Edward's Hall, the fine baronial residence of the Scharderlowes, who had owned it since the reign of Henry IV., and never forsaken the Catholic faith. Upfield was eloquent about the past, as well as actually charming. The church, early English, was little injured exteriorly. Inside it reminded one of a nun compelled to wear a masquerade dress. The beautiful arches and lofty roof had defied time and the vulgar rage of vicious fanaticism; so had the pavement, rich in slabs imploring humbly prayers for the repose of the dead who lay under it; but devotion and taste mourned over the changed use of the sacred building, and the characteristics thereof; for instance, a singing-gallery in the western end, with the royal arms done in red and gilded plaster, fastened to it; high deal pews for the mass of the congregation, and the squire's praying-made-comfortable one within the carved oak screen in the south transept, where had been the chapel of the Blessed Sacrament.

The Grey House was low, rambling, picturesque; the _beau-ideal _of a happy, hospitable old English home. It had been built by instalments, at distant intervals; and had derived its name from a Lord Grey, of Codnoure, who had formerly possessed lands in the neighborhood. At the time whence this story starts, it had been for a hundred years or more in the family of the Wickhams, who claimed to be descended collaterally from William of Wykeham--whether they were or not, had never been discussed, and therefore never formally established; nor did any one in the neighborhood, except Mr. Scharderlowe and his family, know that a former Wickham had bartered his religion for a wealthy Protestant wife, and allowed her to bring up their children in her own way. In January, 1790, George Wickham, the head of the family, died at the Grey House, of inflammation of the lungs, in his forty-second year, and no one was ever more regretted. A kinder-hearted man had never breathed. His attachments had been warm and numerous; he had helped every one whom he could help, been peculiarly gentle to the poor and his dependents, hated nothing but wickedness, and believed in that only when it was impossible to be blind to it. "Poor dear Mr. Wickham," said Mrs. Scharderlowe, when her husband told her the news; "I'm heartily sorry. I always thought he would become a Catholic--he was so liberal in all his feelings; only the last time we met, conversation taking that turn--I forget why--he said it was too bad that we could not worship God as we pleased, without suffering for it; and that he was ashamed of Englishmen who forgot that their noblest laws were made, and their most glorious victories won, in Catholic times. What a loss he will be to Upfield and his family!" "Yes," returned her husband, "that poor pretty little widow is about as helpless and ignorant of the world as possible; she never had occasion to think of anything but how to make {399} home happy, which I believe she did; they were a particularly united family. I hope he made a will; but I think it is likely he did not; his illness was short and painful, and previously to it no one ever had a fairer prospect of long life than he had."

Mr. Wickham's funeral was talked of in Upfield and the neighborhood many years afterward. Mr. Scharderlowe sent his carriage; the county member, and persons of every class, attended. The clergyman from an adjacent parish, who had been requested to perform the burial-service, because the vicar, Mr. Wickham's nephew, felt unequal to it, burst into tears, and had to pause some minutes to recover himself. The widow fainted; and her eldest son Robert, a youth in his nineteenth year, tried to jump into the vault when his father's coffin was lowered.

There was a will, made during Mr. Wickham's last illness, and the vicar was sole executor and trustee, with a legacy of £500. There was ample provision for the younger children; and Robert was, when of age, to succeed to a brewery, which his father had started many years previously, and which was the most lucrative in the county. He was to learn its management from James Deane, the confidential clerk, whose salary was to be raised, and to whom £100 was left in token of Mr. Wickham's appreciation of his services. The Grey House, and everything in it, with £200 a year, was to be Mrs. Wickham's, and at her disposal at death.

The brewery was half a mile from Upfield; Mr. Wickham had built it where it would not injure the prospect, and Deane had a pretty cottage attached to it, where he, a widower, lived with his sister and only child, a daughter. He was a Catholic, son of a former steward of Mr. Scharderlowe's, and extremely attached to Mr. Wickham, who had taken him when a boy into the brewery, and advanced him steadily. He was a well-principled, intelligent man, who had improved himself by taking lessons in geography, grammar, and algebra, as the opportunities offered; and he was, from his position, well-known in the neighborhood. He told his sister that he feared that Mr. Wickham's death was only the beginning of trouble for his family; for he distrusted Mr. William, the vicar. "It isn't that he's a dishonorable man, Lizzy; but it isn't likely that a crack shot, a bold rider after the hounds, a gentleman who is as fond of a ball as anyone, and who takes no trouble about his own affairs, will do justice to a dead man's, though I don't doubt he means it now."

"But what harm can he do, James?"

"Why, he can ruin the younger children. Everything except the brewery and what is left to Mrs. Wickham is as much in his power as it was in his uncle's. I doubt if the poor dear gentleman wouldn't have arranged differently if he'd had longer time: it's an awful lesson to be always prepared for death; I'm sure I thought Mr. Wickham might live to be a hundred. No doubt pain and sorrow confused his mind, and anyhow it was natural that he should trust his own relations."

"He had better have trusted you, James."

"That was not to be expected, Lizzy, and I mightn't have been fit for it. There's plenty on my hands. It is a large, increasing business, and I have to teach it to Mr. Robert; and one can't tell how he'll take to it; I've been afraid he would be unsteady, but he has taken his father's death to heart uncommonly, and I hope he'll try to be as good a man."

About this time people had begun to remark that Polly Deane, then in her fifteenth year, was growing up a remarkably pretty girl; she was an old established pet of the Wickhams; her mother had been the daughter of a tenant, and so great a favorite that when she married Deane, the wedding was celebrated at the Grey House. When, two years later, she was dying of fever, Mr. and Mrs. Wickham promised to watch over her child. All that {400} they undertook they carried out generously, and Polly lived as much with them as with Aunt Lizzie, who did her part toward her well--loving her fondly, keeping her fresh, healthy, and merry, checking her quick temper, teaching her her prayers, and taking her often to Mr. Scharderlowe's, to get his chaplain's--Father Armand's--blessing; and when she was old enough, to mass and the sacraments. The fact of the Wickhams having no daughter increased their tenderness for her, and her father was delighted and flattered by Mrs. Wickham's watchfulness over her dress and manner, and Mr. Wickham's care for her education; it was the best that could be had in Upfield, and good enough to make her as charming as she need be. She did plain sewing extremely well, and some quaint embroidery of hideous designs in wool and floss silks; she had worked a cat in tent-stitch, and a parrot of unknown species in cross; her sampler was believed to be the finest in the county; she could read aloud very pleasantly, spell wonderfully, write a clear, stiff hand, which one might decipher without glasses at eighty; she could not have gone up for honors in grammar, but she talked very prettily; she had never had occasion to write a letter; as to geography, she believed that the world was round, for her father and Mr. Wickham said so, and she had heard that Captain Cook had been round it; but only that she was ashamed, she would have liked to ask some one how it could be, and how it was found out; it was such a contradiction of observation, if only because of the sea; she had never seen the sea, but she believed in it, and could understand water remaining on level ground; there was the horse-pond, for instance, but that thousands of miles of roaring, angry, deep water should hold on to a round world was too much for her. You could not puzzle her in the multiplication table, but she did not take kindly to weights and measures. She had learned no history, her father could not get a Catholic to teach her, and would trust no one else, but she had picked up a few facts and notions; for instance, she had heard of Alfred the Great and his lanterns; of St. Edward the Confessor, and that he made good laws; of King Charles I., and those wicked men--she fancied Guy Fawkes was one of them--had cut his head off; when he lived she was not sure, and she hoped Mr. Wickham would never ask her, for she should not like to say that she did not know, and she was sometimes afraid that he would when he talked of Carlo's being a King Charles spaniel. It was puzzling, because she remembered Carlo a puppy, and she was sure that the king's name had been George ever since she was born. She had an exquisite ear for music, and a voice of great promise. Mr. Wickham was passionately fond of music, and therefore, appreciating peculiarly this talent of Polly's, had engaged a good master from the county-town to teach her to play on the piano. She had profited well by his instructions, and only a few days before Mr. Wickham was taken ill, she had played the accompaniment when he sang "From the white-blossomed thorn my dear Chloe requested," "O lady fair," and "Oh life is a river, and man is the boat;" and he had patted her head and kissed her, and asked her for the "Slow movement in Artaxerxes" and "The harmonious Blacksmith," and--she was so glad--she had played them without one mistake. Of course she danced, and made cakes and pastry, beauty-washes, elder-wine, and various preserves and salves; knitted her father's stockings and her aunt's mittens, and read a romance whenever she could get one, but that was very rarely.

The vicar made, at any rate, a good start, fulfilling his uncle's instructions exactly; apprenticed his second son, Alfred, to the College of Surgeons--that was the most liberal way in those days of entering the medical profession--and placed him {401} to board with an old family friend, an opulent practitioner. The third son was articled to an eminent attorney; the others were sent to school. The void made by the death of those even most important and most fondly loved is soon filled up externally; how otherwise could justice be done to the living? The widow acquiesced in the separation from her children; it was her husband's plan, and for their advantage. She was sure she could not long survive him; she might even be sinful enough to wish to die, but for her sons' sakes, she was so utterly lonely. They loved her truly, the darlings; but they could not understand her, never would, unless--which God in his great mercy forbid--they ever came to suffer as she suffered. To lose such a husband! so manly, yet so tender and thoughtful. She had always looked forward to his nursing her in her last illness, and receiving her last breath. He would have grieved for her truly, she was sure of that; but he could have borne it better; he would have been of more use to the boys. Thus she mused often, weeping plentifully; but she never denied that she had many consolations. No one could have suited her better than Polly, and she was never more than a day or two absent from her. They were alike in character--simple, self-sacrificing, and affectionate in an uncommon degree. Polly's caresses seldom failed to arouse her; the gentle girl felt how much more she could have done had Mrs. Wickham been accessible to the comfort in which her own, the dear old faith, abounded; and prayed daily that it might soon be hers, and did her best. She never attempted direct consolation, but interested the mourner in some trifle, or coaxed her into conversation or employment. Sometimes she really could not arrange some obstinate flowers; sometimes her work was all wrong, and no one but Mrs. Wickham could show her how to put it right, and Mary Hodge's baby ought to have the garment that evening. Once, when all her ingenuity failed, she was actually delighted by Betty's running in with her darling kitten, wet to the skin, just saved out of the water-butt; Mrs. Wickham dried her eyes, and pitied it, and watched Polly wiping it, and arranging a cushion inside the fender for it; and at last smiled at the endearing nonsense she talked, and told her she was more than a mother to it.

Robert was quite steady; regular at the brewery, pleasant at home. Of course it would have been dull for him without Polly: her youth, beauty, and sisterly at-homeness made a glow in the dear old house. Did he or his mother ever calculate on what was likely to come of that near companionship? No: their actual life engrossed them. He first drew his mother to look on while he and Polly played cribbage or backgammon, and then to play herself a little. He took in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, and showed her the curious old prints, and read the odds and ends of news aloud. Music was unendurable to her for some months; but she conquered herself by degrees, and came to enjoy it. Then Robert and Polly sang every evening, she playing the accompaniments. Summer brought the boys home for holidays, and that did good. When the anniversary of the father's death came round, its melancholy associations pressed evidently on the widow, and she spent the greater portion of the day in her room; but she was resigned, and better than those who watched her lovingly expected her to be.

The great feature of those Christmas holidays was Alfred's return in an altered character. He had left Upfield a lout--the despair of his mother and the maids; who were the more provoked, because he was undeniably the handsomest of the family. To keep him clean, or make him put on his clothes properly, had been impossible. He had credit for talent; for, when sufficiently excited, he wrote what were deemed wonderfully pretty {402} verses, and he was quick at repartee and sarcasm; but he had been in perpetual disgrace at school, and silent and awkward--sulky as a bear, his brothers called him at home. He made a great sensation on the first evening of his return from London: he was fluent in conversation, perfectly well dressed, and--chief marvel--had clean, carefully-shaped nails. Polly smiled, wondered, and said to herself that he was really very handsome, and sang beautifully. All the Wickhams sang, but none of them, she thought, could be compared to him. The change was not agreeable to Robert, and he showed it; grumbled in an undertone about fops; and asked his brother if he could play cricket or quoits, or skate, or take a five-barred gate, or shoot snipe.

Alfred yawned, and replied:

"My dear Bob, don't you remember that I was never fond of trouble? Those rough amusements are very well for country gentlemen and farmers; and I give them up to them with all my heart. As to skating, you none of you know anything about it; you should see the gentlemen, and elegant ladies too, cutting out flowers, and other complicated figures, on the Serpentine."

Then addressing himself to his mother and Polly--Robert's countenance lowering as he observed the innocent girl's natural interest in such-topics--he talked about the last drawing-room and the fashionable plays. He had seen _The School for Scandal_ and _The Haunted Tower,_ at Drury Lane; _Othello_ and _The Conscious Lovers_, at Covent Garden, and he recited--really well--some of the tender passages in _Othello_. Next he described the lying-in-state of the Duke of Cumberland; the trial and execution of Jobbins and Lowe for arson; the recent storms, which had not touched Upfield, but had been terrible elsewhere--chimneys killing people in their beds, the lightning flowing like a stream of fluid from a glasshouse. And no one interrupted him, till Robert said, savagely:

"That fellow will talk us all deaf."

"Not this time, Bob: you and I will sing 'Love in thine eyes' now. I know Polly will play for us."

They did it; Alfred directing the sentiment to her, so as to make her feel shy and uncomfortable, and his brother vowing inwardly that "he'd give that puppy a good thrashing before he went back to London, if he didn't mind what he was about."

Alfred had seen a good deal of what country folk call "finery" in London; but he declared that breakfast at home was unrivalled, particularly in winter. There was the superb fire of coal and oak blocks, throwing a glow on the massive family plate and fine, spotless damask: such a silver urn and teapot were not often seen. Further, the young gentleman inherited a family predilection for an abundant show of viands; liked to see--as was usual at an everyday breakfast there--a ham just cut, a cold turkey, round of beef, and delicate clear honey, with other sweet things, for which his mother's housekeeping was famed. This was not all. The room formed one side of a light angle in the picturesque old house, and from two sides of the table one could see a magnificent pyrocanthus, the contrast between its scarlet berries and the table-cloth positively delicious.

Robert and Alfred lingered one morning after the rest of the family had left this room. Alfred was considering that it might be possible to enjoy life in the country; Robert was watching him, half-curiously, half-jealously: he did not believe that his brother was handsomer than himself; but he detested the ease of manner and ready wit that gave him ascendancy disproportioned to his years. He threw himself back in a large armchair, stretched his legs, and said: "I'm not sure that I don't envy you, Bob, after all."

"Your condescension is great certainly. Have you been all this time finding out that it is a good thing to be George Wickham's eldest son?"

{403}

"Ah, yes!--eldest son. Well, it's a comfort for the younger ones that there's no superior merit in being born first. But I'm not going to philosophize; it's too much trouble, and not your line. But, really, to breakfast here every morning in all this splendid comfort, the prettiest and gentlest of mothers pressing you to eat and drink more than is good for you; and that lovely fairy, Polly--that perfect Hebe --flitting about--is more than even an eldest son ought to enjoy. How sorry you will be next year, when you come of age, unless"--and he looked searchingly, through half-closed eyes, at Bob.

"Why, pray? And unless what?"

"Only that I conclude you will then set up a house of your own, unless-- as it is evident my mother could not part from pretty Polly--unless you arrange to live here, and marry our pet."

Strange flushings and palenesses passed over Robert's face, and he had to master a choking in his throat and heaving of his chest before he spoke. He had never had his hidden feelings put into words before--he had not even any definite intention about the young girl whom his eye followed stealthily every where, and whose voice, the rustling of whose dress even, was music to him. He only knew that he should throttle any one who laid a finger on her. He had not guessed that any one connected him with her, even in thought; and now here was all that was most secret and sacred in his heart dragged out, and held mockingly before him by a boy two years younger than himself. It seemed to him hours instead of seconds before he spoke, and his voice had the passionate tremulousness which betrays great interior tumult; he was sure that he should say something he would rather not say, but conscious every moment's delay gave an advantage to his abhorred tormentor. Without raising his eyes, he said hoarsely, "The Wickhams are proud--they don't make low marriages."

"Upon my word, Bob," returned his brother patronizingly, "I respect you; I did not give you credit for so much good sense. The girl's a perfect beauty, no doubt. What a sensation she'd make in London! But, after all, she's our servant's daughter, and old Molly Brown's grandchild. Then, again, that unlucky religion of hers! The Scharderlowes throw a respectability over it here, for they are well-born and wealthy, but anywhere else it would be extremely awkward for you. I confess I had a motive for sounding you. Farmer Briggs's eldest son hinted to me yesterday that he should be happy to lay West Hill at Polly's feet."

"He 's an insolent rascal!" said Robert furiously.

"My dearest Bob, why? The poor fellow has eyes, and uses them; and one would not wish our Hebe to be an old maid."

"I say," reiterated Robert, deadly pale, and stamping, "he's an insolent rascal; and if I catch him coming to this house I'll tell him so. A rustic boor like that to hint at marrying a girl who has always been my parents' pet, and is my mother's favorite companion--"

He stopped abruptly; and his brother, who was a perfect mimic, continued in precisely his tone, "And is so dear to Robert Wickham, that he will not hear her name coupled with another man's--"

He had gone too far; Robert's indignation boiled over--he sprang at him--and before he had time to stir, struck him a blow between the eyes, which brought sparks from them, and blood from his nose. A crash and struggle followed, which Polly heard. She ran to the room, anticipating nothing more than that some of the large dogs, privileged to roam about the house, were quarrelling over the cold meat. Amazed, beyond all power of words, she stood silent and very pale. Then, feeling, young as she was, instinctive womanly power over the disgraced young men, and holding herself {404} so erect that she looked a head taller than usual, she said, coldly and firmly, "I am ashamed of you!"

By that time they were ashamed of themselves. Alfred, covering his disfigured face with his handkerchief, left the room slowly. Robert, who had received no visible hurt, threw up a sash, jumped out, and when he turned to shut the window, looked earnestly and sadly at Polly, so as to bring a strange unwelcome sensation to her heart.

There was an awkwardness at dinner that day. Polly had removed the traces of the fray, and kept her counsel; but Alfred's features defied concealment. He stayed in his room with raw beef on them, and mutton-broth and barley-water for his regimen. His mother and Betty could get nothing out of him but that Bob was a fool, and had licked him for teasing him. He was by no means given to repentance; but his bruises, and a message from the vicar, desiring to see him early next morning, led him to the conclusion that he had better have "kept his tongue within his teeth." He was sufficiently humbled to receive silently unusually severe reproofs from his guardian, who had informed him that he had sent for him in order to avoid the risk of paining his excellent mother. It was not only that he knew all that Betty could tell of "the row" between the brothers, and that he denounced the "ruffianliness" of "brawling in a widowed mother's house," but that Mr. Kemp, in whose house in London he lived, had inclosed bills of disgraceful amount, in a letter complaining that Alfred's taste for pleasure threatened to be his ruin; and regretting that justice to his own family compelled him to decline retaining him as an inmate after the approaching midsummer. The young man's unusual power of pleasing, he said, made his example peculiarly dangerous.

"And now," said the vicar, "I ask you if your heart is not touched by the thought of the pain that this letter would give your dead father, were he living; and if you could bear your mother to know it? It is only for her sake that I spare you. I will beg Mr. Kemp to retract his resolution to dismiss you, if you become steadier, and I shall charge him to let it be known that I will not pay any bills that exceed the limit of your very handsome allowance: and I warn you that my natural easiness and indolence shall not prevent my being severe if you require it. As to the affair yesterday, I shall not inquire into it; but I warn you that the recurrence of anything so disgraceful shall prevent your spending your vacations at home; and I am sorry to say to one of my good uncle's sons, that I am glad he must return to town the day after to-morrow."

Alfred was surprised and alarmed, and made professions of penitence, and promises of amendment.

There was a visible change thenceforward in Robert. He became more manly in his bearing; and variable in his manner to Polly, saying even at times very sharp things to her. The sweet-tempered girl gave no provocation, and felt no resentment; but hid sometimes a tear. She did not like to displease any one whom Mrs. Wickham loved. Robert attended to business, took his proper place in society, and was popular; and she felt it a relief when he was out, and she had not to play for him. It was within three months of his twenty-first birthday, when, on one of the frequent occasions of his dining with the vicar, that gentleman asked him what were his plans. He replied that he hadn't any.

"But, my dear boy, my authority over you is near its end, and so is your enforced residence with your mother. It is time to think where you will live."

"I don't think my mother will turn me out."

"No; but as her allowance for you ceases with your minority, you must, in fairness to her, either contribute to {405} the household income, or get a home of your own."

"I don't anticipate any difficulty about it."

"Merton Paddocks is to be let," continued William. "It is a nice little place, and suitable to you in many ways. If you let it slip, you may regret it. Your marrying is to be calculated on, and in that event your living with your mother might not be agreeable to all parties."

"I don't think of marrying."

"Oh, nonsense! every man's turn comes; and why should you escape?"

"As you escaped, perhaps."

"Me!--one old bachelor in a family is enough in two generations; and my case may not be obstinate. I'm not actually too old."

"May I ask whom you think of elevating to the vicarage?" asked Robert, laughing; but there was a pause which, he could not imagine why, made him uncomfortable, before his cousin said:

"I have thought of Polly--do you forbid the banns?"

The room seemed turning round with Robert; but he swallowed a glass of wine hastily, and said, as carelessly as he could, "That child!"

"Child! I don't know--she's seventeen, and I'm thirty-two--the difference there was between your parents' ages when they married; and Polly is two years older than your mother was then."

"Perhaps I'm no judge of the matter, William, but as you have broached the subject, excuse me if I ask if you have any notion that Polly is attached to you."

"None whatever; but any man can marry any woman provided he have a fair field and no favor. What has really kept me doubtful has been a distinct difficulty about pretty Polly's birth. It is awkward; and the Wickhams have always been sensitive on such points; but I've nearly resolved to sacrifice pride to Polly's charms. Her beauty and grace would adorn any position; and as soon as my guardianship, and consequent business relations with her father, ceases, I shall probably ask my aunt's consent and blessing. It will be great promotion for her pet, and insure her having her near her for life. Meanwhile, Bob, I rely on your silence."

"Certainly."

Poor Robert! Here was one of his own family seeing no difficulty about marrying the girl of whom he had spoken as beneath himself! another man talking with assurance of being Polly's husband as soon as he thought fit! while he, who had been domesticated with her from her infancy--had never dared to give her a playful kiss since they had ceased to be children--had never ventured on the least demonstration of the fondness that tormented him for expression. He made an excuse to go home early; walked in the shrubbery, wretched and irresolute, till midnight; went to his room, threw himself undressed on the bed, had some uneasy sleep, rose early, walked again, and appeared at breakfast haggard and irritable. His mother observed it, and was distressed. He had sat up too late, he said; and, for once, William's wine was bad. He would not go to the brewery that day; but, if she liked, he would drive her and Polly in the phaeton to Larchton, and they could give Betty a treat by taking her. She was always glad to visit her native place, and he knew she had not been there for a long time. His mother was willing. Larchton was a two hours' drive; and they put up the horses there.

Mrs. Wickham and Betty went to see some old people; and Robert proposed to Polly to take a walk. She remembered afterward that she had had an unusual feeling about that walk. They had often walked together before, as a brother and sister might.

For the first time, however, Robert said, "Take my arm, Polly."

She took it; and they proceeded in silence in the fields for some minutes.

Then he said abruptly, "Do you {406} ever think of getting married, Polly?"

"No," she replied with an innocent laugh; "what would Mrs. Wickham do without me?"

"And do you expect never to love any one better than my mother?"

"I really don't think it would be possible."

"But, Polly, you're not a child. You know there's a different--love the love my father had for my mother."

"I have never thought about it," she said carelessly.

Her manner gave him courage; it was so easy and unconscious. Taking the little hand that was on his arm, and holding it so firmly that he could not feel her effort to withdraw it, he went on: "Polly, I made an excuse to come here that I might talk to you without interruption. The love that my father had for my mother, I have for you. I cannot tell when it began; but I first knew how strong it was when Alfred came home first from London. I was madly jealous of him because he was forward and I was bashful. Do you remember the morning you found us fighting in the breakfast-parlor? He had provoked me so much by something that he said about you, that I could not help striking him. I don't know what I might have done if you hadn't come in then; and I've never been happy since. I've been irritable, and sometimes, I know, cross and disagreeable. Something occurred last night which I can't tell you now--I may another time--which made me wretched; and I made up my mind this morning to put myself out of suspense, and ask you, Polly, to be my wife."

He had been too full of his story to look at her while he was speaking, but he looked then eagerly for her answer. He could not read the lovely countenance which new and various feelings made different from anything he had ever seen. The soft eyelids down, the lashes moist, the lips trembling, the flush so deep that it would have spoiled a less delicate skin. She was surprised to find how much he loved her; grateful to him; sorry she had made him unhappy, and believed him ill-tempered. Then came a rapid thought of how handsome he was; but, sweeping everything away, perplexity followed. What would Mrs. Wickham and her father wish her to do? What would Father Armand say?

Robert could not guess all this; and there was almost agony in his voice as he said, "Oh, Polly, Polly, do speak to me!"

She made a great effort, and replied, "I don't know what to say, or what I ought to do!"

"Say, at any rate, that you don't dislike me."

"Oh, no!" she said readily, almost laughing to think that he could suppose that possible.

"One thing more, Polly; do you prefer any one else?"

She hesitated a minute, for her quick wit told her that the question involved a great deal; but she answered firmly, though shyly, "No; I do not."

Distrustful as he had been of his power to please her, this was enough for the time to make him almost beside himself with delight.

He said "God bless you!" heartily; and was silent awhile because he could not command his voice. He resumed, "As to your 'ought to do,' don't say anything to any one till I've spoken to my mother. We'll go and look for her now." He talked a great deal of nonsense on the way, and Polly said very little then, or during the drive. She was ashamed to look at Mrs. Wickham, and was glad that her attention was drawn from her to Robert. He "touched up" the young horses so wildly, that she declared he should never drive her again, if he did not behave better. Directly they got home, he told her that he wanted to speak to her that moment alone; and he poured out his story. Such an old, old story! So like what her own dead and buried George had told her long, long ago. _She_ stand in the way of an innocent love, and between two of the creatures dearest to her on earth! She would be very glad {407} to have Polly as a daughter--she loved her as one. As to pride and such nonsense, people who had loved and lost, as she had, knew all its profound folly. Polly's beauty and goodness might make any husband proud, any home happy. As to William, there was no injustice done him. In the first place, she was sure that Polly could never be brought to think of him as a husband. She looked on him as quite an old man--he _was_ getting very bald; and in the next place, if he had had any real love for her, he could not have spoken so coolly and confidently of winning her. Robert said that the last observation was corroborated by his own experience, and that his mother was a remarkably sensible woman. Thereupon she smiled, and kissed and blessed him, and advised him to go directly and tell the simple truth to the vicar.

Polly, meanwhile, sat alone in her pretty bedroom--her face buried in her hands, her rich golden hair unbound and falling loosely over her shoulders, dreading to go down to dinner. Not that she was ashamed of dear, dear Mrs. Wickham. No; she could throw her arms around her neck and hide her face there, and make her a confidante without any fear of being repulsed; but how could she look at Robert, much less speak to him? and of course the servant would see and understand all about it. She wished she might stay in her room. If she had but a headache! but she was really perfectly well; and false excuses she never dreamed of making. Robert would be talking to her again as he had talked in the fields. Really, really she did not know what to say to him. Indeed she had never thought of getting married. She had looked forward to living between the Grey House and her father's, beloved and welcome in both; adding to his and Mrs. Wickham's happiness more and more as they grew older and wanted greater care. Why could not this go on, with only the difference that Robert should never be displeased with her? That _had_ made her unhappy. She did like him very much; better than any one, next to her father and Mrs. Wickham; better than good old Aunt Lizzy. He was very handsome, and sang well, and so attentive to his mother; and ever since his father's death he had been quite fond of home. How could he ever have supposed that she preferred any one else? But as to being his wife--he was a Protestant. How she should feel his never going to mass with her, his thinking confession useless, his not believing in the dear Lord in the Blessed Sacrament! She had often felt it hard that conversation about these things must be avoided in the dear Grey House, and that her friends there, fond as they were of her, wished her religion different. If she married Robert, it would be worse, for she should love him better than any one on earth then; her anxiety about his salvation would be so great as to make her quite wretched, and he might not like her to talk to him about it. From her earliest childhood, she prayed for the conversion of the Wickhams. She began by saying one Hail Mary daily for the intention; and since she had been older, she had said many novenas, and offered many communions for it. She really did not think her father would give his consent; and Father Armand would at any rate look grave and sad. She had heard him tell pitiful stories of the unhappiness that had come of mixed marriages among persons whom he knew. She did feel truly unhappy. She walked to her window; she could see thence dear venerable Edward's Hall, and knew exactly where the chapel was. She knelt down, fixing her eyes there, and her heart on her divine Lord in the tabernacle, and asked him that, for the love of his blessed mother, he would help and direct her, and convert her friends.

Robert had not expected to feel it formidable to tell his story to his cousin, and he was equally grieved and surprised by the way in which he received it. He changed countenance so that he looked ten years older; walked rapidly up and down the room; {408} threw himself into a great chair, and buried his face in his hands; asked Robert to ring; ordered sherry, and drank several glasses. Robert, utterly mystified, was trying to say something soothing, when he interrupted him.

"My dear fellow, I'm not simply love-sick; but circumstances, which I will explain another time, do make this a terrible shock to me. I have been such a fool! To any one but myself, your falling in love with Polly would have seemed the most natural thing in the world; but I was blinded, stultified, as men who have--never mind now--go away--I'm not fit to talk--I will call or write to you tomorrow. Blame you! Certainly not. Give my love to your mother and Polly. God bless you all!"

Next morning early came a note stating that he was going from home for a few days; and that if he did not return, he would explain himself fully in the following week.

Worthy of a peerage as Polly Deane seemed to Robert, he could not be ignorant that to marry him was great promotion for her; and though delicacy in her regard, and real respect for her father, made him ask his consent with the utmost deference, he felt that this was a mere matter of good manners.

Mr. Deane was visibly gratified; said that he could never have expected a proposal so complimentary to his child, though he might be pardoned for saying that he thought any one might be proud of her. His obligations to the Wickham family were of many years' standing; in fact, he owed everything to Mr. Wickham. He could never, making all due allowance for Polly's beauty and goodness, express how honored he felt himself and her on that occasion; but--and he made a long pause in evident difficulty how to express himself; and Robert was mute with surprise and alarm.

"But is it possible, Mr. Robert, that Mrs. Wickham and you don't see one very great objection?"

"In the name of heaven, what is it?" gasped Robert.

"Why, surely, sir, the dear child's religion."

"Now is it possible, Deane, that you think we would ever interfere with that? Have we ever done so by word, or look, or deed, in all the years we've known you? Have not you, ever since you came into this business, been free to observe your holy days in your own way? Have we not always been ready--even when my mother's spirits were at the lowest--to spare Polly to go to mass or confession? I am really hurt, and feel that we don't deserve this?"

"It is all true, Mr. Robert, and the Lord reward you, as he will; but don't you see it might be different--I don't say that it would; but I'm bound to do my best for my girl's soul no less than her body--if she was your wife, and so completely in your power? There's no doubt that a young man in love will promise anything, and mean to keep his word too; but ours is a despised religion (God be praised for it!'); it is one among many signs that it is the true one; and you might come to be ashamed that one so near and dear to you belonged to it, and that would breed great unhappiness. Then, again, you might have children, and I should not dare give my consent to their being reared Protestants. Perhaps, if some ancestor of yours had been firm in such a case as this, you and yours might be still of the old faith."

"I'm sure, as far as I'm concerned, Deane, I wish we were. No one will go to heaven, if Polly doesn't; and the religion that would take her there can't be bad for any one. She might make a Catholic of me."

"God grant it, sir; but don't you see that I must not act on chance? If the child was breaking her heart for you, and"--smiling--"it's not come to that yet, I could not let her risk her soul, and perhaps her children's souls."

"Look here, Mr. Deane: I'm quite ready to give you a written promise {409} that I will never interfere in any way with Polly's practising her religion, and that all her children--boys as well as girls--shall be brought up in it; and I'm sure my mother will make no difficulty."

"You cannot say more, Mr. Robert; but still, if you please, I will take a week to think the matter over, and talk about it to Father Armand and Polly, and for that time I think she'd better come home. She must feel awkward in the same house with you under present circumstances. Will you give my respects to Mrs. Wickham, and say that I will call for the child this evening?"

Numerous, and all wide of the truth, were Mrs. Wickham's and Robert's conjectures respecting the vicar. They began even to consider whether he had ever shown any symptoms of insanity, and were thankful to know that it was not hereditary in the family.

The week stipulated for by Mr. Deane passed; and after consulting Father Armand and Mr. Scharderlowe, he agreed to give his consent to Polly's marrying Robert at the end of a year, if he were then equally willing to bind himself by a written promise to respect her faith, and have his children brought up in it. They said they thought that the kind, liberal, honorable character of the Wickhams being considered, and having been proved in all their conduct to the Deanes, and the difficulty of Catholic marrying Catholic (which was far, _far_ greater in England then than it is now) being weighed, the case was as hopeful as a mixed marriage could be.

Robert grumbled about the delay, every one else approved of it. His mother thought a man young to even at twenty-two; and the time seemed to Polly none too long for becoming accustomed to new feelings and new prospects.

Two days after all this was arranged came the vicar's anxiously-expected letter, dated Scarborough. It said:

"MY DEAR ROBERT,--The punishment of my youthful sins and follies, which has been pursuing me for years, has at last fallen so heavily upon me, that I feel inclined to cry out, like Cain, that it is greater than I can bear. Try to believe, as you read my humiliating confession, that the bitterest portion of my suffering is the fact that I have injured my uncle's family; and that I shall regret my pangs less if they prove a useful warning to you and your brothers. I can hardly remember when I was not in debt. Before I was eight years old I owed pence continually for fruits, sweets, toys. I suffered torture for fear of detection while these trifles were owing, but directly they were paid, I began a fresh score. At school I borrowed money of every one who would lend it, and had a bill at every shop to which a boy would be attracted. The misery I continued to endure while I could not pay was always forgotten directly I had paid; and I was in the same difficulty over and over again. I must own, moreover, that I was absolutely without excuse. I had as much money and indulgence of every kind as any boy of my age and position. I went to the university. My allowance was liberal, but my debts became tremendous. I gave endless wine-parties; drove to London frequently; entered into all its pleasures, made expensive presents, bought horses, and betted; and was of course done; finally, I got into the hands of Jews. It is singular that my father never suspected my delinquencies, and that I was wonderfully helped by circumstances. I was young when I succeeded to the living and a large amount of ready money. All was swallowed up in the dreadful gulf that my unprincipled extravagance had made. Year after year the greater portion of my income has gone in payment of exorbitant interest. Your dear father's legacy went that way; and my infamous creditors, having ascertained that his will placed a great deal in my power, threatened me with exposure--which would have {410} been fatal to a man in my position--till I had pacified them with thousands not my own--with, in fact, a considerable portion of your brothers' inheritance.

"At first I stifled my conscience by representing to myself that being released from pressure which had worried me for years, I should have a clear head for business; and recover, by judicious speculation, the sums that I had appropriated--as I hoped--but for a time. I have speculated unfortunately, and made matters infinitely worse; for whereas my previous creditors were rapacious rascals to whom, in justice, nothing was due, my present ones are the helpless children of my warm-hearted, trustful, dead uncle.

"By this time old Smith is, I suppose, dead, and you are aware of his will--as singular as all we know of his life--but he is necessary to my story. A day or two before I told you that I thought of marrying Polly he sent for me, said that he felt himself breaking, and wished me to witness his will, and be aware of its purport, that it might not be said, when he was gone, that he had acted at the priest's instigation. He said that at that moment no one knew he was a Catholic, that he had led a godless life for years, but he meant to make his peace with God before he died. He had no relations who had any claim on him; he had left £100 to Mr. Armand for religious uses, and the rest of his money--nearly £20,000--to Polly. I thought the man mad, and humored him. He understood me, and said so; told me that existence had ceased to be more than endurable when, twenty years ago, he entered Upfield a stranger; and that therefore he had confined himself to the necessaries of life, and been glad to be believed poor. That he had thought of leaving his money to a hospital; but that Polly had become so like the only woman he had ever loved--and whom he had lost by death--that he had grown to feel very fatherly toward her; and his intention to make her his heiress had been decided by a little fact very characteristic of Polly. She was walking with your mother one very windy day, when he was out for nearly the last time, and his hat blew off. He was too infirm to follow it, and every one but Polly was too lazy or too much amused to do so. She ran for it, and brought it to him with a kindness which seems to have thoroughly melted him. If he be still living, this must not be mentioned; but, as I said before, I think it is impossible. It is an old saying that 'drowning men catch at straws.' Oppressed as I was by hopeless remorse, I caught at the notion that I would marry Polly. Her father, I thought, would be pleased with her elevation. I did not anticipate any difficulty in making such a gentle creature love me. I intended to do my utmost to make her life happy; and I knew that she would give up anything to do good to your family. I calculated that, living moderately, my income would be ample, and that I could appropriate Polly's fortune to repaying what I had misused, and still without wronging her--for that, as my wife, she would have advantages far beyond her father's expectations. How all this scheming is defeated, you know. The only reparation now in my power, I make willingly. Deducting a curate's stipend and eighty pounds a year for myself, I will furnish you with full powers to receive the residue of my income, and apply it to your brothers' use. I will appoint Deane guardian in my stead, and furnish him with all necessary documents. If I live--and I pray that I may live for that object--your brothers will not suffer ultimately. I have made my will, and left them whatever property I may possess when I die. I have, you know, expectations from the Heathcotes.

"There is, I hope, some guarantee for my reform in the willingness with which I accept my punishment. I am glad that, with luxurious tastes, I must exist on very narrow means for years; {411} that with sturdy English prejudices I must live among foreigners. I had not courage to make my shameful confession verbally, or to see any of you afterward. I cross hence to Hamburg to-morrow. My further course is undecided, but I will write to you; and Hangham and Hunt, Fleet street, will forward letters to me. Think of all I have lost, of all I have suffered secretly, for years, of my dreary prospects, and try to be merciful to your miserable cousin,--WILLIAM WICKHAM."

Polly had returned to the Grey House. Mrs. Wickham fretted, and Robert--to be candid--was disagreeable in her absence. Shy and conscious though she felt, she was quite willing to go back. Her father was never at home till the evening--not always then. Aunt Lizzie wanted no help or cheering up, and Polly's happiness depended mainly on her being necessary to some one. There is, moreover, no denying that, differently educated as she had been, her aunt's habits and notions were not hers; and I could not say positively that she did not miss Robert, and admit to herself that it was pleasant to expect him at certain times, and to spend a good deal of time in his society. When the vicar's letter arrived, she was at the breakfast-table, doing the duties of president deftly and satisfactorily, as she did everything--housewifely genius as she was.

"What a long affair!" exclaimed Robert, as he glanced at the letter. "What can he have to say? I can't wait to read it now; I must be off to the brewery. Here, my mother, you take it, and tell me all about it when I come back."

She put it in her pocket, remembering that Polly was concerned in it, and not liking to read it before her without mentioning its purport. The thoughtful, methodical damsel soon departed for an hour's duty among birds and flowers, and then the thunderbolt fell on poor Mrs. Wickham. Her darling younger sons were not only fatherless, but almost dependent on their brother. She was no woman of business; but she guessed that there would not be more than £300 a year to come from the vicar, when the deductions he mentioned had been made. She could of course spare £100. What did she want with money? This would meet all the expenses of education, supposing the vicar lived--and if he died! In any case there was no capital to start her sons in their professions; and, unluckily, Alfred, who would want it first, had never been a favorite of Robert's. His assumption of superiority and his sarcasm had nettled him extremely; and he dropped expressions occasionally which showed he had not forgiven him. But Robert would be very well able to help. Even supposing that--as she hoped he would-- he did marry Polly, and have a family, his brothers would be off his hands before his children became expensive. If the story about poor old Mr. Smith proved true, he would be a rich man. Polly would of course do something handsome for her father and aunt, and yet have a large fortune. That incident about the hat Mrs. Wickham remembered perfectly; the poor old man looked enraptured when, lovelier even than usual, glowing from her running and good-nature, she gave it to him. It was, however, very wonderful. How much had happened in quiet Upfield during the last two years! Then she began to pity the vicar heartily; to make excuses for him, and forgive him. The sacrifices he made proved the sincerity of his repentance: how miserable he would be for years, poor and lonely in a foreign land! In those days anywhere "abroad" seemed to simple inland folk something terrible. He might get yellow fever, or the plague. She believed them to be imminent anywhere out of the British Isles. She must talk to Polly, and have her for a staunch ally before Robert came home. He had not his father's noble impulsiveness, but he was just and honorable, and she and Polly could do a great deal with him. Of {412} course she should omit telling her about the vicar's having thought of marrying her, and the story about old Smith. One fact would be painful to her; the other might be untrue.

The two guileless creatures agreed fully that Robert must be worked upon to forgive his cousin, and do all that was necessary for his brothers. They were so radiant with hope and charity that their countenances struck Robert peculiarly when he returned, and he said he saw plainly that they had good news to tell him. It was an awkward beginning: his mother feared that the contrary character of her intelligence would displease him the more, and said timidly, "You had really better read William's letter yourself, my dear boy; he tells his story much better than I can."

The rush of events at Upfield seemed, for a few days, overpowering to those whom it concerned; and those whom it concerned not were very much excited. There was the vicar gone--no one knew wherefore or whither, or for how long; and a curate with a wife and seven children had taken possession of his trim bachelor's hall. Then there was Mr. Smith, not very old, probably not more than fifty, dead. And he had turned out to be a rich man! why who could have guessed it? He had appeared one day at the inn, as suddenly as if he had dropped from the clouds--had evidently come a long way afoot--had no luggage but a valise; and was altogether so equivocal-looking that Mr. Mogg, the veterinary surgeon, would not take him as a lodger without his paying six months' rent in advance. He had paid his way regularly, certainly; but no one could have supposed that he had anything to spare. He would never talk of his affairs except to say that he had out-lived all his near relations, and been a great deal in foreign parts. People had suggested that he might be an escaped felon, a man resuscitated after hanging, a deserter, a Jew. On the strength of the last notion Mr. Mogg tested him with roast pig; and he liked it.

Then he never went to church. To be sure he was not the only person in Upfield of whom that might be said; but no one guessed that he was a papist. They had, at last, no proof that he was; but it was understood, though not formally acknowledged, that the librarian at Edward's Hall was a Catholic priest, and that persons of his communion could and did benefit by his ministrations. Such things were winked at, in spite of penal enactments, in the case of some Catholics of high social standing, like Mr. Scharderlowe.

Now this librarian, Mr. Armand, had been sent for by Mr. Smith when he was taken ill, had visited him frequently, and been with him when he died. No doubt he was a papist. That might be the reason he left his money to Polly Deane. Well, well! what luck some people had! Upfield wouldn't be surprised if Robert Wickham married her; and the neighborhood supposed it must call upon her, whether he did or not. It wondered if Mr. and Mrs. Wickham had known all along of Mr. Smith's intention; it wouldn't be surprised; there was something odd in the way they had educated the girl, and taken her out of her sphere. But, after all, Mrs. Pogram said, she mightn't like Robert Wickham; and with such a fortune as hers, she could afford to please herself. Mrs. Pogram's own sons were decidedly finer young men, had more dash, and were in the army--every one knew that girls liked red coats. Lancaster would be coming home soon, on leave. She would call at once; let others do as they pleased. Deane was a highly-respectable man, and no one could be ashamed of his daughter.

A year later there was a large family-gathering at the Grey House at dinner, and Mrs. Wickham presided. Her grief had settled into a placid, subdued character, which, with the weeds, gave a kind of moonlight tone to her appearance, and became her so {413} well that no one could wish to see her ever otherwise.

Robert and Polly, man and wife, had returned that day from a bridal excursion to the English lakes. The younger brothers were assembled to meet them. Aunt Heathcote was there with her ear-trumpet; and queer-tempered Mrs. Trumball, all smiles. Mr. Deane, of the firm of Wickham and Deane, urbane in shorts, black-silk stockings, and silver knee and shoe buckles, was a father of whom the lovely bride felt proud, as she did too of Aunt Lizzie; who looked as if she had worn silks and laces, and kept her soft white large hands in mittens all her life. Deep in every one's heart was the memory of warm-hearted, generous George Wickham, gone for ever from those whose meeting there, and in their mutual relations, he would have made more joyous; but no one named him, for no one could have done it then and there in a voice which would not have been thick with emotion. Tears must have followed any mention of him; and who would have caused their flow at such a happy gathering? Every one knew what every one was feeling and what a long pause meant, which Robert broke by saying with a sigh, "Well, I do wish that poor dear William were here; I am so happy that I wish every one else was; and I hate to think of him, hospitable, affectionate creature, dragging out his days among fat phlegmatic Dutch boors, without a single soul to speak to." Polly, at his side, contrived to give him, under the table, a little squeeze expressive of the fullest approbation.

"I'm glad you have forgiven him, Bob," said his mother.

"Well, really, mother, it was but natural that I should be savage at first. Men can't be quite as tender-hearted as women, I suppose; and they see the consequences of pecuniary frailties more clearly, and suffer more from them, than they do; but I must be a brute if, happy as I am, I didn't wish well to everybody, especially to that good fellow. Now don't cry, Polly."

Her father observed that there were great excuses for the vicar, and that every one must admit that he had done his utmost to make reparation.

"Yes," said Alfred, with mock gravity. It was his delight to puzzle Aunt Lizzie; she never could make out whether he were joking or oracular. "I have learned wisdom through the rudiments of a painful experience; and, steady reformed man of mature years as I find myself, I pronounce that William might have done much worse."

"Shall I write and urge him to come back?" asked Robert.

"Do! do! do!" resounded in various voices all around the table.

"Very well; I'm more than willing. Polly told me confidentially a few days ago that she had no turn for extravagance; and I feel so domestic and moderate, that I fancy we may manage to provide for the fine young family that William's indiscretions have thrown on our hands, though he will be able to give less help than if he remained at Rotterdam."

"Mr. Ridlem's stipend would be saved, you know, Bob."

"Not exactly, mother. William couldn't live at home as he lives now; that would be painful to us and impossible for him."

"True; I forgot that."

"It is difficult for me to put in a word," said Alfred, "because I've been a great expense to Bob, and he hasn't done with me yet; in fact I've no right to make a suggestion; but it is my full intention to reimburse him one of these days. I shouldn't have said so, only the chance of helping to bring William back--"

"You're a good fellow, Alfred; I believe you; and must confess that I have found you less trouble than I expected."

The result of the consultation was a letter to the vicar, signed by every one present, entreating him to return forthwith; a letter over which he cried like {414} a girl. It brought him back speedily, a wiser and not a sadder man. He said indeed that, though down among the dykes, he had never been so happy as since he made all square with his conscience.

To follow the affairs of Upfield and the Wickhams further would involve a series of stories. It must suffice to say that Robert's marriage turned out really well; and that from the day of her betrothal, the dearest wish of Polly's heart was gratified; for he, unasked, joined her and the other stragglers who--the laws notwithstanding--made their way on Sundays and holidays to a side-entrance in venerable old Edward's Hall, and were admitted to mass in the little well-loved chapel; Mr. Armand the librarian, identical with Father Armand the priest, thanking God devoutly for the addition to the fold.

From The Month.

A LOST CHAPTER OF CHURCH HISTORY RECOVERED.

BY JAMES SPENCER NORTHCOTE, D.D.

If we set before a skilful professor of comparative anatomy a few bones dug out of the bowels of the earth, he will re-construct for us the whole form of the animal to which they belonged; and it sometimes happens that these theoretical constructions are singularly justified by later discoveries. It is the province of an archaeologian to attempt something of the same kind. A historian transcribes for our use annals more or less fully composed and faithfully transmitted by his predecessors. He may have to gather his materials from various sources; he must distinguish the true from the false; and he gives shape, consistency, and life to the whole; but, for the most part at least, he has little to supply that is new from any resources of his own. The archaeologian, on the contrary, if he be really a man of learning and science, and not a mere collector of old curiosities, aims at discovering and restoring annals that are lost, by means of a careful and intelligent use of every fragment of most heterogeneous materials that happens to come across him. And there is certainly nobody in the present age whose talent and industry in this branch of learning, so far at least as _Christian_ archaeology is concerned, can at all compare with that of Cavaliere G. B. de Rossi. For more than twenty years he has devoted himself to the study of the Roman catacombs, and at length we begin to enter upon the fruit of his labors. He has just published (by order of the Pope, and at the expense, we believe, of the Commission of Sacred Archaeology, instituted by his Holiness in 1851) the first volume of _Roma Sotteranea_; a magnificent volume, splendidly illustrated, and full of new and varied information. An abstract of its contents would hardly be suitable to our pages; but none, we think, can fail to be interested in what we may venture to call _the first chapter_ of the History of the Catacombs--a chapter that had certainly never before been written, even if it had been attempted.

All earlier authors upon subterranean Rome, so far as our experience goes, whilst describing fully, and it may be illustrating with considerable learning, the catacombs as they now exist, and all the monuments they {415} contain, have been content to pass over with a few words of apology and conjecture the question of their origin and early history. They have told us that the Jewish residents in Rome had burial-places of a similar character; and they have shown how natural and probable it was that the first Roman Christians, unwilling to burn their dead in pagan fashion, should have imitated the practices of the ancient people of God. When pressed to explain how so gigantic a work, as the Roman catacombs undoubtedly are, could have been carried on by the Christians under the very feet of their bitter persecutors, yet without their knowledge, they have pointed to the rare instance of a cemetery entered by a staircase hidden within the recesses of a sand-pit; they have guessed that here or there some Christian patrician, some senator or his wife, may have given up a garden or a vineyard for use as a burial-ground; and then they have passed on to the much easier task of enumerating the subterranean chapels, tracing the intricacies of the galleries, or describing the paintings, sculptures, and inscriptions. The work of De Rossi is of a very different character. It begins _ab ovo_, and proceeds scientifically. It shows not only how these wonderful cemeteries _may_ have been made, but also--as far as is practicable, and a great deal further than nine-tenths even of the most learned archaeologians ever supposed to be practicable--how and when each cemetery really _was_ made. From the few scattered bones, so to speak, which lay buried, and for the most part _broken_, partly in the depths of the catacombs themselves, partly in the Acts of the Martyrs, the Liber Pontificalis, and a few other records of ecclesiastical history, he has reconstructed with consummate skill the complete skeleton, if we should not rather say has reproduced the whole body, and set it full of life and vigor before us. Not that he has indulged in hasty conjectures, or given unlimited scope to a lively imagination; far from it. On the contrary, we fear many of his less learned readers will be disposed to find fault with the slow and deliberate, almost ponderous, method of his progress, and to grow impatient under the mass of minute criticisms with which some of his pages are filled, and by which he insists upon justifying each step that he takes. Indeed, we have some scruple at presenting our readers with the sum and substance of his argument, divested of all these _pièces justificatives_, as our neighbors would call them, lest they should suspect us of inventing rather than describing. However, we think it is too precious a page of Church history to be lost, and we therefore proceed to publish it, only premising that nobody must pretend to judge of its truth merely from the naked abstract of it which we propose to give, but that all who are really interested in the study should examine for themselves in detail the whole mass of evidence by which, in De Rossi's pages, it is supported, most of which is new, and all newly applied.

To tell our story correctly, it is necessary we should step back into pagan times, and first take a peep at their laws and usages in the matter of burials. No classical scholar need be told how strictly prohibited by old Roman law was all intra-mural interment. Indeed every traveller knows that all the great roads leading into Rome were once lined on either side with sepulchral monuments, many of which still remain; and the letters inscribed upon them tell us how many feet of frontage, and how many feet at the back (into the field), belonged to each monument, [IN. FR. P. so many. IN. AG. P. so many. _In fronte, pedum--. In agro, pedum--_.] M. de Rossi (the brother of our author) has published a very interesting plan of one of these monuments with all its dependencies, as represented on an ancient marble slab dug up on the Via Lavicana. On this slab, not only are the usual measurements of frontage and depth carefully recorded, but also the private or public roads which crossed the {416} property, the gardens and vineyards of which it consisted, the swampy land on which grew nothing but reeds (it is called _Harundinetum_), and the ditch by which, on one side at least, it was bounded. Unfortunately the slab is not perfect, so that we cannot tell the exact measurement of the whole. Enough, however, remains to show that the property altogether was not less than twelve Roman _jugera_, or nearly 350,000 square feet; and other inscriptions are extant, specifying an amount of property almost equal to this as belonging to a single monument (e.g. _Huic monumento cedunt agri puri jugera decem_). The necessity for so large an assignment of property to a single tomb was not so much the vastness of the mausoleum to be erected, as because certain funeral rites were to be celebrated there year by year, on the anniversary of the death, and at other times; sacrifices to be offered, feasts to be given, etc.; and for these purposes _exedrae_ were provided, or semi-circular recesses, furnished with sofas and all things necessary for the convenience of guests. A house also (_custodia_) was often added, in which a person should always live to look after the monument, for whose support these gardens, vineyards, or other hereditaments were set apart as a perpetual endowment. It only remains to add, that upon all these ancient monuments may be found these letters, or something equivalent to them, H.M.H.EX.T.N.S. (_Hoc monumentum haeredes ex testamento ne sequatur_); in other words, "This tomb and all that belongs to it is sacred; henceforth it can neither be bought nor sold; it does not descend to my heirs with the rest of my property; but must ever be retained inviolate for the purpose to which I have destined it, viz., as a place of sepulchre for myself and my family," or certain specified members only of the family; or, in some rare instances, others also external to the family. The same sacred character which attached to the monuments themselves belonged also to the _area_ in which they stood, the _hypogeum_ or subterranean chamber, which not unfrequently was formed beneath them; but it is a question whether it extended to the houses or other possessions attached to them.

Nor were these monuments confined to the noblest and wealthiest citizens. Even in the absence of all direct evidence upon the subject, we should have found it hard to believe that any but the very meanest of the slaves were buried (or rather were thrown without any burial at all) into those open pits (_puticoli_) of which Horace and others have told us. And in fact, a multitude of testimonies have come down to us of the existence, both in republican and imperial Rome, of a number of colleges, as they were called, or corporations (clubs or confraternities, as we should more probably call them), whose members were associated, partly in honor of some particular deity, but far more with a view to mutual assistance for the performance of the just funeral rites. Inscriptions which are still extant testify to nearly fourscore of these _collegia_, each consisting of the members of a different trade or profession. There are the masons and carpenters, soldiers and sailors, bakers and cooks, corn-merchants and wine-merchants, hunters and fishermen, goldsmiths and blacksmiths, dealers in drugs and carders of wool, boatmen and divers, doctors and bankers, scribes and musicians--in a word, it would be hard to say what trade or employment is not here represented. Not, however, that this is the only bond of fellowship upon which such confraternities were built; sometimes, indeed generally, the members were united, as we have already said, in the worship of some deity; they were _cultores Jovis_, or _Herculis_, or _Apollinis et Diana_; sometimes they merely took the title of some deceased benefactor whose memory they desired to honor; e. g. _cultores statuarum et clipeorum L. Abulli Dextri;_ and sometimes the only bond of union seems to have been service in the same house or family. A long {417} and curious inscription belonging to one of these colleges, consisting mainly of slaves, and erected in honor of Diana and Antinous, _and for the burial of the dead_, in the year 133 of our era, reveals a number of most interesting particulars as to its internal organization, which are worth repeating in this place. So much was to be paid at entrance, and a keg of good wine beside, and then so much a month afterward; for every member who has regularly paid up his contribution, so much to be allowed for his funeral, of which a certain proportion to be distributed amongst those who assist; if a member dies at a distance of more than twenty miles from Rome, three members are to be sent to fetch the body, and so much is to be allowed them for travelling expenses; if the master (of the slave) will not give up the body, he is nevertheless to receive all the funeral rites; he is to be buried in effigy; if any of the members, being a slave, receives his freedom, he owes the college an amphora of good wine; he who is elected president (_magister_), must inaugurate his accession to office by giving a supper to all the members; six times a year the members dine together in honor of Diana, Antinous, and the patron of the college, and the allowance of bread and of wine on these occasions is specified; so much to every _mess_ of four; no complaints or disputed questions may be mooted at these festivals, "to the end that our feasts may be merry and glad;" finally, whoever wishes to enter this confraternity is requested to study all the rules first before he enters, lest he afterward grumble or leave a dispute as a legacy to his heir.

We are afraid we have gone into the details of this ancient burial club more than was strictly necessary for our purpose; but we have been insensibly drawn on by their extremely interesting character, reminding us (as the Count de Champagny, from whom we have taken them, most justly remarks) both of the ancient Christian _Agapae_, or love-feasts, and (we may add) the mediaeval guilds. This, however, suggests a train of thought which we must not be tempted to pursue. De Rossi has been more self-denying on the subject; he confines himself to a brief mention of the existence of the clubs, refers us to other authors for an account of them, and then calls our attention to this very singular, and for our purpose most important fact concerning them: viz., that at a time when institutions of this kind had been made a cover for political combinations and conspiracies, or at least when the emperors suspected and feared such an abuse of them, and therefore rigorously suppressed them, nevertheless an exception was expressly made in favor of those which consisted of "poorer members of society, who met together _every month_ to make a small contribution toward the expenses of their _funeral_;" and then he puts side by side with this law the words of Tertullian in his _Apology_, written about the very same time, where he speaks of the Christians contributing _every month_, or when and as each can and chooses, a certain sum to be spent on feeding and _burying_ the poor. The identity of language in the two passages, when thus brought into juxtaposition, is very striking; and we suppose that most of our readers will now recognize the bearing of all we have hitherto been saying upon the history of the Christian catacombs, from which we have seemed to be wandering so, far.

We have already said that one of the first questions which persons are inclined to ask when they either visit, or begin to study, the catacombs, is this: How was so vast a work ever accomplished without the knowledge and against the will of the local authorities? And we answer (in part at least), as the Royal Scientific Society _should_ have answered King Charles the Second's famous question about the live fish and the dead fish in the tub of water, "Are you quite sure of your facts? Don't call upon us to {418} find the reason of a problem which, after all, only exists perhaps in your own imagination." And so in truth it is. The arguments of the Cavaliere de Rossi have satisfied us that the Christians of the first ages were under no necessity of having recourse to extraordinary means of secrecy with reference to the burial of their dead; it was quite possible for them to have cemeteries on every side of Rome, under the protection of the ordinary laws and practices of their pagan neighbors.

But is not this to revolutionize the whole history of these wonderful excavations? We cannot help it, if it be so; it is at least one of those revolutions which are generally accepted as justifiable, and certainly are approved in their consequences; for when it is complete, everything finds its proper place; books and grave-stones, the cemeteries and their ancient historians, every witness concerned gives its own independent testimony, all in harmony with one another, and with the presumed facts of the case. Let us see how the early history of the catacombs runs, when reconstructed according to this new theory. The first Christian cemeteries were made in ground given for that very purpose by some wealthier member of the community, and secured to it in perpetuity in accordance with the laws of the country. There was nothing to prevent the erection of a public monument in the area thus secured, and the excavation of chambers and galleries beneath. And history tells us of several of the most ancient catacombs that they had their origin from this very circumstance, that some pious Christian, generally a Roman matron of noble rank, buried the relics of some famous martyr on her own property (_in praedio suo_.)

The oldest memorial we have about the tomb of St. Peter himself is this, that Anacletus "_memoriam construxit B. Petri_, and places where the bishops (of Rome) should be buried;" and this language is far more intelligible and correct, if spoken of some public tomb, than of an obscure subterranean grave; _memoria_, or _cella memoriae_, being the classical designation of such tombs. How much more appropriate also does the language of Caius the presbyter, preserved to us by Eusebius, now appear, wherein he speaks (in the days of Zephyrinus) of the _trophies_ of the apostles being _to be seen_ at the Vatican and on the Ostian way? Tertullian, too, speaks of the bodies of the martyrs lying in _mausoleums and monuments_, awaiting the general resurrection. From the same writer we learn that the _areae_ of the Christian burials were known to and were sacrilegiously attacked by the enraged heathens in the very first years of the third century; and quite recently there has reached us from this same writer's country a most valuable inscription, discovered among the ruins of a Roman building, not far from the walls of the ancient Caesarea of Mauritania, which runs in this wise: "Euelpius, a worshipper of the word (_cultor Verbi_; mark the word, and call to mind the _cultores Jovis_, etc.), has given this area for sepulchres, and has built a _cella_ at his own cost. He left this _memoria_ to the holy church. Hail, brethren: Euelpius, with a pure and simple heart, salutes you, born of the Holy Spirit." It is true that this inscription, as we now have it, is not the original stone; it is expressly added at the foot of the tablet, that _Ecclesia fratrum_ has restored this _titulus_ at a period subsequent to the persecution during which the original had been destroyed; but both the sense and the words forbid us to suppose that any change had been made in the language of the epitaph, to which we cannot assign a date later than the middle of the third century. But, finally, and above all, let us descend into the catacombs themselves, and put them to the question. Michael Stephen de Rossi, the constant companion of his brother's studies, having invented some new mechanical contrivance for taking plans of subterranean excavations, [Footnote 78] has made exact {419} plans of several catacombs, not only of each level (or _floor_, so to speak) within itself, but also in its relations to the superficial soil, and in the relations of the several floors one with another. A specimen of these is set before us by means of different colors or tints, representing the galleries of the different levels, in the map of the cemetery of St. Callixtus, which accompanies this volume; and a careful study of this map is sufficient to demonstrate that the vast net-work of paths in this famous cemetery originally consisted of several smaller cemeteries, confined each within strict and narrow limits, and that they were only united at some later, though still very ancient period. For it cannot have been without reason that the subterranean galleries should have doubled and re-doubled upon themselves within the limits of a certain well-defined area; that they should never have overstepped a certain boundary-line in this or that direction, though the nature of the soil and every other consideration would have seemed to invite them to proceed; that they should have been suddenly interrupted by a flight of steps, penetrating more deeply into the bowels of the earth, and there been reproduced exactly upon the same scale and within the same limits. These facts can only be fully appreciated by an actual examination of the map, where they speak for themselves; but even those who have not this advantage will scarcely call in question the conclusion that is drawn from them, when they call to mind how exactly it coincides with all the ancient testimonies we have already adduced on the subject, and when they learn the singular and most interesting fact, that the Cav. de Rossi has been able in more than one instance, by means of the sepulchral inscriptions, to identify the noble family by whom the site of the cemetery was originally granted.

[Footnote 78: It was highly commended and received a prize at the International Exhibition of 1862.]

It will be of course understood that we have been speaking of the earliest ages of the Church's history, and that we are far from denying that there were other periods during which secrecy was an essential condition of the Christian cemeteries; on the contrary, did our space allow, we could show what parts of the catacombs belonged to the one period, and what to the other, and what are the essential characteristics of each. We might unfold also, with considerable minuteness, the _economy_ of these cemeteries, even during the ages of persecution; under whose management they were administered, whether they were parochial or otherwise, together with many other highly interesting particulars. But we have already exceeded the limits assigned us, and we hope that those of our readers who wish to know more on the subject will take care to possess themselves of the book from which we have drawn our information, that so funds may not be wanting for the completion of so useful a work. Nothing but a deficiency of funds, in the present condition of the pontifical treasury, hinders the immediate issue of other volumes of this and its kindred work, the _Inscriptiones Christianae,_ by the same author. He announces his intention to bring out the volumes of _Roma Sotterranea_ and of the _Inscriptions_ alternately, for they mutually explain and illustrate one another, and are in fact parts of the same whole; and the public has been long impatient for the volume which is promised next, viz., the ancient inscriptions which illustrate Christian dogma.

{420}

MISCELLANY.

ART.

_Domestic._--The fortieth annual exhibition of the National Academy of Design was opened to the public on the evening of April 27th, under circumstances which may well mark an era in the history of that institution. After drifting from place to place through forty long years, now deficient in funds, and now in danger of losing public sympathy or support, sometimes unable to carry out its specific purposes, and almost always cramped for space, or otherwise perplexed in the details of its public exhibitions, the Academy, like Noah's ark, long buffetted by waves and driven by tempests, finds a resting place, not on Mount Ararat, but at the corner of Fourth avenue and Twenty-third street. And as the "world's gray fathers," after their troubled voyage, regarded with infinite satisfaction _terra firma_ and the blue sky, so doubtless the older of the academicians, those who have accompanied the institution in all its wanderings, are doubtless both pleased and amazed to find themselves arrived at a goodly haven with secure anchorage. To drop the figure, the Academy is now permanently established in an attractive and convenient building, well situated in a central locality, and bids fair to enter upon a career of usefulness far beyond the results of its previous experience.

The new building has been for so long a time completed externally, that its merits have been canvassed with every shade of opinion, from enthusiastic commendation to quite as decided disapprobation. The majority of critics, having their reputation at stake, are afraid to hazard an opinion, and prudently remain neutral, until some authoritative decision shall be made. As an architectural effort it may be called an experiment, on which account it presents perhaps as many claims to critical notice as the works of art which adorn its walls. The style, singularly enough, is assigned to no special era or country, but is described to be of "that revived Gothic, now the dominant style in England, which combines those features of the different schools of architecture of the Middle Ages which are most appropriate to our nineteenth-century buildings," which means probably that the building is of an eclectic Gothic pattern. All modern styles since the renaissance may be said to be eclectic, whether founded on antique or mediaeval models, and the building in question differs from other Gothic edifices, of more familiar aspect to us, chiefly in form, external decoration, and the arrangement of its component parts. In the American mind Gothic architecture is associated chiefly with ecclesiastical structures and is popularly supposed to be subject to no fixed laws, beyond an adherence to the irregular and picturesque. Given a cruciform ground-plan, a pointed spire, steep roof, narrow arched windows, buttresses, and pinnacles _ad libitum_, and you have as good a Gothic building as the public taste can appreciate. Here, however, is a nearly square building, covering an area of eighty by about a hundred feet, which is neither a church nor a college, and is without steep roof, spire, buttresses, or pinnacles. The public evidently do not fathom the mystery at present, and those whose praise of the new Academy borders on the extravagant, are perhaps as much astray in their adherence to the _omne ignotum pro magnifico_ principle as those wiseacres who tell you knowingly that the architect has tried to palm off upon us a palpable imitation of the doge's palace in Venice. If the latter class of critics will refresh their memory a little, or consult any good print of Venetian architecture, they will find about as much resemblance between the two buildings as exists between the old Custom House in Wall street and the Parthenon. The plain fact is that we are so unused to Gothic architecture, applied to secular purposes, and to any other forms of it than the ecclesiastical, as to be without sufficient data to form a correct idea of the present edifice. And yet, such is the conceit of criticism, that thousands of persons pronounce their judgment upon it with as much confidence as they would upon a trivial matter perfectly {421} familiar to them. These may yet find that hasty opinions are dangerous.

The Academy, as has been hinted above, is of rectangular shape, having three stories, of which the first is devoted to the life school and the school of design, the second to the library, reception rooms, council room, and similar apartments, and the third to the exhibition galleries, five in number, with which at present we have specially to deal. The main entrance to the building is on Twenty-third street. Passing up a double flight of marble steps and through a magnificent Gothic portal into a vestibule, the visitor next enters the great hall, in the centre of which commences a broad stairway, consisting at first of a double flight of steps, and ultimately of a single flight, leading to the level of the exhibition floor. Running all around the open space on this story caused by the stairway is a corridor, two sides of which, parallel with the stairway, comprise a double arcade, supported on columns of variegated and polished marble, the capitals of which, of white marble, are hereafter to be sculptured in delicate leaf-and-flower work from nature. Opening from this corridor are the exhibition rooms, which also communicate with each other, and of which the largest is thirty by seventy-six feet, and the smallest, used as a gallery of sculpture, is twenty-one feet square. These are all lighted by sky-lights, and are intended for the purposes of the annual exhibitions. In the corridor surrounding the stairway are to be hung the works of art belonging to the Academy, although at present its walls are covered with pictures contributed to this year's exhibition. The several rooms described are well-lighted, and though smaller perhaps than the large outlay upon the building might have led the public to expect, seem excellently adapted for their purposes. The largest of them is a model exhibition gallery in respect to proportions and light, and all are tastefully finished and pannelled with walnut from floor to ceiling. Throughout the building the same costly and durable style prevails, the wood-work being of oak and walnut, and the vestibules floored with mosaic of tiles.

So much for the interior, against which no serious complaint has been uttered. Externally the walls of the basement story are of gray marble relieved by bands of graywacke, those of the story above of white marble with similar bands, while the uppermost story is of white marble with checker-work pattern of oblong gray blocks, laid stair-fashion. The whole is surmounted by a rich arcaded cornice of white marble. The double flight of white marble steps on Twenty-third street, leading to the main entrance, is, perhaps, the most marked feature of the building, at once graceful, rich, and substantial, and may fairly challenge comparison with any similar structure of like pattern in the country. Under the platform is a triple arcade, inclosing a drinking-fountain, and profusely decorated with sculpture, and from the upper landing springs the great arched Gothic portal, large enough almost for the entrance to a cathedral. On either side of this are two columns of red Vermont marble with white marble capitals and bases, on which rests a broad archivolt enriched with sculpture and varied by voussoirs, alternately white and gray. The tympanum above the door is to be filled with an elaborate mosaic of colored tile work. The basement windows, on Fourth avenue, are double, with segmental arches, each pair of which is supported in the middle on a clustered column with rich carved capital and base. All the other windows in the building have pointed arches, and the archivolts of those in the first story are decorated like that of the doorway. In the place of windows on the gallery floor are circular openings for ventilation, filled with elaborate tracery. The building was designed by Mr. P. B. Wight, and erected at a cost of over two hundred thousand dollars.

Without attempting to inquire whether this or that portion of the building is correctly designed, or even whether the whole is entirely satisfactory, or the reverse, we may say that in the opinion of most persons the external flight of steps and the entrance are too large and elaborate for the building, reminding one of those remarkable edifices for banking or other public purposes occasionally to be seen in this city, which are all portico, as if the main structure had walked away, or had not been considered of sufficient importance to be added to the entrance. It is partly owing to this defect, and partly to the insufficient area on which it is built, {422} that the Academy seems wanting in height and depth, and therefore devoid of just proportions--has in fact an unmistakable _dumpy look_. Many an architect before Mr. Wight has been prevented by want of space from effectively developing ideas intrinsically good, and perhaps the severest criticism that can be pronounced against him in the present instance is that ambition has led him to attempt what his better judgment might have taught him was impossible. "Cut your coat according to your cloth," is a maxim of which the applicability is not yet exhausted. Again, the obtrusive ugliness of the skylights, rising clear above the sculptured cornices, can hardly fail to offend the eye, and suggests the idea of an encumbered or even an overloaded roof. If to these defects be added the curious optical delusion by which the gray marble checker-work on the upper story appears uneven and awry, and which denotes a radical error in design, we believe we have mentioned the chief features of the building which even those who profess to admire it unite in condemning. The objection that the building is of unusual form and appearance, and out of keeping with the styles of architecture in vogue with us, is not worthy of serious consideration.

Having said so much in depreciation of the Academy, we must also say that it conveys on the whole an elegant, artistic, and even cheerful impression to the mind, relieving, with its beautiful contrasts of white and gray and slate, the sombre blocks of red or brown buildings which surround it, and actually lightening up the rather prosaic quarter in which it stands. Too much praise cannot be accorded to the architect for the combinations of color which he has infused into his design; and, granting that in this respect he has committed some errors of detail, they are trifling in comparison with the good effects which will probably result from the future employment of this means of embellishment. What if the idea, imperfectly embodied in this experimental building, should in the end compass the overthrow of that taste which leads us to build gloomy piles of brown houses, overlaid with tawdry ornamentation, and pronounce them beautiful? When such an innovation is attempted and finds even a moderate degree of favor, there is hope that the era of architectural coldness and poverty may yet pass away. The carving profusely distributed on both the exterior and interior of the building, and of which, we are told, "the flowers and leaves of our woods have furnished the models," is for the most part exquisite in design and execution. Here, at least, is naturalistic art, against which the sticklers for idealism can offer no objection, so beautiful and appropriate are the designs, and so suggestive of the necessity of going back to nature for inspiration. If the new Academy possessed no other merit than this, it would nevertheless subserve a useful purpose in the development of taste.

Having devoted so much space to the building, we can only allude generally to the contents of its galleries, of which we propose to speak more at length in a future notice. The exhibition, though inferior to those of some years in the number, exceeds them all in the quality of its pictures, and presents on the whole a creditable and encouraging view of the progress of American art. If the capacity of the galleries is not so great as was expected, there is on the other hand less danger that the eye will be offended by a long array of unsightly works, and we may probably bid good-bye to the monstrosities of composition and color which the Academy was formerly compelled to receive, in order to eke out its annual exhibitions. Such has been the increase in the number of our resident artists of late years, that but a limited number of pictures, and those consequently their best efforts, can henceforth be contributed by each. This fact alone will ensure a constantly increasing improvement to succeeding exhibitions. As usual, landscape predominates, with every variety of treatment and motive, from Academic generalization and pure naturalism down to Pre-Raphaelitism and hopeful though somewhat imperfect attempts at ideal sentiment. Portraiture and genre are also well represented, with a fair proportion of animal, flower, and still-life pieces, and of the numerous family of miscellaneous subjects which defy classification. History is even less affected than usual, the dramatic episodes of the great rebellion failing to suggest subjects to our painters other than those of an indirect or merely probable character. So far as the present exhibition may be supposed to afford an {423} indication, "high art," and particularly that branch of it which illustrates sacred history, is defunct among--us a circumstance which those who have witnessed previous efforts by contemporary American painters in that department will not perhaps regret. The pictures are generally hung with judgment, and in a spirit of fairness which ought to satisfy, though it will not probably in every instance, the demands of exhibitors. And it may be added that they appear to good effect, and are daily admired, using the word in its derived as well as its more common sense, by throngs of visitors.

Church, the landscape painter, has recently gone to the West Indies, with the intention of passing the summer in the mountain region of Jamaica, where he will doubtless find abundant materials for study. He leaves behind a large unfinished work of great promise, "The Rainbow in the Tropics," and some completed ones of less dimensions.

Augero, an Italian artist, has recently completed for a church in Boston a picture of St. Andrew bearing the cross, of which a contemporary says: "Mr. Augero has departed from the traditional types that have descended to him, and has treated the picture in a manner entirely his own. The head of the saint is finely handled, and, without being too much spiritualized, has sufficient of the ideal to give it value both as a church picture and a work of art. In general arrangement and color the work is especially to be admired." This artist is said to have received quite a number of commissions for ecclesiastical decoration.

Palmer is completing a bust of Washington Irving, which has been pronounced by the friends of the latter a successful likeness.

An essay on Gustave Doré, by B. P. G. Hamilton, will soon be published by Leypoldt of Philadelphia.

The spring exhibition of the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts is now open in Philadelphia. The collections are said to be large and to represent all departments of painting.

_Foreign_.--The Exhibition of the Society of British Artists and the General Exhibition of Water Color Drawings opened in London in the latter part of April. The former contains more than a thousand pictures, few of which, it is said, rise above the most common average of picture-making, while the greater part fall below it. "There is something very depressing," says the _Reader_, "about such a large display of commonplace art. It is almost painful to have the fact forced upon one's mind, that the thought and labor represented in all these pictures is misapplied, if not wasted; for to this conclusion we must come, if we bring the display in Suffolk street to the test of comparison with any real work of art. A fine picture by Landseer or Millais would outweigh, in intrinsic value, the whole collection. Denude the Royal Academy exhibition of the works of Landseer, Millais, Philip, and other of its most accomplished contributors, and subtract from it at the same time the works of promise which lend to it so great an interest, and we should have a second Suffolk street exhibition, characterized by a similar dead level of mediocrity and insipidity; for neither highly accomplished work nor sign of promise is to be seen in this the forty-second annual exhibition of the Society of British Artists." From which it would appear that contemporary art in England gives no remarkable promise.

A large collection of the late John Leech's sketches, etc., was lately sold in London. It comprised the original designs for the political cartoons and pictures of life and character which have appeared in Punch during the last twenty years; the designs for the "Ingoldsby Legends," "Jorrock's Hunt," "Ask Mamma," "Mr. Facey Romford's Hounds," and other sporting novels, and several pictures in oil. The prices ran very high, the net result being £4,089.

The collection of paintings and water color drawings by the best modern British artists, formed by Mr. John Knowles, of Manchester, was recently disposed of in London at very handsome prices. The chief attraction was Rosa Bonheur's "Muleteers Crossing the Pyrenees," which brought 2,000 guineas. The collection realized £21,750.

Preparations are making to remove the cartoons of Raphael from Hampton Court to the new north fire-proof gallery in the South Kensington Museum, formerly occupied by the British pictures of the National Gallery.

The Great Pourtalès sale has closed {424} after lasting upward of a month and realizing a sum total of nearly three millions of francs. A Paris paper states that, considering the interest of the sums expended in forming the collection as money lost, the sale will give a profit on the outlay of a million and a half of francs, or about a hundred per cent.--a notable illustration of the mania for picture buying now prevailing in Europe. The owner died ten years ago, leaving directions that the collection should not be sold until 1864, for which his heirs and representatives are doubtless properly grateful. The following will give an idea of the prices fetched by the best pictures: Campagne, Ph. de: The Marriage of the Virgin, formerly the altar-piece of the chapel of the Palais Royal, sold for 43,500f. Hals, Francis: An unknown portrait of a man; his left hand leaning on his hip and touching the handle of his sword, 51,000f. Rembrandt: Portrait of a Burgomaster, 34,500f. By the same: Portrait of a veteran soldier seated at a table, 27,000f. Murillo: The Triumph of the Eucharist; with the words _"In finem dilexit eos,"_ 67,500f.; bought for the Louvre. By the same: The Virgin bending over the infant Christ, whom she presses to her bosom, 18,000f. By the same: St. Joseph holding the infant Christ by the hand, 15,000f. Velasquez: The Orlando Muerto, a bare-headed warrior, in a black cuirass, lying dead in a grotto strewn with human bones, his right hand on his breast, his left on the guard of his sword; from the roof of the grotto hangs a lamp, in which the flame is flickering, 37,000f. Albert Durer: A pen drawing, representing Samson, of colossal size, routing the Philistines with the jaw-bone of an ass, 4,500f. A portrait by Antonelli di Messina, bought years ago in Florence by Pourtalès for 1,500f., and appraised in his inventory at 20,000f., was sold to the Louvre, where it now hangs in the _salon carré_, for 113,000f.

Gustave Doré is announced to have undertaken to illustrate Shakespeare and the Bible.

The sale of the Due de Moray's gallery of paintings will take place in June. It contains six Meissoniers, which cost, at the utmost, not above 60,000 francs, but which will now probably fetch more than double that price.

A picture by Ribera, representing St. Luke taking the likeness of the Virgin, was sold recently in Paris for 21,000f.

French landscape art has lost one of its chief illustrators in the person of Constant Troyon, who died in the latter part of March, aged about fifty-two. He has been called the creator of the modern French school of landscape, and delighted in cheerful aspects of nature, which he rendered with masterly skill. Rural life, with its pleasing accessories of winding streams, picturesque low banks, groups of cattle, and shady hamlets, formed the favorite subjects of his pencil; and though his style was not always exact, he succeeded in infusing an unusual degree of physical life into his pictures, without ever degenerating into mere naturalism. As a colorist he excelled all contemporary animal and landscape painters, and used his brush with a freedom rivalling that of Delacroix. He died insane, and is said to have left a fortune of 1,200,000 francs. Some of his pictures are owned in New York.

A painting by Murillo, from the collection of the late Marquis Aguado, representing the death of Santa Clara, has been sold to the Royal Gallery of Madrid for 75,000 francs.

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{425}

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

THE CORRELATION AND CONSERVATION OF FORCES: A SERIES OF EXPOSITIONS, by Prof. Grove, Prof. Helmholtz, Dr. Mayer, Dr. Faraday, Prof. Liebig, and Dr. Carpenter. With an Introduction and brief Biographical Notices of the chief Promoters of the new views. By Edward L. Youmans, M.D. 12mo., pp. xlii., 438. New York: D. Appleton & Company.

Religious writers have repeatedly deplored the materialistic tendency of modern scientific research, and in many cases, no doubt, the complaint is a just one. But we must not forget that the bad tendency is in the philosophical system which is sought to be built upon the facts of discovery, not in the facts themselves. Every development, of truth, every fresh unveiling of the mechanism of the universe, must of necessity redound to the greater glory of God. And it seems to us that no scientific theory which has been broached for many years speaks more gloriously of the disposing and over-ruling hand of an all-wise Creator than the one to which the volume now before us is devoted. If there could be any place for comparison in speaking of the exercise of omnipotence, we might say that the new view of the nature and mode of action of the physical forces represents creation as a far more marvellous act than the old one did.

We speak of the correlation and conservation of force as a "new" theory because it is only lately that it has attracted much attention beyond the higher scientific circles, and indeed it would perhaps be going too far to say that it is yet firmly established. It has been developing however for a number of years, and the most distinguished experts in physical science have for some time accepted it with remarkable unanimity. In the book whose title we have given above, Dr. Yournans has brought together eight of the most valuable essays in which the theory has been maintained or explained by its founders and chief supporters. He has made his selection with excellent judgment, and prefixed to the whole a clear and well-written introduction, by the aid of which any reader of ordinary education will be able to appreciate what follows. The longest and most important essay is that by Professor Grove on "The Correlation of Physical Forces."

Force is defined by Professor Grove as that active principle inseparable from matter which induces its various changes. In other words, it is the agent or producer of change or motion. The modifications of this general agent--heat, light, electricity, magnetism, chemical affinity, gravity, cohesive attraction, etc.--are called the physical forces. In many cases, where one of these is excited all the others are set in motion: thus when sulphuret of antimony is _electrified_, at the moment of electrization it becomes _magnetic_; at the same time it is _heated_; if the heat is raised to a certain intensity, _light_ is produced; the compound is decomposed, and _chemical action_ is thereby brought into play; and so on. Moreover, we cannot magnetize a body without electrizing it, and vice-versa. This necessary reciprocal production is what is understood by the term "correlation of forces"--or in other words, we may say that any one of the natural forces may be converted into another mode of force, and may be reproduced by the same force. A striking example of the conversion of heat into electricity is furnished by an experiment of Seebeck's. Two dissimilar metals are brought together and heated at the point of contact. A current of electricity flows through the metals, having a definite direction according to the metals employed; continues as long as an increasing temperature is pervading the metals; ceases when the temperature is stationary; and flows backward when the heat begins to decrease. The immediate convertibility of heat into light is not yet established beyond question, although these two forces exhibit many curious analogies with each other. But heat through the medium of electricity may easily be turned into light, chemical affinity, magnetism, etc. Electricity directly produces heat, as in the ignited wire, the electric spark, and the {426} voltaic arc. The last-named phenomenon--the flame which plays between the terminal points of a powerful voltaic battery produces the most intense heat with which we are acquainted; so intense, in fact, that it cannot be measured, as every sort of matter is dissipated by it. For instance, it actually _distils_ or volatilizes iron, a metal which by ordinary means is fusible only at a very high temperature. The voltaic arc also produces the most intense light that we know of. Instances of the conversion of electricity into magnetism and chemical action are familiar to everybody. The reciprocal relations of light with other modes of force are thus far very imperfectly known. Professor Grove however describes an experiment by which light is made to produce simultaneously chemical action, electricity, magnetism, heat, and motion. The conversion of light into chemical force in photography is another exemplification of the law of correlation, and Bunsen and Roscoe have experimentally shown that certain rays of light are extinguished or absorbed in doing chemical work. A familiar example of the change of light into heat is seen in the phenomena of what is termed the absorption of light. Place different colored pieces of cloth on snow exposed to sunshine: black will absorb the most light, and will also develop the most heat, as may be seen by its sinking deepest in the snow; white, which absorbs little or no light, will not sink at all.

The evolution of one force or mode of force into another has naturally induced many to regard all the different natural agencies as reducible to unity, and much ingenuity has been expended on the question which force is the efficient cause of all the others. One says electricity, another chemical action, another gravity. Professor Grove believes that all are wrong: each mode of force may produce the others, and none can be produced except by some other as an anterior force. We can no more determine which is the efficient cause than we can determine whether the chicken is the cause of the egg, or the egg the cause of the chicken. The tendency of recent researches however is toward the conclusion that all the physical forces are simply modes of motion; that as, in the case of friction, the gross or palpable motion which is arrested by the contact of another body, is subdivided into molecular motions or vibrations (or as Helmholtz expresses it, peculiar shivering motions of the ultimate particles of bodies), which motions are only heat or electricity, as the case may be; so the other affections are only matter moved or molecularly agitated in certain definite directions. The identity of motion with heat was established in the last century by our countryman, Count Rumford, and has lately been beautifully illustrated by Professor Tyndall in his charming lectures on "Heat considered as a Mode of Motion." Dr. Mayer, of Heilbronn, and Mr. Joule, of Manchester, independently of each other, established the exact ratio between heat and motive power, showing that a quantity of heat sufficient to raise one pound of water one degree Fahrenheit in temperature is able to raise to the height of one foot a weight of 772 pounds; and conversely, that a weight of 772 pounds falling from a height of one foot evolves enough heat to raise the temperature of a pound of water one degree. That is, this quantity of force, expressed as 772 "foot-pounds," is to be regarded as the mechanical equivalent of 1° of temperature. Professor Grove considers at some length the identity of motion with other forms of force, especially electricity and magnetism, and alludes briefly to the inevitable consequence of this theory, that the different forces must bear an exact _quantitative_ relation to each other. "The great problem which remains to be solved," he says, "in regard to the correlation of physical forces, is this establishment of their equivalents of power, or their measurable relation to a given standard."

The doctrine of the conservation or persistence of force seems to flow naturally from what has been said above. It means simply that force is never destroyed: when it ceases to exist in one form it only passes into another. Power or energy, like matter, is neither created nor annihilated: "Though ever changing form, its total quantity in the universe remains constant and unalterable. Every manifestation of force must have come from a pre-existing equivalent force, and must give rise to a subsequent and equal amount of some other force. When, therefore, a force or effect appears, we are not at liberty to assume that it was self-originated, or {427} came from nothing; when it disappears we are forbidden to conclude that it is annihilated: we must search and find whence it came and whither it has gone; that is, what produced it, and what effect it has itself produced." (_Introduction_, p. xiii.) This branch of the subject will be found clearly and concisely treated in Professor Faraday's paper on "The Conservation of Force" (pp. 359-383).

Dr. Carpenter carries the new theory into the higher realms of nature, and shows the applicability of the principle of correlation and conservation to the vital phenomena of growth and development. "These forces," he says, "are generated in living bodies by the transformation of the light, heat, and chemical action supplied by the world around, and are given back to it again, either during their life, or after its cessation, chiefly in motion and heat, but also, to a less degree, in light and electricity." Vital force is that power by virtue of which a germ endowed with life is developed into an organization of a type resembling that of its parents, and which subsequently maintains that organism in its integrity. The prevalent opinion until lately has been that this force is inherent in the germ, which has been supposed to derive from its parent not merely its material substance, but a _germ-force_, in virtue of which it develops and maintains itself, beside imparting a fraction of the same force to each of its descendants. In this view of the question, the aggregate of all the germ-forces appertaining to the descendants, however numerous, of a common parentage, must have existed in the original progenitors. Take the case of the successive viviparous broods of _Aphides_, which (it has been calculated) would amount in the tenth brood to the bulk of _five hundred millions_ of stout men: a germ-force capable of organizing this vast mass of living structure must have been shut up in the single individual, weighing perhaps the 1-1000th of a grain, from which the first brood was evolved! So, too, in Adam must have been concentrated the germ-force of every individual of the human race, from the creation to the end of the world. This, says Dr. Carpenter, is a complete _reductio ad absurdum_. According to his theory, the germ supplies not the force, but the directive agency. The vital force of an animal or a plant is supplied by the same physical agencies which we have considered above.

Dr. Youmans in his introduction is disposed to push this part of the subject yet further, and to identify physical with intellectual force; but into this dangerous region it is unnecessary to follow him.

Some of the explanations of natural phenomena which are drawn as corollaries from the new theory of forces are in the highest degree curious and beautiful. Many of our readers will find Dr. Mayer's paper "On Celestial Dynamics" one of the most interesting portions of the book. He applies the principle of the convertibility of heat and motion to the question of the origin of the sun's heat, which he ascribes to the fall of asteroids upon the sun's surface. That an immense number of cosmical bodies are moving through the heavens and streaming toward the solar surface, is well known to all physicists. Now it is calculated that a single asteroid falling into the sun generates from 4,600 to 9,200 times as much heat as would be generated by the combustion of an equal mass of coal, and the mass of matter which in the form of asteroids falls into the sun every minute is from two to four hundred thousand billions of pounds! The enormous heat which must be evolved by such a bombardment is almost inconceivable.

REAL AND IDEAL. By John W. Montclair. 12mo., pp. 119. Philadelphia: Frederick Leypoldt. New York: Hurd & Houghton.

This is a dainty little volume of poems, partly translated from the German, partly the offspring of the native muse. They are simple, unpretending, and as a general thing melodious. The author probably has not aspired to a very high place in the temple of fame; without the ambition to produce anything very striking or very original, he has been satisfied with the endeavor which he pithily expresses in his "Prologue:"

"Clearer to think what others thought before-- Keenly to feel th' afflictions of our race-- Better to say what others oft have said--"

and if he does not always think clearer and speak better than those in whose footsteps he treads, there is at all events that in his verse which promises better {428} things after more practice. His faults are chiefly those of carelessness and inexperience. His metaphors are superabundant, and sometimes incongruous. He has a good ear for rhythm; but we often find him tripping in his prosody. Often too the requirements of the metre lead him to eke out a line with expletives, or weaken it with unnecessary epithets.

But we can commend the book for its healthy tone. Mr. Montclair has no tendency toward the morbid psychological school of poetry. He delights rather in the contemplation of nature, and in moralizing on the life and aspirations of man. In neither does he discover much that is new; but the natural beauties which he sings are those of which we do not easily tire, and his moral reflections are just though they may not be profound. For the matter of his translations he has chosen some of the simplest and shortest of the German legendary ballads. Several of them are rendered with considerable neatness and delicacy. The following version of a ballad to which attention has been particularly called of late, is a favorable specimen of Mr. Montclair's powers:

"LENORE.

"Above the stars are twinkling-- The moon is shining bright-- And the dead they ride by night.

"'My love, wilt ope thy window? I cannot long remain, And may not come again.

"'The cock already crows-- Tells of the dawning day, And warns me far away.

"'My journey distant lies; Afar with thee, my bride, A hundred leagues we'll ride.

"'In Hungary's fair land I've found a tranquil spot, A little garden plot.

"'And there, within the green, A little cottage rests, Befitting bridal guests.'

"'Oh, thou hast lingered long; Beloved, welcome here-- Lead on, I'll never fear.'

"'So, wrap my mantle 'round; The moon will be our guide, And quick by night we'll ride.'

"'When will our journey end? For heavy grows my sight, And lonely is the night.'

"'Yon gate leads to our home: Our bridal tour is done-- My purpose now is won.

"'Dismount we from our steed; Here lay thy aching head-- This tomb's our bridal bed.

"'Now art thou truly mine: I rode away thy breath-- Thou art the bride of death!'"

FAITH, THE VICTORY; ON A COMPREHENSIVE VIEW OF THE PRINCIPAL DOCTRINES OF THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION. By Rt. Rev. John McGill, D.D., Bishop of Richmond. 12mo., pp. viii., 336. Richmond: J. W. Randolph.

This work is a curiosity as a specimen of the literature of the late "Confederate States of America," and of course its typography and general execution are plain and unpretending. The work itself is the production of a prelate of high character and reputation for his thorough theological erudition and ability as a writer, and as a clear logical expounder of Catholic doctrine. It is written in a very systematic and exact manner; the style is terse, the treatment of topics brief but comprehensive; and yet, so lucid are the statements and so simple the language, that it is throughout intelligible to the ordinary reader, and in great part so to any one of good common sense who can read English and is able to understand a plain, simple treatise on religious doctrine. It may be characterized as an elementary treatise on theology for the laity, and as such is adapted to be very useful to Catholics, and also to those non-Catholics who retain the doctrine of the old orthodox Protestant tradition. The right reverend author is throughout careful to discriminate between the defined doctrine of the Church and the teaching of theologians, and is extremely cautious in expounding his opinion on those topics which are controverted between the different schools. The authority of the Catholic Church is established by the usual plain and irresistible deductions from the premises admitted by those who fully accept Christianity as a divine revelation and the Scripture as the infallible word of God. The dogmas of the {429} Catholic faith are stated in the plain ordinary language of the Church, with some account of the principal methods of explaining difficulties in vogue among theologians, and with proofs derived from Scriptures and tradition. The stress of the entire argument rests principally on the evidence that the Catholic dogmas have been revealed by God and clearly deduced by the infallible authority of the Church, consequently must be believed as certain truths. The line of fracture, where that fragment of Christianity called orthodox Protestantism was broken off from the integral system of Christian doctrine at the Reformation, is distinctly traced, and orthodox Protestants are shown that they are logically compelled to complete their own belief by becoming Catholics. The old Protestant tradition has a far more extensive sway in the southern states than among ourselves, and this excellent treatise will no doubt be the means of bringing numbers of those who are well-disposed, and need only to be taught what the revealed doctrines of Christianity really are, into the bosom of the Church. In this section of the United States, the greater portion of those who are willing to examine the evidences of the Catholic religion have floated far away from their old land-marks. In order to reach their minds, it is necessary to present the rational arguments which will solve their difficulties much more fully than is done in this treatise, and to interpret for them ecclesiastical and theological formulas in which divine truths are embodied in language which is intelligible to their intellect in its present state. They are either extreme rationalists or moderate rationalists; that is, they either reject the supernatural revelation entirely, or admit only so much of it as can be proved to them to be true on grounds of pure reason. Hence, we are obliged to begin with the intrinsic evidence of the truth and reasonableness of the Catholic faith, before we can bring the force of extrinsic revelation by the authority of the Church to bear upon their mind.

We welcome the present of this treatise from the Bishop of Richmond for another reason, as well as for its intrinsic value. It is a sign of the renewal of that ecclesiastical intercourse with our brethren of the southern states which has so long been interrupted.

And, in conclusion, we desire to call particular attention to the ensuing extract, as an evidence of the falsehood of the charge which our enemies are at present disposed to make against the Catholic Church of "sanctioning some of the worst enormities of slavery:"

"And here we would take occasion to deplore the conduct of the civil government in this country, regarding the matrimonial contract of slaves, which, though the rulers profess Christianity, is completely ignored even as a civil contract, and left entirely to the caprice of owners, who frequently without scruple or hesitation, and for the sake of interest or gain, part man and wife, separate parents from their children, and treat the matrimonial union among them as if it were really no more than the chance association of unreasoning animals. Often, also, some of these marriages are indissoluble by the sacramental bond, as well as by the original design of the Creator, and by the action of Christian proprietors and the neglect of a Christian government, these separated parties are subjected to the temptation to form criminal and forbidden alliances, from which frequency, custom, and the condition of servitude have removed, in the public view, the shame and stigma which they possess before God, and according to the maxims of the gospel. Christian proprietors will know and tolerate these alliances in their slaves, even when made without any formality, and where they are aware that one or both is under the obligation of other ties.

"It is not certain that the present dreadful calamities which afflict the country are not the scourge of God, chiefly for this sin, among the many that provoke his anger, in our people. He is not likely to leave long unpunished in a nation the palpable and flagrant contempt of his holy laws, such as is evinced in this neglect or refusal to respect in slaves the holiness, the unity, and the indissolubility of marriage. It would appear that by the present convulsions his providence is preparing for them at least a recognition of those rights as immortal beings which are required for the observance of the paramount laws of God. And if citizens desire to see the nation prosper and enjoy the blessing of God, let all unite to procure from the civil government, for the slaves, that their marriages be esteemed as God intends, and not be dealt with in future as they have been hitherto."

----

{430}

MATER ADMIRABLIS; OR, FIRST FIFTEEN YEARS OF MARY IMMACULATE. By Rev. Alfred Monnin, author of "The Life of the Curé d'Ars." Translated from the French by the Sisters of Charity, Mount St. Vincent, KY. 12mo., pp. 535. New York: James B. Kirker.

On the wall of a corridor in the convent of _Trinità del Monti_, at Rome, there is a fresco representing the Blessed Virgin, _Mater admirabilis_, at the age of fifteen. She is depicted spinning flax within the precincts of the temple, with her work-basket and an open book beside her. The picture was painted some twenty years ago by a young postulant of the community of Ladies of the Sacred Heart, to whom the _Trinità_ belongs. It is not said that it is in any way remarkable as a work of art; but it has acquired a celebrity among pious Catholics second to that of hardly any picture in the world. Since the year 1846, when the Holy Father gave his solemn blessing to the picture, remarking that "it was a pious thought to represent the most Holy Virgin at an age when she seemed to have been forgotten," signal favors have repeatedly been bestowed upon persons who have prayed before it. The Rev. Mr. Blampin, a missionary from Oceanica, recovered his voice at the feet of the _Mater admirabilis_, in 1846, after having been deprived of it for twenty-one months. In a transport of gratitude he obtained permission to say mass before the fresco, and from that day the corridor became a real sanctuary. A great number of miraculous cures were reported as having been wrought there, and multitudes of sinners who came out of mere curiosity to gaze upon a picture of which so much had been said, were converted by an instantaneous infusion of divine grace. In 1849 Pope Pius IX., by an apostolic brief, granted permission for the celebration of the festival of the _Mater admirabilis_ on the 20th of October, and enriched the sanctuary with indulgences. In 1854, by a second rescript, he confirmed an indulgence of three hundred days, which he had previously granted verbally to all the faithful who should recite three Hail Maries before this holy painting, adding the invocation, _Mater admirabilis, ora pro nobis;_ and in the following year the indulgences were extended to the entire order of the Sacred Heart. The devotion to the "Mother most admirable" spread rapidly, and copies of the painting at the _Trinità_ were soon to be found in various parts of Europe and America. There is one in the Convent of the Sacred Heart at Manhattanville, N. Y., from which the frontispiece to the volume before us has been engraved. "I admit," says Father Monnin, speaking of the original, "that of all the different ways by which art has represented this Virgin by excellence, there is not one which better corresponds with the _beau ideal_ which, as a priest, I had loved to form in my mind. Like the chaste Madonnas of the most fervent ages--those of _Beato_ in particular--this Madonna of the Lily makes one feel and understand that its designer had prayed before painting it, and that her imagination, fed by faith and the love of God, has delineated the most holy virgin child by interior lights derived from her meditations. By means of a constant communion with things divine, the disciples of Fiesole have succeeded in placing themselves as so many mediums between the Creator and the creature, by transmitting a ray of that eternal light amidst which they live; we may say that _Mater admirabilis_ is of the school of Fra Angelico, although several centuries have elapsed since his time. There is, as it were, the image of a pure soul preserved ever from all stain, sent into the world to be joined to a perfect and immaculate body, and to become, in this twofold perfection and purity, the ineffable instrument of our salvation! It is thus the prophet deserved to see her, brilliantly resplendent with grace and innocence, with the clearness of eternal light, and the splendor of eternal or perpetual virginity. The ineffable peace which took possession of me, made me understand that beauty of which St. Thomas speaks, the sight whereof purifies the senses. . . . There in the wall, within a niche contiguous to the great church of the monastery, is the most holy Virgin, painted in fresco at full size. . . . The pilgrim looks in surprise, and very soon feels as if the air around this fair flower of the field and lily of the valley were embalmed with the perfumes of silence and recollection. He sees her occupied in simply spinning flax; near her, on the right, is a distaff resting upon a slender standard, and on the left a lily rising out of a crystal vase, and bending its flexible stalk toward Mary. .... Absorbed in her meditation, the most holy child has suspended her work; her shuttle, become motionless, falls from her hand, while her left hand still holds {431} a light thread which remains joined to the flax in the distaff; one foot of this most holy spinner rests upon a stool, near which lies an open book, spread out on a work-basket, filled with shuttles and skeins. The features of the youthful Mary express a purity in which there is nothing of earth; her countenance is modestly tinged, the ringlets of her golden hair are just perceptible through the wavings of a transparent veil which covers her neck; her pure virginal brow, slender figure, and delicate limbs give her a youthful appearance, full of grace and truthfulness. It is truly the Virgin of virgins; it is truly Mary,--and Mary at an age when but few works of art have sought to represent her."

The little chapel was soon decorated with votive offerings from all parts of the world. It became a venerated shrine, and few devout travellers now leave Rome without having prayed at it. The "archives of _Mater admirabilis_," preserved at the _Trinità_, contain records of the conversions, vocations, and cures effected at this consecrated spot; and these, together with some devotional writings composed by the pupils of the convent, form the groundwork of Father Monnin's book. The matter is arranged in such a way that the work may be used for the devotions of the month of May. It is divided into thirty-one chapters, or "days," each of which contains a meditation having special reference either to some virtue indicated by the picture, or to Mary's childhood; this is followed by an appropriate prayer, and a narrative taken from the archives.

Having explained the purpose of Father Monnin's book, we do not know that we need say more by way of recommending it. Whatever tends to foster love and veneration for the Blessed Virgin must commend itself strongly to every pious Catholic; and in the new devotion, which is here explained and illustrated, there is something so beautiful and touching, that we believe it has only to be known in this country to be embraced with the same eager affection as in Europe.

The external appearance of the volume is very attractive. We hail with great pleasure the improvement in taste and liberality evinced by the manufacture of such books as Kirker's "Mater Admirabilis" and O'Shea's edition of Dr. Curnmings's "Spiritual Progress."

There is no sufficient reason why Catholics should not print and bind books as well as other people.

THE LOVE Of RELIGIOUS PERFECTION; ON, HOW TO AWAKEN, INCREASE, AND PRESERVE IT IN THE RELIGIOUS SOUL. By Father Joseph Bayma, of the Society of Jesus. Translated from the Latin by a Member of the same Society. 24mo., pp. 254. Baltimore: John Murphy & Company.

The style and method of this little treatise are modelled upon those of "The Imitation of Christ." The style is clear and severely simple, not above the plainest comprehension, and not without attraction for those who are somewhat fastidious in literary matters. Father Bayma professes in his preface to have disregarded all ornaments of composition, having written his little book not so much for the edification of others as for the profit of his own soul. Our readers can readily understand that it is for that very reason all the more searching in its mental examinations and practical in its precepts. Father Bayma divides his work into three books. The first treats of the motives which should urge us toward religious perfection; the second, of the means by which perfection is most easily obtained; and the third, of the virtues in which it consists. The chapters are short, and broken up into verses, and open where we will, we find something to turn our thoughts toward God. Nor must it be supposed that, because the book was written by a religious for his own instruction, it contains only those more difficult counsels of perfection which few people in the world are found strong enough to follow. Like its prototype, "The Imitation of Christ" is a work for all classes--for the easy-going Christian no less than for the saint. Here is an extract from the chapter on "The Choice and Perfection of Virtues;" we choose it because it illustrates how well even those passages which are directly addressed to religious persons are adapted to the use of persons in the world:

"1. So long as we are weighed down by our mortal flesh, we cannot acquire the perfection of all virtues; and therefore, we have need of selection that we may not labor in vain.

"Choose then a virtue to practise, until, {432} by the assistance of God, thou become most perfect in it.

"Some virtues are continually called for in our daily actions, and are necessary for all; and therefore, should be acquired with particular industry.

"The more thou shalt make progress in meekness, patience, modesty, temperance, humility, and others, that come into more frequent use, the sooner wilt thou become holy.

"2. Some seek after virtues which have a greater appearance of nobility, and are reckoned amongst men to be more glorious.

"They instruct with pleasure, but it must be in famous churches, and to a large assembly of noble and learned men.

"They visit the sick with pleasure, and hear confessions, but only of those that are conspicuous for riches or honors.

"See that thou set not a high value upon these things: it is more perfect and safer to imitate Christ our Lord, and to go about villages, than to hunt for the praise of eloquence and learning in cities.

"It is more useful to thee to visit and console the poor and the rude, than the rich and noble, who, moreover, are less prepared to listen to and obey thy words.

"3. Some are content with the virtues that agree with their natural inclinations; because they seem easier, and require not any, or a less violent struggle.

"But when they have need of self-denial and mortification, they have not the courage to practise virtue; but they lose heart, turn faint-hearted, and think it is best to spare themselves.

"Do thou follow them not, for they that are such make no progress, but rather fall away from the way of perfection, because they follow not the teaching and example of Christ.

"For it was not those who spare themselves, and fear the hardship of the struggle, whom Christ declared blessed, but those that mourn, and fight manfully for justice sake."

----

LA MERE DE DIEU. From the Italian of Father Alphonse Capecelatro, of the Oratory of Naples. 24mo., pp. 180. Philadelphia: Peter F. Cunningham. New York: D. & J. Sadlier & Company.

Why not say "The Mother of God?" And why should Father Capecelatro, being an Italian, figure with the French name of _Alphonse_? If we cannot have the title of the book in English, at least let us have it in Italian--the language in which it was written--not in French.

But despite the bad taste displayed on the title-page, this is a very good little book. It exhales a genuine aroma of piety; it is written with great simplicity; and it is devoted to a subject which is dear to all of us. It is supposed to be addressed by a Tuscan priest to his sister. The first part treats of the respect to which the Blessed Virgin is entitled; the second traces her life, principally in the pages of the Holy Scriptures; and the third is devoted to an exhibition of the marks of veneration which she has received from the Church since the very beginning of Christianity. "It is charmingly, almost plaintively sweet," says Father Gratry, of the Oratory of Paris. "It is written as a prayer, not as a book; it is learned and affectionate, religious and instructive."

COUNT LESLIE; OR, THE TRIUMPH OF FILIAL PIETY. A Catholic Tale. From the French. 24mo., pp. 108.

PHILIP HARTLEY; OR, A BOY'S TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS. A Tale for Young People. By the author of "The Confessors of Connaught." 24mo., pp. 122.

THE CHILDREN OF THE VALLEY; OR, THE GHOST OF THE RUINS. Translated from the French. 24mo., pp. 123.

MAY CARLETON'S STORY; OR, THE CATHOLIC MAIDEN'S CROSS. THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. Catholic Tales. 24mo., pp. 115.

COTTAGE EVENING TALES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. Compiled by the author of "Grace Morton." 24mo., pp. 126. Philadelphia: Peter F. Cunningham. New York: D. & J. Sadlier & Company.

The above five volumes are portions of Cunningham's "Young Catholic's Library." They seem to have an excellent moral tendency, and as a general thing are well written--better written, we believe, than the majority of tales intended, as these are, for sodality and Sunday-school libraries. The first mentioned, however, "Count Leslie," is not rendered into irreproachable English. What respect can we expect children to entertain for the English grammar if our school libraries give them such cruel sentences to read as the following: "It was this young man, and _him_, only, who knew the cause of his mother's sadness?" With this exception we can honestly recommend so much as we have seen of the Young Catholic's Library to public favor. Mr. Cunningham has other volumes in preparation.

{433}

THE CATHOLIC WORLD

VOL. I., NO. 4. JULY, 1865.

THE TRUTH OF SUPPOSED LEGENDS AND FABLES.

BY H. E. CARDINAL WISEMAN. [Footnote 79 ]

[Footnote 79: From "Essays on Religion and Literature. By Various Writers." Edited by H. E. Manning, D.D. London; Longman, Green & Co. 1865.]

The subject of the address which I am about to deliver is as follows: Events and things which have been considered legendary, or even fabulous, have been proved by further research to be historical and true.

Before coming directly to the subject upon which I wish to occupy your attention, I will give a little account of a very extraordinary discovery which may throw some light upon the general character and tendency of our investigation. In the year 1775 Pius VI. laid the foundation of the sacristy of St. Peter's. Of course, as is the case whenever the ground is turned up in Rome, a number of inscriptions came to light; these were carefully put aside, and formed the lining, if I may so say, of the corridor which unites the sacristy with the church. It was observed, however, that a great many of these inscriptions referred to the same subject, and a subject which was totally unknown to antiquarians: they all spoke of certain Arval Brethren--_Fratres Arvales_. Some were mere fragments, others were entire inscriptions.

These, to the number of sixty-seven, were carefully put together and illustrated by the then librarian of the Vatican, Mgr. Marini. It was an age when in Rome antiquarian learning abounded. There were many, perhaps, who could have undertaken the task, but it naturally belonged to him as being attached to the church near which the inscriptions were found. He put the fragments together, collated them one with another, and with the entire inscriptions. He procured copies at least, when he could not examine the originals, of such other slight fragments as seemed to have reference to the subject, the key having now been found, and the result was two quarto volumes, [Footnote 80] giving us the entire history, constitution, and ritual of this singular fraternity. Before this period two brief notices in Varro, one passage in Pliny, and allusions in two later writers, Minutius Felix and Fulgentius, were all that was known concerning it. One merely told the origin of it from the time of the kings, and the others only stated that it had something to do with questions about land; and there the matter ended. Now, out of this ignorance, out of this darkness, there springs, through the researches of Mgr. Marini, perhaps the most {434} complete account or history that we have of any institution of antiquity. So complete was the work, in fact, that only two inscriptions relating to this subject have been found since; one by Melchiorri, who undertook to write an appendix to the work; and the other in 1855 in excavating the Dominican garden at Santa Sabina, which indeed threw great light upon the subject. From these inscriptions we learn that this was one of the most powerful bodies of augurs or priests in Rome. Yet neither Pliny, nor Livy, nor Cicero, when expressly enumerating all the classes of augurs, ever alludes to them. Now, we know how they were elected. On one tablet is an order of Claudius to elect a new member, so to fill up their number of twelve, in consequence of the death of one. They wrote every year, and published, at least put up in their gardens, a full and minute account of all the sacrifices and the feasts celebrated by them. They were allied to the imperial family, and all the great families in Rome took part in their assemblies. They had a sacred grove, the site of which was perfectly unknown until the last inscription, found in 1855, revealed it. It was out of Porta Portese, on the road to the English vineyard at La Magliana. There they had sacrifices to the _Dea Dia_, whose name occurs nowhere else among all the writers on ancient mythology. It is supposed to be Ceres. They had magnificent sacrifices at the beginning of the year. There are tablets which say where the meetings will be held, whether at the house of the rector or pro-rector, leaving the date in blank, to be filled in the course of the year. We are told who were at the meetings, especially who among the youths from the first families--four of whom acted somewhat as acolytes; and we are told how they were dressed, which of their two dresses they wore. Then there is a most minute ritual given. We are told how each victim was slain; how the brethren took off the toga praetexta, their crowns and golden ears of corn, then put them on again, and examined the entrails of the sacrifices; all as minutely detailed as the rubrics of any office of unction and coronation could possibly be. Then we are told how many baskets of fruit they carried away, and what distribution there was of sweetmeats at the end, every one taking a certain quantity. All this is recorded, and with it their song in barbarous Oscan or early Etruscan, perfectly unintelligible, in which their acclamations were made. So that now we know perfectly everything about them. I may mention as an interesting fact, that Marini's own copy of his work on the Arval Brethren, two quarto volumes, having their margins covered with notes for a second edition, which was never published, and filled with slips of paper with annotations and new inscriptions of other sorts, which he subsequently found, is now in the library at Oscott.

[Footnote 80: _Atti e Monumenti dei Fratelli Arvali_. Da Mgr. Marini. 2 tom. Roma, 1795. ]

What do I wish to draw from this account? It is that history may have remained silent upon points which it seems impossible, in the multiplicity of writers that have been preserved to us, should not have cropped out, not have been mentioned in some way, not even have been made known to us through innumerable anterior discoveries. One fortunate circumstance brought to light the whole history of this body. How unfair, then, is it, on the reticence of history, at once to condemn anything, or to say, "We should have heard of it; writers who ought to have told us would not have concealed it from us." For a circumstance may arise which will bring out the whole history of a thing, and make that plain and clear before us which has been scouted completely by others, or of which we have been kept in the completest ignorance.

I could illustrate this by several other examples which I have collected together, but I foresee that I shall not get anything like through the subject I propose to myself. But here is one such instance bearing on Scripture truth. It was said by infidel writers {435} of the last century, "How is it that there could have been such a remarkable occurrence as the massacre of the Innocents without a single profane historian ever mentioning it--Josephus, if no one else?" Of course the answer was, "We do not know why, except that we might give plausible reasons why it should not have been noticed." That is all we need say. It is our duty to accept the fact. We must not reject things because we cannot find corroboration of them all at once. We may have to wait with patience; the world has had to wait centuries even before some doubted truth has come out clearly.

I. The subject which I wish to bring before you is one of those which, perhaps beyond any other, may be said to be considered thoroughly legendary, and even perhaps worse:--it is the history of St. Ursula and her eleven thousand companions, virgins and martyrs. At first sight it may appear bold to undertake a vindication of that narrative, or to bring it within the compass of history by detaching from it what has been embellishment, what has been perhaps even wilful invention, and bringing out in its perfect completeness a history corroborated on all sides by every variety of research. Such, however, is the object at which I aim to-day; other instances may occupy us afterward.

It has, in fact, been treated as fabulous by Protestants, beginning with the Centuriators of Magdeburg down to the present time. There is hardly any story more sneered at than this, that an English lady, with eleven thousand companions, all virgins, should have met with martyrdom at Cologne, and should have even gone to Rome on their journey by some route which is very difficult to comprehend; for they are always represented in ships. Hence the whole thing has been treated as a fable. But the more refined Germanism of later times takes what is perhaps meant to be a mitigated view, and treats it as a myth, that is, a sort of mythological tale. Thus the writer of a late work, [Footnote 81] entitled the History, or fable, of St. Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins, printed in Hanover, in 1854, considers that St. Ursula is the ancient German goddess Rehalennia, and explains the history by the mythology of that ancient divinity.

[Footnote 81: _Die Sage von der heilige Ursula und den, 11,000 Jungfrauen._ Von Oskar Schade. Hanover, 1854. ]

But let us come to Catholics. A great number have been staggered completely by this history, and have said, "It is incredible; it is impossible to believe it; we must reject it: what foundation is there for it?" Some have tried to search one out; and perhaps one of the most ingenious explanations, though the most devoid of any foundation, is that which Sirmondus and Valesius [Footnote 82] and several other Catholics have brought forward--that there were only two saints, St. Ursula and St. Undecimilla, and that this last has been turned into the eleven thousand. This name Undecimilla has nowhere been found; there have been some like it, but that name is not known. The explanation is the purest conjecture, and has now been completely rejected. But still many find it very difficult to accept the history. If they were interrogated, and required to answer distinctly the question, "What do you think about St. Ursula?" there are very few who would venture to face the question and say, "I believe there is a foundation for it in truth."--For that is all one might be expected to say about a matter which has come down to us through ages, probably with additions.--"I believe the substance of it; it has been so altered by time as to reach us clogged with difficulties; still I believe there were martyrs in great number who had come from England that were martyred at Cologne." But there are few who like to talk about it: most say it is a legendary story. Even Butler only gives about two pages of history. He rejects the explanation which I have {436} just mentioned; but he throws the whole narrative into the shade, and passes it over with one of those little sermons which he gives us, to make up for not knowing much about a saint; so that his readers are left quite in the dark.

[Footnote 82: _Acta Sanct._ Bolland, Oct. tom. ix. p. 144. ]

Then unfortunately while many Catholics have been inclined to look at it as more legendary than historical, they have been badly served by those who have undertaken the defence or explanation of the event. There may be many here who have gone into what is called the golden chamber in the church of St. Ursula at Cologne, and have seen that multitude of skulls and bones that line the walls, and have been inclined to give an incredulous shrug and to say, "How could these martyrs have been got together? where did they come from? how do we know they were martyrs?"

We generally content ourselves with looking at such things through the eyes of Mr. Murray's traveller who tells us about them. Accordingly we look round at these startling objects, and say, "It is very singular; it is very extraordinary." But there is very little awe, very little devotion felt by us; while, to a good native of Cologne, it is the most venerable, sacred, and holy place almost in Christendom. He prays earnestly to the virgins of Cologne, and considers that they are his powerful patrons and intercessors.

However, little has been done to help us. Works have been published in favor of the truth of this history, but then they have run into excess. The most celebrated of all is one by a Jesuit named Crombach, who was led to compose it by Bebius, another learned Jesuit, whose papers were unfortunately burned in a conflagration at the college in Cologne. Crombach in 1647 published two large volumes entitled _"St. Ursula vindicata."_ In them he has included an immense variety of things. He has accepted with scarce any discrimination works that are entitled to little or no credit--contradictory works; he has mingled them all up; and he insists upon the story or the history being true with all details. The consequence is that the work has been very much thrown aside, or severely attacked.

Yet it is acknowledged that it contains a great deal of valuable information, together with an immense quantity of documents which may be made good use of when properly examined, when the chaff is separated from the wheat. On the whole, however, it has not been favorable to the cause of the martyrs.

Now, however, there has appeared such a vindication, such a wonderful re-examination of the whole history, as it is impossible to resist. It is impossible to read the account of St. Ursula given in the 9th volume for October of the Bollandists, published in 1858, without being perfectly amazed at the quantity of real knowledge that has been gained upon the subject, and still more at the powerful manner in which this knowledge has been handled;--an erudition which, merely glancing over the pages and notes, reminds us of the scholars of three hundred years ago, in whom we have often wondered at the learning which they brought to bear on any one point.

This treatise occupies from page 73 to 303, 230 pages of closely printed folio in two columns. I acknowledge that it is not quite a recreation to read it, but still it is very well worth reading. All documents are printed at full length. Now, it so happened, that just after the volume had come out, I was at Brussels, and called at the library of the Bollandists, and had a most interesting conversation with Father Victor de Buck, the author of this history. He gave me an interesting outline of what he had been enabled to do. He told me that when they came to October 21, and he had to write a life of St. Ursula and her companions, his provincial wrote to him from Cologne and said, "Take care what you say, for the people are tremendously alarmed lest you should knock down all their traditions, and I {437} do not know what will be the case if you do." He replied, "Don't be at all afraid; I shall confirm every point, and I am sure they will be pleased with what I have to say." He was kind enough to put down in a letter the chief points of his vindication for me; but I have lost it, and so there was nothing left but to read through the whole of this great work. But, beside, a very excellent compendium has appeared, which takes pretty nearly the same view on every point, and approves of everything the author has said; indeed some points are perhaps put more popularly in it, though the history is reduced to a much smaller compass. I have the work before me. It is entitled, "St. Ursula and her Companions: A Critical, Historical Monograph. By John Hubert Kessel. Cologne, 1863." It is a work which is not too long to be translated and made known. What I have to say, after having gone through this preliminary matter, is, that I lay claim to nothing whatever beyond having been diligent, and having endeavored to grasp all the points in question, and reduce them to a moderate compass. I have changed the order altogether, taking that which seems to me most suitable to the subject, and co-ordinating the different parts and facts so as to make it popularly intelligible. In this I have the satisfaction to find that in a chapter at the end of the book, in which the history is summed up, exactly the same order is taken which I have adopted here. It will not be necessary to give a reference for every assertion that I shall have occasion to make; but I may say that I have the page carefully noted where the subject is fully drawn out and illustrated.

Now, let me first of all give, in a brief sketch, what Father de Buck considers the real history, which has been wrapt up in such a quantity of legendary matter--that which comes out from the different documents laid before us, as the kernel or the nucleus of the history, as Kessel calls it. He supposes that this army of martyrs, as we may well call them, was composed of two different bodies: a body of virgins who happened, under circumstances which I shall describe to you, to be at Cologne, and a body of the inhabitants, citizens of Cologne, and others, very probably many English and other virgins who had there sought safety. It may be asked how came these English to be there? About the year 446 the Britons began to be immensely annoyed by the incursions of the Picts and Scots, which led to their calling in (after the manner of the old fable, about the man calling in the dogs to hunt the hare in his garden) the Anglo-Saxons, who in return took possession of the country; and the inhabitants that they did not exterminate they made serfs. At this period we know the English were put to sad straits. Having so long lain quiet and undisturbed under the Roman dominion, they had almost lost their natural valor, and were unable to defend themselves. There was, therefore, a natural tendency to emigrate and get away. They had already done this before; for as De Buck shows, with extraordinary erudition, the occupation of Brittany or Armorica was a quiet emigration from England, which sought the continent, and also established colonies in Holland and Batavia, and by that means obtained a peace which they could not have at home. We have a very interesting document upon this subject. The celebrated senator Aëtius was at that time governor of Gaul; the Britons sent to him for help, and this is one passage of a most touching letter which has been preserved by Gildas: "Repellunt nos barbari ad mare, repellit nos mare ad barbaros; oriuntur duo genera funerum; aut jugulamur aut mergimur." [Footnote 83] They were tossed backward and forward by the sea to the barbarians, and by the barbarians to the sea; when they fell upon the barbarians they were cut to pieces, and when they were driven into the {438} sea "mergimur"--we go to the bottom. It does not mean that they ran into the sea, but that they went to their ships, and many of them perished in the sea by shipwreck or by sinking--"aut jugulamur aut mergimur." That shows that the English were leaving England to go to the continent. I am only giving you the web of the history, without its proofs; but I quote this passage to show it is not at all unlikely that at that moment, when they were in a manner straitened between the barbarians of the north and those coming upon them in the south, a great many of them went out of the country, and that especially being Christians they would wend their way to Catholic countries. Religious and other persons of a like character, we know, in every invasion of barbarians, were the first to suffer a double martyrdom. This is a supposition, therefore, about which there is no improbability, that a certain number, I do not say how many, of Christian ladies of good family, some of them, perhaps, royal, got over to Batavia or Holland (where there have been always traditions and names of places in confirmation of this), and made their way to Cologne, which was a capital and a seat of the Roman government, a Christian city, and in every probability considered a stronghold, both on account of its immense fortifications, and on account of the river.

[Footnote 83: _Gildas de Excidio Britanniae_, pars i., cap. xvii. Ed. Migne: _Patrologia_, tom. lxix., p. 342.]

Well, then comes the history, very difficult indeed to reconcile, of a pilgrimage to Rome, which it is said they made; but let us suppose that instead of the whole of them a certain number of them might go there. It is not at all improbable that at that time, as De Buck observes, a deputation, or a certain number of citizens and others, did go to Rome to obtain assistance there, as their only hope against the invasion, which I shall describe just now. There is no great difficulty in supposing this; and assuming that some of the English virgins also went, that would be a foundation for the great legendary history, I might say the fabulous history, which has been built upon it. Now, there is a strong confirmation of such a thing being done. St. Gregory of Tours [Footnote 84] mentions that at this very time Bishop Servatius did go to Rome to pray the Apostles Sts. Peter and Paul to protect his country and city against the coming invasion, and he saw no other hope of safety. He must have passed through Cologne exactly at that time, and, therefore, there is nothing absurd or improbable in supposing that some inhabitants of Cologne went with him as a deputation to Rome, and that some of the English virgins may have accompanied them. In the year following, Attila, the scourge of God, the most cruel of all the leaders of barbaric tribes who invaded the Roman empire, was marching along the Rhine with the known view of invading Gaul, and not only invading it, but, as he said, of completely conquering and destroying it; for his maxim was, "Where Attila sets his foot no more grass shall ever grow"--nothing but destruction and devastation. I will say a little more about the Huns later. In the meantime we leave them, in 450, on their way to cross the Rhine, with the intention of invading and occupying France. Attila united great cunning with his barbarity; he pretended to the Goths that he was coming to help them against the Romans, and to the Romans that he was going to help them to expel the Goths. By that means he paralyzed both for a time, until it was too well seen that he was the enemy of all. It is most probable, knowing the character as we shall see just now of the Huns, that the inhabitants of the neighboring towns would seek refuge in the capital, and that all living in the country would get within the strong walls of cities. We have important confirmation, at this very time, in the history of St. Genevieve, [Footnote 65] who was {439} a virgin living out in the country, but who, upon the approach of the Huns, hastened, we are told, immediately to seek safety in Paris, and was there the means of saving the city, by exhorting the inhabitants to build up walls, to close their gates, and to fight. This they did, and so saved themselves. That is just an example. When it is known that throughout his march Attila destroyed every city, committing incredible barbarities (ruins of some of the places remaining to this day), not sparing man, woman, or child, it is more than probable that there would be a great conflux and influx to the city of Cologne, where the Roman government still kept its seat, and where, of course, there was something like order, although we have unfortunate proofs, in the works of Salvianus, [Footnote 86] that the morality of the city had become so very corrupt that it deserved great chastisement. However, so far all is coherent. In 451, after Attila had gone to France, and had been completely defeated, he made his way back, greatly exasperated, burning and destroying everything in his way, sparing no one. Then he appeared before Cologne; and this is the invasion in which it is supposed the martyrdom took place.

[Footnote 84: S. Greg. Turon., _Hist. Franc_., lib. ii., cap. v. Ed. Migne: _Patrologia_. tom. lxviii., pp. 197, 576.]

[Footnote 85: Vid. Tillemont, _Hist. des Emp.,_ vi. p. 151. _Acta Sanct. Boll.,_ Jan. tom. i. in vit. S. Genovevae.]

[Footnote 86: _De Gubernatione Dei_, Ed. Baluzii, Paris, 1864, pp. 140, 141. ]

Having given you what the Bollandist considers the historical thread, every part of which can be confirmed and made most probable, I will now, before going into proofs of the narrative, direct your attention for a few minutes to what we may call the legendary parts of the history. When we speak of legends we must not confound them with fables, that is, with pure inventions. We must not suppose that people sat down to write a lie under the idea that they were edifying the Church or anybody. There have been such cases, no doubt; for Tertullian mentions the delinquency of a person's writing false acts of St. Paul, and being suspended from his office of priest in consequence. Such follies have happened in all times. We have had many instances in our own day of attempts at forging documents, and committing the worst of social crimes; but old legends as we have them, and even the false acts as they were called, were no doubt written without any intention of actually deceiving, or of passing off what was spurious for genuine. The person who first suggested this was a man certainly no friend of Catholics, Le Clerc, better known by his literary name of Clericus; who observes that school exercises were sometimes drawn from martyrdoms, as in our day from a classical subject, as Juvenal says of Hannibal:

"I demens et saevas curre per Alpes Ut pueris placeas et declamatio flas."

Not that students professed to write a real history, but they gave wonderful descriptions of deeds of valor and marvellous events which had never occurred, and were never intended to be believed. In the same way, at a time when nothing but a religious subject could create interest, that sort of composition came to be applied to acts of saints and martyrs; so that many books and narratives which we have of that description may be thus accounted for. It is much like our historical novels, or the historical plays of Shakespeare, for instance. Nobody imagines that their authors wished to pass them off for history, but they did not contradict history; they kept to history, so that you may find it in them; and you might almost write a history from some of those books which are called historical works of fiction. In early times such compositions were of a religious character. Then came times of greater ignorance, and those works came to be regarded as true historical accounts. But, are we to reject them on that ground altogether? Are we to say, any more than we should with regard to the fictitious works of which I have just spoken, that there is no truth in them? We should proceed in the same way as people do who seek for gold. A {440} man goes to a gold-field, and tries to obtain gold from auriferous sand. Now suppose he took a sieve full, and said at once, "It's all rubbish," and threw it away; he might go on for a long time and never get a grain of gold. But if he knows how to set to work, if he washes what he obtains, picks out grain by grain, and puts by, he gets a small hoard of real genuine gold; and nobody denies that when, many such supplies are put together they make a treasure of sterling metal. So it is with these legendary accounts. They are never altogether falsehoods--I will not say never, but rarely. Whenever they have an air of history about them, the chances are that, by examining and sifting them well, we may get out a certain amount of real and solid material for history.

The legendary works upon these virgins are numerous and begin early. The first is one which I shall call, as all our writers do, by its first words, "Regnante Domino." This is an account of traditions, evidently written between the ninth and eleventh centuries. It is impossible to determine more closely than this. But we know that it cannot have been written earlier than the ninth century, nor later than the eleventh. It contains a long history of these virgins while in England, who they were, and what they were; of a certain marriage contract that was made with the father of St. Ursula, a very powerful king; how it was arranged that she should have eleven companions, and each of these a thousand followers; how they should embark for three years and amuse themselves with nautical exercises; how the ships went to the other side of the channel. It is an absurd story and full of fable, but there are three or four most important points in it. Geoffrey of Monmouth comes next. He gives another history, totally different from that of the "Regnante Domino;" but retains two or three points of identity. His is evidently a British tradition, which, of course, it is most important to compare with the German one; and we shall find how singularly they agree. Then, after these, come a number of legends called _Passiones_, long accounts filled with a variety of incongruous particulars which may be safely put aside; but in the same way germs or remnants of something good, which have been thus preserved, are found in them all, and when brought together may give us some valuable results. We next meet with what is more difficult to explain--the supposed revelations of St. Elizabeth of Schönau, and of Blessed Hermann of Steinfeld. It is not for us to enter into the discussion, which is a very subtle one, of how persons who are saints really canonized and field in immense veneration--one of them, Hermann, singularly so--can be supposed to have been allowed to follow their own imaginations on some points, while at the same time there seems no doubt that they lived in an almost ecstatic state. This question is gone into fully; and the best authorities are quoted by the Bollandist. It would require a long discussion, and it would not be to our purpose, to pursue it further. These supposed revelations are rejected altogether. Now we come to positive forgeries, consisting of inscriptions, or of engraved stones with legends carved upon them. One of these mentions a pope who never existed, and also a bishop of Milan who never lived, beside a number of other imaginary people. From the texture and state of these inscriptions there can be no doubt whatever that they are absolute forgeries, and the author of them is pretty well discovered. He was a sacristan of the name of Theodorus. In order to enhance the glory of these virgins, they are represented, as you see in legendary pictures, as being in a ship accompanied by a pope, bishops, abbots, and persons of high dignity, who are supposed to have come from Rome with them. All this we discard, making out what we can from the sounder traditions.

And this is the result. There are {441} two or three points on which, whether we take the English or the German traditions, all are agreed. First, we have that a great many of these virgins were English: that the Germans all agree upon; the earliest historical documents say the same. Secondly, that they were martyred by the Huns: that we are told both by the English and the German writers. It is singular that they should agree on such a point as this; and you will see how--I do not say corroborated, but absolutely proved it is. The third fact is, that there was a tremendous slaughter at the time, a singular slaughter of people committed at Cologne by these Huns. This comes out from all the legendary histories, which agree upon this point, and we can hardly know how they should do so except through separate traditions; for they evidently have nothing else in common. Their separate narratives we may reject as legendary.

Thus we come to an investigation of the true history, and see how it is proved. And first I must put before you what I may call the foundation-stone of the whole history on which it is based--the inscription now kept in the church of St. Ursula. It had remained very much neglected, though it had been given by different authors, until, when the Bollandists were going to write their history, they took three casts of it; one they gave to the archbishop of Cologne, another they kept for themselves; the third--I cannot say what became of it, but I think it went to Rome, having been taken by De Rossi. I could not afford to have a cast brought here, but I have had a most accurate tracing made of it. Those of you who are judges of graphic character will see the nature of the letters; they are capital, or uncial letters. First, you may ask what is the age of this inscription? It is pretty well agreed that it cannot be later than the year 500--that would be fifty years after that assigned to the martyrdom of the virgins. De Buck, who is really almost hypercritical in rejecting, says he does not see a single objection to the genuineness of this inscription. There is not a trace of Lombard or later character about it; it is purely Roman. The union of some of the letters is just what we find about that time in Roman inscriptions. It is then, as nearly as one can judge, of the age I have mentioned--about the year 500. De Rossi, passing through Cologne three or four years ago, examined it and pronounced it to be genuine, and said it could not be of a later period than that. Dr. Enner, a layman of Cologne, when writing his "History of Cologne," could not bring himself to believe that the inscription was so old, and he sent an exact copy in plaster (perhaps that was the third) to Professor Ritschl, the well-known editor of Plautus, and a Protestant, at Bonn. I have a copy of the Professor's letter here, in which he says that he has minutely examined the inscription, and that he cannot see anything in it to make it more modern than the date assigned to it, and that it contains peculiarities which no forger would ever hit upon, such as the double _i,_ and other forms. He says, "I am not sufficiently acquainted with the history of St. Ursula to connect it in any way; but I have no hesitation in saying that the inscription cannot be later than the beginning of the sixth century;" which, you see, takes us back very nearly to the time when the martyrdom is supposed to have occurred. Then I may mention that the very inscription is copied in the next historical document that we have, as being already in the church. This is the translation of the inscription, of which I present an exact copy:

"Clematius came from the East; he was terrified by fiery visions, and by the great majesty and the holiness of these virgins, and, according to a vow that he made, he rebuilt at his own expense, on his own land, this basilica." Then follows a commination at the end, which is not unusual in such cases. Now, every expression here is to be found in inscriptions of the time.

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For instance, "de proprio;" "votum;" "loco suo" (sometimes it is "loco empto"), meaning of course land which one made his own, or which was his own before. There had been then a basilica--not the church that now exists, but a basilica--at the tombs where these saints were buried, which we shall have to describe later. He rebuilt the basilica fifty years after the martyrdom, destroyed no doubt during the constant incursions of barbarians. It was probably a very small one; for we know that at Rome every entrance to the tombs of martyrs had its basilica. De Rossi has been successful in finding one or two. One was built by St. Damasus, who wrote: "Not daring to put my ashes among so many martyrs, I have built this basilica for myself, my mother and sister;" and there are three niches at the end for three sarcophagi. It is universally allowed that there never was a catacomb without its basilica. In fact, in that of Pope St. Alexander, and Sts. Evantius and Theodulus, found lately, there is a basilica completely standing, and the bodies of these saints were found--one under the altar--and the others near it. Then from the basilica you go into the catacomb. So that nothing is more natural than that in the place where these martyrs were buried, Clematius should rebuild their basilica. After this monument we proceed to the next genuine document, though one of a later date, and by an unknown author--the "Sermo in Natali." This, there is no doubt, was written between the years 751 and 839; and I will give the ingenious argument by which this date is proved. But first it quotes the inscription I have read, with the exception of the threat at the end; in the second place it mentions that the virgins were probably Britons--that it was not certain, but the general opinion was that they had come from Britain; thirdly, it attributes the martyrdom to the Huns; fourthly, it insinuates what is of great importance in filling up the history, that it is by no means to be supposed that they were all virgins, but that many were widows and married people. The reason for fixing the earliest date at 751 is, that it quotes Bede's Ecclesiastical History, which was written in that year, giving apparently his account of the conversion of Lucius; though one cannot say that it is certainly a copy from Bede, because Bede himself copied from more ancient books, and both may have drawn from the same source. Then it could not have been written after 839 for two reasons. In 834 there was a tremendous incursion of other barbarians--of Normans; and it is plain from our book that there had been no such invasion when it was written; nothing was known of it, because the writer speaks of countries, particularly Holland, as being flourishing, which were completely destroyed by them. There is also this singular circumstance. In speaking of the great devotion to the virgins in Batavia, the writer states that this happened at a time when Batavia was an island formed by the two branches of the Rhine. Now in 839 an inundation completely destroyed it, one of the horns or arms being entirely obliterated. Therefore that gives us a certain compass within which the book was written. The author himself was a native of Cologne--for in referring to the inhabitants he once or twice speaks of "us"--and he would therefore be familiar with the traditions of the people. He says there was no written history at that time; he defends the traditions, and shows how natural it was that the people should have kept them. I ought to mention that he calls the head of the band of martyrs Pinnosa. He says, "She is called in her own country Vinosa, in ours Pinnosa;" and there is evidence that this was the name first given to the leader; how, by what transformation, it came to be St. Ursula, we cannot tell; it is certain that up to that time hers was not the name of the leader. Afterward Pinnosa appears on the list, but not as the chief, St. Ursula being the prominent name.

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After that period there comes a mass of historical proofs that one can have no difficulty about. From 852 there are an immense number of diplomas giving grants of land to the nuns of the monastery of St. Ursula, at her place of burial. There is no doubt of the existence of that church, from other documents. Then the martyrologies repeat the whole tradition again and again. Thus, then, we fill up that gap of four hundred years (from A.D. 400 to A.D. 800). There is the inscription; there is the "Sermo in Natali," which quotes it, and gives old traditions; and afterward there are diplomas and other testimonies which are abundant.

We now proceed to compare the whole tradition with history, with known history, for after all this is our chief business. When we possess a tradition of a country and people, we ask, "What confirmation, what corroboration, have we? what does history tell us?" Let us then see what history does tell. It tells us, in the first place, that in the year 450 Attila was known to be coming to invade and take possession of Gaul, having been ejected from Italy. His army is said by contemporary writers to have been composed of 700,000 men. It was a hostile emigration. They brought their women and children in carts, as the Huns always used to do, and they of course marched but slowly. They went along both sides of the Danube, and got at length into France. De Buck, by a most interesting series of proofs, makes it almost as evident as anything can be that they crossed over at Coblentz, therefore not coming near Cologne. They entered, as I have said, into Gaul, destroying everything in their march. Some of their barbarities and massacres are almost incredible. After devastating nearly the whole of the country, they besieged Orleans. The inhabitants having been encouraged to resist, at last succeeded in obtaining certain terms; that is, Attila and his chiefs went into the city and took what they liked, but left the city standing. After this they were pursued by the general whom I have mentioned--Aetius, a Gaul, but who got together all the troops he could, Goths, Visigoths, Franks, and others, who saw what the design of these horrible barbarians was.

A most tremendous battle was now fought, that of Catalaunia (Châlons-sur-Marne), in which contemporary historians tell us 300,000 men were left on the field; but that number has been reduced to 200,000. Such battles, thank God! we seldom hear of now-a-days. Attila, routed, immediately took to flight, and got clear away from his pursuers. He went through Belgium, destroying city after city, leaving nothing standing, and massacring the people in the most barbarous way.

Here comes the most difficult knot of the whole history. Authors agree that Attila now made his way into Thuringia, that is to the heart of Germany; he must therefore be supposed to have got clear over the Rhine, and marched a long way through the country. On this subject De Buck has one of the most exquisite and beautiful geographical investigations, I should think, that have ever appeared. He proves, so that you can no more doubt it than you can doubt my having this paper before me, that there was Thuringia which lay on this side of the Rhine; he proves it by a series documents taken from mediaeval writers, and from inscriptions, that there was a Thuringia which stretched from Louvain to the Rhine. Indeed, it is impossible to conceive how Attila could have got, as by a leap, into the very midst of Germany. He traces the natural course of march (which you can follow by any map), taking the cities destroyed as landmarks, and brings him to this province; and when there, there was no possible way of crossing the Rhine but by Cologne; there was the only bridge, the only military pass of any sort. So there can be no doubt that the Huns, exasperated by their tremendous losses, and by being driven {445} out of Gaul, which they intended to occupy, having revenged themselves as they went on, were obliged to go through Cologne; and if you calculate the date of the victory, and consider the country through which Attila passed, destroying everything as he went, you bring him almost to a certainty to Cologne about the 21st of October, nearly the day of the martyrdom. The "Regnante Domino," which attributes the martyrdom to the Huns, corroborates all this account, which is the result of a most painstaking examination, extending over many pages.

Next we come to another important point. Why attribute this massacre to the Huns? Because there was no other invasion and passage of savages except that one. It accords, then, both with geographical and chronological facts. We have the martyrs at Cologne at the very time when these barbarians came.

But we must needs say something about the Huns. There is no question that the Huns were the most frightful, cruel, and licentious barbarians that ever invaded the Roman empire. They were not of a northern race, Germans or Scandinavians; they were, no doubt, Mongols or Tartars; they came from Tartary, from Scythia, and settled on the Caspian sea; they then moved on to the mouths of the Danube, and again to Hungary, and rolled on in this way toward the richer countries of the west. There are several authors of that period--Jornandes, Procopius, and others--who describe them to us. [Footnote 87] They tell us that when they were infants their mothers bound down their noses, and flattened them in such a way that they should not come beyond the cheek-bones; that their eyes were so sunk that they looked like two caverns; that they scarified all the lower part of the face with hot irons when young, so that no hair could grow; that they had no beard, and were more hideous than demons; that they wore no dress except a shirt fabricated by the women in the carts in which they entirely lived; it was never changed, but was worn till it dropped off, under a mantle made entirely of wild-rat skins. Their chaussure consisted of kid skins round their legs, with most extraordinary shoes or sandals, which had no shape whatever, and did not adapt themselves to the form; the consequence was that they could not walk, and they fought entirely on their wretched horses. They had no _cuisine_ except between the saddle and the back of the horse, where they put their steaks and softened them a little before eating; but as to drink, they could take any amount of it. With regard to their morality it cannot be described. The writers of that age tell us that no Roman woman would allow herself to be seen by a Hun. They were licentious to a degree, and they carried off all the women they could into captivity; probably they destroyed a great many; which was their custom when they became a burden to them. These, then, were the sort of savages that reached Cologne.

[Footnote 87: Ammianua Marcellinus, lib. xxxi., cap. ii. ]

They had another peculiarity; of all the hordes of savages that invaded the Roman empire, they are the only ones that used the bow and arrow. The Germans hardly made any use of the bow, except a few men who mixed in the ranks; as a body their execution was with the sword, the lance, and the pike. The use of the bow was distinctly Tartar, or Scythian. Then we are told that their aim from horseback was infallible; that when flying from a foe they could turn round and shoot with perfect facility; that they rode equally well astride or seated sideways like a woman; in fact that they flew and turned just like the Parthians and Scythians from whom they were descended. In this great battle of Catalaunia they either lost heart or steadiness, and they could not fire upon their enemies, so that they were pursued and tremendously routed. That their mode of fighting was by the bow and arrow, you {446} will see in the representations given in the beautiful shrine at Hamelink, where the martyrs are fired into by the barbarians with bows and arrows. Let us see what this has to do with our question. The "Regnante Domino," which we have mentioned as legendary, gives a most beautiful description of the mode of dealing with the bodies. The writer says that when the inhabitants saw that the enemy were gone they came out, and in a field they found this great number of virgins lying on the ground. They collected their blood, got sarcophagi, or made graves, and put them in; "and there they lay, as they were placed," the writer says, "as any one can tell who has seen them," evidently suggesting that he had seen them. Now, in the year 1640, on July 2, Papebroch, an authority beyond all question, and Crombach, whose word may be relied on as that of a most excellent and holy man, were at the opening of the tombs. From all tradition this was no doubt the place of the stone of Clematius; there has always been a convent there; and you remember that part of the inscription which threatens eternal punishment to those who should bury any but virgins there. It is now called "St. Ursula's Acker," a sort of sacred field where the basilica was. Here they were buried, and so they remained undisturbed except by some translations of the middle ages, which do not concern us. In 1640 there was a formal exhumation, and eye-witnesses tell us what they saw. A nuncio came afterward to verify the facts.

I will give you the account of how these bodies were found. Many of them were in graves, in rows, but each body separate, there being a space of a foot between them. In other places there were stone sarcophagi in which they were laid separately. Then Crombach describes that there were some large fosses, sixty feet long, eight feet deep, and sixteen wide, containing a large number of bodies. They were placed in a row with a space between them; at their feet was another row; then a quantity of earth was thrown on, and another row was placed, and so on, until you came to the fourth. Every skeleton in the three rows was entire, and they all looked toward the east. They had their arms crossed upon their bosoms, and almost every one had a vessel containing blood, or sand tinged with blood. The fourth, or upper stratum, consisted of disjointed bones, and with these also there were vessels containing blood or colored sand. In this way, the writer says, he saw a hundred bodies. Then there was this remarkable circumstance about their clothes. Eutychianus, [Footnote 88] the pope, had published a decree that no body of a martyr was ever to be buried without having a dalmatic put upon it; and clothes in abundance were found upon these bodies.

[Footnote 88: _Acta SS._ Bolland. Octob., tom, ix., p. 139. _Constant. Rom. Pont. Epist._ Paris, 1721, p. 299. ]

Another important discovery was, that immense quantities of arrows were found mingled with the bones; some sticking in the skull, others in the breast, others in the arms--right in the bones. So it was clear that all these bodies had been put to death by means of arrows, and there was no other tribe but the Huns which made use of the arrow as its instrument of death. I may add that there were no signs of burning, or of any heathen burial about them. This also is most important. I have said that there had been other exhumations in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. There are pictures of these, and there are sarcophagi preserved in which bodies were found. These are laid in exactly the same manner as others were found in 1640. Crombach says the whole had been done most scientifically, that the distances were all arranged by measure, so that there was not a quarter of a foot difference anywhere.

Now, I ask, could these bodies have been put there in consequence of a plague, or an earthquake, or any event of that kind? Putting aside the arrows found in immense quantities, and the {447} vessels containing blood, we know that when people die in a plague to the number of hundreds, a foss is made, and they are thrown in, and there is an end of them. This could not have been a common cemetery. It contained nothing but the bodies of these women (I will speak of their physical characteristics later), all laid in studied order, with great care, and with such peculiarities, and all evidently buried at the same time. After reading all this, may we not exclaim with St. Ambrose, "We have found the signs of martyrdom," and with St. Gaudentius, "What can you desire more to show that they were all martyred?" [Footnote 89] And who does not see here confirmed the history of Clematius? Comparing the whole with traditions, both English and German, it seems to me that you have as much proof as you can reasonably require.

[Footnote 89: S. Ambros., class, i., epist. xxii Ed Ben., tom, iii., p. 927. S. Gaud., _Serm. in Dedic. SS. XL. Martyr_, ap. Migne, tom, xx., col. 963.]

Having given you concisely the facts and corroborations of history, let me now proceed to answer objections.

And, first there is the question, Were all these martyrs? Well, if they were to be tried by the rules established very justly in the modern Church, it would no doubt be difficult to say; because how can you prove that each of these women laid down her life voluntarily for Christ? The tradition of Cologne is that they would not sacrifice their virtue to those heathens, and that they were surrounded and shot. But in those times a wider meaning was sometimes attached to the word "martyr." There were what are called _martyres improprie dicti_, where there could not be the same kind of evidence as in the case of others; or _martyres latiore sensu_. A person was called a martyr when he was put to death without his will being consulted, as in the case of our own St. Edmund, and in the case of St. Wenceslaus, who was put to death without being interrogated as to whether he would remain a Christian or not, and many others. De Buck shows that there was nothing more common. We have the remarkable case of the Theban legion--another instance of a large number of men being surrounded and cut down by soldiers without being questioned as to whether they were in a state of grace, or whether they were prepared to die. The deed was done _in odium religionis_, by people who merely looked to the gratification of their own passions and their desire for revenge. In those days the question of such persons being martyrs would be a very simple one, if it were known that they were killed by the Huns in hatred, as was supposed, of their virginity and because of their resistance. We have in martyrologies the account of Nicomedia and its twelve thousand martyrs. De Buck supposes that the number included all the martyrs of the persecution. And the 6,700 of the Theban legion are explained in the same way.

The next question is, Were these persons all virgins? Who can know? It is quite certain that even married persons, when martyred, had sometimes the title of virgins given to them. Many instances are supplied by the martyrologies and offices. St. Sabina, [Footnote 90]for instance, is called a virgin martyr, though she was a married person. It was considered that martyrdom raised all women to a higher degree of excellence. There are some curious questions, too, arising, which would not very well do for a discussion here. It is, however, sufficiently proved that when there was a great number of virgins, and others were mixed with them, the nobler title was given to all. Just as, if you have a great many martyrs and some confessors united, the title of martyrs is applied to all, as they are included in one office, each sharing in the glory of martyrdom. The "Sermo in Natali" expressly tells us that it was not supposed at its early period that all were virgins, but that there were ladies of all ranks and children amongst them. Indeed, some remains of children were found.

[Footnote 90: _Acta SS._ Bolland. Octob., tom, ix., p. 143.]

{448}

Then comes the question, Were there eleven thousand? Certainly not as all one company. It is supposed, and there appears nothing unreasonable in it, that when once the rage of the Huns was excited they would give way to an indiscriminate massacre, and that the eleven thousand most probably included persons who had sought refuge, perhaps their own captives, and probably a great number of the inhabitants of the city.

But does it not seem a frightful number of persons to be massacred? Not by the Huns. In the year 436 these same Huns slaughtered at once in Burgundy 30,000 men. They were of the same race, the same family of men, as Tamerlane, who had 70,000 heads cut off in Ispahan. And the Turks, when they took the island of Chios, reduced the population of 120,000 to 8,000. So that those slaughters, which to us seem so fearful, are not to be considered in the same light when occurring in those times. We have a frightful example in the case of Theodosius and the inhabitants of Thessalonica. It is said that 15,000 persons were put to death in the theatre for a simple insult. The most moderate calculation is that by St. Ambrose, who gives the number as 7,000. Human life, of course, was not then regarded as by us, especially by men who devastated whole cities and burned them to the ground. Hence the difficulty as to the number of persons, including among them not merely the followers of St. Ursula, but the bulk of the female inhabitants, is explained.

Another question arises, Were they English, or were there English amongst them? That is answered unhesitatingly, Yes. All the traditions, English and German, agree that these ladies had come from England and sought refuge.

I have mentioned the facilities for emigration, and the way in which many went out of the country; so that there would be nothing wonderful in a certain number of British women being at Cologne at that time. Now there is this curious fact illustrating the subject. Very lately the Golden Chamber, as it is called, adjoining the church, where the chief remains are deposited, was visited by Dr. Braubach and Dr. Gortz of Cologne, Dr. Buschhausen of Ratingen, and others, who examined the skulls and pronounced them to be Celtic, not German. The Celtic characteristics, as given by Blumenbach and other writers, are quite distinct--the chin falls back considerably, the skull is very long, and the vertex of the head goes far behind--quite distinct from the Romans or Germans. Moreover, with the exception of ten or fifteen out of from eighty to a hundred, they were all the bodies of females. Now all the writers--all that I have seen at least--say that there could not have been an emigration of some hundreds of women without some men, some persons to guard them, and these would be with them and would share their martyrdom. Then, in the next place, they were all young people, there was no sign of their having died of a plague or any other casualty, but they appeared to be strong, healthy young women; which of course, as far as we can judge, verifies the narrative to the utmost.

I now leave you to judge how very different historical research has made this legend, as it is called, appear, and how much we have a right to regard it in a devotional spirit, as the inhabitants of Germany certainly do. I do not say that there have not been many exaggerations, false relics, and stories; but critical investigation enables us to put all these aside, and to sift their evidence. But certainly we have a strong historical verification of what has been considered until within the last few years as legendary, not only by real discoveries which have come to light, but also by a right use of evidence which before had been overlooked and neglected.

The whole of what I have said relates to events. But my subject embraces "events and things." The latter part remains untouched, and I have {449} yet to show how things or objects which have been looked upon as fabulous have been proved to be real and genuine.

II. I proceed, therefore, to objects which have been, or may be, easily misrepresented, as if asserted to be what they are not, and involving an imputation of imposture on the part of those who propose them to the notice or veneration of Catholics.

I will begin with a rather singular example, but one which, I trust, will verify the assertion which I have made; and if time permits, I will multiply the examples by giving two or three other instances.

I do not know whether any of you in your foreign travels have visited the cathedral of Chartres; I have not seen it myself, but I believe that it is one of the most noble, most majestic, and most inspiring of all Gothic buildings on the continent. The French always speak of it as combining the great effects of a mediaeval church, more perhaps than any other in their country; and as my address will relate to that cathedral, I think it is necessary to give a little preliminary account of it; at the same time warning you that I do not by any means intend to plunge into the depths of the singular mystery in which the origin of that cathedral is involved. It takes its rise from a Druidical cavern which was for some time the only church or cathedral. Over that the Christians--for the town was early converted to Christianity--built a church, of course modest, and simple, and poor, as the early churches of the Christians were; but in this was preserved, with the greatest jealousy, and with the deepest devotion, what was called a Druidical image of Our Lady, which was always kept in the crypt, for it was over the crypt that the church was built. It was said to have existed there before the building of the church; but into that part of the history it is not necessary to enter. In the year 1020 this poor old church was struck by lightning, was set on fire, and entirely consumed. The bishop at that time was one of the most remarkable men in the French Church--Fulbert, who has left us a full account of what was done in his time there. He immediately set to work to build another church, proposing that it should be perfectly magnificent according to all the ideas of the age; and to enable him to do so, he had recourse to our modern practice of collecting money on all sides. Among others Canute, king of England and Denmark, and Richard, duke of Normandy, and almost all the sovereigns of the north contributed largely. The result was the beginning of a very magnificent church. The singularity of the building was this, that everybody labored with his hands, not only men, but women, not only the poor, but the noble. These furnished with their own hands provisions or whatever was necessary for the workmen. However, after Fulbert's death, like most undertakings of that class, the work became more languid; and before it was completed (that was in 1094), the building, in which there was a great quantity of wood used, was again burnt to the ground. Well, this time it was determined that there should be a splendid church, such as had never been seen before; and here, again, that same plan of working with their hands was adopted to an extent which, as stated in an account given us by Haymon and one or two others, seems incredible. The laborers relieved one another day and night, lighting up the whole place with torches; provisions were abundantly furnished to all the workmen without their having to move from their places. In fact, the writer says that you might see noblemen, not a few, but hundreds and thousands, dragging carts or drawing materials and provisions; in fact, not resting until, in 1160, seventy years after the destruction, the church was consecrated; and there it remains, the grand cathedral church of Chartres at this day.

Now, it may be asked, what was {450} there which most particularly made Chartres a place of such great devotion, and so attached the inhabitants to its cathedral that they thus sacrificed their ease and comfort so many years to build a church worthy of their object? It was a relic--a relic which had existed for several hundred years at that time in the church, which made it a place of pilgrimage, and which was considered most venerable. What was this relic? The name which it has always borne in the mouths of the simple, honest, and devoted people of Chartres and its neighborhood, and in fact of all France, is _La Chemise de la Sainte Vierge_--that is, a tunic which was supposed and believed to have been worn by the Blessed Virgin, her under-clothing, and was of course considered most venerable from having been in contact with her pure virginal flesh. However, you may suppose that you require strong proof of such a relic at all, and you will remember that my object is to show how things which may have been doubtful, and perhaps considered almost incredible, have received great proof and elucidation by research. I do not pretend to say that in all respects you can prove the relic: the research to which I allude is modern, but it may guide us back, may confirm a tradition, may give us strong reasons in its favor, showing that it has not been received without good ground, though it may not be able to penetrate the darkness which sometimes surrounds the beginning of anything in very remote antiquity. I am not going, then, to prove the relic, but I am going to show you the grounds on which it had been accepted, and then come to the modern verification of it.

The history is this. A Byzantine writer of the fourteenth century, Nicephorus Calixtus, [Footnote 91] tells us that this very relic was in the possession of persons in Judaea, to whom it was left by our Blessed Lady before her death; that it fell, in the course of time, into the hands of a Jew in Galilee; that two patricians of Constantinople, Galbius and Candidus, traced it, purchased it, and took it to Constantinople, where, considering themselves in possession of a great treasure, they concealed it, and would not let it be known (this was in the middle of the fifth century); that the Emperor Leo, in consequence of the miracles which were wrought, and by which this relic was discovered, in spite of those who possessed it, immediately entered into negotiations, obtained it, and built a splendid church in Constantinople expressly to keep it; and that the church so built was considered as the safety, the palladium as it were, of the city of Constantinople. He mentions another fact which is important; that is, that there were at that time in Constantinople three other churches, each built expressly for the preservation of one relic of our Lady. I mention these facts for this purpose: there is a very prevalent idea, I believe among Catholics as well as certainly among Protestants, that what may be called the great tide of relics came into Europe through the crusades; that the poor ignorant crusaders, who were more able to handle a sword than to use their discretion, were imposed upon, and bought anything that was offered to them at any price, and so deluged Europe with spurious and false relics. Now, you will observe, that all that I have been relating is referred to an age quite anterior to the crusades, or to any movement of the west into the east. It is true that Nicephorus Calixtus is a comparatively modern writer, but he could bear testimony to churches that were existing, and tell by whom they were built. The mere writer of a hand-book can trace out the history of a church or any other public monument which is before the eyes of all: but he was not of that character: he was a historian, and he tells us that there were [Footnote 92] three churches in Constantinople, just as we might say that {451} in Rome there is the church of Santa Croce, built by Constantine to preserve the relics of the cross. Nobody can doubt that the church was built for the relic, that the relic was deposited there, and that earth from the Holy Land was put into its chapel. Monuments like that preserve their own history. Therefore, when this writer tells us that these churches existed from that period, we can hardly doubt that he could arrive at a knowledge of such facts; and at any rate it removes the impression that these wonderful relics were merely the sweepings, as it were, of Palestine during a fervent and pious but at the same time ignorant and unenlightened age.

[Footnote 91: _Hist. Eccles._, lib. xv., cap. xxiv.]

[Footnote 92: _Hist. Eccles._, lib. xv., cap. xxv., xxvi.]

Thus, we get the history so far. Now, we know that there was no one who valued relics to such an extent as Charlemagne. We see, by Aix-la-Chapelle and other places, what exceedingly curious relics he collected. I am not here to defend them individually, because I do not know their history; nor is it to our purpose. He was in close correspondence with the east, from which he received large presents; for it was very well known what he valued most. There was a particular reason for this. The Empress Irene at that time (Charlemagne died in 814) wished to have his daughter Rothrude in marriage for her son Porphyrogenitus, and later offered her own hand to himself.

Many relics existed at the time of this correspondence; and as presents are now made of Arab horses and China services, so were they then made of relics, which, if true, monarchs preferred to anything else. Now, there is every reason to suppose that among the presents sent by Irene to Charlemagne was this veil or tunic. [Footnote 93] There is in the cathedral of Chartres a window expressly commemorating the passage of this relic from the east to Chartres. Secondly, the relic, as you will see later, was, up to a few years ago, wrapped in a veil of gauze, which was entirely covered with Byzantine work in gold and in silk, which had never been taken off; and it was wrapped up in it till the last time it was verified. We have every reason to suppose that it had come from Constantinople, and that it was delivered at Chartres in that covering. In the third place, it is historical--there is no question about it, for all chronicles and authorities agree upon the point--that Charles the Bald, the grandson of Charlemagne, being obliged to leave Aix-la-Chapelle, in consequence of going to settle in France, which was the portion of the empire allotted to him, took the relic away, and deposited it in the cathedral of Chartres. So that, as far as we can trace a transaction of this sort, there seems to be as much evidence as would be accepted in respect to the transmission of any object of a profane character from one country to another. There is the correspondence of the workmanship; there are the records of the place; and there is the fact that the relics were brought from Aix-la-Chapelle, where Charlemagne had collected so many relics that he had received from Constantinople. Mabillon, who certainly is an authority in matters of ecclesiastical history, says it would be the greatest rashness to deny the genuineness of this relic. "Who will presume to deny that it is real and genuine?" This is in a letter to the bishop of Blois, in which he is expressly treating the subject of discerning true relics. Everything so far, therefore, helps to give authenticity to this extraordinary relic which made Chartres a place of immense pilgrimage.

[Footnote 93: See note at p. 455.]

Bringing it down so far, we may ask, what was the common, and we may say the vulgar, opinion of the people regarding it? It had never been opened, and was never seen until the end of the last century. The consequence was, that it was called by the name I have mentioned. It was represented as a sort of tunic. It was the custom to make tunics of that form, which were laid upon the shrine and {452} worn in devotion; they were sent specially to ladies of great rank, and were so held in veneration that it was the rule, that if any person going to fight a duel had on one of these chemisettes, as they were called, he must take it off; as it was supposed his rival had not fair play so long as he carried it upon him. In giving an account of the building I forgot to mention the wonderful miracles in connection with the relic there, which are believed by everybody to have taken place. It is even on record that the _Chevalier sans peur et sans reproche_ went to Chartres _pour se faire enchemiser_ before he went to war.

In 1712, we find that the relic was in a cedar case richly ornamented with gold and jewels--the original case in which it had arrived. The wood being worm-eaten and crumbling, it was thought proper to remove and clean it, and put it in some better place. The cedar case had no opening by which it could in any way be examined, and the bishop of the time, Mgr. de Merinville, proposed to open it. He chose a jury of the most respectable inhabitants of the town, clergy and laity, to assist. The box was unclosed, and the relic was found wrapped up, as I have said, in the veil of Byzantine work. The veil was not unclosed, so that they did not see the relic itself. The debris of the box was swept away, and the relic, as it was, was put into a silver case that had been prepared; this was locked up, and then deposited in a larger shrine distinct from all the other relics. The _procès verbal_ still exists in the archives of Chartres giving an account of all that took place, from which the account I have given you is taken.

Infidelity was then spreading in France, and, as you may know, a great deal of ridicule was thrown on this relic. It was said that such a garment was not worn in those days, that the system of dress was quite different, and that it was absurd to imagine any article like this. Now, as no one had seen the relic, there was no way of answering these reproaches. In 1793, three commissioners came from the French government, went into the sacristy, and imperiously desired to look at the relic; it was very richly enshrined, and they intended to carry it off. The shrine was brought to them, as the _procès verbal_ of the second examination relates, when they seemed to be seized with a certain awe, and said, "We will not touch it; let it be opened by priests." Two priests were ordered to open the box, and they did so. These men had come prepared to have a good laugh, and scoffing at this wonderful relic. For antiquarians had been saying that such inward clothing was not known so early as the first century, but that instead a long veil used to be wrapped round the body.

Well, they found a long piece of cloth four and a half ells in length--exactly what had been said should be the proper garment. The commissioners were startled and amazed, and said, "It is clear that this is not the relic the people have imagined; perhaps it is all an imposture." They then cut off a considerable piece and sent it to the Abbé Barthélemy, author of the "Travels of Anacharsis" and member of the Institute--a man who had made the customs and usages of antiquity his study; they did not tell him where it came from, but desired him to give an opinion of what it might be. He returned this answer: that it must be about 2,000 years old, and that from the description given him it appeared to be exactly like what the ladies in the East wear at this day, and always have worn--that is, a veil which went over the head, across the chest, and then involved the whole body, being the first dress worn. I ask, could a verification be more complete than this? And, recollect, it comes entirely from enemies. It was not the bishop or clergy that sought it. The relic was in the hands of those three infidel commissioners, who sent a portion to Paris without saying or giving any hint of what it was (they {453} wanted to make out that the whole was an imposture), and the answer was returned which I have mentioned, and which is contained in the _procès_ in the archives of the episcopal palace at Chartres. If any one wants to read the whole history, I refer him to a most interesting book just published by the curé of St. Sulpice (Abbé Hamon), entitled "Notre Dame de France, ou Histoire du Culte de la Sainte Vierge en France." The first volume, the only one out, contains the history of the dioceses of the province of Paris.

I will proceed to a second popular charge, and it is one the opportunity of easily verifying which may never occur again. It refers to the head of St. John the Baptist, or, shall I say, to the three heads of St. John the Baptist? Because, if you read English travellers of the old stamp, like Forsyth, you will find that they make coarse jokes about it. Forsyth, I think, says something about Cerberus; but more gravely it has been said, that St. John must have had three heads--one being at Amiens, one at Genoa, and another at Rome; that at each place they are equally positive in their claims; and that there is no way of explaining this but by supposing that St. John was a triceps.

When we speak of a body you can easily imagine that one piece may be in one place, another in another, a third elsewhere, and so on. That is the common way in which we say that the bodies of saints are multiplied; because the Church considers that the place which contains the head or one of the larger limbs of a saint, or the part in which, if a martyr, he was killed or received his death-wound, has the right of keeping his festival and honoring him just as if it had the whole body. Therefore, in cathedrals and places where festivals are held in honor of a particular saint, where they have relics, which have perhaps been sealed up for years, and never examined, they often speak as if they have the entire body. This is a common practice, and if I had time I might give you an interesting exemplification of it. [Footnote 94] Suffice it to say, that according to travellers there are three heads of St. John. Now as I have said, a body can be divided, but you can hardly imagine this to be the case with a head.

[Footnote 94: Since published in _The Month_, "Story of a French Officer." (See CATH. WORLD, No. 1.)]

A very interesting old English traveller--Sir John Mandeville--went into the East very early, and returned in 1366; soon after which, almost as soon as any books were published, his travels appeared. He is a very well-known writer. Of course you must not expect that accuracy in his works which a person would now exhibit who has books at his command and all the conveniences for travelling. He was not a profound scholar: he believes almost whatever is told him, so what we must do is to let him guide us as well as he can, and endeavor to judge how far he is right. I will read you an extract, then, from Sir John Mandeville: [Footnote 95]

[Footnote 95: "Travels," chap, ix., p. 182. Ed. Bohn.]

"From thence we go up to Samaria, which is now called Sebaste; it is the chief city of that country. There was wont to be the head of St. John the Baptist inclosed in the wall; but the Emperor Theodosius had it drawn out, and found it wrapped in a little cloth, all bloody; and so he carried it to Constantinople; and the hinder part of the head is still at Constantinople; and the fore part of the head to under the chin, under the church of St. Silvester, where are nuns; and it is yet all broiled, as though it were half burnt; for the Emperor Julian above mentioned, of his wickedness and malice, burned that part with the other bones, as may still be seen; and this thing hath been proved both by popes and emperors. And the jaws beneath which hold to the chin, and a part of the ashes, and the platter on which the head was laid when it was smitten off, are at Genoa; and the Genoese make a great feast in honor of it, and so do the Saracens also. And some men say that the {454} head of St. John is at Amiens in Picardy; and other men say that it is the head of St. John the bishop. I know not which is correct, but God knows; but however men worship it, the blessed St. John is satisfied."

This is a true Catholic sentiment. Right or wrong, all mean to honor St. John, and there is an end of it. We could not expect a traveller going through the country like Sir John, not visiting every place, but hearing one thing from one and another from another, to tell us the exact full truth. But we have here two very important points gained. First, we have the singular fact of the division of the head at all. We occasionally hear of the head of a saint being at a particular place, but seldom of a part of a head being in one place and a part in another. Here we have an unprejudiced traveller going into the East; he comes to the place where the head of St. John used to be kept, and he finds there the tradition that it was divided into three parts, one of which was at Constantinople, one at Genoa, and another at Rome. Then he adds, "Other people say that the head is at Amiens." So much Sir John Mandeville further informs us: he mentions the places where it was reported the head was, telling us that it was divided into three.

This is a statement worthy of being verified. It was made a long time ago, and yet the tradition remains the same. It was as well believed in the thirteenth century in the East, at Sebaste, as it is in Europe at the present moment.

The church of S. Silvestro in Capite, which many of you remember, is a small church on the east side of the Corso, entered by a sort of vestibule: it has an atrium or court, with arches round, and dwellings for the chaplains; the outer gates can be shut at night so as to prevent completely any access to the church. The rest is an immense building, belonging to the nuns, running out toward the Propaganda. When the republicans in the late invasion got hold of Rome, the first thing, of course, which they did was to turn out the monks and nuns right and left, to make barracks; and the poor nuns of S. Silvestro were ordered to move. The head of St. John is in a shrine which looks very brilliant, but is poor in reality. I think it is exposed high beyond the altar, and the nuns kept it in jealous custody in their house. The republicans sent away the nuns in the middle of the night, at ten or eleven o'clock, just as they were, with what clothes they could get made into bundles: there were carriages at the door to send them off to some other convent, without the slightest warning or notice. The poor creatures were ordered to take up their abode in the convent of St. Pudentiana. The only thing they thought of was their relic, and that they carried with them. The good nuns received them though late at night, and did what they could to give them good cheer; they gave up one of their dormitories to them, putting themselves to immense inconvenience.

When the French came to Rome, they found S. Silvestro so useful a building for public purposes that they continued to hold it, but permitted the nuns to occupy some rooms near the church. I was in Rome while they were still at my titular church, and went to visit the nuns attached to it. Their guests asked, "Would you not like to see our relic of St. John?" I said, "Certainly I should; perhaps I shall never have another opportunity." I do not suppose it had been out of their house for hundreds of years. There is a chapel within the convent which the nuns of St. Pudentiana consider a sacred oratory, having a miraculous picture there, to which they are much attached; and in this they kept the shrine. On examination I found that there was no part of the head except the back. It is said in the extract I have read to you that the front part of the head is at Rome; but it is the back of the skull merely; the rest is filled up with some stuffing {455} and silk over it. The nuns have but a third of the head; and the assertion that they pretend to possess the head, which travellers make, is clearly false. I can say from my own ocular inspection that it is but the third part--the back part, which is the most interesting, because there the stroke of martyrdom fell. I was certainly glad of this fortunate opportunity of verifying the relic.

Some time afterward I was at Amiens. I was very intimate with the late bishop, and spent some days with him. One day he said to me, "Would you wish to see our head of St. John?" "Yes," I replied, "I should much desire it." "Well," he said, "we will wait till the afternoon; then I will have the gates of the cathedral closed, that we may examine it at leisure."

We dined early, and went into the chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, where the relic was exposed, with candles. After saying prayers, it was brought, and I had it in my hands; it was nothing but the mask, the middle and back portions being totally wanting. You could almost trace the expression and character of the countenance in the bony structure. It was of the same size and color as the portion which I had seen at St. Pudentiana; but the remarkable thing about it is that there are stiletto marks in the face. We are told by Fathers, that Herodias stabbed the head with a bodkin when she got it into her hand, and here are the marks of such an operation visible. You could almost say that you had seen him as he was alive. I have not seen the third fragment, but I can hardly doubt that it is a portion of the same head, and that it would comprise the parts, the chin and the jaw, because there is no lower jaw in the front part, which is a mere mask. The only other claimant is Genoa, and its relic I have not seen. But this is exactly the portion allotted by Mandeville to that city. I have, however, had the satisfaction of personally verifying two of the relics, each of which comprises a third part of the head, leaving for the other remainder exactly the place which our old traveller allots to it.

Mr. Cashel Hoey, one of our learned contributors, has kindly furnished me with a most interesting corroboration of this account. It is an extract from the _Revue Archéologique_, new series, Jan. 1861, p. 36, in a paper by M. Louis Moland, entitled "Charlemagne à Constantinople," etc., giving an account of a MS. in the library of the Arsenal, anterior to the thirteenth century.

The following is the account of the relic which the emperor is stated to have brought from Constantinople to Aix-la-Chapelle:

"Li empereres prist les saintuaires tot en disant ses orisons, si les mist en eskerpes (_écharpes_) totes de drap de soie et si les enporta molt saintement avoec lui trosqu Ais la Capele en l'eglise Nostre Dame qu'il avoit ediflie. Là fu establis par l'apostolie (_Le Pape_) et par les archevesques et les evesques as pelerins li grans pardons, qui por Deu i venoient. Oiés une partie des reliques, que li empereres ot aportées: il i fu la moitiés de la corone dont Nostre Sires fu coronés des poignans espines. Et si i ot des claus dont Nostre Sires fu atachiés en la crois al jor que li Jui le crucifierent. Et si i ot de la vraie crois une pieche et del suaire Nostre Segnor, _O le chemise Nostre Dame._"

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{456}

From The Month.

MADAME SWETCHINE AND HER SALON.

The _salons_ of Paris form a distinctive feature of French society. Nowhere else is the same thing exactly to be found. Frenchwomen have a peculiar gift for conversation, due in a great measure to their graceful language, with its delicate shades of expression. We are prone to smile at French sentimentality, or to apply their own word _verbiage_, prefacing it with _unmeaning_. But when the epithet does truly fit, it is because the real thing has been abused, not because it does not exist. Conversation in France is cultivated as an art, just the same as epistolary style: both form an important branch of female education. When the soil is bad, the attempt at culture only betrays more clearly native poverty; in other words, a mind of little thought or taste becomes ridiculous in straining after the expression of what it can neither conceive nor feel. But when a well-informed and cultivated intelligence blossoms into keen appreciation of the beautiful, no language so delicately as French conveys minute shades of thought and feeling. 'Tis not repetition, then, but variety; and when such an instrument is handled with feminine tact, perfection in its kind is achieved.

No wonder that _salons_ are exclusively French from the days of Julie de Rambouillet down to Madame Récamier. No wonder at the influence exercised by a woman who really has a _salon_. Few, very few, arrive at this result. Thousands may receive; hundreds glitter in the gay world of fashion, renowned for beauty, wit, good dressing, or good parties; two or three at most in a century are the presiding spirits of their social circles, and that is what constitutes having a _salon_. No one quality alone will do it; a combination is required; not always the same, but one or two together, whichsoever, attracting sympathy and producing influence. Influence--the effect, not the quality itself--can never be absent.

Strangers settling in Paris have had their _salon_; but we do not know that they could transport it with them to any other atmosphere. Beside Madame Récamier--whose rare beauty, joined to her goodness and her tact, helped to form her _salon_--two other women in our day, or just before it, have been the leading stars of their circles. Others, no doubt, there are; but the names of these three have escaped beyond Paris. Strange to say, two are foreigners, and both of these Russians. Except, however, as regards country and influence, no comparison can of course be established between the Princess Lieven and Madame Swetchine. One sought and gained a political object; the other accepted circumstances, and found them fame.

Madame Swetchine was already thirty-four years of age when she arrived in Paris. She had no beauty, and no pretensions to wit; indeed, her timidity was such that her expressions were always obscure when she began to speak; and it was only by degrees, as she went on, that she gathered confidence, and then her language flowed with ease, betraying, rather than fully revealing, the deep current of thought beneath. Still her advantages were many. As regards outward circumstances, she possessed good birth and high position; her manners were such as the early culture of a polished court bestows; she was accustomed to wield a large fortune, and to hold a prominent place in the social world. These were advantages that might be fairly set against the absence of beauty, wondrous as is that charm: beside, her person was not unpleasing. Though {457} small, she was graceful in her motions; despite little blue eyes, rather irregular, and a nose of Calmuck form, her face wore a soft kindly expression that attracted sympathy. Her complexion was remarkably fresh and clear.

But Madame Swetchine possessed innate qualities of heart and mind of the rarest description, that only unfolded themselves gradually the more closely she could be observed. Unlike mankind in general, the better she was known, the more was she beloved and admired. Her intelligence of richly-varied powers had been carefully cultivated; what she acquired in youth, with the aid of masters, had been since matured by her own unceasing study, and by reading of the most widely-discursive character. Not only was she familiar with ancient and modern literatures, perusing them in their originals, but she also conversed fluently in all the languages of Europe. Her imagination, enthusiastic and wild almost, as belongs to the north, successfully sought for outpourings, both in music and painting. By a strange combination, no natural quality of mind was more remarkable in Madame Swetchine than her good sense: the only feature that shone above it was her eminent gift of piety.

But virtues, and particularly religious virtues, proceed from the heart quite as much as from the intelligence; often, indeed, far more especially. Madame Swetchine possessed the warmest feelings, a nature both loving and expansive. As daughter, wife, and friend she evinced rare devotion; but the sentiment and thought that most filled heart and mind was undoubtedly her love for God.

What a rich assemblage of qualities is here! how strange that they should go to make up a Parisian woman of fashion! Such, however, in its most usual acceptation, Madame Swetchine never was: she never mingled in the light brilliant world; but she did form the centre of attraction to a large circle she had her _salon_.

General Swetchine, deeply wounded by the emperor, who lent too ready credence to unfounded reports whispered against so faithful a subject, would not stoop to justify himself, but quitted Russia in disgust, accompanied by his wife. When they reached Paris, in the spring of 1816, Louis XVIII. was on the throne of France. Madame Swetchine found now restored to their high positions those friends of her youth whom as exiles she had known and loved at St. Petersburg. Her place was naturally amongst them; new intimacies were soon added to the old. The Duchesse de Duras, authoress of _Ourika_, and friend of Madame de Staël, gained a strong hold on her affections. Yet it did not seem at first as if Madame Swetchine were destined to so much influence in French society. Modesty made her reserved. Madame de Staël had been invited to meet her at a small dinner-party; and Madame Swetchine, though seated opposite, was intimidated, and allowed the meal to pass over without speaking or scarcely raising her eyes. Afterward Madame de Staël came up and said, "I had been told that you desired my acquaintance; was I misinformed?" "By no means," was the reply; "but it is customary for royalty to speak first." Such was the homage she paid to genius.

At first it had seemed uncertain how long General and Madame Swetchine might remain absent from Russia; but after the lapse of a few years they took up their definite residence in Paris. Their hotel, Rue St. Dominique, was hired on a long lease, and fitted up as a permanent abode. They sent for their pictures and other articles from St. Petersburg. The general occupied the ground-floor; Madame Swetchine took the rooms above. Her apartments consisted of a _salon_ and a library commanding an extensive view of gardens. Here it was that her friends used to assemble; not many at a time, but successively. She never gave _soirées_, and her dinner-parties consisted of a few intimates round a small table. Her hours for {458} reception were every day from three till six, and then from nine till midnight. Debarred by her health from paying visits, she contented herself with receiving in this manner; and for thirty years a continuous stream of persons was for ever passing on through her rooms. She had not sought to form it; but there was her _salon_, and one of a peculiar character.

Two features distinguished it: the religious tone that prevailed, and the absence of party spirit. Madame Swetchine herself was eminently religious, and she had a large way of viewing all things. Her influence, though partly moral and intellectual, was ever chiefly religious; and she gave that presiding characteristic to the atmosphere around. So long as faith and morality were not attacked, all other points she considered secondary, and admitted the widest diversity of opinion on them. Her own views on all subjects were firmly held, and she expressed them with freedom. There could be no mistake about it. In religion she was a strict Catholic, and in philosophy Christian; in politics she preferred a liberal monarchy; but far from seeking to give that color to her salon, she would not allow any friend holding the same views to try to impose them on others. This was equally the case in matters of art and taste; she tolerated nothing exclusive; but the principle is much more difficult to be followed out when applied to politics, which involve interests of such magnitude, appealing to all the passions, and especially in such an excitable atmosphere as that of Paris. Nothing better shows Madame Swetchine's tact and gentleness of temper than her intimacies with men of such different stamps, and the way in which she made them to a certain extent amalgamate. But the above qualities would have failed to do it, had their spring been a worldly one; hers flowed truly from the Christian charity with which her whole soul was full. In this she and her _salon_ were unique.

She lived to see two great revolutions in France: the one of 1830, and that which substituted the republic for Louis Philippe, ending with the empire. Members of all these _régimes_ were among her visitors. Ministers of state under the Restoration, those who embraced the Orleans cause, men belonging to the republican government, ambassadors from most of the foreign courts in Europe; all these in turn enjoyed her conversation, some her esteem or affection, according to the degrees of intimacy and sympathy. Her own feelings, as well as convictions, lay with legitimists; but others were no less welcomed, and some of various parties were highly valued. True, however, to religion, she never gave her friendship to men not devoted to the interests of the Church. Her great object was to do good to souls, but in a quiet, unostentatious, womanly way; gently leading to virtue, never inculcating it. This of course became more exclusively her province as she grew older.

She was truly liberal in all her sentiments; not assuredly from indifference, but through a large philosophy of spirit that allowed for diversities of opinion in all things not essential. At the same time her own convictions were unflinchingly avowed, as well as her ideas and tastes in smaller matters.

The men with whom she was most intimate have all more or less been known to fame, and are eminent also for their religious spirit. We might begin a list with Monsieur de Maistre at St. Petersburg, when she was but twenty-five; then following her to Paris, see her make acquaintance with his friend Monsieur de Bonald; exercise maternal influence over MM. de Falloux, de Montalembert, and Lacordaire; and finally wind up with Donoso Cortès, the Marquis de Valdegamas, Prince Albert de Broglie, and Alexis de Tocqueville.

Each one of the distinguished personages above has figured prominently on the great stage, more or less renowned in politics and letters, and {459} always holding a high moral character. It may seem fastidious to recall their titles to fame. In our day, when all are acquainted with continental literature, who is not familiar with the witty author of the _Soirées de St. Pétersbourg_, although it be permitted somewhat to ignore the rather dry philosophical works of his friend de Bonald? Monsieur de Falloux, with filial love, has raised a monument to Madame Swetchine that will endure beside his life of Pope Pius V., and jointly with the remembrance of his political integrity. Who that has followed the late history of Europe does not know Donoso Cortès, the great orator, whose famous three discourses in the Spanish chambers instantaneously reached so far and wide, whose written style is the very music of that rich Castilian idiom, and whose liberal political views kept pace with his large Catholic heart? Soeur Rosalie and Madame Swetchine together soothed his dying hours. The author of _La Démocratic en Amérique_ has been indiscreetly praised, but none can deny his ability, Prince Albert de Broglie, _doctrinaire_ in his views, still advocates with talent the cause of religion and of constitutional monarchy. These two latter were among the latest acquisitions to Madame Swetchine's salon.

MM. de Montalembert and de Falloux were like her sons; she knew them from their early manhood, called them by their Christian names, loved and counselled them as any mother might. But if her influence over them was so salutary, we cannot help admiring most the unswerving attachment of these young men to her; Madame Swetchine's letters show her expostulating with Comte de Montalembert, then little past twenty, and endeavoring to convince him he is wrong. He will not yield; but acknowledges afterward the justness of her views, and allows now these letters to be published. Alfred de Falloux is _the son_ sent for when danger seems impending; he tends her dying couch in that same _salon_ where he had so often and for so many years _walked_ with her conversing; to him she confides her papers and last wishes.

The celebrated Père Lacordaire was very dear to her; and she certainly acted the part of a mother toward him. Monsieur de Montalembert presented him to her when Abbé Lacordaire was but twenty-eight, and quite unknown. His genius--which she immediately discerned--and his ardent soul interested her wonderfully. Soon after he became connected, through Abbé de Lamennais, with the journal _L'Avenir;_ by his own generous and oft-repeated avowal she kept him from any deviation at this trying moment. "You appeared to me as the angel of the Lord," writes he, "to a soul floating between life and death, between earth and heaven."

Nor was this the only time. Her letters show her following him with breathless interest through his chequered career, and assuring him of her warm undying friendship, "so long as he remains faithful to God and his Church."

And this was a beautiful affection, whichever side we view it. For more than twenty years it lasted; that is, for the rest of her life. The ardent young man is seen with the erratic impulses of his glowing intellect, yet docile to the motherly admonitions of his old friend; and by degrees, as time mellows him somewhat--though it never could subdue nature altogether--he sinks into a calmer strain, still asking advice, and taking it, with language more respectful, though not a whit less tender. Madame Swetchine brought to bear on him a species of idolatry; she admired his genius to excess, and loved his fine nature as any doting parent might; but these sentiments never rendered her blind to his faults; and she constantly blended reproof with admiration, while strenuously endeavoring to keep him ever in the most perfect path. She had the satisfaction of seeing him, ere she departed this life, safely anchored in a religious order, and the Dominicans fairly re-established in France; one of her pre-occupations on her death-bed, after bidding him adieu, was to secure {460} that his letters should be one day given to the public. For thus she knew he would be better appreciated.

Other names of men well-known in the Parisian world of letters, or for their deeds of charity, might here be added as having adorned her _salon_. There was the Vicomte de Melun, connected with every good work (literary or other) in the French capital; and her two relatives, Prince Augustin Galitzin and Prince (afterward Père) Gagarin. The former still writes; the latter, erst a gay man of fashion and then metamorphosed into a zealous Jesuit, is now devoting his missionary labors to Syria.

And lastly may be named one who, though he never mingled in the world of her _salon_, yet visited Madame Swetchine and esteemed her greatly. Père de Ravignan presided at one time in her house over meetings of charitable ladies, who were afterward united with the Enfants de Marie at the convent of the Sacré Coeur.

Nor were her friendships exclusively confined to men. Madame Swetchine had not that foible into which many superior women fall of affecting to despise their own sex; and which always shows that they innately, unconsciously often, separate their individual selves from all the rest of womankind as alone superior to it. Hers was a larger view: she loved _souls_; and "souls," says one of her aphorisms, "have neither age nor sex." When shall we in general begin to live here as we are to do for ever hereafter?

She had had her early friendships in Russia, and most passionate they were; too girlish in their romantic enthusiasm, too wordily tender in expression; but time mellowed these affections, without wearing them out. The two principal women-friends of her youth in Russia, after her sister, were Roxandre Stourdja, a Greek by birth, afterward Comtesse Edlinz, and the Comtesse de Nesselrode. Both of these in later years visited her Paris salon. But she also formed several new French intimacies. Her grief for the loss of Madame de Duras, when death deprived her of that friend, was a little softened by her warm sympathy for the two daughters left, Mesdames de Rauzan and de la Rochejacquelain. If she saw most of the former, the latter had for Madame Swetchine a second tie through her early marriage with a grandson of the Princesse de Tarente, whom Madame Swetchine had so revered in her girlish days at St. Petersburg. Both the Duchesse de Rauzan and Comtesse de la Rochejacquelain were very beautiful; and Madame Swetchine dearly loved beauty, especially when combined, as in them, with grace and elegance, cleverness and piety. For both the sisters were remarkable: one had more fascinating softness united with good sense; the other was more witty and brilliant. The last country-house visited by Madame Swetchine shortly before her death was the chateau de Fleury, belonging to Madame de la Rochejacquelain, where we read that she loved to find still mementos of the Princesse de Tarente.

Madame Swetchine was very intimate with Madame Récamier, her fellow-star as leader of a contemporary _salon_. She greatly prized her worth. Another friend much loved was the Comtesse de Gontant Biron, in youth eminent for her beauty, and always for her many virtues. Among younger women distinguished by Madame Swetchine were Mrs. Craven, née la Ferronaye; the Princess Wittgenstein, lovely as clever, a Russian by birth, and a convert to the Catholic Church; and quite at the last period, the Duchess of Hamilton.

She was always partial to youth, taking a warm interest in anything that might minister to the welfare or pleasures of that age. Thus she liked the young women of her acquaintance to be well dressed, and would admire their taste or try to improve it, even in that respect, with perfectly motherly solicitude. Those going to balls frequently stopped on their way to show their toilettes to Madame Swetchine; and not seldom, too, they would {461} return in the morning to ask advice on graver matters, or to display the progress of their children. The good Madame Swetchine did to persons of the world by quiet friendly counsel is incalculable; she never spared the truth when she thought it could be of use, and as she had great perspicacity, she was not often deceived. Beside, her natural penetration became yet keener, not only by long experience, but also by the numerous confidences she received from the many souls in a measure laid bare before her. M. de Falloux has well said that she "possessed the science of souls, as _savants_ do that of bodies." However one might be pained at what she said, it was impossible to feel wounded; her manner was so kind, and her rectitude of intention so evident. And thus did she render her _salon_ useful: living in public, as it might appear, surrounded chiefly by the great ones of earth, her thought was yet ever with God, and she positively worked for him day by day without even quitting those few rooms. Nay, so completely is Madame Swetchine identified with her _salon_ for those who knew her through any part of the thirty years spent in Paris, that it is difficult for our idea to separate her from it.

Even materially speaking she seldom left it. With a simplicity that seems strange indeed to our English notions, she caused her little iron bedstead to be set up every night in one of her reception-rooms; each morning it was doubled up again and consigned to a closet. During her last illness it was just the same; she lay in her _salon_, the only difference being that then the bed remained permanently. Not an iota else was changed in the aspect of her apartment; no table was near the sick-couch with glass or cup ready to hand; what she wanted in this way she signed for to a deaf-and-dumb attendant, Parisse, whose grateful eyes were ever fixed upon her benefactress, to divine or anticipate what might be wished. And there, too, she died.

To us with our exclusive family feelings, or indeed to the general human sentiment that courts the utmost privacy for that solemn closing scene, there is something which jars in the account of Madame Swetchine's last days on earth. Doubtless all the consolations of religion were there to hallow her dying moments; she continued to the last to devote long hours to prayer; and by an enviable privilege she possessed a domestic chapel blessed with the perpetual presence of the Blessed Sacrament; but what strikes us strangely is, that her _salon_ had chanced to remain open while extreme unction was being administered; and so, as it was her usual reception hour, the few friends in Paris at that season (September) continued to drop in one by one, and kneeling, each new-comer behind the other, prayed with and for her. Those last visitors were Père Chocarn, prior of the Dominicans; Père Gagarin; Mesdames Fredro, de Meyendorf, and Craven; Messieurs de Broglie, de Falloux, de Melun, and Zermolof. But the _strange_ feeling we cannot help experiencing must be reasoned with. Her _salon_ and her friends were to Madame Swetchine home and family.

And now it might seem that nothing more could be said of her; but, in truth, a very small portion has yet been expressed. Beside the six hours devoted to reception, the day counted eighteen more. There were religious duties to be performed, and home duties no less imperative; there were the poor to be visited, and there were the claims of study, which Madame Swetchine never neglected up to the latest period of existence. All these calls upon her time were recognized by conscience, and therefore duly responded to. Madame Swetchine was, of course, an early riser; by eight or nine o'clock she had heard mass, visited her poor, and was ready to commence the business of the day.

After breakfast, an hour or two were devoted to General Swetchine, who liked her to read to him. During the {462} last fifteen years of his life, and his death only preceded hers seven years, he had become so deaf as to enjoy general society but little; but he would not allow her to give up her receptions on that account, as she wished to do. The rest of the morning was employed in study with strictly closed doors, only opened to cases of misfortune, and these Madame Swetchine never considered as intrusions. Her confidential servant knew it well, and did not scruple to disturb her when real want or sorrow begged for admittance. Her persevering love of study is well illustrated by her own assurance, but a few months before her death, that even then she never sat down to her writing-table without "feeling her heart beat with joy." She advised Mrs. Craven always to reserve a few morning hours for study, saying the quality of time was different at that period of day.

Several hours in the evening were again spent with the general. At midnight, when all visitors departed, Madame Swetchine retired to rest; but her repose never lasted much beyond two in the morning. Painful infirmities made her suffer all day long, and at night debarred her from sleep. Motion alone brought comparative ease, and therefore it was that, with intimate friends, she carried on conversation walking up and down her rooms. At night, suffocation increased, as also a nervous kind of excitement. It was at these hours, during the intervals snatched from pain, that she mostly composed the writings which M. de Falloux has given to the world. No wonder that they bear the impress of the cross; nor can we marvel that she speaks feelingly and scientifically of resignation, for good need had she to practise that. Such were usually her twenty-four hours in Paris.

If we look back to the past, religion had not always been the guiding principle with Madame Swetchine. Her father, M. Soymonof, was a disciple of Voltaire, and he brought her up without any pious training. She never even repeated morning or evening prayers; simply attended the imperial chapel as a matter of course. But Voltaire did not excite her admiration; his infidelity was too cold, his immorality too coarse; it was Rousseau who charmed her. His passionate language pleased her imagination, and the pages of _La Nouvelle Héloise_ were almost entirely transcribed, to be again and again dwelt on. She could not detect the sophistry beneath. But the first deep sorrow of her youth taught her prayer, and brought her to the feet of God, never to abandon him. M. Soymonof was suddenly snatched from his children by death, and Madame Swetchine, the anguish of this bereavement, turned to heaven for help and consolation. Another sorrow, the nature of which we ignore, overtook her at this period; and, to use her own expression, she "threw herself then into the arms of God with such enthusiasm as naught else ever awakened."

The first effect was to render her a fervent adherent of Russian orthodoxy; but her mind was too philosophic to rest long satisfied with half conclusions. She was struck with the piety of French Catholics at St. Petersburg; especially the modest merit of the Chevalier d'Augard won her highest esteem. Finally, after much voluminous study, and despite the resistance her rebellious spirit loved to oppose to what she at first called M. de Maistre's "dogmatic absolutism," she entered the Catholic Church.

The absurd idea that religion renders the heart cold has been too often refuted to need any comment here. But it may be said that Madame Swetchine affords another example of how much devotion, by purifying human feeling, intensifies it also. God had given her a loving nature; and as her piety deepens with years, so does her tender affection for family ties, for friends, country, and finally for all the poor, suffering, helpless ones of earth. Her first great attachment was for her father, and so her first great sorrow was at his loss; for thus intimately {463} are love and pain ever conjoined in this world. Another deep affection of childhood and early youth, extending through life, was for her sister. Madame Swetchine was quite a mother to this child, ten years her junior. When she married, she still kept her with her; and when the young sister also married, becoming the wife of Prince Gagarin, Madame Swetchine became a mother also to the five boys who were successively brought into the world. "They are all my nephews," would she say; "but the two eldest are especially my children." And well did they respond to the feelings of their aunt, scarcely separating her from their own parent. When she shut herself up for study, it was their amusement to try and get her out to play with them; if she remained deaf to entreaties, the little boys would besiege her door, making deafening noises with their playthings, until she mostly yielded and let them in. A very short time before her death, when Madame Swetchine could hardly sit or speak, she assembled a large family party of young nephews and nieces, with their preceptors and governesses, to dine at her house, and was greatly diverted with their innocent mirth.

There is something disappointing in Madame Swetchine's marriage. The favor enjoyed by Monsieur Soymonof at court, her own position as maid-of-honor to the Empress Marie, her birth, fortune, extreme youth, and many individual qualifications, all alike rendered her a fitting match for any man in the empire. She certainly could have chosen. Several asked her hand. Amongst them was Count Strogonof, young, rich, noble, and talented. But Monsieur Soymonof preferred his own friend General Swetchine; and Sophie, we are told, accepted with affectionate deference her father's choice. The general was twenty-five years her senior, and though a fine military-looking man, with noble soldier-like feelings, scrupulously honorable, and with much to win esteem, yet he does not appear the sort of person suited to her ardent enthusiastic temperament. He possessed qualities fitted to command the respect of a young wife; but not exactly those that win her to admiration and love. Wherever honor was not concerned, he lapsed into his natural apathy: neither intellect nor imagination were by any means on a par with hers. And the girl of seventeen who prematurely linked her fate with his was full of romance: nurtured as she had been by a fond ill-judging father, with Rousseau to guide her opening thought, her early dreams probably had fed on some chivalrous St. Preux with whom to course the stream of life. Perhaps she was dreaming of wedding some stern military personification of the same. What an awakening there must have been! Was this the second deep sorrow that clouded her nineteenth summer? Was there a struggle then? Then did she "fling herself into the arms of God" victorious.

There is no clue to trace aught of this save that which guides to the usual windings of the human heart. Madame Swetchine was far too nice in her sense of duty, and far too delicate in feeling, to allow any such admissions to escape.

The devotion of a life-time was given unreservedly to General Swetchine. She never knew the happiness of becoming a mother, the tie that would of all others have been dearest to her heart. But the general had bestowed paternal affection on a young girl called Nadine Staeline, and Madame Swetchine also generously insisted on adopting her. Nadine, welcomed to their roof, was treated by Madame Swetchine like her own child.

Her attentions to the general continued unremitting. When he quitted Russia, she accompanied him to Paris; when he was summoned to return, though condemned to banishment from St. Petersburg and Moscow, she profited by the respite gained to go alone in her old age and infirmity to plead his cause herself with the emperor. Nor did she complain of the illness in Russia that followed such fatigue, for {464} her suit was granted. Still less did she regret the yet more serious malady that overtook her on returning to Paris with the glad tidings that brought such relief to his declining years. He lived to the age of ninety-two, and her grief at his loss was intense. Then indeed it was the long companion of a life-time that was taken from her; and we all know the tender attachment that strengthens with years between two persons who pass them together, and mutually esteem each other.

The general, on his part, always showed Madame Swetchine affection that had gradually become mixed up with a species of veneration. Though he never thwarted her religious views, he did not himself embrace them; he liked to see her Catholic friends, even priests, and especially Père de Ravignan; but remained satisfied with the Greek Church. Beside her duties as a wife, we have seen Madame Swetchine embrace those of a mother toward young Nadine. She never slackened in them until Nadine by her marriage ceased to require their exercise. Then she contrived to gratify her maternal instincts by undertaking the charge of Helene de Nesselrode, the daughter of her friend, just aged fourteen, and whose health demanded a warmer climate than that of Russia. Nor did she give her up till Helene married.

Faithful to all the sentiments she experienced, and warm in her friendships, Madame Swetchine's most enthusiastic attachment appears to have been for Mademoiselle Stourdja. It dated from her early married life, and continued through the whole of existence. At first it well-nigh provokes a smile to see how, scarcely parted for a few hours from her friend, she rushes to her pen, that it may express the pangs of separation. But girlhood has not passed over, ere thought, reason, duty, figure largely in the letters of Madame Swetchine. Her correspondence was extensive, and portrays herself just as she appeared in daily life--a wise, gentle, and affectionate friend or counsellor, as circumstances might dictate. Nowhere does this show her to greater advantage than in the letters--too few, unfortunately--that we possess from Madame Swetchine to Père Lacordaire. The difference between the two minds is striking. Her good sense and exquisite judgment contrast with his fiery impetuosity of thought and feeling; it is evident that her soul moves in the serene atmosphere of near union with God; while he, the religious of already some years' standing, is yet battling with strong human torrents. How gently she calls him up a higher path, never forgetting her womanhood nor his priestly character. His tone becomes much more religious; with rare candor and simplicity he sees and owns past imperfections.

Patriotism was one of her ardent sentiments, and she considered the feeling as a duty incumbent on women no less than men: of course, conduct was to be in accordance. Like many Russians, love of country centred for her in devotion to the sovereign; and of this her letters afford curious exemplification. She calls Alexander "the hero of humanity," and, after enumerating his many perfections, rejoices that this young sage is our emperor! When her husband was harshly summoned back to Russia, that the disgrace of exile from court might be inflicted, she exclaims: "God knows that I have never uttered a word of complaint against my sovereigns, nor so much as blamed them in heart!" Strange loyalty this to our modern western notions!

Her tender charity toward the poor began to show itself at an early age. At twenty-five in St. Petersburg she was already the soul of all good works there: nor did she content herself with merely giving alms, nor even with seeking to promote moral improvement; her ingenious kindness displayed itself also in endeavouring to procure pleasure or innocent amusements. She took flowers to those she visited, or tried to adorn their rooms with pictures. The {465} friendless deaf-and-dumb girl whom she had adopted became her constant attendant; and Madame Swetchine bore with her violence of temper until the defect was partly overcome.

She undertook the charge of a poor boy at Vichy, because his many maladies and their repulsive nature rendered him an object almost of disgust. Each summer that she returned there, he was among the first to greet her, sure of the kindest welcome. For years all his wants were supplied at her expense; and when he died, she said he had now become her benefactor.

To know Madame Swetchine thoroughly, her writings must be read. They were never meant for publication, but are either self-communings, or thoughts poured out before God. Some of her aphorisms are touchingly delicate in sentiment.

"Loving hearts are like paupers; they live on what is given them."

"Our alms form our sole riches, and what we withhold constitutes our real poverty."

Her prayers and meditations may be used with advantage for spiritual reading. Her unfinished treatise on Old Age is very beautiful; but more exquisite still is that more complete one on Resignation. Any passage chosen at random would show elevated thought.

"The first degree of submission produces respectful acquiescence to God's will; then this sentiment becomes transformed into a pious and sincere acceptation full of confidence; until confidence itself gradually acquires a filial character."

"Faith," she says, "makes resignation reasonable, and hope renders it easy."

"The love of God draws us away from our long love of self."

"Patience is so near to resignation, that it often seems one and the same thing."

She acknowledges that the hardest trials of resignation are found in those misfortunes irreparable here on earth. Such are death, old age, physical infirmity, loss of worldly honor, final impenitence. But the death of those we love, she says, may be deeply mourned in the midst of resignation; and our own certain death affords not only a counterbalance to such affliction, but also to the other evils of life. Old age is a halt between the world overcome, and eternity about to begin. Physical infirmities make us live in the atmosphere of the gospel beatitudes; we are then truly the poor ones of Christ, or rather poverty itself. The world sometimes forgets, but never pardons; what matters, provided virtue remain unscathed, or that it be restored through repentance?

"Suffering teaches us how to suffer; suffering teaches us how to live; suffering teaches us how to die."

And here we take our leave of this remarkable woman, who offers such a bright example to our generation.

----

{466}

From The Dublin Review.

RECENT IRISH POETRY.

_Lays of the Western Gael and other Poems_. By SAMUEL FERGUSON. London: Bell & Daldy. 1865.

_Poems_. By SPERANZA (LADY WILDE). Dublin: Duffy. 1864.

_Laurence Bloomfield in Ireland_. A modern Poem. By WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. London: Macmillan &Co. 1864.

_Inisfail, a Lyrical Chronicle of Ireland_. By AUBREY DE VERE. Dublin: Duffy. 1864.

In the palmy days of Young Ireland, its writers and speakers were particularly prone to the quotation of that strange saying of Fletcher of Saltoun: "If a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a country." It has been the destiny of Young Ireland to make and to administer the laws of other countries than that for which its hot youth hoped to legislate. But it has certainly left Ireland a legacy of excellent ballads. A glance at the fortunes of some of the more prominent members of this brilliant but ill-fated party, as they present themselves to view at this moment, suggests curious contrasts and strange reflections. Mr. Gavan Duffy, who was assuredly the source of its noblest and wisest inspirations, after having within ten years occupied high office in three Victorian ministries, and laid the impress of his organizing genius deep on the constitutional foundations of that most rising of the Australian states, is on his way home from Melbourne for a brief European vacation. Mr. John Mitchel, [Footnote 96] who represented the more violent and revolutionary section of Young Ireland, was, before the American war commenced, editor of the _Richmond Enquirer_, one of the most extreme organs of secession, and afterward visited Paris with the hope of inducing the Emperor Napoleon to invade Ireland; but since the war was declared, he has resumed his post at Richmond--sometimes writing articles that are supposed more particularly to forecast President Davis's policy; sometimes serving in the ranks of General Lee's army as the driver of an ambulance wagon. His eldest son fired the first shot that struck Fort Sumter, and afterward was himself struck at the heart in its command by a northern bullet. Mitchel's favorite lieutenant, Devin Reilly, on the other hand, died in office at Washington, and his illness was attributed at the time to over-fatigue in one of the earliest of those great electioneering contests in which the supremacy of Mr. Lincoln finally came to be established over Mr. Stephen Douglas, "the little giant of the west," and the only man, in Mr. Reilly's ardent conviction, who could have saved the American Union. Mr. D'Arcy McGee, whose character bore to that of Devin Reilly about the same relation as Mr. Duffy's did to that of Mr. Mitchel, is at present a leading member of the executive council of Canada, and (the Duke of Newcastle was of opinion) the ablest statesman of British America; in proof of which it may suffice to say, that the project of the Canadian confederation was in a great degree originated and elaborated by him. The handsome young orator, whose fiery eloquence surpassed in its influence on an Irish audience in the Rotunda even the most brilliant effects of Sheil at the old Catholic Association, is now to be recognized in a bronzed and war-worn soldier, under {467} the style and title of Major-General Thomas Francis Meagher, of the United States army, commanding a division, which, after Sherman commenced his marvellous march on Savannah, was sent forward to hold the southern section of Tennessee, and was last heard of in camp at Chattanooga. One of this orator's favorite disciples, Eugene O'Reilly, holds an equivalent rank; but his line of service has lain not in America, but in Asia--his allegiance is not to the President Abraham Lincoln, but to the Sultan Abdul Aziz; he is known to all true believers under the style of O'Reilly Bey, one of the earliest of the Christian officers who took rank under the Hatti Hamayoun; and his sword's avenging justice was freely felt among the Mohammedan mob who horrified Christendom five years ago by the massacres of Syria. What region of the earth is not full of the labors of this party, sect, and school of all the Irish talents, of whom may well be sung the antique Milesian elegy, to which their prophet and guide gave words that complain "they have left but few heirs of their company?" [Footnote 97] The rabid violence and the underbred vulgarity of style which belong to so many of the Irish Nationalist party of the present day, are all unlike even the errors of Young Ireland. That party, though it tragically failed in fulfilling its hopes at home, has at all events justified its ambition abroad; and it was always and everywhere singularly true to its ideas. Scattered as it is, broken, and often apparently divided against itself, its members have not failed to yield loyal, valiant, and signal service to whatever cause they espoused or country they adopted. Its poets have had a principal hand in framing the constitutions of states manifestly destined to future greatness. Its orators have led forlorn hopes against fearful odds; and, whether in the marshes of the Chickahominy or in Syrian defiles, have not known how to show their backs to the enemy. It would be easy to trace over a far wider range the fortunes of its members since the great emigration that scattered them in the years that followed their catastrophe in '48. It is possible any day to find a Young Irelander, who at a more or less brief period after Ballingarry _abiit, evasit, erupit_, in the red baggy breeches of the Zouave, or in judicial crimson and ermine at the antipodes; in the black robe of a Passionist father or the silk gown of a queen's counsel; surveying a railroad in Dakotah, or organizing brigands in Sicily; helping in some subordinate way the Emperor Maximilian to found the Mexican empire, or on the high road to make himself a Yellow Button at Peking. As for American generals north and south, and colonial law-givers east and west, their names are legion and the legion's name very much begins with Mac or O'. May they make war and law to good advantage! It was not given to them to make either for Ireland; but, if Fletcher of Saltoun was a wise man in his generation, they in theirs have left their country a far more precious heritage.

[Footnote 96: Our American readers need hardly be reminded that some of the biographical statements which follow are very wide of the truth.--Ed. C. W.]

[Footnote 97: _As truagh gan oidir 'n-a bh-farradk_--literally, "What a pity that there is no heir of their company." See the "Lament for the Milesians," in "The Poems of Thomas Davis." Dublin: Duffy.]

Irish poetry certainly existed before Young Ireland, and was even considered, like oratory, to be a quality naturally and easily indigenous to the Irish genius. Moore had not unworthily sustained the reputation of his country in an age of great poets; and it was Moore's own avowed belief that his "Irish Melodies" were the very flowering of his inspiration, and were indeed alone warranted to preserve his fame to future ages. But neither Moore, nor any other poet of Irish birth, had attempted to give to the Irish that poetry "racy of the soil," wherein every image and syllable smacks of their own native nationality, which Burns and Scott, and a host of minor poets, had created for the Scotch. This is the work which Young Ireland deliberately and avowedly attempted, and in which it has assuredly succeeded. When the effort was first made, it is {468} told that several of the writers who afterward wrote what, in its order of ballad poetry, is unexcelled in the language--and notably Mr. Davis-- were quite unaware of any possession of the poetic faculty, and took to the task as a boy takes to his tale of Latin spondees and dactyls at college. But the stream was in the rock, and when the rock was tapped the stream flowed. In the course of less than a year "The Spirit of the _Nation_" was published, in which, with much undeniable rubbish, there appeared a number of ballads and songs that won the admiration of all good critics; and to which the far more important testimony of their popular acceptance is still given in the form of continuously recurring and increasing editions. A Scotch publisher-- Mr. Griffin, of Glasgow--ten years ago had heard such accounts of this curious flood-tide of Irish verse, that he thought it might be a safe speculation to try whether, despite its politics, it might not make its way in the British market. The edition was very soon exhausted, and the book is now, we believe, out of print. These facts are of even more value than the high opinion which so experienced and accomplished a critic as Lord Jeffrey expressed about the same time of the poetic gifts of Davis and Duffy; for by universal consent the test of sale loses all its vulgarity when applied to that most ethereal compound of the human intellect, poetry. The poet is born, and not made, according to Horace; but in so far as he is made anything by man, it is by process of universal suffrage over the counter. Gradual, growing, general recognition, testified by many editions, at last, in the course of thirty years, establishes the irrefragable position of a Tennyson; against which a Tupper, long struggling, in the end finds his level, and lines trunks.

Much of the poetry of this time was, consciously or unconsciously, mimetic--mainly of Sir Walter Scott and of Lord Macaulay, whose "Lays of Ancient Rome" had recently been published. Scott, indeed, more distinctly suggested the elements out of which the Young Ireland poetry grew. Burns wrote in a peculiar provincial dialect, and with the exception of a few glorious lyrics, which will occur to every reader's recollection, he wrote for a district and for a class. But in Scott's mind all the elements of the Scottish nationality were equally confluent and homogeneous--the Highlander, the Lowlander, and the Islander; the Celt, the Saxon, and the Dane; the laird, the presbyter, and the peasant; and his imagination equally vivified all times--from those of the Varangians at Constantinople to those of the Jacobites at Culloden. But in Ireland there was no formed dialect like the Lowland Scotch, with a settled vocabulary and a concrete form. The language of the peasantry in many parts of the country was the same sort of base English that a foreigner speaks--scanty in its range of words, ill-articulated and aspirated, loose in the use of the liquid letters, formed according to alien idioms, and flavored with alien expletives. The language of the best of the ballads of the peasantry was that of a period in which the people still thought in Irish, and expressed themselves in broken English, uttered with the deep and somewhat guttural tones of the Celt, and garnished now and then with the more racy epithets, or endearments, or shibboleths, of their native speech. For a time the example of Lord Macaulay's ballad poetry prevailed, with its long rolling metre, its picturesque nomenclature, its contrasts rather rhetorical than poetical. It was possible to describe that decisive charge of the Irish brigade at Fontenoy, which Mr. Carlyle treats as a mere myth, in strains which instantly suggest those of the "Battle of Ivry." And so did Davis in a very memorable ballad; but the likeness was mainly in the measure, and Lord Macaulay had no copyright in lines of fourteen feet. The poem itself was Irish to the manor born; and, it might be pleaded, was only as like the verse of Lord Macaulay as the prose of Lord Macaulay is like the prose of Edmund Burke. {469} Beyond this task-work, however, which, although very ingeniously and fluently done, was still as much task-work as college themes, there arose a difficulty and a hope. Was it possible to transfuse the peculiar spirit of the Irish native poetry into the English tongue? The researches of the Archaeological Society were at this time rapidly disentombing the long-hidden historical and poetical treasures of the Irish language. Many of these had been translated by Clarence Mangan, in a style which did not pretend to be literally faithful, but which so expanded, illustrated, and harmonized the original that the poem, while losing none of its idiosyncrasy, gained in every quality of grace, freedom, and force. The rich, the sometimes redundant array of epithets, the mobile, passionate transitions, the tender and melancholy spirit of veneration for a vanishing civilization, for perishing houses, scattering clans, and a persecuted Church--some even of the more graceful of the idioms and more musical of the metres--might surely be naturalized in the English language; and so an Irish poetical dialect be absolutely invented in the middle of the nineteenth century. It was known how an Irish peasant spoke broken English, and put it into rhyme that did not want a strange wild melody, that was to more finished and scholarly verse as the flavor of _poteen_ is to the flavor of Burgundy. But how would an Irish bard, drawing his inspiration from the primeval Ossianic sources, and thinking in the true ecstatic spirit of the Irish muse, speak, if he were condemned to speak, in the speech of the Saxon? This was the bold conception; and no one who is familiar with the poetry of Ireland during the last twenty years, will deny that it has been in great part fulfilled.

The poet to whom its execution is especially due can hardly be called a Young Irelander in the political sense of the word. But Young Ireland was a literary school as well as a political sect; and any one who remembers, or may read, Mr. Ferguson's wonderful "Lament for Thomas Davis," which it is to be greatly regretted he has not included in the present edition of his poems, will recognize the strong elective affinities which attached him to their action and influence. As it is, this volume is by far the most remarkable recent contribution of the Irish poetical genius to English literature. Mr. Ferguson has accomplished the problem of conveying the absolute spirit of Irish poetry into English verse, and he has done so under the most difficult conceivable conditions--for he prefers a certain simple and unluxuriant structure in the plan of his poems, and he uses in their composition the most strictly Saxon words he can find. But all the accessories and figures, and still more a certain weird melody in the rhythm that reminds the ear of the wild grace of the native music, indicate at every turn what Mr. Froude has half-reproachfully called "the subtle spell of the Irish mind." It is not surprising to find even careful and accomplished English critics unable to reach to the essential meaning of this poetry, which, to many, evidently appears as bald as the style of Burns first seemed to southron eyes when he became the fashion at Edinburgh eighty years ago. And yet to master the dialect of Burns is at least as difficult as to master the dialect of Chaucer, while Mr. Ferguson rarely uses a word that would not be passed by Swift or Defoe. Before one of the most beautiful, simple, and graceful of his later poems a recent critic paused, evidently dismayed by the introduction, of which, however, not willing to dispute the beauty, he quoted a few lines. It was an old Irish legend, versified with surpassing grace and spirit, of which this is the argument. Fergus MacRoy, king of Ulster in the old pagan times, was a very good king of his kind. He loved his people and they loved him. He was handsome, and strong, and tall. He bore himself well in war and in the chase. He drank with discretion. {470} Nevertheless his life had two troubles. He did not love the law; and he did love a widow. To listen as chief justiciary to the causes, of which a constant crop sprang up at Emania, tares and corn thickly set together, troubled him sorely. To make verses to the widow, on the other hand, came as easy as sipping usquebaugh or metheglin. He proposed, and though a king was refused; but not discouraged, pressed his suit again and again. And at last Nessa the fair yielded, but she made a condition that her son Conor should sit on the judgment-seat daily by his stepfather's side.. This easily agreed, Nessa became queen, while, as Fergus tells the tale:

While in council and debate Conor daily by me sate; Modest was his mien in sooth, Beautiful the studious youth,

Questioning with eager gaze, All the reasons and the ways In the which, and why because, Kings administer the laws.

In this wise a year passed, the youth diligently observant, with faculties ripening and brightening as his majesty's grew more consciously rusty and slow; and then a crisis came, which Mr. Ferguson describes in verses of which it is hard to say whether they best deserve the coif or the laurel, for in every line there is the sharp wit of the lawyer as well as the vivid fancy of the poet:

Till upon a day in court Rose a plea of weightier sort, Tangled as a briery thicket Were the rights and wrongs intricate

Which the litigants disputed, Challenged, mooted, and confuted, Till when all the plea was ended Naught at all I comprehended.

Scorning an affected show Of the thing I did not know, Yet my own defect to hide, I said, "Boy judge, thou decide."

Conor with unalter'd mien, In a clear sweet voice serene, Took in hand the tangled skein, And began to make it plain.

As a sheep-dog sorts his cattle, As a king arrays his battle, So the facts on either side He did marshal and divide.

Every branching side-dispute Traced he downward to the root Of the strife's main stem, and there Laid the ground of difference bare.

Then to scope of either cause, Set the compass of the laws, This adopting, that rejecting,-- Reasons to a head collecting,--

As a charging cohort goes Through and over scatter'd foes, So, from point to point he brought Onward still the weight of thought

Through all error and confusion, Till he set the clear conclusion, Standing like a king alone, All things adverse overthrown,

And gave judgment clear and sound:-- Praises filled the hall around; Yea, the man that lost the cause Hardly could withhold applause.

In these exquisite verses, the language is as strict to the point as if it were taken from Mr. Smith's "Action at Law;" but the reader will remark how every figure reminds him, and yet not in any mere mimetic fashion, of the spirit and illustrations of the Ossianic poetry. Nevertheless each word taken by itself is simple Saxon. Its Celtic character only runs like a vein through the poem, but it colors and saturates it through and through.

The greatest of Mr. Ferguson's poems, however, is undoubtedly "The Welshmen of Tirawley," a ballad which, we do not fear to say, is unsurpassed in the English language, or perhaps in even the Spanish. Its epic proportion and integrity, the vivid picturesqueness of its phraseology, its wild and original metre, its extraordinary realization of the laws and customs of an Irish clan's daily life, the stern brevity of its general narrative, and the richness of its figures, though all barbaric pearl and gold, give it a pre-eminent place among ballads. Scott would have devoted three volumes to the story, were it not for the difficulty of telling some of its incidents. Mr. Ferguson exhibits no little skill in the way that he hurries his readers past what he could not altogether omit. For the facts upon which the ballad is founded are simply horrible, and they are historically true.

After the time of Strongbow, several Welsh families who had followed his flag settled in Connaught. Among {471} these "kindly Britons" of Tirawley, were the Walshes or Wallises, the Heils (_a quibus_ MacHale, and, possibly, that most perfect instance of the _Hibernis ipsis Hibemior_, the archbishop of Tuam); also the Lynotts and the Barretts, with whom we are at present more particularly concerned. These last claimed descent from the high steward of the manor of Camelot, and their end is a story fit for the Round Table. The great toparch of the territory was the MacWilliam Burke, as the Irish called the head of the de Burgos, descended from William FitzAdelm de Burgo, conqueror of Connaught, and therein commonly called William Conquer--of whom the Marquis of Clanricarde is the present lineal representative; being to Connaught even still somewhat as the MacCallummore is to Argyle, more especially when he happens to be in the cabinet, and to have the patronage of the post-office. Now the Lynotts were subject to the Barretts, and the Barretts were subject to the Burkes. But when the Barretts' bailiff, Scorna Boy, came to collect the Lynotts' taxes, he so demeaned himself that the whole clan rose as one man, even as Jack Cade, and slew him. Whereupon the vengeful Barretts gave to all mankind among the Lynott clan a terrible choice--of which one alternative was blindness; and the bearded men were all of their own preference blinded, and led to the river Duvowen, and told to walk over the stepping stones of Clochan-na-n'all; and they all stumbled into the flood and were drowned, except old Emon Lynott, of Garranard--whom accordingly the Barretts brought back and blinded over again, by running needles through his eyeballs.

But with prompt-projected footsteps, sure as ever, Emon Lynott again crossed the river, Though Duvowen was rising fast, And the shaking stones o'ercast, By cold floods boiling past; Yet you never, Emon Lynott, Faltered once before your foemen of Tirawley.

But turning on Ballintubber bank, you stood And the Barretts thus bespoke o'er the flood-- "Oh, ye foolish sons of Wattin, Small amends are these you've gotten, For, while Scorna Boy lies rotten, I am good For vengeance!" Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

For 'tis neither in eye nor eyesight that a man. Bears the fortunes of himself and his clan, But in the manly mind These darken'd orbs behind, That your needles could never find, Though they ran Through my heartstrings. Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

But little your women's needles do I reck, For the night from heaven never fell so black, But Tirawley and abroad From the Moy to Cuan-an-fod, I could walk it, every sod, Path and track, Ford and togher, Seeking vengeance on you, Barretts of Tirawley!

And so leaving "loud-shriek-echoing Garranard," the Lynott, with his wife and seven children, abandons his home, and takes refuge in Glen Nephin, where, in the course of a year, a son is born to him, whom he dedicates from the first breath to his vengeance. He trains this boy with assiduous care to all the accomplishments of a Celtic cavalier;

And, as ever the bright boy grew in strength and size, Made him perfect in each manly exercise, The salmon in the flood, The dun deer in the wood, The eagle in the cloud, To surprise, On Ben Nephin, Far above the foggy fields of Tirawley.

With the yellow-knotted spear-shaft, with the bow, With the steel, prompt to deal shot and blow, He taught him from year to year, And trained him, without a peer, For a perfect cavalier, Hoping so-- Far his forethought-- For vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.

And when mounted on his proud-bounding steed, Emon Oge sat a cavalier indeed; Like the ear upon the wheat, When the winds in autumn beat On the bending stems his seat; And the speed Of his courser Was the wind from Barna-na-gee o'er Tirawley!

Fifteen years have passed and the youth is perfected in all the accomplishments of sport and war, and the Lynott thinks it is time to return to the world and work out the scheme of his vengeance. So the father and son quit their mountain solitude, and journey southward to the bailey of Castlebar; and in a few fine touches the picture of Mac William's grandeur, as it strikes {472} the boy's wondering eyes, rises before us; the stone house, strong and great, and the horse-host at the gate and their captain in armor, and the beautiful _Bantierna_ by his side with her little pearl of a daughter. Who should this be but the mighty MacWilliam! Into his presence ride the Lynotts; and, after salutations, the old man declares his business. He has come to claim, as gossip-law allows, the fosterage of MacWilliam's son. Ever since William Conquer's time, his race were wont to place a MacWilliam Oge in the charge of a Briton of Tirawley; and the young Lynott was a pledge for his father's capacity in such tutelage. When MacWilliam saw the young Lynott ride, run, and shoot, he said he would give the spoil of a county to have his son so accomplished. When Lady MacWilliam heard him speak, and scanned his fresh and hardy air, she said she would give a purse of red gold that her Tibbot had such a nurse as had reared the young Briton. The custom was allowed. The young MacWilliam was sent under the guidance of old Lynott into Tirawley, and Emon Oge remained as a hostage in Castlebar. So back to Garranard, no longer the "loud-shriek-echoing," old Lynott returns--

So back to strong-throng-gathering Garranard, Like a lord of the country with his guard, Came the Lynott before them all, Once again o'er Clochan-ua-n'all, Steady-striding, erect, and tall, And his ward On his shoulders; To the wonder of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

And then the young Tibbot was taught all manner of feats of body, to swim, to shoot, to gallop, to wrestle, to fence, and to run, until he grew up as deft and as tough as Emon Oge. But he was taught other lessons as well, which were not in the bond of his foster-father.

The lesson of hell he taught him in heart and mind; For to what desire soever he inclined, Of anger, lust, or pride, He had it gratified, Till he ranged the circle wide Of a blind Self-indulgence, Ere he came to youthful manhood in Tirawley.

Shame and rage track his passage, till one night the young Barretts of the Bac fell upon him at Cornassack and slew him. His body was borne to Castlebar. The Brehons were summoned to judgment; and over the bier of MacWilliam Oge began the plea for an eric to be imposed upon the Barretts for their crime; and the Brehons decreed the mulct, and Lynott's share of it was nine ploughlands and nine score of cattle. And now the ultimate hour of the blind old man's vengeance had come, not to be sated with land and kine. "Rejoice," he cried, "in your ploughlands and your cattle, which I renounce throughout Tirawley." But, expert in all the rules and customs of the clans, he asks the Brehons, Is it not the law that the foster-father may, if he please, applot the short eric? And they say it is so. Whereupon, formally rejecting his own share of the mulct, he makes his award--that the land of the Barretts shall be equally divided on every side with the Burkes, and that MacWilliam shall have a seat in every Barrett's hall, a stall in every Barrett's stable, and needful grooming from every hosteler for every Burke who shall ride throughout Tirawley for ever. And then, in a speech full of barbaric sublimity and tragic concentration of passion, he confesses "the patient search and vigil long" of his vengeance. It is almost unjust to break the closely-wrought chain of this speech by a single quotation, and we have been already unduly tempted to extract from this extraordinary poem; but, perhaps, this one verse may be separated from the rest as containing the very culmination of the old man's hideous rage.

I take not your eyesight from you as you took Mine and ours: I would have you daily look On one another's eyes, When the strangers tyrannize By your hearths, and blushes rise That ye brook Without vengeance The insults of troops of Tibbots throughout Tirawley.

Another moment and he has done. "Father and son," says MacWilliam, {473} "hang them high!" and old Lynott they hanged forthwith; but young Lynott had eloped with MacWilliam's daughter to Scotland, and there changed his name to Edmund Lindsay. The judgment of the short eric was, however, held good; and the Burkes rode rough-shod over the Barretts, until, as Mr. Ferguson, almost verbally versifying the Chronicle of Duald Mac Firbis, says:

Till the Saxon Oliver Cromwell, And his valiant Bible-guided Free heretics of Clan London Coming in, in their succession, Rooted out both Burke and Barrett;

a process of eviction which Mr. Ferguson, not merely for the sake of poetical justice, but out of the invincible ignorance of pure puritanical Protestantism, appears on the whole very highly to approve.

This ballad is indeed unique in its order: no Irish ballad approaches its wild sublimity and the thoroughness of detail with which it is conceived and executed. The only Irish narrative ballad which can bear a general comparison with it is Mr. Florence MacCarthy's "Foray of Con O'Donnell," a poem as perfect in its historical reality, in the aptness of all its figures, illustrations, and feats of phrase to a purely Celtic ideal, and which even surpasses "The Welshmen" in a certain easy and lissome grace of melody, that falls on the ear like the delicately drawn notes of Carolan's music. But this grace is disdained by the grim and compressed character which animates every line of Mr. Ferguson's ballad. His other works, fine of fancy and ripe of phrase as they are, fall far below it, "The Tain-Quest" does not on the whole enthral the reader, or magnetize the memory. "The Healing of Conall Carnach," and "The Burial of King Cormac" are poems that will hold their place in many future Books of Irish Ballads; they are unusually spirited versifications of passages from the more heroic period of early Irish history; but excepting occasional lines, they only appear to be the versifications of already written legends. The ballad of Grace O'Malley, commonly called _Grana Uaile_, may be advantageously contrasted with these, and it contains some verses of singular power--as, for example, where the poet denies the imputation of piracy against this lady who loved to roam the high seas under her own commission--

But no: 'twas not for sordid spoil Of barque or sea-board borough, She plough'd with unfatiguing toil The fluent-rolling furrow; Delighting on the broad-back'd deep To feel the quivering galley and sweep Strain up the opposing hill, and sweep Down the withdrawing valley.

"Aideen's Grave" is a poem of a different kind, full of an exquisite melancholy grace; and where Ossian is supposed to apostrophise his future imitator, it is as if he thought after the manner of the Fenians, but was withal master of every symphony of the English tongue:

Imperfect in an alien speech When wandering here some child of chance, Through pangs of keen delight shall reach. The gift of utterance,-- To speak the air, the sky to speak, The freshness of the hill to tell, Who roaming bare Ben Edar's peak, And Aideen's briery dell, And gazing on the Cromlech vast, And on the mountain and the sea, Shall catch communion with the past, And mix himself with me.

There are lines in this poem that a little remind us of Gray, as--

At Gavra, when by Oscar's side She rode _the ridge of war;_

and again in the "Farewell to Deirdre" there is something in the cast and rhythm of the poem, rather than in any individual word or line, that recalls Scott's "Farewell to North Maven." But to say so is not to hit blots. Mr. Ferguson's is beyond question the most thoroughly original vein of poetry that any Irish bard of late days has wrought out; and in laying down this volume we can only regret that the specimens he has thought worthy of collection are so few in comparison not merely with what he might have done, but with what he actually has done. For {474} this modesty, let us hope that the prompt penance of a second and enlarged edition may atone.

We have said that though Mr. Ferguson could hardly be called a Young Irelander in politics, all the elective affinities of his genius tended toward that school of thought. But Lady Wilde, then known if she wrote prose as Mr. John Fanshawe Ellis, and if she wrote verse as Speranza, had an extraordinary influence on all the intellectual and political activities of Young Ireland. It was a favorite phantasy of that time, when Lamartine's book was intoxicating all Young Europe with the idea of a grand coming revolutionary epopoeia, and the atrocities of socialism in France and Mazzinianism in Italy had not yet horrified all Christendom, to find the model men for a modern Plutarch in the ranks of the Girondists. Notably Meagher was supposed to be gifted with all the qualities of Vergniaud, and Speranza to have more than the genius of Madame Roland. But when we come to real comparisons of character, the parallel easily gives way. If Smith O'Brien was like any Frenchman of the first revolution, it was Lafayette. Mitchel had in certain respects a suspicious resemblance to the earlier and milder phases of Robespierre's peculiar intellectual idiosyncrasy. The base of Carnot's character was that faculty for organization which was the mainspring of Gavan Duffy's various and powerful genius. The parallel was, even so far as it went, intrinsically unjust. Lamartine's glowing imagination gave to the Girondists a grandeur largely ideal. It is fair to say that Meagher's oratory was on the whole of a higher order than Vergniaud's; and certainly Madame Roland, great as may have been the influence of her character and her conversation, has left us no example of her talent that will bear comparison with Lady Wilde's poems or prose.

These poems, however, if full justice is to be done to them, ought to be read from first to last with a running commentary in the memory from the history of those few tragic years whose episodes they in a manner mark. One poem is a mournfully passionate appeal to O'Connell against the alliance with the Whigs, which was charged as one of the causes of the secession. Another is a ballad of the famine, with lights as ghastly as ever glowed in the imagination of Euripides or Dante, and founded on horrors such as Greek or Italian never witnessed. There is then a picture of "the young patriot leader"-- which an artist would characterize as a decidedly idealized portrait of Meagher--that American general who has since proved his title to be called "of the sword." Again, a gloomy series of images recalls to us the awful state of the country--the corpses that were buried without coffins, and the men and women that walked the roads more like corpses than living creatures, spectres and skeletons at once; the little children out of whose sunken eyes the very tears were dried, and over whose bare little bones the hideous fur of famine had begun to grow; the cholera cart, with its load of helpless huddled humanity, on its way to the hospital; the emigrant ship sending back its woeful wail of farewell from swarming poop to stern in the offing; and, far as the eye could search the land, the blackened potato-fields, filling all the air with the fetid odors of decay. Again and again such pictures are contrasted with passionate lyrics full of rebellious fire, urging the people to die, if die they must, by the sword rather than by hunger--and sometimes, too, with an angry, unreasonable, readily-forgiven reproach to the priesthood, who bore with such noble fortitude and self-immolating charity the very cross of all the crosses of that terrible time.

It is a curious fact, and reminds one of the myth of Achilles' heel, that O'Connell, who marched among his myriad foes like one clad in panoply of mail from head to foot, with a sort of inexpugnable vigor and endurance, not to be wounded, not to be stunned, with his buckler ready for every {475} thrust, and a blow for every blow that rained on his casque, was weak as a child under the influence of verse. Any one who may count over the number of times his favorite quotations, such as the lines beginning "Hereditary bondsmen" from "Childe Harold" for example, crop up in the course of his speeches, will be inclined to say that his fondness for poetry was almost preposterous. It was always tempting him, indeed, into dangerous ways--for while his prose preached "the ethereal principles of moral force," and the tenet that "no political amelioration is worth the shedding of a single drop of human blood," his favorite quotations were strictly in favor of fighting. The "hereditary bondsmen" were to "strike the blow;" and the Irish are a nation only too well disposed to interpret such a precept literally. Moore's melodies were always at the tip of his tongue; and Moore's "Slave so lowly" is indignantly urged not to pine in his chains, but to raise the green flag forthwith, and do or die. Some verses of O'Connell's own, of which he was at least equally fond, began:

Oh Erin! shall it e'er be mine To see thy sons in battle line?

It was not altogether politic, especially when Young Ireland was gaining the ascendant, to use such quotations habitually; but the temptation seems to have been irresistible. So, on the other hand, may be conceived his excessive sensitiveness to anything sounding like a reproach that reached him through the vehicle of verse. When Brougham or Stanley or Peel struck their hardest, they got in return rather more than they gave--when the whole House of Commons tried to stifle his voice, over all the din Mr. Speaker heard himself with horror called upon to stop this "beastly bellowing." But when Moore wrote those lines--so cruelly touching, so terribly caustic--"The dream of those days," which appeared in the last number of the Melodies, the Liberator was, it is said, so deeply affected that he shed tears. So again, these lines of Speranza, which appeared in the _Nation_ at the time of the secession, stung him to the very heart:

Gone from us--dead to us--he whom we worshipped so! Low lies the altar we raised to his name; Madly his own hand hath shattered and laid it low-- Madly his own breath hath blasted his fame. He whose proud bosom once raged with humanity. He whose broad forehead was circled with might; Sunk to a time-serving, driveling inanity-- God! why not spare our loved country the sight?

Was it the gold of the stranger that tempted him? Ah! we'd have pledged to him body and soul-- Toiled for him--fought for him--starved for him--died for him-- Smiled though our graves were the steps to hi s goal. Breathed he one word in his deep, earnest whispering? Wealth, crown, and kingdom were laid at his feet; Raised he his right hand, the millions would round him cling-- Hush! 'tis the Sassenach ally you greet.

It is a curious and, indeed, a very touching trait in O'Connell's character that an imputation conveyed in this form had a power to wound him which all the articles of the morning papers and all the speeches of the evening debates had not. This redoubtable master of every weapon of invective, whose weighty words sometimes fell on his adversary like one of Ossian's Titans hurling boulders, or again burst into a motley cascade of quip, and crank, and chaff, and wild, rampant ridicule, that (sometimes rather coarse and personal) was at its best, to other rhetoric, as the music of an Irish jig is to all other music, nevertheless had his Achilles' tendon. The man who loved to call himself "the best abused man in the universe" was as weak before the enemy who attacked him according to the rules of prosody as if he lived in the age when every Celt in Kerry piously believed that a man, if the metre were only made sufficiently acrid, might be rhymed to death, in the same manner {476} as an ancestor of Lord Derby was, according to the Four Masters. [Footnote 98]

[Footnote 98: "John Stanley came to Ireland as the king of England's viceroy--a man who gave neither toleration nor sanctuary to ecclesiastics, laymen, or literary men; but all with whom he came in contact he subjected to cold, hardship, and famine; and he it was who plundered Niall, the son of Hugh O'Higgin, at Uisneach of Meath; but Henry D'Alton plundered James Tuite and the king's people, and gave to the O'Higgins a cow in lieu of each cow of which they had been plundered, and afterward escorted them into Connaught. The O'Higgins, on account of Niall, then satirized John Stanley, who only lived live weeks after the satirizing, having died from the venom of their satires. This was the second instance of the poetical influence of Niall O'Higgin's satires, the first having been the Clan Conway turning gray the night they plundered Niall at Clodoin, and the second the death of John Stanley."--_Annals of the Four Masters._ A.D. 1414.]

Lady Wilde's verse has not at all the same distinctively Celtic character as Mr. Ferguson's. He aspires to be

Kindly Irish of the Irish, Neither Saxon nor Italian;

and his choice inspirations come from the life of the clans. Speranza's verse, so far as it has a specially Irish character, is of the most ancient type of that character. It is full of oriental figures and illustrations. It is, when it is most Irish, rather cognate to Persian and Hebrew ways of thinking, forms of metaphor, redundance of expression--in its tendency to adjuration, in its habit of apostrophe, in its very peculiar and powerful but monotonous rhythm, which seems to pulsate on the ear with the even, strident stroke of a Hindoo drum. Where this peculiar poetry at all adapts itself to the vogue of the modern muse, it is easy to see that Miss Barrett had very great influence in determining the mere manner of Lady Wilde's genius. When in the midst of one very powerful poem, "The Voice of the Poor," these lines come in--

When the human rests upon the human, All grief is light; But who lends one kind glance to illumine Our life-long night? The air around is ringing with their laughter-- God has only made the rich to smile, But we--in our rags, and want, and woe--we follow after, Weeping the while.

--we are tempted to note an unconscious homage to the author of "Aurora Leigh." But the character of Lady Wilde's verse is far more colored by the range of her studies than by the influence of any special style. The general reader, who may not breathe at ease the political atmosphere of the earlier part of this volume, will pause with pleasure to observe the spirit, grace, and fidelity of the translations which succeed. They are from almost every language in Europe, whether of Latin or Teutonic origin, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, German, Swedish, Danish, and Russian. Among these may be mentioned in particular two hymns of Savonarola, which are rendered so exquisitely that one is tempted to suggest that the _"Carmina Sedulii,"_ with much more of the ancient Irish hymnology, are as yet untranslated into the tongue now used in Ireland. It is a work peculiarly adapted to her genius. The first quality of Lady Wilde's poetry is that lyrical power of which the hymn is the finest development; and her most striking poems are those which assume the character of the older and more regular form of ode.

The readers of Mr. William Allingham's early writings were in general gratefully surprised when it was announced that he was the author of a very remarkable poem, of the order of eclogue, which appeared by parts in _Fraser's Magazine_ in 1863. His earlier poems, chiefly songs and verse of society, were pleasing from a certain airy grace and lightness; but on the whole their style was thin and jejune. Of late, his faculties have evidently mellowed very rapidly, and his language has become more animated, more concentrated, and more sustained. "Laurence Bloomfield in Ireland" has had, as it were, a triple success--the success of a pamphlet, the success of a novel of Irish life, and its own more proper and legitimate success, as a regular pastoral, skilfully conceived, carefully executed, in which the flow of thought is sustained at a very even, if not a very lofty level throughout, {477} and whose language is on the whole admirably harmonized, full of happy allusional effects, of quaint, minute, picturesque delineation, and of a certain graceful and easy energy. Mr. Gladstone has quoted some of its lines in a speech on the budget as an excuse for maintaining the duty on whisky; and he is not the only Englishman who has derived from its perusal an unexpected insight into some of the more perplexing problems of Irish life. Certainly, Mr. Allingham's views of Irish society, when he touches on questions of religion and politics, are not our views. He is an Ulster Protestant by religion, and an advanced liberal (we take it) in politics. But making those allowances, it must be admitted that he shows the poet's many-sided sympathetic mind in every page of this very remarkable poem. "It is," as he fairly says, "free from personalities, and neither of an orange nor a green complexion; but it is Irish in phraseology, character, and local color--with as little use as might be of a corrupt dialect, and with no deference at all to the stage traditions of Paddyism." It is divided into twelve chapters, and it is written in pleasantly modulated pentameters.

The story is of the life of a young squire, who was on the point of declaring himself a Young Irelander in his youth. His guardian, to cut the folly short, sent him incontinently to Cambridge, thence to the continent. He returns to Ireland in his twenty-sixth year, and finds the population decimated by the famine, and agitated by agrarian conspiracy. The neighboring gentry are bent, as conacre has ceased to pay, on supplanting the population by cattle. The population suppurates into secret societies. Laurence Bloomfield, long revolving the difficulties of his lot, and abhorring pretty equally the crimes of each class against the other--determined, moreover, to be neither exterminator, demagogue, nor absentee--resolves to live among the people of his estate like a modern patriarch, and see what patience, kindness, a good understanding, and enlightened management may be able to effect. He extinguishes the Ribbon lodge, fastens his tenantry by equitable leases to the glebe, and gradually finds in the management of his estate a career of easy, pleasant, and even prosperous power. In the course of ten years, Lisnamoy has become an Irish Arcadia, and Mr. Allingham's honest muse rises accordingly to sing a hero even more memorable in his way than the Man of Ross.

Bloomfield first promulgates his peculiar views of territorial administration at a dinner of his landlord neighbors in Lisnamoy House, where the wholesale eviction of the tenantry of a large neighboring district is proposed on the plea that--

"This country sorely needs A quicker clearance of its human weeds; But still the proper system is begun, And forty holdings we shall change to one."

Bloomfield his inexperience much confessed, Doubts if the large dispeopled farms be best,-- Best in a wide sense, best for all the world (At this expression sundry lips were curl'd),-- "I wish but know not how each peasant's hand Might work, nay, hope to win, a share of land; For ownership, however small it be, Breeds diligence, content, and loyalty, And tirelessly compels the rudest field, Inch after inch, its very most to yield. Wealth might its true prerogatives retain; And no man lose, and all men greatly gain."

It is from the ill-concealed contempt of his class for such thoughts as these, that Bloomfield's resolution to remain in Ireland and administer his own estate arises.

The story, as it is evolved, presents some charming sketches of character. Hardly even Carleton has delineated so admirably the nature and habits of the Irish peasant family as Mr. Allingham has done in his picture of the Dorans. How easy and natural, for example, is the portrait of Bridget Doran:

Mild oval face, a freckle here and there, Clear eyes, broad forehead, dark abundant hair, Pure placid look that show'd a gentle nature, Firm, unperplex'd, were hers; the maiden's stature Graceful arose, and strong, to middle height, With fair round arms, and footstep free and light; She was not showy, she was always neat In every gesture, native and complete, Disliking noise, yet neither dull nor slack, Could throw a rustic banter briskly back, Reserved but ready, innocently shrewd,-- In brief, a charming flower of womanhood.

{478}

The occasional sketches of Irish scenery are also very vividly outlined. This of Lough Braccan is not perhaps the best, but it is the most easily detached from the text:

Among those mountain skirts a league away, Lough Braccan spread, with many a silver bay And islet green; a dark cliff, tall and bold, Half-muffled in its cloak of ivy old, Bastioned the southern brink, beside a glen, Where birch and hazel hid the badger's den, And through the moist ferns and firm hollies play'd A rapid rivulet, from light to shade. Above the glen, and wood, and cliff, was seen, Majestically simple and serene, Like some great soul above the various crowd, A purple mountain-top, at times in cloud Or mist, as in celestial veils of thought, Abstracted heavenward.

We may give another specimen of Mr. Allingham's power of delineation, which shows that he has studied Irish country life as well as Irish scenery and Irish physiognomy.

Mud hovels fringe the "fair green" of this town, A spot misnamed, at every season brown, O'erspread with countless man and beast to-day, Which bellow, squeak, and shout, bleat, bray, and neigh. The "jobbers" there each more or less a rogue, Noisy or smooth, with each his various brogue, Cool, wiry Dublin, Connaught's golden mouth, Blunt northern, plaintive sing-song of the south, Feel cattle's ribs, or jaws of horses try. For truth, since men's are very sure to lie, And shun, with parrying blow and practised heed, The rushing horns, the wildly prancing steed. The moistened penny greets with sounding smack The rugged palm, which smites the greeting back; Oaths fly, the bargain like a quarrel burns, And oft the buyer turns, and oft returns: Now mingle Sassenach and Gaelic tongue; On either side are slow concessions wrung; An anxious audience interfere; at last The sale is closed, and whisky binds it fast, In case of quilting upon oziers bent, With many an ancient patch and breezy rent.

This is as true a picture in its way as Mdlle. Rosa Bonheur's "Horse-fair."

Mr. Aubrey de Vere's "Inisfail" comes last on our list, but certainly not least in our estimation. No poet of Young Ireland has like him seized and breathed the spirit of his country's Catholic nationality, its virginal purity of faith, its invincible patience of hope, and all the gentle sweetness of its charity. Young Ireland rather studied the martial muse, and that with an avowed purpose. "The Irish harp," said Davis, "too much loves to weep. Let us, while our strength is great and our hopes high, cultivate its bolder strains, its raging and rejoicing; or if we weep, let it be like men whose eyes are lifted though their tears fall." Mr. de Vere has tried every mood of the native lyre, and proved himself master of all. His "Inisfail" is a ballad chronicle of Ireland, such as Young Ireland would have thought to be a worthy result of all its talents, and such as, in fact, Mr. Duffy at one time proposed. But it must be said that its heroic ballads are not equal to those of Young Ireland. Some one said of a very finished, but occasionally frigid, Irish speaker, fifteen years ago, that he spoke like "Sheil with the chill on." A few of Mr. de Vere's ballads have the same effect of "Young Ireland with the chill on." They want the verve, the glow, the energy, the resonance, which belong to the best ballads of "The Spirit of the _Nation_." Of the writers of that time, Mr. D'Arcy McGee is perhaps, on the whole, the most kindred genius to his. Mr. de Vere has an insight into all the periods of Irish history in their most poetical expression which Mr. McGee alone of his comrades seems to have equally possessed. Indeed, if Mr. Me Gee's poems were all collected and chronologically arranged--as it is to be hoped they may be some day soon--it would be found that he had unconsciously and desultorily traversed very nearly the same complete extent of ground that Mr. de Vere has systematically and deliberately gone over. But though no one has written more nobly of the dimly glorious Celtic ages, and many of his battle-ballads are instinct with life, and wonderfully picturesque, it is easy to see that Mr. McGee's best desire was to follow the footsteps of the early saints, and the _Via Dolorosa_ of the period of the penal laws. These, {479} too, are the passages over which Mr. de Vere's genius most loves to brood, and his prevailing view of Ireland is the supernatural view of her destiny to carry the cross and spread the faith. Young Ireland wrote its bold, brilliant ballads as a part of the education of the new nationality that it believed was growing up, and destined to take possession of the island--"a nationality that," to use Davis's words again, "must contain and represent all the races of Ireland. It must not be Celtic; it must not be Saxon; it must be Irish. The Brehon law and the maxims of Westminster, the cloudy and lightning genius of the Gael, the placid strength of the Saxon, the marshalling insight of the Norman; a literature which shall exhibit in combination the passions and idioms of all, and which shall equally express our mind, in its romantic, its religious, its forensic, and its practical tendencies. Finally, a native government, which shall know and rule by the might and right of all, yet yield to the arrogance of none;--these are the components of such a nationality." And such was the dream that seemed an easy eventuality twenty years ago. But Mr. de Vere writes after the famine and in view of the exodus. His mind goes from the present to the past by ages of sorrow--of sorrow, nevertheless, illumined, nurtured, and sustained by divine faith and the living presence of the Church. So in the most beautiful poem of this volume, he sees the whole Irish race carrying an inner spiritual life through all their tribulation in the guise of a great religious order of which England is the foundress, and the rules are written in the statute-book. We cannot select a better specimen of the thorough Catholic tone of Mr. de Vere's genius, and of the vivid power and finished grace of his poetry, than this:

There is an order by a northern sea Far in the west, of rule and life more strict Than that which Basil rear'd in Galilee, In Egypt Paul, in Umbria Benedict.

Discalced it walks; a stony land of tombs, A strange Petraea of late days, it treads! Within its court no high-tossed censer fumes; The night-rain beats its cells, the wind its beds.

Before its eyes no brass-bound, blazon'd tome Reflects the splendor of a lamp high hung: Knowledge is banish'd from her earliest home Like wealth: it whispers psalms that once it sung.

It is not bound by the vow celibate, Lest, through its ceasing, anguish too might cease; In sorrow it brings forth; and death and fate Watch at life's gate, and tithe the unripe increase.

It wears not the Franciscan's sheltering gown; The cord that binds it is the strangers chain; Scarce seen for scorn, in fields of old renown It breaks the clod; another reaps the grain.

Year after year it fasts; each third or fourth So fasts that common fasts to it are feast; Then of its brethren many in the earth Are laid unrequiem'd like the mountain beast.

Where are its cloisters? Where the felon sleeps! Where its novitiate? Where the last wolf died! From sea to sea its vigil long it keeps-- Stern foundress! is its rule not mortified?

Thou that hast laid so many an order waste, A nation is thine order! It was thine Wide as a realm that order's seed to cast, And undispensed sustain its discipline!

It is another curious illustration of the _Hibernis ipsis Hibernior_ that a de Vere, who is, moreover, "of the caste of Vere de Vere," should have so intimate a comprehension of the Celtic spirit as is often shown in these poems, especially in the use of those allegories which are so characteristic of the period of persecution, and in some of his metres that appear to be instinct with the very melody of the oldest Irish music. Here, indeed, we seem to taste, in a certain vague and dreamy sensation, which the mere murmur of such verses even without strict reference to the words produces, all the charm of which that ancient poetry might have been capable, if it were still cultivated in a language of living civilization. Several of these poems, if translated into Irish verse, would probably pass back without the change of an idiom--so completely Celtic is the whole conception of the language. The dirges, for example, appear on a first reading to be only English versions of Irish poems belonging to the time of the Jacobites and the Brigade--until, as we examine more carefully, we observe that the allegory is {480} wrought out with all the finish of more modern art, and that the metaphors are brought into a more just inter-dependence than the native bard usually thought necessary.

The tenderness that approaches to a sort of worship of Ireland under the poetical personification of a mother wailing for her children, again and again breaks out in Mr. de Vere's verse; and in all the range of Irish poetry it is nowhere more exquisitely expressed. The solemn beauty of the following verses is like that of some of those earliest of the melodies, whose long lines, with their curious rippling rhythm, were evidently meant for recitation as well as for musical effect:

In the night, in the night, O my country, the stream calls out from afar; So swells thy voice through the ages, sonorous and vast; In the night, in the night, O my country, clear flashes the star: So flashes on me thy face through the gloom of the past.

I sleep not; I watch: in blows the wind ice-wing'd and ice-fingered: My forehead it cools and slakes the fire in my breast; Though it sighs o'er the plains where oft thine exiles look'd back, and long lingered, And the graves where thy famish'd lie dumb and thine outcasts find rest.

Hardly less sad, but in so different a spirit as to afford a contrast that brings us to a fair measure of the variety of Mr. de Vere's powers, is a poem of the days of the brigade. The wife of one of the soldiers who followed Sarsfield to France after the capitulation of Limerick, and entered the Irish brigade of Louis XIV., is supposed, sitting by the banks of the Shannon, to speak:

River that through this purple plain Toilest (once redder) to the main, Go, kiss for me the banks of Seine!

Tell him I loved, and love for aye, That his I am though far away-- More his than on the marriage-day.

Tell him thy flowers for him I twine When first the slow sad mornings shine In thy dim glass; for he is mine.

Tell him when evening's tearful light Bathes those dark towers on Aughrim's height, There where he fought, in heart, I fight.

A freeman's banner o'er him waves! So be it! I but tend the graves Where freemen sleep whose sons are slaves.

Tell him I nurse his noble race, Nor weep save o'er one sleeping face Wherein those looks of his I trace.

For him my beads I count when falls Moonbeam or shower at intervals Upon our burn'd and blacken'd walls:

And bless him! bless the bold brigade-- May God go with them, horse and blade, For faith's defense, and Ireland's aid!

Here the abrupt transition of tone in the last verse from the subdued melancholy of those which precede it is very fine and very Irish. One can fancy the widowed wife, in all her desolation, starting, even from her beads, as she thinks of Lord Clare's dragoons coming down on the enemy with their "_Viva la_ for Ireland's wrong!"

Twenty years have now passed since "The Spirit of the _Nation_" gave some glimpses of the mine of poetry then latent in the Irish mind. In 1845 Mr. Gavan Duffy published his "Ballad Poetry of Ireland"--a book which had the largest sale of any published in Ireland since the union and probably the widest influence. Upon this common and neutral ground Orange-man and Ribbon-man, Tory, and Nationalist, were perforce brought into harmonious contact; and "The Boyne Water" lost half its virus as a political psalm when it was embalmed side by side with the "Wild Geese" or "Willy Reilly." Behind the produce of his own immediate period, Mr. Duffy, in arranging his materials, could only find a few ballads by Moore, a few by Gerald Griffin, a few by Banim, Callanan, Furlong, and Drennan, that could be accounted legitimate ballad poetry. The rest was fast cropping up while he was actually compiling his collection, under the hot breath of the National movement, in a lavish and luxuriant growth. This impulse seems to have spent itself some years ago. Anything of real merit in the way of Irish poetry does not now appear in periodical literature more than once or twice in a year; and Mr. Thomas Irwin is the only recent writer whose verse may fairly be named in the same breath with that which we have now noticed. A rich grace and finish of {481} expression, a most quaint and delicate humor, and a fine-poised aptness of phrase, distinguish his poetry, which is more according to the taste that Mr. Tennyson has established in England than that of any Irish writer of the day.

Irish poetry seems now, therefore, to have passed into a new and more advanced stage of development. Here are four volumes, by four separate writers, of poems, old and new--all published within a year; and all, we believe, decidedly successful, and in satisfactory course of sale. Mr. Florence MacCarthy's poems had previously gone through several editions, and won enduring fame--perhaps more widely spread in America than even at home, on account of a quality somewhat kindred to the peculiar genius of the best American poets, and especially Longfellow, Poe, and Irving, that the reader will readily recognize in his finely-finished and most melodious verse. Nor should we omit to mention, in cataloguing the library of recent Irish poets, "The Monks of Kilcrea," a long romantic poem in the style of "The Lady of the Lake," which contains many a passage that Scott might own, but of which the writer remains unknown. Thus Irish national poetry is accumulating, as it were, in strata. Mr. Duffy set on the title-page of his "Ballad Poetry" the Irish motto, _Bolg an dana_, which not all his readers clearly understood; but which, to all who did, seemed extremely appropriate at the time. "This man," say the Four Masters, speaking of a great bard of the fifteenth century, "was called the _Bolg an dana_, which signifies that he was a common budget of poetry." And this was all that Mr. Duffy's Ballad Poetry professed to be. But what was only a budget of desultory jetsam and flotsam in 1845 is taking the shape of a solid literature in 1865; and those twenty golden years have at all events been well filled with ranks of rhyme.

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From The Month.

CONSTANCE SHERWOOD.

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.

BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.