CHAPTER XIV.

EXEUNT OMNES.

This story which I have then telling, acted now long years ago, was wearing to an end. The unfortunate housekeeper's confession cleared up almost entirely what had mystified and baffled our inquiries for so many months; and, standing beside his mothers bier--the mother who had loved him all too well for her peace--Lister Wilmot, in the depth of his humiliation and the grief which the tide of natural affection, so recently aroused within him, had wakened, added what little was wanting to throw complete light upon the dark mystery of the past.

On the day before the remains of his unhappy parent were consigned to the grave, as he took his last farewell of the corpse, he told me his own story, his temptation and his fall. Alas! for him the sins of his parents had returned with double vengeance upon his head; the evil in them had reproduced itself in him. Deluded with the belief that {241} he was the heir to immense wealth, he had given full swing to his besetting vice--gambling. The billiard-table, the gaming-house, and that curse to young man, secret betting clubs and societies, had been his familiar though unknown resort. There, too, he had met with and fallen into the meshes of a creature but too familiar to the frequenters of such places--a man (if such can claim pretence to manhood) mature in years, even to gray hair; one of those who gain the substance which supports their infamous lives by sponging upon the young, by in tangling in their web young men destined to be the pride and hope of high-born families with stainless lineage; or the scions of noble houses; or the youth of houses not less noble, though perhaps more in the sense of present deeds than departed worth; or sadder and more shameful still, the young man who is the only son of his mother, and she a widow, her sole stay and support. Into such hands did Wilmot fall when he met the man Sullivan or De Vos. Through him he became mixed up in some disgraceful gaming affair; and De Vos used it to get him more thoroughly into his power, and upon the strength of it to extort money from him. Then came his real but misplaced attachment to Ada Leslie, and consequent jealousy of Hugh Atherton. An affection requited might have been his salvation; unreturned and hopeless, it became his moral ruin. Deeper and deeper he plunged into vice, faster and faster he gambled. None save those who haunted the same scenes as himself knew how far he was involved, how far lost; none even suspected a tithe of it, save one. But the mother's eye, the mother's heart could not be deceived. She whom he had been taught to look upon only as his uncle's housekeeper, who had nursed and tended and petted him as a child--she saw the care and trouble of his mind; she sought and won his confidence to a great extent. He told her he was overwhelmed with debt and difficulty, and she urged him to apply to Mr. Thorneley for a sufficient sum to free him at least from danger. That application was to be made on the very evening of the murder. She hinted to him darkly that she had the means of forcing Thorneley to give what he required, and that she would risk everything and hesitate at nothing for his (Wilmot's) sake. The first suspicion which entered his mind that she had indeed not scrupled even at the worst, was on the morning after Old Thorneley was found dead. This had strengthened more and more; but the temptation of his opening prospects, of the princely fortune which he found he alone was inheriting, dazzled, blinded him, and stupefied his conscience. A yet greater inducement to evil lay in the alluring thought that if the murder of Old Thorneley were saddled upon Hugh Atherton, and his disgrace, his banishment, if not his death secured, there might be a chance of winning in time Ada Leslie's affections for himself. To this end he had labored, ostensibly endeavoring to establish belief in Hugh's innocence, and acting as his best friend, but in reality undermining Mrs. Leslie's faith in him by the most subtle diplomacy, and shaking, by the most specious representations, Hugh's trust in and friendship for me. With Ada alone he had met entire defeat. Steadfast and unwavering had been her solemn, unqualified declaration that her affianced husband was guiltless; steady and unwavering likewise--God bless her for it!--had been her childlike trust in her old guardian. And this maddened him.

Then came Hugh's acquittal, accompanied by public censure and public disgrace. Here was a loophole through which a ray of hope gleamed upon Wilmot's dark soul. Atherton writhed beneath the shame that had fallen upon him with all the anguish of a keenly sensitive nature; and Wilmot played his game with this. He lost no opportunity of making Hugh feel his position; constantly, though skillfully, {242} he brought before him the shadow that was over him, and would artfully represent to him the magnanimity of Miss Leslie's conduct in wishing to share his blighted name and fortune. Hugh's first proposition of emigrating he had opposed outwardly, working in the dark to bring about its realization; and when Hugh was actually gone, he felt at last that the field was clear for him. Wilmot described his rage at finding that I had outwitted him as ungovernable, his desire for revenge burning and deadly. Then came the discovery of the will. Of its existence he had in truth been ignorant; and though suspecting some complicity in the matter on the part of Mrs Haag, once possessed of Old Thorneley's money, he had buried his suspicions in his own breast. Three days after the will was found by Inspector Keene, he received a letter from the housekeeper. In it she told him of their relationship in brief words, with no further explanation; she said that the discovery of the missing document involved her in serious trouble, and that she was hastening to Liverpool to catch the first vessel for America. Then he felt for the first time that his heyday was over, that the worst might shortly come; and he too began hasty preparations for leaving England secretly. In the midst of these came the telegram from Liverpool, and the subsequent tragic events.

This was the epitome of what Lister Wilmot (I keep his assumed name) told me the day before his mother's funeral. I said to him, "You have not explained one thing. Why, when I went down to the Grange, did you send De Vos to follow me and drug the coffee?"

"I did not," he said. "I knew absolutely nothing of it." And at such a moment I felt he was speaking the truth. He continued: "I have not seen De Vos for months; and I believe he has left the country."

I found afterward that another person was to clear up this remaining item of the mystery.

Of Wilmot I have little more to tell. In the abyss of his humiliation and degradation the message of divine mercy reached his soul; in the depths of his heart, chastened and and purified, he listened and responded to its whisper. So far as Hugh Atherton was concerned he went scatheless; and through the generosity of the man whom he had so deeply injured, he was enabled eventually to emigrate to the same land whither his unfortunate mother was flying for refuge when she met her death. But before that he had a duty to perform, a stern, hard duty of pain; and he set his face to the work resolutely, unshrinkingly.

In the Liverpool prison late Robert Bradley the elder, biding his trial for the murder of his wife; and from his lips we were to learn yet more to complete the history of the past. Once, and once only, the father and son met. In the bitterness of his trouble and his newly wakened penitence, Lister had turned and clung to the one who had ministered to his dying mother, and in Father Maurice, after God, he found his best friend. At his request the old priest went with him to that single interview with his father.

"I never meant to kill your mother, Robert," the convict said to his son. "Heaven is my witness, I never had a thought of harm to her when I went after her in Cross street. I loved her, ay, I loved her, little as you may think it now. I loved her though she left me, though she hid my boy away, though she brought him up not know his father; though she branded me with a crime I never committed, and got me sent to prison and chains, and a life in comparison with which death will be sweet; though she spurned me and defied me, I loved her with all the might of my heart, all the passionateness with which I loved her when she came to me a fair young bride. Away in that penal settlement, amongst that hideous gang, beneath that burning sky, I had longed and thirsted more for one look at her face, for one touch of her hand, then {243} ever longed for a drop of water to slake my parching thirst or cool the fever of my lips. They tell me she has revealed the story of our lives--all is misery and shame. I have heard a few particulars. In one thing I believe I have wronged her; I thought her guilty of Mrs. Thornely's death; I thought she wished to usurp her place. I used the threat of what I suspected to induce her to make out with me; but she spurned me from her; she told me she would die on the gallows rather than live with me again; and then the madness seized me; I struck her--once--twice--and killed her."

Of all that passed in that single meeting between the two Robert Bradleys little was heard; it was not meet that much should be known. They met solemnly, in bitterness, in shame, with agony in either heart, with a world of anguish, of feelings surging over their souls to which they dared not give utterance. They parted solemnly, but in peace: the son who had never you known his father until now--and then in what a terrible manner! the father who had never looked on his child since the time when he had taken him on his knee and listened to his infant prattle. Parted, never more to meet on this side the grave.

I saw the convict once or twice before his trial came on, and I found from him that he had known Sullivan of De Vos all his life. That he was on his wife's track when she went down to the Grange, and De Vos was with him. That the latter, seeing I was bound thither likewise, and having reason to fear me both for his own and Bradley's sake, had given me the stupefying dose in my coffee at Peterborough Station, trusting to the results which did really happen. That it was his appearance which must have alarmed his wife and caused her to relinquish her visit to the Grange. Further than that he could give me no information. Strangely enough, the bad companion of the father had proved the bad companion of the son, though in totally different ways. There is nothing more to tell of Robert Bradley. He was tried, condemned, and sentenced to death; but the sentence was commuted to transportation for life by the exertions of his son. Father Maurice had the satisfaction of receiving from his lips the assurance before he left the Liverpool Docks bound for his final journey, that he accepted his sentence as the only expiation he could make for his long career of sin.

And what of those who were once so near and dear to me--dear still, though far away, Hugh Atherton and Ada, now for many years his wife-- what of them! We never met again; humanly speaking, we never more shall meet upon this earth. There is a writer--to my mind the essayist _par excellence_ of this age, with power to touch the finest chords and sound the most hidden depths in the heart of man--who says that he knows no word of equal pathos to the little word "gone." And it is the word which expresses the long blank, the great vacuum of all these latter years since they went away--since they have been among the "gone." And how is it, you will ask, my readers, that still they should be far away when all the storms and clouds which had shadowed their horizon passed away, and the sunshine and fair blue sky once again greeted them? Well, it was in this wise:

Tidings of all that took place in Liverpool were instantly forwarded to Hugh Atherton at Melbourne, and we thought we should welcome them all back to England ere long; but he did not come--he never will come now. He wrote that the thought of returning to England was insupportable to both himself and Ada; that they would remain where they were, and where he had received the greatest happiness of his life--his true and tender wife. They settled in Australia, some miles from Melbourne, doing much for the new colony in the way of usefulness; and Hugh devoted {244} himself to the interests of his adopted country. His name is well known there, and it is coupled with everything that is good and great. I hear sometimes from them, most often from Ada. Her mother died a few years ago, and she has lost two children. They have three living, two boys and a girl; the youngest boy is called John after me. She would have it so. No, the old friendship between me and Hugh has never been rekindled into the same warmth; we are friends, but not the friends of yore. I do not blame him; he was blind, blind; and so we drifted away from one another, or rather he from me. It was just one of those clouds which come between human hearts because they are human; and then we see through a glass darkly whilst earth clings so closely about us. By and by all will be clear. He thought I should have confided his uncle's secret to him or Merrivale under the circumstances. Perhaps I ought. If I was mistaken, if I kept my solemn promise to the dead too rigidly, God pardon me; I did it for the best. But we may make mistakes in our shortsightedness, in our finite views, in our imperfect comprehension of events over which we have no control, and in which we have very little hand. If he outlives me, he will perhaps know this; and the knowledge of it, the memory of our ancient friendship will bring back the tenderness of his heart for me; he will feel, I pray not too sadly, that he also was mistaken when he withdrew the trust and confidence that never before heaven had for one moment been betrayed.

Some years ago I buried Gilbert Thorneley's idiot son; he lived with me up to the time of his death, harmless, but irrational to the last. It was a satisfaction to his guardian that with me he would receive every kindness and attention; and the poor fellow died in my arms, repeating in his indistinct and childish manner the words I had taught him to address to his Father in heaven--he who had never known a father's love on earth.

I am alone in my old study, and I turn to write the last page of my story.

The stillness of evening is creeping on afast, and the fire burns low; before it lies old Dandie--he is blind now and stiff with age. Neither he nor I can ramble out far into the country lanes, or across Hempstead Heath, as once we used. Years have come and gone, and the little golden circlet on my finger has grown thin and worn, but it will last my days. Shadows of the past are around me, and voices of the past are busily whispering in my ear. What is this that has fallen upon my hand? O Ada! is this "worse than foolishness," the tears should rush to your old guardian's eyes when he thinks of you, and writes your name for the last time? Nay, that has passed--past with the bygone years that have rolled on into eternity. A little longer, and the dark strait that divides us from our beloved shall "narrowed to the thread-like mere;" a little longer spent in hope and patience, and then the hand will come. Not now, Hugh--not now, Ada: I shall see you by and by.

{245}

Original.

DEVELOPMENT OF NATIONALITIES.

Each age through which civilized humanity has passed, has its special characteristic. If, as most people admit, the nineteenth century has inaugurated a new era in the history of mankind, the characteristic of that era will be found in the rapid strides which the various races are making toward the attainment of a national existence. This development of nationalities is not, however, peculiar to our time; on the contrary, through its entire course modern history presents the same scene--a scene varied indeed and often interrupted, but preserving its unity to such an extent as to justify us in discerning therein a law of Providence. The constant yearning of each individual after happiness is used by philosophers as a proof that he is destined to one day attain it, and we are not quite sure that the noble aspirations of the great popular heart do not indicate on the part of the great Ruler a design to one day furnish it with a realization of its hopes. The individual attains his end in the future world--the people in the present. Those who respect but Little the popular feeling call it mercurial. They are right. Dash some mercury on the ground, and observe how the particles you have separated float wildly on the surface as though seeking to be reunited. Do you see how naturally they coalesce when brought in contact? There is an affinity most perfect between these particles, and so there is between peoples of the same race. Both were originally separated by violence, and the process of reunion is in both quite natural. Modern history presents no picture more vivid than that of the disintegrated peoples of the earth slowly but uniformly tending toward a reunion of their separated portions. Just now the figures seem more distinct--they stand out in such bold relief that prejudice herself perceives them. A gigantic war, commenced and finished almost with the same cannon's roar, has knocked out the keystone of a governmental fabric once admired for symmetry, and rulers see that in their structures they must imitate those architects who seek for stones that fit well one with another. People say that Beelzebub once gave a commission to a painter, for the portrait of his good dame Jezebel, and that when the poor artist despaired of picturing a countenance fit for the queen of hell, the fiend turned to a collection of handsome women, and taking a nose from one, an eye from another, mouth from another and complexion from another, he manufactured so foul a visage, so dire an expression, as to cause the votary of art to die outright. Various fishes make a very good chowder, and various meats, well condimented, produce an excellent _olla podrida_; but history shows that the various races into which it has pleased God to divide mankind, cannot be indiscriminately conglomerated without entailing upon the entire body chronic revolution, with all its attendant evils. If you can so merge the individual into the country as the United States have done with their cosmopolitan population, no difficulty will be experienced; but if you take various peoples and fit them together as you would a mosaic, the contact will prove prejudicial to their several interests, and powers {246} which would have otherwise developed for the good of the body corporate, will either lie dormant or exercise a detrimental effect upon the neighboring victims of short-sighted policy. Something more than interest is felt in noticing the way in which the peoples now enjoying national existence have attained so desirable an end; we are enabled to thereby judge, with something like accuracy, of the map those who will come after us must give of the world. So long as man is man, just so long will it be in one sense true, that history repeats herself; but we do not believe in that system of Vico which would make of her a mere whirligig--introducing now and then something new to certain portions of mankind in rotation, but nothing new to the world in general. Such a system might satisfy that conservative of whom some one has said that had he been present at the creation, he would have begged the Almighty not to destroy chaos; but our prejudices are against it, and though in avowing some prejudice we are pleading guilty to the possession of a bad thing, we think that in this case history will turn our fault into a virtue. We do not contend that modern times present a picture of national development according to the system of races so uniform as to contain no deviation whatever, but history does show us that such deviations have been more than counterbalanced by subsequent changes. The general rotundity of the earth cannot be denied, because of the inequalities of its surface. The American Republic furnisher us with no conflict of races on account of the fact already alluded to. The various peoples of Asia and Africa scarcely afford us a theatre for observation if we take our stand upon modern history, since for all practical purposes they are yet living in the days of Antiochus. Europe shows us a field worthy of research, for there were thrown together the mongrel hordes of Asia and the North, and with their advent and to the music of their clashing weapons a new scene unfolded itself to the gaze of man. With the fall of the Western empire commence all reflections upon modern history, for then dawned our era by the release from the unnatural thraldom of the Roman Caesars of the innumerable peoples of the earth. To notice the manner in which these tribes grouped themselves into national and integral existence is our present purpose. In the early summer of 1866, had we been asked to classify the peoples of Europe, we would have spoken as follows: The nations of Europe worthy of consideration, and which are now regarded as united or "unified," are France, England, Spain, Sweden and Norway, and Russia proper. The nations as yet disintegral are Germany and Italy. The disnationalized peoples are those of Ireland, Poland, Hungary and her dependencies, Venice, Roumania, and Servia. Europe may hence be regarded as composed of, 1st, nations which are _in se_ one and undivided and leading therefore a national existence; 2d, peoples not under are you foreign to themselves, but still not one with others of the same stock; 3d, peoples governed by foreign nations. Of this latter class the most prominent evil is furnished by the heterogeneous Austrian empire, to compose which a draft is made on Hungary and the Hungarico-Sclavic dependencies, on Germany, on Poland, and on Italy. The late war has changed the situation somewhat, but the classification may remain unchanged.

The first class of nations became integral by the grouping to gather of peoples of common origin; and the steadiness with which they pursued their destiny and the easy manner in which they consummated it, cause us to believe that the others will yet attain a like end. Up to the time of Alfred, England was composed of seven kingdoms. The old Briton stock had been hidden in the mountains of Wales, and the Anglo-Saxon race, which held undisputed sway over the land, became one. France, now {247} the most unified of all nations, was for centuries the meet distracted. In A.D. 613, she was composed of four kingdoms: Neustria, Austria, Bourgogne, and Aquitaine. After the conquest of Neustria, Austrasia conquers Aquitaine in 760. The Romans found a new power in the north, but the people bear ill the yoke. The French kings give them the aid of their arms, and after various losses and successes Charles VII., in 1450, unites the regions definitively. The powerful duchy of Burgundy, which, for five hundred years, impeded the unity of France, was at length united to the crown in 1470. Spain, once composed of Leon, Castile, Aragon, and Navarre, was not unified until 1516. Scandinavia (Sweden and Norway) was, before the tenth century, composed of twelve states. It was then reduced to two, Sweden and Gothia, while in the thirteenth century these two were united. In 1397, the "union of Calmar" added Norway, and to-day the probabilities are not very small for the annexation of the remaining Scandinavian power, Denmark. Especial attention is merited by Russia proper, by which term we mean the nation so called exclusive of her foreign conquests, Finland, Lapland, Poland and her dependencies, Caucasus, and Georgia. The groundwork or foundation of this people in blood, language, and customs, is Sclavic. The proper name of the nation is Muscovy. When, in the middle of the fifteenth century, Ivan lV. shook off the Tartaro-Mongol yoke, the Muscovites commenced that headlong career of annexation and amalgamation which in four centuries has united more than twenty once independent Sclavic peoples, and has formed what is now denominated the Russian nation. Although not directly coinciding with him, we must here allude to the prediction of the first Napoleon that in a century Europe would be either Republican or Cossack. We half suspect that he leaned toward the first horn of his dilemma, and we do not think he imagined that his second should include a physical sway of Russia over Western Europe. If, however, the lance of the Cossack seemed to him to weigh heavily in the balance of power, history sufficiently justified him to prevent our regarding his remark as absurd. When he saw that either by force or persuasion the Sclavic peoples were being slowly but surely united, he might naturally regard as probable the incorporation of the remaining Sclaves of Poland, Bessarabia, Roumania, and Servia. Thirty years after he so talked, Bessarabia went the way of her sisters, and Roumania and Servia are year by year nearing St. Petersburg. We do not think, however, that history will warrant the application of Napoleon's theory to Poland and her dependencies, although they are Sclavic. When history shows us the innumerable tribes of Europe, left free by the fall of the Western empire, little by little grouping themselves by races and situation, so that in a few centuries are formed the nations now integral, she informs us that if such groupings were sometimes violent, they were still conquests _sui generis_. They were not _national_ but _political_. The great Baron de Jomini, in his _Precis de l'Art de la Guerre_, insists most strongly upon the importance of a general understanding whether the war he is about to undertake be a national or a political war. We think the principle is just as important for the historian. A national war is one of a people against another; a political war, of a dynasty against another, either to revenge an insult or to extend its own domain. The effects of a national war are terrible, and the prejudices engendered are not easily eradicated; those of a political war are light, while there are entailed but few prejudices since the people have had no voice in the matter. In a political war the people are not conquered--they merely change masters, and often instead of receiving any injury {248} experience a great benefit. Thus, when Ivan of Moscow conquers Novgorod, the Sclaves of Novgorod are not conquered--a dynasty falls and not a people. Such a conquest leaves behind it no heart-burnings in the masses, while, on the contrary, if the people united were hitherto not only disintegrated but also disnationalized, it is a consummation by all devoutly wished. Poland, however, belongs to another category, owing to the religious antipathy existing between her and Russia. So great has this hatred of late years become, that the war for the incorporation of the unfortunate kingdom is at last national, not political--a war of peoples and not of kings. Such a war cannot be terminated by annexation--nothing can end it but an annihilation of the popular spirit. Let us bear in mind, then, that if modern history shows us a gradual development of nationalities and of unity in national government, there are certain principles according to which changes are wrought. But how is it with the two nations of Europe as yet disintegral? Have they hitherto tended toward unity? An impartial and conscientious study of their history convinces us that they have been uniformly nearing the goal which more fortunate nations have already reached.

In the eighth century Italy was, the Roman States alone excepted, entirely in the hands of the barbarian. From A.D. 1050, however, the two Sicilies commenced to enjoy a half-autonomous existence, there being but a personal union by means of a common sovereign between them and the countries whose rulers successively wore the Sicilian crown. In 1734 the kingdom became independent, and thus in this part of the peninsula was made the first step to unity, namely, independence of foreign rule. Parma became independent of the foreigner while under the sovereignty of the Farnesi in 1545. Tuscany became independent in 828, and with the exception of eighty years, during which the German emperors usurped the investiture of the duchy, remained so. The small republics need no allusion. Venice was independent from 697 to 1797. The Milanais was always more or less subject to the empire. Savoy and Piedmont were ever independent. Italy was slow in becoming free from foreign domination, but not so slow in the concentration of her strength. The innumerable states and principalities of which she was once composed gradually amalgamated, until in 1859 there were but seven; two hundred years ago there were twelve really independent of each other, and many more virtually so. We do not intend to touch upon the question of Italian unity in its bearings upon the independence of the Holy See. God will work out the problem long before any disputation of the point could come to a conclusion. This, however we feel, that if Providence has guided the peoples of Europe in the way of national development, it is for the good of man and in aid of true progress; and if in the case of Italy no compromise can be effected without injury to Holy Church, the future of Italy will prove that she has not attained the end of other countries; but history will show that until now she has tended to it. When studying the facts of history, one should not allow his feelings to blind his perception of the scenes that pass before him, for his insincerity would prevent his being a successful defender of any cause however good.

A few reflections upon German history as bearing upon the theory of national developments cannot but interest us, both on account of the late war, and on account of the apparent objection accruing to our position from the fact of Germany's seeming to be an example of a great nationality slowly disintegrating herself.

The history of Germany may be divided into three periods: 1st, under the "Holy Roman Empire" until the rise of Prussia; 2d, under the same from the rise of Prussia until 1806; {249} 3d, under the Confederation until the present day. In the first period there were an immense number of principalities, rivals not only of each other, but but also of him who held the imperial sceptre. The emperor depended so much upon his foreign vassals for his influence that he could scarcely be regarded as a German sovereign governing German states. Suddenly Prussia arose from nothing, and with majestic strides overran nearly all the north; then for the first time the Germans beheld a power of respectable strength, essentially German. When a nation is divided into many parts, its first step toward unity is the acquisition of a centre toward which all may tend. We pass by the origin of Prussia since we are dealing with facts and not principles at present. We know it is the fashion with a certain school to excite sympathy for Austria by alluding to Albert of Brandenburg; but as we are of those who believe that a man's own sins are scarcely less discreditable to him than those of his ancestors, and have our memory fresh with recollections of the long unbroken chain of outrages which the House of Austria, when powerful, heaped upon the Church of God, we ask to be excused if we allow no false sentimentality to intrude upon us. The rise of Prussia and the interest manifested in her by the unitarian party, forced the emperor and the secondary princes to be more German, less foreign, in their policy. This second period, therefore, had elements of unity which were wanting in the first. The third period, however, gave something more. In 1806 Napoleon I. bade Francis II. abdicate his title of Emperor of the Romans, and assume that of Emperor of Austria, and then disappeared even the name of that which for two hundred years had been a shadow. Then came the federal union of all the German, and only the German provinces--a confederation in which the interests of Germany might be consulted without prejudice from foreign connections--a union full of faults, we confess, and in many respects a sham, but yet an advance toward national unity.

We know of no records by means of which we can ascertain the exact number of independent states with which Germany was accursed under the feudal system, but we know that after Prussia had swallowed up many there were before 1815 nearly a hundred. Before the late war there were thirty-seven. How many there are now the telegraph has not informed us, but we imagine the number has become small by degrees and beautifully less.

Since 1815 the march toward German unity has been more steady and more uniform than at any other period. The pressure exercised upon Austria by Prussia, upon the secondary princes by their people, has forced them to seek German rather than foreign alliances, to study German more than dynastic or local interests. The Zollverein, the Reform associations, the hue and cry openly made about unity, the very entrance of Austria into the Holstein war, and latterly the alliance between the liberals and a statesman whose principles they have uniformly opposed, all indicate the popular effervescence, and excite a suspicion that ere long Germany will be united. All the machinery of which governments can avail themselves is used by Austria and the secondary princes to ward off the danger which menaces them.

The friends of the system of which Austria is the last important standard bearer, give us a bit of news which, if true, would be interesting, since it would be the first time we could conscientiously receive it, that the cause of the Kaiser is the cause of the church; that to his banner are nailed her colors. The jackal follows the lion to pick up his leavings, but his eating them does not make him a lion. The fact of the matter is, that the history of the church gives so painful a picture of her struggles with kings and princes, that it is to us a matter of complete indifference whether the {250} victory be won by the impersonation of military autocracy, or by the sickly anomaly now catching at straws for an extension of life--unless, however, the victory of the former were to vindicate the principle that the peoples of the earth have rights to claim, and were to result in the end in the collapse of its winner, and the leaving thereby of a powerful nation in the hands of popular government. If this latter consummation is reached, we shall be ready to do what we can to attach the children of the church to a particular government, for we believe that then the church will have in Europe more than ever a fair show, so to speak, at humanity. The church is for the people, and for them alone--when she approaches a king, she approaches him as a man--and she need fear but little from those for whose interest she lives. The popular heart quickly conceives an affection, and is seldom mistaken in its impulses.

We have alluded to an opinion held by some that Germany is an example of a great nationality disintegrated after centuries of integral existence. If history deals with words and not with facts, if empty titles and enthusiastic notions are criterions of national condition, then that opinion is correct; but if the calling the Emperor of China the Child of the Sun gives him no solar affinity, we must hold the contrary one. The ancient so-called unity of Germany was not only an empty word, but the very title Emperor of Germany had no foundation in law. When the imperial crown was transferred from the French Carlovingians to the House of Saxony, its mode or conditions of tenure were not changed by the Holy See. Just as Charlemagne, though Emperor of the Romans, was not Emperor of France, but as before King of the Franks, so Conrad of Franconia, Otho of Saxony, and their successors were emperors of the Romans, and mere feudal superiors of the other German princes. If, in the lapse of time, the holder of the sceptre of the "Holy Roman Empire" (which alone was the legal title from which imperial rights derived) came to be called Emperor of Germany, the title did not originate in law, but in the common parlance of the Italians, French, and English, who recognized in the emperor a foreign Prince, and who--at least the two latter--being naturally repugnant to the universal monarchy system, constantly insisted upon the emperor's primacy being as to them purely honorary. So much for the title. As for the Holy Roman empire itself, nothing to prove the ancient unity of Germany can be deduced from it. The public law of the middle ages was based upon the principle, then the foundation of all economy, of sacerdotal supremacy and princely subjection--a blessed thing for humanity at that time by-the-by, which thus found some protection from the tyrants who then ruled the earth. European government became hierarchical; at the head stood the pope, then came the emperor, then kings, etc. Now, according to the titles of courtesy in use at the time, it might be supposed that France and England were subordinate to the emperor, yet their constant history proves them to have been independent of his sceptre. If, then, this so-called resurrection of the western empire was purely nominal, was it merely honorific? Was there no authority attached to it? If there were none, especially as to Germany itself, of a part of which the emperor was a hereditary prince, we would conclude at once that as Europe could not then be called one, so could not Germany. Our proposition, however, is not so self-evident.

There was an authority resident in the imperial sceptre over the princes of Germany, but for all matters all practical importance it was, with the exception of a few privileges, the same as that enjoyed over Italy, Hungary, Bohemia, etc, viz., that of right of investiture. If, however, from this fact of imperial suzerainty any argument can be gathered for the ancient unity of Germany, we must say that at the present time Egypt, Roumania, and Servia are {251} one with Turkey, Liberia one with the United States. If before the late war Germany was not integral, it was not so under the ancient system. Then it had an emperor, in our days it had a federal diet--the emperors' decisions were generally laughed at, while the decisions of the diet were respected when allowed to decide. Nor, while speaking so disparagingly of the imperial power, do we allude to the time when the imperial dignity had become a mere puppet show--to the period between the rise of Prussia and the annihilation of the title. We need not confine ourselves to the time when the great Frederick could laugh at his "good brother, the sacristy-sweep," trying to rival his power; the same want of efficacious influence was ever felt from the day when Conrad accepted the diadem--one only period excepted, that of Charles V., and even he was wanting in force, and was obliged to succumb to his powerful "vassals." The history of no country, either in Europe or in Asia, can afford an example of such persevering strife for ascendancy as that which the princes of Germany presented, either among themselves--the emperor a spectator--or united in factions against him and his factions. The imperial dignity was in some things great, and over some periods of its existence there is a halo of glory, but only in its external relations. The Hohenstaufen emperors were by inheritance both internally and externally powerful princes; their principality of Suabia and their immense possessions of the Palatinate furnished them such a number of personal vassals that they did much toward making the imperial sceptre respected, while there kingdom of Sicily and lordship of Milan caused them to be feared without. But then it was not the emperor who was feared, but the Prince of Suabia, the Count Palatine, the King of Sicily, and lord suzerain of Milan and Tuscany; just as under the Habsburgs and the Lorraines it was not the emperor but the Archduke of Austria, King of Hungary, of Lombardy, of Naples, of Illyrium, who, by means of his personal and hereditary states in foreign lands, commanded that respect from his German rivals which a purely German emperor never extorted. The unity of Germany under the Holy Roman Empire was therefore not of fact. It was an idea--quite poetical certainly, but still an idea.

When we consider the obstacles which had to be surmounted by those peoples who have already attained a national existence, we must fain believe that those who are yet panting for it will not be long disappointed. Roumania and Servia have been for centuries dreaming of independence, but we must remember that only at a recent period did civilization commence to act upon their peasantry. Even now many of the boyards seem to be removed scarcely a generation from their Dacian ancestry. All the Sclavic peoples of Eastern Europe have much to acquire before they can be called fully civilized. The tyranny, however, to which they owe most of their backwardness has of late years very much diminished, and already they commence to ask themselves the question which has so long preoccupied other minds, Are the people created for the ruler, or is a ruler established for the people? When men commence to think seriously on such subjects, action is not far off. Bucharest and Jassy have been the scene of tumults which have made many a European conservative cry out that nothing but an iron rule will benefit the Roumanian--that Roumanian nationality will prove a seminary of trouble for Europe. We believe in lending a helping hand to a degraded people that they may in time raise themselves to the level of their fellows--we would deem ourselves worse than their tyrants if we regarded the passions which tyranny has engendered as an excuse for that tyranny's perpetuation.

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A bright day seems to have dawned for Hungary--at least so think the Austrian wing of the Hungarian patriots. For these gentlemen the ungermanization of Austria means that Pesth is to be the capital of a new heterogenous empire. They should remember those long years during which they mourned the short-sighted policy which drowned Hungarian nationality for the benefit of Germany, and reap from them a knowledge of other sins they will commit if they repress those nationalities which are as sacred as their own. Heaven cannot bless those who claim liberty for themselves and deny it to others.

And in the midst of this conflict of the peoples of the earth for real or imaginary rights, how fares the church of God? Excellently well, for no change man will here below experience can ever unman him. So long as there are people on the earth, so long will there be souls to save, and the church will be ever on hand to do the work. But there is more to be said. Of those people who are now so strenuously laboring in the cause of liberty, a large proportion are outside of the church. Many of them are working from a pure love of justice, as God has given them the light to see it, and if they are true to their natural convictions the supernatural will yet be engrafted upon them. It cannot be denied, however, that there are many who throw their weight into the scale of liberty as for they think Catholicity is in the other scale, and that they will hence contribute to weakening the hold the church has upon man. Would they could live to see the day when liberty shall have triumphed--were it only to realize the true mission of that church they now so bitterly hate! From the day the church entered upon her glorious career she has been constantly contending with the potentates of the earth. Her first struggle was with brute force, and she triumphed. Her second contest was more terrible, for the means brought against her were more insidious. Under the pretext of honoring her, the gods of the earth encircled her limbs with golden chains. How pretty they seemed, and how complacently some of her members regarded them! How anxiously some yearn after them yet! But they were torn away, and--great providence of God!--by those who thought to thus ruin her. Her enemies say she yearns for that society now disappeared. Has she forgotten how much those struggles cost her? Gentlemen of the liberal world, you are mistaken if you think the church fears the success of your designs. You are another illustration of the truth of the saying, that God uses even the passions of men to further his ends. When you will have succeeded in obliterating all artificial distinctions of caste and privilege, and will have actuated your vaunted ideas of liberty and equality, the church will confront you, and thrusting you aside, will render real what with you would always be an idea--fraternity. Those who now applaud you will lift from the church their eyes of suspicion and jealousy, and will realize how greatly you were mistaken when you called her retrograde and tyrannical.

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PHYSICAL SCIENCE AND CHRISTIAN REVELATION

BY REV. JAMES A. STOTHERT.

If the philosophers of the nineteenth century are proud of its scientific character, it is not without reason; if they congratulate themselves on having penetrated further into the secrets of nature than their predecessors, the impartial judgment of future times will confirm the opinion. It is no ordinary age that has, in the first half of its course, produced men of the first eminence in every branch of science, and contributed discoveries, remarkable alike for their intrinsic value, and their influence on the welfare of mankind. The progress of the physical sciences, since the year 1800, has been rapid and unprecedented; some of them have assumed a character and position entirely new, in consequence of the number and brilliancy of the discoveries, and the importance of the principles unfolded in relation to them. Another era in the history of chemistry opened with Dalton's atomic theory, aided by the amazing industry of Berzelius, in its practical application; the labors of Davy, in reducing the number of simple elements by means of voltaic electricity, and Faraday's patient and even-advancing discoveries in the wide field of electro-magnetism, have developed chemical science to an extent, and in a direction, which a former generation would have deemed fabulous. During the same period, geology has been rescued from neglect, and from serious charges of unsound tendencies, and been placed in deserved rank among the sciences by the eminent labors Smith and Buckland, of Sedgwick and Delabeche, of Lyell and Murchison, and Miller. Thee stamp of the age has been put on the science of optics by the discovery of the polarization of light by Malus; by the subsequent extension and perfection of that discovery by Brewster and Arago; and, more remarkably still, by the profound investigations and independent research of Young and Fresnel, on the subject of the wave theory of light. Zoology, especially in its bearing on geology and the history of the earth, has been carried to astonishing perfection, by the intuitive genius and sagacity of Cuvier and Agassiz and Owen and Forbes. In the history of astronomy, the queen of the sciences, the nineteenth century must be ever memorable as that in which was first established the appreciable parallax of some among the stars commonly called fixed; at once spanning the hitherto illimitable abyss which separates the solar system from those distant luminaries, and opening up to human intelligence clear and better defined views of the vastness of the universe. The names of Bessel, Struve, and Argelander, of Airy and Lord Rosse, and the two Herschels, are associated with observations and discoveries, for which future ages will look back to our time with admiration and gratitude. The more recent observations of Herschel on Multiple Stars may be assumed to have established, the existence of the great law of gravitation in regions of space, so remote from our sight, that the diameter of the earth's orbit, if searched for at that distance, through telescopes equal to our most powerful, would be invisible. The circumstances attending the discovery of the most distant planet, Neptune, are perhaps the most extraordinary proof of the high intellectual {254} culture of our time. Another planet, Uranus, its next neighbor, had been long observed to be subject to perturbations, for which no known cause could altogether account. By an elaborate and wholly independent calculation of these disturbances, and a comparison of them with what would have resulted from all the known causes of irregularity, two mathematicians, Leverrier in France, and Adams in England, were enabled, nearly at the same time, and quite unknown to each other, to say where the disturbing cause must be, and what must be the conditions of its action. They communicated with practical astronomers, and told them where they ought to find a new planet; telescopes were directed to the spot, accurate star-maps were consulted, and there it was, the newly discovered planet Neptune, wandering through space, in an orbit of nearly three thousand millions of miles' semi-diameter. Other discoveries had been the result of good fortune, or the reward of patient accuracy and untiring perseverance; here discovery was anticipated, and directed by the conclusions of purely mathematical reasoning.

The nineteenth century, little more than half elapsed, can also point with satisfaction to numerous observatories in both hemispheres, where, in nightly vigils and daily calculations, the accumulating observations and details are amassed and arranged, which for years to come are to guide the mariner through the pathless seas, and to furnish materials for future generalization in regard to the laws of the physical universe; where untiring account is kept of those occult and variable magnetic influences which permeate the surface of our globe and the atmosphere around it, to which the distinguished Humboldt first urged attention, and in the investigation of which the names of Kater and Sabine are conspicuous. In chemical laboratories at home, and on the continent, the progress of investigation into the internal constitution of matter is so extensive and so fruitful in results, that as we were lately informed by an eminent chemist, it is hardly possible even for a professional man to keep up to the mark of weekly discovery. The triumphs of steam-power in connexion with machinery; the perfection attained my modern engineering, and the multiplication of its resources; the wonderful results produced by the combination and division of labor, illustrated by the completion of vast works, and the supply of materials for our world-wide commerce; and, not least of all, the application of the electric current to the transmission of messages, originally suggested by a Scotsman, in the year 1753, [Footnote 40] and perfected by Wheatstone and others, the influence of which, in flashing intelligence from one side of the world to the other, is not improbably destined to act more powerfully than that of steam and railway communication, on the future history of mankind; all these valuable in enduring evidences of the scientific preeminence of our age, are no inconsiderable or unreasonable cause of elation and self-congratulation among contemporary philosophers. There never was a time when juster views on the subject of physical science were more generally diffused among the community at large; when a readier ear could be gained for any new and well-supported claims of science; when the public mind thirsted more eagerly for fresh draughts from the fountain of knowledge; or when more competent persons were engaged in providing means for satisfying this universal thirst. Scientific societies are numerous and active; mechanics' institutes, philosophical associations, athenaeums and other reunions alternating kindred nature, are organized and flourishing in every large town in the country, for the purpose of conveying a little rill of this coveted knowledge to the tradesmen and artisans in the short intervals of their daily toil. The very credulity with which some {255} unscientific and preposterous theories of motion have been lately accepted and believed by multitudes of educated persons, and which Faraday has the merit of first boldly denouncing, is another proof of the desire of something new in physics, which animates large masses of thinking men, and which is often much more developed than their power of distinguishing what is true from what is false, or empirical, in the philosophy of nature.

[Footnote 40: See Scots Magazine, February, 1753.]

The contemplation of this picture of the nineteenth century suggests a question of some moment: What is the relation of this scientific development to revelation? What influence is it likely to have on the conclusions of faith? A simple mind, or a simple age, receives these implicitly: will the influence of science on either dispose, or indispose it, to similar confidence? Are modern discoveries likely to throw a reasonable doubt on the province of revelation; or are they more likely to reflect light upon it, and establish its landmarks?

This is a question of the last moment. The age is bent on acquiring knowledge; it is justly elated by its progress in search of this precious gift; and, all the while, its dependence on the great truths of revelation is not less than that of a simple age. Faith, if ever necessary, is not less so now, than when all the brilliant discoveries of our era lay in the folds of the future time. They will not, with all their brilliancy, direct and save one human soul, or illuminate the obscure region which lies beyond the grave. If science must dissolve the charm of belief, alas! for the elation of our age at its own high attainments; better had it been for it that the ancient ignorance of physical laws had never then dissipated, than that its dispersion should have been so dearly purchased.

Of course, by revelation, the author must be understood to mean the whole will of God, revealed to the world, and taught by the Catholic Church; as well that part of it which Protestants reject, as the mutilated part of it which the greater number of them are agreed in accepting; all the doctrines peculiarly and distinctively belonging to Catholicity, together with others which it holds and teaches in common with all calling themselves Christian. What relation, then, we ask, has the modern advance of science to this undivided sum of revealed truth? Is it one of hostility or of harmony, of illustration and confirmation, or of antagonism? Is physical science the handmaid, or the enemy of faith?

(1.) Now, a very great number of persons, understanding revelation in the sense in which we have defined it, would answer this question by saying that science is the enemy of revealed truth, as maintained by the Catholic Church; that the more generally scientific and accurate ideas of the laws and constitution of the physical universe are diffused, the more difficult must grow the belief of sensible men, claimed by the Catholic Church for apparently impossible exceptions to those laws. We can even imagine some good Catholics, little versed in scientific pursuits, of the same opinion, and therefore jealous of this general craving of the people for secular knowledge. Among the Protestants of this country it is currently believed that the Catholic Church is as keenly and doggedly opposed to science as science is to her; that her unchanging policy has always been to keep her children in ignorance, so as the more easily to subdue their intelligence to her bidding.

(2.) An answer of a different kind we should expect to receive from a numerous class of friends, and from a few opponents; namely, that the relation of science to revelation is one of indifference, as they belong to spheres of knowledge totally distinct and independent. A few remarks on each of these answers will best introduce the author's own attempt at a solution of the question.

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As to the first: well informed and candid inquirers into the truth of things are beginning slowly to perceive that the Catholic Church has been misrepresented, as invariably the enemy of science; especially in the critical and much agitated controversy of the geocentric and heliocentric theories of the planetary motions, which has been chosen as the weakest point of attack. Two writers of the highest eminence in science, with no religious bias whatever toward Catholicity, have given remarkable testimony on this subject. Sir David Brewster in his Life of Galileo has adopted a tone of fairness to the Catholic Church, unhappily rare in Protestant treatment of such topics in general. We do not think he has done full justice to Galileo's Roman judges; but, at least, he has given the Roman pontiffs some credit for their patronage of men of science. We recommend the whole life to the notice of our readers, and shall cite the following passage from it. After mentioning the pension granted to Galileo by Pope Urban VIlI., in 1624, Sir David adds: "The pension thus given by Urban was not the remuneration which sovereigns sometimes award to the services of their subjects. Galileo was a foreigner at Rome. The sovereign of the papal state owed him no obligation; and hence we must regard the pension of Galileo as a donation from the Roman pontiff to science itself, and as a declaration to the Christian world that religion was not jealous of philosophy, and that the church of Rome was willing to respect and foster even the genius of its enemies." [Footnote 41]

[Footnote 41: Martyrs of Science, ed. 1846, p. 68.]

The other writer whom we shall cite is a no less celebrated authority in science than the present astronomer royal, who, while condemning the treatment which Galileo received at the hands of the Roman Inquisition, is free to admit that Rome did not always oppose science; and even this qualified admission, from so eminent a person, is worth a good deal to our purpose. His remark is this: "This great step in the explanation of the planetary motions was made by Copernicus, an ecclesiastic in the Romish Church, a canon of Thorn, a city of Prussia. The work in which he published it is dedicated to the pope. At that time it would appear that there was no disinclination in the Romish Church to receive new astronomical theories. But in no long time after, when Galileo, a philosopher of Florence, taught the same theory, he was brought to trial by the Romish Church, then in full power, and was compelled to renounce the theory. How these two different courses of the Romish Church are to be reconciled, I do not know. But the fact is so." [Footnote 42]

[Footnote 42: Airy's Lectures on Astronomy, p. 85.]

We are not concerned at present with Galileo's unhappy story, farther than to remark, that there is as usual much to be said on the side of his Roman judges, which is perhaps nowhere so well said as in the pages of the Dublin Review, No. IX., July 1838. The views there advanced have never been called in question; we may therefore assume that they are substantially unassailable. As to the general question of the assistance which the Catholic Church has lent, directly or indirectly, to science, we should like to know what other church, or body of ecclesiastics, has done anything in this field compared with the labors and the successes of the Society of Jesus alone. The names of Clavius and Kircher, of Boscovich, De Vico, and Pianciani, may stand for a memorial of the prosperous union of science and Catholic revelation. [Footnote 43]

[Footnote 43: F. Christopher Clavius, S. J., an eminent German mathematician and astronomer, was employed by Gregory XIII. in the reformation of the calendar. His Gregorian Calendar, published in 1581, tardily adopted in Protestant countries, and now regulates our system of leap-years. His collected mathematical and scientific works amount to five volumes folio. He was killed in 1612, page 75.

F. Athanasius Kircher, S. J., also a native of Germany, was a diligent cultivator of science. His works, in twenty-two folio and eleven quarto volumes, embrace learned and original treatises on many recondite branches of physical science; on Magnetism, Optics, Acoustics, Geography, etc., etc. He filled the chair of Mathematics in the Jesuit Roman college, and laid the foundation of its extensive and valuable museum. He died in Rome, in 1680, at the age of 79.

F. Roger Joseph Boscovich, S.J., a native of Ragusa, filled the chair of Astronomy in the Jesuit Roman College for thirty years, and was highly distinguished for the depth, originality, and variety of his aquirements in Natural Philosophy. He published several valuable treatises on the philosophy of Newton, on optics, etc. He is best known out of Italy for his ingenious theory of the molecular constitution of matter: a theory which the increasing knowledge of more modern philosophy has only confirmed. After the suppression of his order in 1778, he was welcomed to Paris, and taught philosophy there for a time; he returned to Italy, he died at Milan, in 1787, page 73.

F. De Vico, S.J., was also an eminent astronomer in the Jesuit Roman College. His discovery of several comets introduced him to the circle of men of science. When the Jesuits were driven from Rome in 1848, he was received with open arms in the United States; but, unhappily for science, he died in London a very few years ago, while procuring instruments for his observatory in the far West. He was highly esteemed and beloved by his pupils, of whom there are many in this country.

F. Pianciani, S.J., for many years taught chemistry in the Jesuit Roman College. He is admired for the simplicity of his manners no less than for the valuable contributions he has made to the nature of chemical science. Besides all larger and smaller treatise on it, he has published a work on the cosmogony of Moses; and we believe, is still preparing other treatises for the press.]

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As to the second solution of our question--that science and revelation are indifferent, because entirely dissimilar to each other in nature and objects; it appears to us that analogy points quite the other way. For, (1.) they both have a common origin in the will of God; and it is not unreasonable to expect that they shall exhibit some traces of common principles. And this, especially, if we direct our attention to the difficulties which lie in the way of our acceptance of the conclusions proposed to us by either; if they are actually found to resemble each other in many of these, their relation can no longer be considered one of indifference. Nay, on the principles on which Dr. Joseph Butler constructed his immortal work, if revealed truth proceeds from the author of nature, we may expect to find the same difficulties in it as we find in nature. And, conversely, it is no objection to the divine origin of revealed truth, that its reception implies difficulties as great as the acceptance of the facts and laws of nature presupposes us to have overcome. And, (2.) we may argue from the mutual analogy of other sciences to one another; how dissimilar soever they appear to a superficial observer to be, there is a community of principles, and of general laws, which binds them together, and connects them with their common origin in the divine mind. This idea is, as many of our readers are aware, beautifully developed by Mrs. Somerville in her charming work on the Connexion of the Physical Sciences.

From these preliminary remarks, the author's own solution of the question of hostility, or indifference, between science and revelation may be gathered; namely, that though in their nature, objects, and details widely separated, yet they are linked together by a thousand delicate ties, unperceived by a careless observer, but well repaying elaborate study. Science is the true handmaid of Revelation, doing service to the superior nature, but exhibiting tokens of a commission to do so, imparted to her by the divine creator of both. The author has devoted some attention to this interesting subject; and at some future time, if granted health and leisure, he hopes to state and illustrate his views more at large, and in a more permanent form; meanwhile he proposes briefly to sketch some of the conclusions and trains of thought suggested to him by these studies; confining his remarks entirely to those portions of revealed truth which are the exclusive property of the Catholic Church, and which are generally known in the Protestant world as popish doctrines, such as the Blessed Eucharist; the question of Miracles in general; and all that is supernatural and imperceptible to the senses in Catholic belief.

I. A preliminary difficulty lying in the way of belief in the supernatural character of revealed religion, is the flat contradiction which it apparently gives to the evidence of the senses, the manifest discrepancy between what is alleged and proposed to our belief, and what is seen with our eyes, and appreciated by other sensuous organs. {258} Modern science, however, is as inexorable in her demands on human credence, in defiance of the senses, as was ever revelation on the assent of faith. The senses have their empire much restricted by the canons of our philosophers. For, (1.) it is fully established that each organ of sense is susceptible of one class of impressions only, which it passes on to the sensorium, or seat of thought. Thus the organ of vision admits and communicates impressions of light alone; that of hearing, impressions of sound, or of the wave of air set in motion by the cause producing sound, and no others. The organs of taste and smell, in like manner, have their own classes of susceptibilities, which, again, are not the same as those belonging to the nerves of touch. For every other class of impressions than its own, each organ of sense is absolutely inert and useless. The eye can take no cognisance of sound, nor the ear of light: if the eye can feel a touch, it is because certain parts of its structure are furnished with branches of the nerves of touch; and so of the rest. Electricity alone seems to have the remarkable power of exciting in all the organs of sense, sensations proper to the nature of each; in the eye, for example, a flash of light; distinct sounds; a phosphoric odor, a peculiar taste, and a pricking feeling, in the same person at the same time. [Footnote 44]

[Footnote 44: Sommerville's Connexion, etc., § xxix. p. 339. Carpenter's Manual of Physiology, § 932.]

Again, (2.) sensations arising from those impressions are so exceedingly complex, that we attribute many more of them to each separate sense than really belong to it. By habit we have become so much accustomed to associate several of those impressions together, as to be unable, without difficulty, to analyze them, and to separate the simple results of the sensuous impression from the more complicated judgments which experience and reason add to it, and by which they interpret it. The eye, for example, receives and conveys impressions purely and solely of light, and its absence, including those of color, which belong to light. Form, extension, sense of distance, etc., are no part of the simple impression made upon the eye, and through it upon the mind, further than they influence the condition of the light, as by bounding it, shading it, etc. These belong exclusively to the sense of touch, combined with experience, so as to be suggested, without actual contact, by certain conditions of light. An inexperienced eye, looking for the first time at a plain surface, as a disc, or at a cube, or a ball, would see only the color, and the edges where that changed. It could not enable the mind to judge how far the object was distant; nor why the light and shade were differently disposed in each; why the light reflected from the disc was uniform, and bounded by a circle, while that from the ball was softly shaded, though bounded by a circular line similar to the disc; nor why the light coming from the cube was divided and bounded by straight lines and sharp angles. To judge of these peculiarities, and their meaning, touch must come to the aid of sight; and afterward memory will recall the conclusions of former experience; and comparison will enable the reasoning mind to form a judgment regarding the shape, size, and distance of the object. In a similar manner, the organs of hearing convey impressions of sound alone; distance, direction, exciting cause, are quite out of the province of its information. Sight and touch, and experience and judgment, all enter into the complex information, now communicated to a practiced observer. This fact is strikingly exemplified in musical sounds. A skillful musician will tell you the notes and chords composing a series of such sounds, in which an uninformed and unpractised ear will be able to detect nothing but concord or this court. Thus Mozart, at two hearings, was able to note down the score of Allegri's _Miserere_. Thus, too, there are many substances which we of {259} by taste, as it is supposed, but which are in reality operative on the sense of smell. For instance, if the nose is held while eating cinnamon, we shall perceive no difference between its flavor and that of a pine shaving. [Footnote 45] The same fact is observed with regards to many aromatic substances: if held in the mouth, or rubbed between the tongue and the palate, the nostrils being all the while dosed, their taste is hardly, if at all, recognized; but it is immediately perceived on reopening the nasal passages. Thus, too, the wine-taster closes his mouth, and sends the aroma of the wine through his nostrils. Other substances, again, there are, neither aromatic nor volatile, taste very strongly irritates the mucous membrane both of nose and tongue, as mustard does, for example, just as it would the skin, if applied long enough externally. Such a sensation, therefore, as the taste of mustard, evidently belongs to the organs of touch, differing in degree of sensitivity only. Hence we are taught that the substances properly the objects of the sense of taste, are those only which produce sensations purely and exclusively gustative, perceived neither through the nose nor through the nerves of touch, but acting on the tongue and palate only. Salt, sugar, quinine, tannin, and citric acid, types of the saline, saccharine, bitter, astringent, and sour, are said to possess sapid properties. [Footnote 46] From these simple considerations it appears undoubted that the province of each separate organ of sensation, and its resultant impressions on the mind, are much limited, when compared with the wider empire attributed to them by popular language and opinion. Reason is ever correcting and enlarging the simple impression, adding the conclusions of experience and judgment and comparison to the primary suggestions of the sensation; making allowances for what is faulty or imperfect; measuring circumstances, and comparing all the conditions of the impression with each other, before even an approximately true result can be arrived at.

[Footnote 45: Herschel's Discourse on the Study of Natural Philosophy, § 72.]

[Footnote 46: Carpenter's Manual of Physiology, § 945.]

Further (3.) there is much in nature of which the senses totally fail in giving us any information whatever. "None of the senses," says Sir J. Herschel, "gives us direct information for the exact comparison of quantity. Number, indeed, that is to say, integer number, is an object of sense, because we can count; but we can neither weigh, nor measure, nor form any precise estimate of fractional parts by the unassisted senses. Scarcely any man could tell the difference between twenty pounds, and the same weight increased or diminished by a few ounces; still less could he judge of the proportion between an ounce of gold and a hundred grains of cotton by balancing them in his hands." [Footnote 47] Nay, even in their own proper and peculiar province, the senses are singularly deficient in certain kinds of information, especially when comparison is involved. "The eye," says the same high authority, "is no judge of the proportion of different degrees of illumination, even when seen side by side; and if an interval elapses, and circumstances change, nothing can be more vague than its judgment. When we gaze with admiration at the gorgeous spectacle of the golden clouds at sunset, which seem drenched in light, and glowing like flames of real fire, it is hardly by an effort we can persuade ourselves to regard them as the very same objects which at noonday pass unnoticed as mere white clouds basking in the sun, only participating, from their great horizontal distance, in the ruddy tint which luminaries acquire by shining through a great extent of the vapor of the atmosphere, and thereby even losing something of their light. So it is with our estimates of time, velocity, and all other matters of quantity; they are absolutely vague and inadequate to form a foundation for any exact conclusion." [Footnote 48]

[Footnote 47: Discourse on the Study of Natural Philosophy,§ 117.]

[Footnote 48: Discourse on the Study of Natural Philosophy,§ 117.]

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Again (4.) there is a large class of phenomena whose causes, and even whose existence, are far too remote or too minute to be revealed to us by our senses. What are telescopes and microscopes, but the means which science ingeniously devises to supply this innate and irreparable deficiency of our organs of sense? Satirists of the middle age, and its scholatic philosophers, have said that they would dispute as to the number of spirits that could dance on the point of a needle. Modern science shows us, in the infusoria, animals of perfect formation, endowed with functions suited to their condition, many thousands of which could pass at once through the eye of the finest needle; a million of which would not amount in bulk to a grain of sand. No less wonderful is the world of minute existence, revealed by the microscope, in a drop of stagnant water. It is a world within itself, an epitome of the earth, and its successive geological races. A variety of microscopic creatures make their appearance, and die; in a few days, a new set succeeds; these disappear in their turn, and their place is occupied by a third race, of a different kind from either of the former--the remains of all of them lying at the bottom of the glass. [Footnote 49] "If for a moment," says Humboldt, "we could yield to the power of fancy, and imagine the acuteness of our visual organ to be made equal to the extreme bounds of telescopic vision, and bring together that which is now divided by long periods of time, the apparent rest which reigns in space would suddenly disappear. We should see the countless hosts of fixed stars moving in thronged groups, in different directions; nebulas wandering through space, and becoming condensed and dissolved like clouds, the veil of the milky way separated and broken up in many parts, and motion ruling supreme in every portion of the vault of heaven, even as on the earth's surface, where we see it unfolded in the germ, the leaf, and the blossom, the organisms of the vegetable world. The celebrated Spanish botanist, Cavanilles, was the first who entertained the idea of 'seeing the grass.' He directed the horizontal micrometer threads of a powerful magnifying glass at one time to the apex of the shoot of a bambusa, and at another, on the rapidly growing stem of an American aloe, precisely as the astronomer places his cross of network against a culminating star." [Footnote 50] Without speculating so deeply in what is distant and hidden, the very atmosphere in which we live and breathe is imperceptible to every one of our senses, except, indeed, when viewed through its whole depth, to that of sight in the blue color of the sky, or indirectly to that of touch, by the resistance which it offers to the hand, or the face, in passing rapidly through it, or when it is set in motion by the wind. We perceive its effects, indeed, in the modifications which the phenomena of light and sound undergo, in consequence of its action upon them; in the barometric column, and in a thousand other physical and chemical agencies which attest the presence of the atmosphere, and the important functions which it performs in our terrestrial economy. But as far as sight or hearing, taste or smell, are affected by it, directly, it has absolutely no existence.

[Footnote 49: Somerville's Physical Geography; II., xxxii. 348, note.]

[Footnote 50: Cosmos, I. 189, 40.]

Modern science, indeed, coming to the aid of the senses, can enable them to attain the results of an almost inconceivable acuteness. Thus while quantity and comparison are inappreciable, or nearly so, by the unaided organs of sense, balances have been constructed with a sensibility so exquisite, as to turn with the thousandth part of a grain, and yet pretend to no extraordinary degree of merit. [Footnote 51]

[Footnote 51: Herschel's Discourse on the Study of Natural Philosophy, § 338.]

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By the aid of an instrument called a spherometer, which substitutes the sense of touch for that of sight, an inch may be divided into twenty thousand parts; and the lever of contact, an instrument in use among the German opticians, enables them to appreciate quantities of space even yet smaller. [Footnote 52] Instruments have been devised capable of measuring intervals of time equal to the 1/1000 part of a second. By the revolution of a toothed wheel, striking against a piece of card, human ear is enabled to appreciate a sound which lasts only 1/24000 of a second, and thus to measure that extremely minute interval of time. [Footnote 53] Wheatstone, in the course of his experiments on the velocity of the electric fluid, constructed an apparatus which enables the eye to perceive an interval equal to less than 1/1000000 of a second of time. The exact value of this almost infinitesimal interval was ascertained and measured by the known effect of a sound of high high pitch upon the ear. [Footnote 54] It is unnecessary to multiply such examples; but so many we have adduced, for the purpose of demonstrating the extent of the world of physical observation which lies forever concealed from the natural organs of sense. We owe this knowledge of their incapacity for more than a very limited range of observation to the inventions of science, applied to remedy and supplement this very incapacity. Thus science tells tales against the human senses, of which a less inventive and informed age could never have even dreamed.

[Footnote 52: Herschel's Discourse on the Study of Natural Philosophy, § 338.]

[Footnote 53 Somerville's Connexion, etc., § xvi. p. 147.]

[Footnote 54: Ib., § xxviii. p. 325.]

Once more, (5.) the senses are not only restricted in their sphere of action, and incapable of penetrating beyond a certain limit into the mysteries of physical nature, but even within their own proper province of observation their indications are constantly false and erroneous; so that if we were implicitly to receive and adopt these indications, without due correction, our notions of the constitution of nature would be singularly wide of the truth. As they appear to the naked eye, the sun and moon seem nearly of the same size; flat discs, about as large as the crown of a hat. Uncorrected sense teaches us no more; it furnishes no means of measuring either their absolute or their relative distance. But from other sources, we learn that one is about four hundred times further off than the other; that the mass of the one would fill a space bounded by double the orbit of the other; and that the centre of the sun is nearly half a million of miles nearer our eye than his limb, or the bounding line of his disc, a space equal to more than twice the distance of the moon from the earth. The limits prescribed to himself, forbid the author to enlarge on this interesting portion of his subject, which, however, he regrets the less, that any one anxious to follow it out, will find an excellent paper on "Popular Fallacies," in Lardner's Museum of Science and Art, January 1854; a new scientific and popular serial, which has started under the best auspices, and deserves to be widely circulated.

Did space permit, we might illustrate the fallacious teaching of the senses regarding the phenomena of nature, by the corrections made necessary in every scientific observation, as to the position of distant objects, in consequence of the refraction or bending of the rays of light in their passage through the air, which has the effect of making distant objects in space seem higher than they really are; of the correction necessary for the aberration of light, depending on the time taken to transmit it from a distant object in space; together with others which enter into the daily experience of the observers of nature. Other circumstances also materially influence the impressions conveyed through the organs of sense. Thus a person going into an ordinarily lighted apartment from the dark night, will be painfully affected by the brightness of the light {262} for a few moments; while another, entering the same room from a brightly illuminated chamber, will hardly be able for a moment or two to see anything. [Footnote 55] If we plunge our hands one into ice-cold water, and the other into water as hot as it can be borne, and after letting them stay a while, suddenly transfer them both to a vessel full of water at blood heat, the one will feel it hot, and the other cold. If we cross the two first fingers of our hand, and place a pea in the fork between them, moving and rolling it about on a table, we shall be fully persuaded, especially if we close our eyes, that we have two peas. [Footnote 56] The other senses are similarly affected by circumstances, so as to convey erroneous impressions. Mrs. Somerville sums up the evidence on this head in one word, when she remarks that, "a consciousness of the fallacy of our senses is one of the most important consequences of the study of nature. This study teaches us that no object is seen by us in its true place." [Footnote 57] And elsewhere she adds, "A high degree of scientific knowledge has been necessary to dispel the errors of the senses ." [Footnote 58] Herschel has the following remark in his Outlines of Astronomy: [Footnote 59] "No geometrical figure, or curve, is seen by the eye as it is conceived by the mind to exist in reality. The laws of perspective interfere and alter the apparent directions, and foreshorten the dimensions of its several parts. If the spectator be unfavorably situated, as, for instance, nearly in the plane of the figure, they may do so to such an extent as to make a considerable effort of imagination necessary to pass from the sensible to the real form."

[Footnote 55: Carpenter's Manual of Physiology, § 93.]

[Footnote 56: Herschel's Discourse, § 72.]

[Footnote 57: Collection of Physical Sciences, § xxv. p. 264.]

[Footnote 58: Ib., § iv. p. 37.]

[Footnote 59: Chap. i. §78.]

There is one form of illusion to which the senses are liable, so remarkable and irremediable as to deserve a moment's notice; we mean their erroneous testimony regarding motion. We have the authority of Sir. J. Herschel for saying, that "there is no peculiar sensation which advertises us that we are in motion. The rough inequalities in the road are felt as we are carried over them, by the successive elevation and falling of the carriage; but we have no sense of progress if we are prevented from seeing surrounding objects. The smoother the road, and the faster the speed, the less able are we to feel our motion forward. Every one must have felt this in night travelling by the railway, or in a tunnel. In a balloon, with a steady breeze, which merely propels, without gyration or oscillation, the motion is described as a sensation of perfect rest. The same is observed on shipboard, in still water or a calm. Everything goes on as if on land." [Footnote 60] To complete the illusion, nothing is more common than apparently to transfer our own motion to the stationary objects around us. This is peculiarly observable at railway stations, when a train first gently moves off. If another training is standing near, and parallel to our own, it is impossible to tell which is moving, our own, or the other in an opposite direction, without calling in the age of a third object, to correct the doubtful or erroneous impression, by the direction in which it seems relatively to change its place; or by examining the wheels of the other training. In the same way, many persons, while witnessing a panorama, are painfully affected by the shifting of the scenes, which conveys to them an impression as if the room were going round, and the picture remaining stationary. It was this illusion of the senses, as to motion, that perpetuated to a very late date the capital error regarding the supposed circulation of the sun and planets round the on moving; the dispelling of which, by Galileo and subsequent observers, was the greatest triumph ever achieved my philosophy over the empire of the senses.

[Footnote 60: Outline of Astronomy, § 15, 16.]

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The simple matter of fact is this, that our senses were given us for a certain definite and practical end, not for the acquisition of universal knowledge. We use them thankfully within their own domain, but we should err by inferring that their indications are the measure of the true, or of the whole constitution of things: their teaching falls far short of what exists in the universe of material nature; into the world of spiritual existence and operation they have no mission to enter. Catholic doctrine, therefore, is in no worse position, as regards the contradictions of the senses to the results, than is the great mass of scientific knowledge; to deny the one is as unphilosophical as to deny the other, merely because the organs of sense fail to appreciate it, or afford indications directly contrary to it.

ORIGINAL.

HOME AT LAST.

They gathered 'round the dying stranger's bed, They heard his words, yet knew not what he said-- "Oh! take me home!"

With earnest looks they pressed his feverish hand, And sorely grieved they could not understand-- "Oh! take me home!"

The busy host forgot his clamoring guests. Wistful to answer this of all requests-- "Oh! take me home!"

The good-wife scanned the stranger's pallid face, And wept. But to his meaning found no trace; "Oh! take me home!"

The hostess' fair-haired daughter stood apart, "What can he mean?" she asked her beating heart; "Oh! take me home!"

"Whence had he come? His name?" None knew. And yet He speaks in tones I never can forget-- "Oh! take me home!"

With timid step she softly neared the bed, And took his hand. The stranger raised his head, And deeply sighed.

Weeping, she sang a simple, childish rhyme. He smiled and said: "Jetzt bin ich endlich heim!" [Footnote 61] And then he died.

[Footnote 61: I am home at last.]

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Translated from the Etudes Religieuses, Historiques et Littéraires.

THE OLD OWL.

When I was living in my native village, about twenty years ago, I made the acquaintance of an old owl who lived in one of my forests. One of my forests I say, and with good reason; for I was the only being who could appreciate them, although a few landed proprietors in the town were wont to make clearings therein, on the plea of having bought them and paid down certain moneys in the presence of our notary public. Therefore in my forest dwelt my owl, who was a personage of mature years, and had first attracted me by the singular similarity of his tastes and opinions with mine. Our first meeting took place under rather peculiar circumstances. One evening, after belaboring my brains over some enigmatical Persian verses for hours, I left the house, still conning over an enigmatical hemistich; and strolling on until I gained the edge of the forest, plunged in without noticing whither I went. I might have wandered about all night, lost in the mazes of this mysterious satire, had not the sweet odors of a cherry tree in full blossom attracted my attention, penetrating through the olfactory nerves to the inmost recesses of my brain; even to the bump of pedantry itself. This brought me to myself; and astounded to see how far I had wandered at that late hour, I turned to go home at once; but the tangled path and deepening shadows threw me into confusion, and at the end of a quarter of an hour I found myself completely lost. "Never mind," said I, yielding gracefully to circumstances, "this is just what I meant to do;" so on I plunged, through brake and thicket, until I reached the confines of the forest, where an ancient ruined castle frowned down upon the valley, with my little village sleeping at its feet. I sat down by one of the towers to rest, but had hardly drawn one long breath, when there came a flapping of wings about my head, and raising my eyes I beheld--_monstrum horrendum_--an owl. He flew to the left of me, fanning my cheek with his heavy grey wings. Superstitious as an ancient, I turned instinctively that he might be on my right and, so dreadful seemed the omen; but hardly had I yielded to this involuntary impulse, when good breeding warned me that the self-love of the work hermit might be wounded;--for an owl has feelings as well as other people. But I was mistaken, he replied to the insult only with a disdainful laugh; and perching himself on the top of the tower, glared at me out of his red eyes with an expression of profound pity.

The laugh irritated me; so I said, wishing to recover his respect if possible, (and here in parentheses be it said that this narrative is addressed, not to those who maintain that animals cannot speak, but to sympathetic beings who enjoy the singing of birds in the woods, and understand their mysterious language; who know what various emotions their songs express; who listen, in short, with reverence to the accents of nature and respond to them;--to such of these we tell this authentic tale, begging the vulgar herd to withdraw from the audience.)

Then I said to the owl, "Pray pardon my silly rudeness; I merely obeyed an instinctive feeling, without the least intention of annoying you; on the contrary, it would really grieve me if you doubted the high esteem in which I hold you."

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"Where's the good of excuses?" said he, shaking his head; "if you really wish to serve me, take yourself off and leave me in peace."

"I cannot go," said I, "until you pardon my offense."

"And if I did pardon you", rejoined he, "what use would it be? But I'll do no such thing. I cannot forgive you for being a man, or for being here. Begone! you are a miscreant like the rest of your kind."

"You are a miscreant yourself!" retorted I, "and very unjust and distrustful to boot. I never injured the smallest creature--I have been the unfailing defender of birds' nests against children and fowlers. I have incurred the contempt of mankind by my knight-errantry. At least I ought to be treated with common civility by those whom I have loved and protected."

"Oh, well! well! well!" said he, "don't say any more about it. You are young, and seem to be well-meaning enough. I will trust you and rue the indiscretion at my leisure."

"You must have been unfortunate," I remarked respectively, "to have grown so distrustful."

"What's that to you?" he answered shortly; "my wretched story will do you no good if you are destined to remain innocent; and if you are to become like other men, it will not touch you."

"Nay," said I, thinking to tickle his vanity by a neatly turned complement, "it would teach me wisdom and prudence. What less could I learn from the favorite of Minerva and the protector of Athens?" But my Timon's wisdom was proof against assault, and he replied:

"You think probably to flatter me, but I never knew the goddess you mention. She was, I am told, is exceedingly turbulent person, continually whirling and setting up her heroes by the years. And what were the Athenians but a set of frivolous, shattering magpies, incapable of forming a sound idea, or of putting it in execution if they had."

"You seem to have a great contempt for mankind," said I, rather abashed at the failure of my little complement. "What has shaken your faith in us, if I might venture to ask?"

"That is a long story," answered he; "but I will tell it to you one of these days if you and death can wait so long."

"Why not now? Everything is at rest; even the squirrels are sound asleep, coiled up in the beech boughs, unmindful of you and me."

"No, no," said he snappishly, "I'm too tired to think now. Besides, I don't know you, nor what you would be at with your teasing questions. Go away and let me alone."

Fearing to vex him further and rouse his suspicions, I bade him goodbye and retreated, promising to return the following night. The next evening, just after sunset, I turned my steps toward the forest, and heard as I drew near the tower my poor hermit shooting out into the darkness his dismal cry houloulou! houloulou! which was answered by a dreary echo.

"Poor old soul!" said I to myself, "it is frightful even to hear him, his cries are so full of hatred, menace, and irony. Either he is wicked or--" but I was standing at the foot of the tower and the voice of the solitary called out: "Oh! is that you? It never occurred to me that you would be so punctual. I must confess that your exactness charms me."

And from that hour the anchorite and I were bound together by the strongest friendship. He told me that from the first he had felt drawn to me by a singular sympathy, but had vigorously resisted the attraction for fear of fresh disappointment. His words shocked me by their harshness, but our disputes were always friendly and his rebukes were administered with a fatherly tenderness which touched me extremely.

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"But," said I one evening, "what would become of society if we adopted your maxims? The noblest friendship, the most heroic devotion, would be but deceitful snares. We should see in our companions only knavery, hypocrisy, and treachery beneath a fair outside. And at this moment you are not in harmony with your theories, for you are confiding in me without dreaming that while I speak to you I may be planning your ruin and destruction."

He smiled, and I believed him convinced; but a moment after the doleful theme was resumed, and he was preaching his lamentable doctrines as if I had not interrupted him.

"You are sincere and perhaps even virtuous now," he said. "But that is no more than your duty, so you deserve no credit. I am so old in experience that sometimes my wisdom seems to have been bought with every drop of blood in my veins, and with every hope of happiness. Now, this is the fruit of my experience, which I will give you, and you can digest it at your leisure. Have no friends--live by yourself--never marry--live in a village rather than in a city, and in a forest rather than in either. You laugh, but let me tell you that it is no laughing matter, as you will find when you know the world as well as I do; and you will know it one of these days, when experience has come too soon and death too late for your prayers."

So spake the misanthrope, and I replied: "We must take men as they are and life as we find it; remembering that other people's faults are sooner seen than our own, and that they have as much reason to shun us as we have to despise them. God made us to live with our fellow-creatures, and if each person followed out your dismal precepts the world would become a vast solitude--a living tomb to engulf humanity."

"Alas! young man!" was his mournful reply, and it was only by dint of entreaty that I at last discovered the grounds of his grief and disappointment. One beautiful evening lie told me his story. The forest was radiant with a sunset glow; and the little birds were hopping about and building their nests in the branches of the trees, twittering and singing in the fulness of their joy.

"I was born," said he, "in the very place where I live to-day, for the one illusion, the supreme consolation that I have left, is a love of my native land. I was hatched in that crumbling old tower yonder covered with moss and ivy. My two brothers came into the world with me, and it was a dream of ours that we would go through life together, always sacrificing private interest to mutual happiness: promises suited to infancy and destined to be forgotten before youth had fled.

"We were the pride of our parents' hearts, and as we grew from day to day our mother gloried in our size and beauty--our father in the fancied promise we gave of strength and virtue. One day, when we had grown old enough to take a little care of ourselves, our parents addressed these words to us: 'In another month, little ones, you will need our help no longer, and will enter boldly upon life. Now listen to our directions: if we should die before you are old enough to take care of yourselves, go to our neighbor, the old owl, who lives in the oak that was struck by lightning last year, and who comes to see you sometimes. He will be father and mother in one to you, if a parent's place can be supplied. And another piece of advice: never let a silly curiosity prompt you to leave this wood and go in search of new places. Beyond this forest you would find treachery, misfortune, and death. Now mind and remember our words when we are taken from you, and never forget the father and mother who have love you so dearly.'

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"All this made us cry so bitterly that we could hardly speak. The words had a dreadful sound, though we did not know what they meant. 'What was it all about?' thought we; and yet with a sense of dread and ill omen, we promised with tears to follow their device. We pledged ourselves to everything, and thought our fidelity unimpeachable--for childhood has such unbounded faith in itself. Our parents rejoiced in our docility, and for several days our happy life continued unclouded.

"One evening they went out as usual to get food for us after saying goodbye very tenderly. For a long time we awaited their return in vain, and fell asleep at last worn out with watching and listening. When we awoke they had not come back, and we asked each other in terror if this could be the eternal separation they had spoken of. The ruins rang with our cries, and the mocking echo sounded to our excited fancy like the laugh of some mysterious enemy. Then hunger came to add bodily misery to our sufferings; and I made up my mind that I, as the eldest, was bound to sacrifice myself to save my little brothers. Telling them to keep up their courage and wait for me patiently, I threw myself boldly out of the nest and flew off in search of the old friend of my mother and father. By help of all sorts of landmarks, I succeeded at last in finding the shattered oak, but he, alas! was not there; and trembling with fatigue I perched myself on a bough to wait in dumb resignation for whatever might come next. A few hours had taught me life's bitterest lesson, and I felt a century older than the day before. At length, hungry and tired, and crazy with grief, I made my way back to my brothers, who were waiting to tell me good news. Our old friend, our only protector now, was with them. From his hermitage he had seen his two poor friends pursued by an eagle and torn with his cruel claws. Then he had remembered us and flown to our nest, bringing food for us all. So my strength was restored, and I awoke once more to the full vigor of life and suffering. When the first anguish of grief passed away, it was only to leave room for fresh trial and disappointment. One day--it was in the beginning of June--I heard the birds singing in the foliage, I saw on every side living beings enjoying life in the great forest, and the thought came to me for the first time that I too might mingle in the festival of nature. I flew out of the nest and perched quietly on an oak that stood at the edge of the glade where all the little birds had met together for a concert. They were listening to a linnet; every one was attending in silence to her joyous notes, and all, even to the nightingale, were filled with admiration for the pretty songstress. And I too admired her. I too was penetrated with love for all these little birds who looked so kind and good. 'How sweet it would be to live among them!' thought I, and I determined to give up solitude and come with my brothers to live among them, to be their friend and admirer. Love seemed so sweet! Admiration of others so ennobling!

"Such were the thoughts in which I was luxuriating while the linnet's song lasted. When she ended, I was still rapt in attention and cried out: 'Oh! how beautiful, how exquisite that is!' Hardly were the words uttered when they discovered me. In an instant I was surrounded, hustled, assailed, insulted in a thousand discordant voices.

"'An owl! an owl! Gracious, how ugly he is! What a queer sort of a _dilettante_! Just look at his solemn face and his great beak! and his great round eyes! and is feathers! He's too hideous--what a fright! There's a _connoisseur_ for you! Ugh! the brute!

"'Let's peck him,' said the gentle nightingale.

"'Yes, yes, hurrah! let's peck him well!' assented the thrush.

"And then they all crowded round me--nightingales, woodpeckers, linnets, thrushes, blackbirds, tomtits, even to the turtle doves and wood pigeons themselves. I felt the strokes of twenty beaks fall upon me. It was like a quarry. 'Alas!' thought I, 'can such cruelty be allied to such genius?' And I struggled wildly, stupefied, panting, powerless amid the furious rattle. At last I succeeded in disengaging myself {268} and flew away in desperation to hide from my persecutors. Now at last I knew what evil was, and I asked myself, with odd simplicity, you will say, if it was not the contrary of good. It was true, then, as I had heard so often, that there were wicked beings in the world! Could it be true? And while such thoughts whirled confusedly through my unlucky brain, I flew to confess my defeat to my old friend.

"'Oh, well!' said he, 'I don't blame you; you yielded to an impulse of youthful confidence and learned a valuable lesson. Do you suppose that I don't see as well as you that spring is fair and this forest beautiful, and the linnet's song enchanting, and that everything bids us be happy? I know it all very well, and yet I stay all alone in my hole while everything outside is singing and rejoicing. You would not believe my words, perhaps you will believe your own experience. You thought there was no wickedness in the world, only innocence and virtue? Well, your ignorance came from a kind heart, and, after all you are happier in being good than your enemies in being victorious.'

"'But--just heaven! why did nature make these wretches so beautiful? or rather, why did she make such beautiful creatures so wicked? Why is not the perverseness of their hearts to be read on their faces?'

"'Ah, my son, that is a vexed question that many persons have agitated before now, and that no one has succeeded in solving. Why has nature made the good ridiculous and the wicked handsome? The best way is to resign ourselves to what we cannot understand.'

"'And then,' said I, 'they said I was ugly enough to scare anybody. But that cannot be true, for I look like my brothers, and my brothers--"

"'No, my son,' answered the hermit, smiling sadly, 'no, you are not ugly; nothing on earth is ugly excepting cruelty and vice. The beautiful goldfinch, with his ash-colored throat and yellow wings, was ugly to-day, and the linnet too, and all the pretty little birds who tormented you so. Yes, they are hideously ugly; their hearts are black as night, lovely though the plumage may be that covers them.

"'Then am I condemned to close my heart to love forever? Must I live alone because there is wickedness around us?'

"'Alone, always alone,' he answered, 'otherwise you will have neither rest nor happiness. But don't fancy that you have any cause for lamentation or complaint on that account. See life, once for all, as it really exist, and accept reality instead of pursuing phantoms. Would you have every one resemble you? is every creature by to be the hero of some dream of yours? Ah! I see that you are not cured even now.'

"He was right; I was not cured, if you choose to say so. Of course I had to confess that the small birds were wicked, that they were as cruel as they were pretty, and that I must distrust and avoid them. But I sought all kinds of plausible explanations of this incongruity. I said that they had received from nature genius instead of virtue, and that I had no more right to complain of their cruelty than they had to ridicule my ugliness (for ugly I certainly must be) or my harsh voice.

"And having persuaded myself of the truth of this, I flew away and hid myself in the gloomiest part of the forest, weeping over my loneliness and in deceived hopes. And now my eyes were opened to another delusion. To the society of my two brothers I had looked for consolation in every trouble, but before long they declared that one hole was too narrow to satisfy their desires, and that they must seek their fortune elsewhere. In vain did I use and elder brother's right in dissuading them from this mad design. In vain I reminded them of the fate of our parents who had perished in spite of every possible precaution, and showed them how much more they would be exposed in thus throwing themselves in the way of danger. Nothing influenced them--not even the memory of our vows of {269} mutual fidelity, not even any entreaties that they would not leave me alone in this dreary solitude. One--the youngest and handsomest, my especial favorite--was possessed by some crazy longing for travel and foreign adventure. He dreamed of some land of promise where all would be good and happy; and on the faith of these dreams he left us one day, bidding good-by to his country, his cradle, and his only friends, to go in search of the Utopia he longed to find. I never saw him again. Did he find the object of his desires? Did he die on the journey? I know not; but one thing we may be sure of--that fate cheated him of his wild and ambitious hopes.

"My other brother left me to follow a scatter-brained young screech-owl who had entangled him in her fascinations. He established himself with her in a neighboring wood, but parted from me with a thousand protestations of eternal friendship and devotion.

"And thus I found myself in that enviable solitude which my sage friend had recommended to me--left to myself and my own sad thoughts. I only went out toward evening to look for food, and then returned to my gloomy hole and left it no more. But isolation, instead of making me courageous, only disgusted me more and more with the life I was leading. From the depths of my retreat, I used to watch with envy the gaiety and animation of other birds. Not that I dreamed of joining in their mirth, for my own experience of their society had taught me to keep at a safe distance; but the sight of their enjoyment led me to believe that I might find companionship quite as agreeable without leaving my own circle. I mingled more and more among the other owls of the forest; I visited them in their own homes, and counted the hours I spent with them and their families as so much gained against grief and dullness. My most intimate friendship was with a highly respectable family who lived not far from my castle, and especially with a young owl, the fourth child of venerable parents who had known and valued my unhappy father. Her sweetness and innocence made her very lovely in my eyes. What was it to me that her beak was too hooked, her eyes too hollow, and her head angular! beauty is the form of the ideal, not a material regularity. While autumn lasted I visited her every day at the hole of her aged parents, and before long we were bound together by ties of indestructible love. In the midst of our happiness winter separated us. What is winter? Why should this spoil-sport intrude on our fairest days? And yet, after all, nature has a right to be cruel and mischievous, since all her children are so! For several months I was parted from her whom I loved; but as soon as spring returned she became my companion, and I brought her home to my bower, which was to serve me now as a nest and as the cradle of my children. There we spent blissful days, the happiest perhaps of my life. Soon the nest was full; two newly hatched little ones raised their bald heads, and filled the air with infantile cries. With what solicitude we watched over them! what care and anxiety we felt for these darling little creatures! At last we had the happiness of seeing them open their eyes and look up at us with that knowing air of intelligence so enchanting to young parents. I thought that happiness was restored to me, and that fate was tired of persecuting me. 'What matters now,' said I, 'the cruelty of the world and its unjust disdain? Do I need any other happiness than this?

"It seemed as if we could see the children grow from day to day, and their good health, noble mien, and cheerful disposition were fast filling our cup of happiness to overflowing. One day their mother went out in search of food, leaving me to watch the nest, for they were as yet too young to be trusted alone. Hour after hour passed on, and yet she did not return. I became very uneasy as I remembered my parents' fate, and at last, telling the children to be very {270} quiet and prudent, I sallied forth in search of her. Soon she appeared, flying toward me at the utmost speed of her rushing wings. 'At last I have come,' she cried, 'let us be grateful for my escape! A falcon has been chasing me for two hours past, and I only eluded his pursuit by hiding in the hollow of a tree. We must get back to the children as quick as possible.' And we hastened back to the nest. As we approached the tower, we heard--oh, horror!--sharp cries of pain, and recognized in those screams the voices of our little ones; on we plunged, distracted with fear; and saw the falcon--it was he--rising up into the air clutching in his horrid claws one of our children, the little creature's blood dropping down about us, while he struggled and cried, 'Mother!--Father!'--and then all was still, and the falcon sailed away out of sight.

"You think that was enough, but not so. When we reached the nest and looked for the other one, there we found his poor little body stretched on the wall, torn open with a frightful wound. What shall I tell you? Wild with grief, we wandered for days about the forest, insensible to rain or wind, to hunger or thirst, even to the mocking sneers of the birds who hunted us, pecking at us and tearing out our feathers. What did we care for that or anything else?

"At last my companion said: 'If you have no objection, let us leave forever this hateful wood, which has brought us such misery and bitterness. Let us give up this odious world and find some other home.' 'But where would you have us go?' I asked. 'If we have not found peace in this retreat, why should we find it anywhere else? We could not be more completely hidden in any other place than we have been here, and yet here we have been discovered. I don't feel like beginning a new life nobody knows where.' 'Let us go among human beings,' answered she. 'There, at least we shall find goodness, generosity, and greatness. Just think how admirable their towns and villages are! To be sure I can only judge them by hearsay, but I have every reason to suppose that we should meet with a cordial reception. The very day the falcon chased me I took refuge in a hollow oak, and I listened to the talk of two men who were sitting at the foot of the tree. You never heard anything so beautiful as their words! Anybody could see that they were the kings of the animal creation. They were complaining of the mice that make such havoc among their bins and granaries. Let us go and deliver them from these pests.' 'You have convinced me,' I replied. 'Yes, we will go to mankind an serve them faithfully. How they will respect us and reward our services.' And so after taking a sad farewell of our old friend and adviser, who saw us depart with many forebodings of evil, we winged our way through the forest. Toward evening we reached its outskirts and saw before us a village. We had reached our new country.

"We chose one of the largest barns in this village for our home, and at once opened a desperate warfare against the rats and mice who were attracted thither in large numbers by the provisions. This novel mode of life brought us so much occupation and distraction, that we had no time to dwell upon our grief. Our courage rose once more, and we used to say to each other: 'What sublime beings men are! How grand are all their actions! They are born ignorant and they know everything! They are born feeble and they conquer nature!' These perfections formed the subject of our morning talks when the night's work was over, their hospitality and goodness, our faithful devotion to them, and the gratitude it could not fail to win.

{271}

"Little by little we became familiarized with our position and enjoyed it. The more we studied human nature the more we admired it's clemency, justice, and rectitude. One evening we ventured cautiously out of our retreat, and looked about the village. Before each window hung cages filled with solitary prisoners. There I recognized the cruel nightingale, the linnet who had caused me so much anguish, and many other birds who had been in the habit of tormenting us in the forest. We returned home enchanted with our expedition. 'Here at last we have found justice,' cried I. 'In this happy land the wicked are punished for their cruelty and prevented from doing further mischief; while the good are left free and happy. Why, there was not an owl to be seen among the prisoners! We have reason to be grateful that at last we have reached a haven of rest and tranquility.'

"We at once decided that I should go in search of our old friend, and induce him to share our happiness. 'Poor soul!' we said, 'at last the destiny which he has so long sought is within his reach. Now, at last, he will see that our hopes of final happiness were not mere dreams.'

"A few nights after I set out on a visit to our friend in his obscure retreat. We parted full of joy in thinking of the good old solitary, whose last days we were to make so peaceful. I flew at full speed, and reached the wood without fatigue. Full of hope, and picturing the pleasant surprise my coming would arouse in him, I entered his dwelling quite suddenly, exclaiming, 'Here I am, father; I have come to take you away from this place, and show you that happiness which you have always treated as a chimera.' 'Is it you, my son?' he said with joyful astonishment, but in a weak, choked voice; and I saw that a great change had come over him. A shutter ran through me. 'Oh, yes, it is I,' replied I cheerfully. 'We have not forgotten you, and we shall not be able to enjoy our happiness unless you are there to share it with us. Come, I will tell you the rest on the way. But what ails you that you do not move?' 'Nothing, my son; it will soon be ended. Before this day closes I shall be cured.' 'Cured!--why, are you ill? you who were so strong and hearty!' 'The illness from which I am suffering has always afflicted me,' he said, 'but the time of cure has come; the physician is at hand.' 'The physician! what physician?' 'Death,' he answered in a hollow voice. 'Death!' cried I, 'what do you mean? would you leave us? we cannot live without you. Oh, come away! come with me! have you no pity on me?' 'Pity! yes, child, I pity you for your youth, and because you do not stand where I stand now. It is you who have no pity in holding me back from my repose. Let me rest, my son, in the eternal peace of nature.'

"His head dropped forward heavily. He was dead. Dead at the moment when I offered him the accomplishment of hopes long since abandoned.

"I flew away horror stricken, as if an enemy were tracking me to destruction; but what I fled from was planted in my heart never to be uprooted. The night fell--one of those dreary autumn evenings when cloud and mist contend for mastery. With a heart oppressed with grief, I returned to the scenes I had passed through so gayly a few hours before. What had I left? Parents, brothers, children, friends, all dead--my opinion alone remained to sustain and comfort me; to be consoled and supported.

"Absorbed in these gloomy ideas, I reached the confines of the village. Afar off I recognized the hospitable roof that had given us shelter, and my heart beat with joy in spite of my affliction. But who were that troop of children gathered before the barn door? What did these cries of joy, and stamping of feet, and clasping of hands portend, and the smiling old folks looking on and encouraging their sports? Of course it must be some pure and virtuous amusement since children joined in it, so I flew on with a sense of kindly interest. As the distance lessened, I thought I saw--I {272} knew I saw a bird banging with outstretched wings on the born-door--nailed there, bleeding, dead. Oh! heaven's justice! my companion murdered! dead! butchered! And that before the eyes of nature, under the light of heaven! And no protesting voice raised from the bosom of the earth! I hung about there, staring at the horrid sight with my heart turned to stone within me. As night deepened the children dispersed, and then I fell upon that inanimate form like a wild beast, and fastened upon the nails with beak and claws to tear their prey from them. My furious struggles only served to lacerate me till I bled; and all the time the dead thing looked at me; its cold, fixed glassy eyes glared at me with a cruel irony that scared me from the place. Yet night and day I wandered about the barn, and night and day watched that dreadful object, until at the end of two weeks madness relieved me of reason and self-consciousness. Then I went away with a heart bubbling over with hatred of humanity. Oh, that I could have clutched the human race in one single body within these claws, to tear out its eyes, devour its heart, and fling the carrion to be the sport of winds and tempests!

"The thread of my life was broken. What more had I to do with the earth, that wicked stepmother who gives us light only to make its glare insufferable. With frantic speed I rushed through the valley, and paused only when fatigue and hunger forced me to rest. I stopped on the margin of a little stream shaded by bushy alders, while the turf along its edge was strewn with wheat. I drew near to eat, but hardly had I touched the earth when I felt myself caught and held fast, 'Well,' thought I, 'man would be unworthy of his name if he did not use all his splendid gifts for the destruction of others. At least I will thank him for ridding me of life.' And then I fell into a gloomy stupor, and became indifferent to everything around me, while in my memory there arose visions of childhood--of the old nest in the tower of my parents, and the pretty little brothers whom I had vowed never to part from; and as my heart swelled with the woeful regrets these images brought up to me, I suddenly caught sight of the fowler running toward me in all haste, and at the same instant I beheld my brother--my brother whom I had never seen since our childhood. A transport of joy came over me; now I was safe, and he it was who would release me. We would fly away somewhere together and begin life over again. Divine hope! it restored strength and courage to me. 'Brother, brother!' I cried anxiously, 'here I am--come this way. Don't you see me?' He turned his eyes toward me. 'Why, is that you? Caught in a trap, aren't you? I really wish I had time to stop and help you, but I am in full chase after a young owl who has given me considerable encouragement. You had better get out of that snare pretty quick, for the keepers coming. Good-by till we meet again.'

"And now anything, everything seemed possible, explicable, credible. All my other miseries faded away in view of this lie against friendship, this insult to humanity, this blasphemy against pity.

"But after all is said and done, the instinct of life is of all feelings the most irresistible. A moment before I had loathed existence; now, when I saw the fowler draw near, I struggled wildly with beak and claws and wings to save myself. In the presence of death the sun looked bright to me once more, and life again seemed good. A few more desperate springs and struggles and I was free--flying whither? to my native forest, where I had first known misery and disappointment, now my only companions. There all would be unchanged, I thought, except myself. I only should be hopeless, I alone gloomy and silent amid the undying joys of serene nature. But--ah me! when I reached the old place disappointment was lying in wait for {273} me there too. The dear old nest was gone; the wall had crumbled away and was strewing the mountain-side. The kindly ivy that sheltered us once was crawling on the earth; the beeches had decayed and scrub bushes choked up the place where they had stood. Everything in me and in nature was dead, and so nothing was left but to bid good b to memory and joy--aye, and to trouble too, for the matter of that.

"This was my last deception. From that day to this I have stagnated here, learning, hoping, fearing nothing' Joy and sorrow are so far away in the past that they seem never to have belonged to me. And this is peace."

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of my oppressed breathing. At last the owl said, with a weary sigh:

"You wished to know my story. There it is, and you are welcome to the lessons it may give you. In the mean time I can only say that I pity you--pity your innocence, your candor, and your destiny."

And I replied, "You are right. I know life now, and its promises shall never delude me."

He smiled and repeated, "I pity you."

This history impressed me profoundly. I rehearsed the miserable details, and saw in his life my own. I was the credulous being who had trusted implicitly to life. The wretch who had sown kindness among his fellow men and reaped contempt, was again myself. Was I then to clamber the rocky path to the end only to see hope receding in the distance? Society became to me every day more unbearable; I avoided my companions with horror, and their railleries, which up to that time I had borne with indifference, seemed like so many poisoned arrows aimed at my heart. Intercourse with my old friend only increased my contempt for men and existence; yet in tins mute revolt against nature and humanity, I selected him as the sole confidant of my woes, and invariably left him with a heart more bitter and oppressed than before.

One day, toward sunset, I was wandering through the great arches of the forest, going as usual toward the retreat of my bosom friend. A serious silence was creeping slowly down from the tree-tops. The birds were still, the winds asleep; no sound or sign of life to be anywhere discerned, except the crushing of dried leaves beneath my tread. And as I went dreaming on amidst this solitude, I heard in spirit the melody of Nature dropping through the tender evening air, and I tried to give it words in this little song:

When Spring with loft maternal hand Spreads all the earth with green, And 'gainst the sun's too ardent gaze Weaves many a leafy screen,

Build your neats, bright-plumed minstrels, Forgetting not to praise The bounty that so lavishly Sheds gladness on your ways.

Think not, in missing old-time friends, Some favorite bower or hedge, That Nature has misused her power, Or broken a sacred pledge:

This is Spring's immortality; Youth must replace decay. Grieve not that your turn too must come: Less brief than bright your day!

Build your nests then, my chanters sweet: Bloom flower, vine, and tree: Let no discordant wail disturb Spring's song of rapturous glee.

I reached the hermit's cell. He was not there as usual, crouched on the edge of his nest; and I called to him, thinking he had fallen asleep or wandered off, as he sometimes did, into a thicker gloom to meditate. No answer. I stood on tiptoe and looked uneasily into his retreat. There I saw in the confusing obscurity a greyish, motionless mass. I laid my hand upon it, and what was my horror to find my friend, my owl! I turned in upon him the last beams of the sun, hoping to rouse him. Alas! the light did not penetrate his eyeballs; the rays did not warm his frigid form. I lifted him up; the head dropped lifelessly, the wings were rigid, the shrivelled claws were cramped and clenched with the death struggle. He was dead! he suffered no longer.

{274}

I replaced him in his hole and stopped up its mouth with stones and turf, sweeping a great branch of ivy across this improvised tomb. When the wall crumbles, soft verdure will shield those poor remains. Oh! my dear, tired owl! I could only give thee a tomb; sleep well and peacefully therein! And so I turned away, thinking of my old friend and of his reverses, precepts, sufferings, and misanthropy.

"Such is the term of existence," said I "so end our joys and our pains." But higher and higher in my soul swelled the song of the forest, until I cried, "This is the voice of God, and he cannot lie:" and entering into myself I understood at last the merciful and providential law that governs nature, attaching to each suffering a consolation, to each pang a hope. To what was my contempt of life leading me? To the gradual debasement of my being, to a forgetfulness of the duties that God imposes on his creatures. Man is made for struggle, and he who deserts the field is a coward. If his strength fails, can he not draw fresh force from prayer? Does our Heavenly Father ever forget his weary children? Yes, life is a hard, rough road, but it leads straight to a goal where the sanctified soul shall find reward and rest. My poor owl might well feel sour and exasperated, since death meant to him only the peace of nothingness; but man has other destinies, and rebellion is for him unjustifiable revolt. What matter passing trials to him who is to possess eternity? Should we not blush at our cowardice when we remember that the infinite God is our consoler?

And all these grave thoughts anent a poor bird of whom nothing is left but a bunch of feathers! Well! there are days when a slight emotion makes the human heart spill over, like a full vase overflowed by one drop too much.

ORIGINAL.

SONNET.

And thou wouldst live for ever, poet soul In love of human kind! What must thou do? Look o'er the past, scan well whose worth is true-- Not those mere forms that with the ages roll-- And say what readst of them on Time's bright scroll:-- "Names faint or fading, save a fadeless few, Like rare Etruscan colors, ever new." Yet tell me, seer, how shine the favored whole:-- "Some glitter as the icy mountain peak Remote, whence flow a thousand generous streams: Some glow as morn or even, or blushing cheek Of one beloved, or angels known in dreams; These touch upon the universal--speak-- Lo! Nature, Love, Religion, are the themes."

{275}

From The Month.

THE MUSÉE RETROSPECTIF IN PARIS.

It is probable that there has never been an Exhibition so singular in its contrasted contents, so rich in market value, prepared so abruptly for submission to public inspection, as that which, during the latter half of the year 1865, was to be seen in the Palais de l'Industrie in Paris, under the name of "_Musée Retrospectif_" In a general way, its character may be comprehended in England by a reference to the Kensington Museum Exhibition of 1862, from which its conception was drawn, and which it outstripped. Like that Exhibition, it came into existence in especial connection with an institute the primary object of which is to promote the cultivation of art in connection with manufactures. This was formed in Paris three years ago, under the title of "_L'Union Centrale des Beaux Arts appliqués à l'Industrie_;" and under circumstances not a little curious, and not a little gratifying to those who have led on the great movement of improvement in art for the last quarter of a century in England. They will find that it has come to pass that the best leading spirits among our great rivals have felt and admitted, with no little alarm, the success of that movement, and the formidable competition with which it has threatened their previous preeminence. The simplest and most sincere evidence of this appears in the published Report of M. Prosper Merimée in reference to the London Exhibition of 1862, and the adoption of its sentiments by the conductors of that admirable periodical, _La Gazette des Beaux Arts_. In that Report M. Merimée, who was official reporter for the French section of the International Jury, thus expresses himself:

"Since the Universal Exhibition in 1851, and even since that of 1855, immense progress has taken place in Europe; and although we in France have not remained stationary, we cannot conceal from ourselves that our lead has become less sensible, and is ever tending to its termination. It is our duty to remind our manufacturers that, however successful they may have been on this occasion, they may possibly sustain a defeat, and that at no very distant date, if from the present moment they fail to address all their energies to the maintenance of a preeminence which can only be secured by an incessant aim at perfection. English industrial produce more especially, so markedly behindhand in point of art previous to the Exhibition of 1851, has made in the course of ten years _prodigious advancement_; and if it should so continue its onward movement, we might find ourselves unexpectedly surpassed."

This startling avowal from an authority not to be contravened led, among other consequences, to such reflections as the following: "The contact of England and France, rendered so frequent by the Universal Exhibitions of Paris and London," observes the _Gazette des Beaux Arts_, "will not be without its use in reference to a regenerative movement now in contemplation, to which we wish to draw the attention of our--so contiguous to us in locality, so severed in habits--we have learned how much can be done by a few men of resolute purpose--citizens generously devoted to the public good, and unrestricted in their freedom of action. This lesson was well condensed in the words, often quoted, of a sovereign who has passed a portion of his life in England, {276} and has brought from thence certain English conclusions; namely, 'Individual initiative, urging on its plans with indefatigable ardor, saves Government from monopolizing the management of the vital energy of the nation. . . . Stimulate, then, among individuals an energetic spontaneity for promoting all purposes having in view the beautiful and the useful.'"

The result of the very pregnant views thus unreservedly avowed has been an effort in emulation of that much-commended individual vigor of operation; and accordingly a small band of artistic and literary Frenchmen, led on by a distinguished and very zealous architect, M. Guichard, constituted themselves the nucleus of a society the great aim and object of which is an incessant application of the most effective means for fertilizing the wide domain of native art and manufacture, so as to sustain it in its present rich power of productiveness. They have assumed the name of _L' Union Centrale des Beaux Arts appliqués â l'Industrie_. They have instituted a museum for the collection and exhibition of all manner of objects akin to their undertaking, where lectures are to be systematically delivered to the same end.

In fine, they have developed so rapidly in their proceedings, that they have designed, and we may say founded, a college wherein special education and special distribution of honors are to be dispensed to students of industrial art. Until a suitable structure for this has been erected, within which the Society will establish its centre of action, its headquarters are in that quaint and spacious square in the Marais de St. Antoine Quartier of Paris, the Place Royale; noted for its clever white marble equestrian statue of Louis XIII., and recently deriving a melancholy interest from being the death scene of Rachel.

In addition to these great projects for permanent organization, of which the germs will be found at the Adelphi and South Kensington, that special Exhibition of 1862 in the latter quarter, the success of which was so extraordinary, and we may add the influence of that noble display of mediaeval ecclesiastical art which which was to be seen at Malines in 1864, were the occasions of suggestions which fell most productively upon the zealous minds of our projectors. It was deemed expedient in the councils of the Place Royale, that Paris too should have its "Retrospective" exhibition. The French government, eschewing all jealousy of this independent association, lent its help as soon as application was made: and Marshal Vaillant placed at its disposal abundant space for the proposed undertaking in the large saloons of the Palais de l'Industrie.

It was not, however, without some apprehensions of success in their experiment--without some nervous misgivings as to the realizing of ways and means, and winning the loan of the treasures of antique vertu from their possessors, that they entered upon their work. However, _en avant_ was the word, and full success ensued. The undertaking had the good fortune to win favor in four quarters of immense influence--the Emperor, Prince Czartoriski, the Marquis of Hertford, and the Messrs. Rothschild. When this became known, it acted as an "open sesame" to the masters of lesser stores; and from that time streams of undreamt-of and unhoped-for valuables came pouring in upon the society, until at length an inconvenient overflow seemed imminent, and it became necessary to select and decline. The ultimate result, however, was, that the accommodation of twelve large saloons was absolutely exhausted by the contributions; and it has been estimated that the whole might realize on sale something like a million and a half of pounds sterling.

It was a patent defect of this Exhibition, that works of the same kind were not classed together. This was in consequence, doubtless, of the exactions of contributors. Each proprietor of a collection of treasures, however various and unconnected their contents, required, both for safety's sake and with {277} a pardonable vanity, that his own galaxy should shine apart The spectator, therefore, was for a while bewildered in discerning the various elements of this vast and most miscellaneous collection.

A small, neatly arranged selection of stone-weapons stood as a foundation for the whole. From this we had to pass by a prodigious bound--for the next element was excellence itself, the masterpieces of Greece. The collection of these, if brought into one range and receptacle, would have been sufficient to constitute a most valuable Museum of statuettes, vases, and other objects--some of perfect beauty. We cannot in a brief sketch like this attempt any detailed description, which could but be tantalizingly imperfect. We may make a statuette of Minerva, thus noted as No. 98 of the catalogue: "_Athène Toromachos; reproduction du Xoanon, conservé dans le Temple d'Erechthée. Bronze fondu en plein, du travail le plus archaïque. Un des plus vieux bronzes grecs connus_." With what pardonable veneration might not the lover of the Greek marvels of art bend over this, "one of the oldest Greek bronzes known"!

Another violent leap of transition brought us from the schools of Phidias and Praxiteles to the middle ages and the renaissance period. Here, again, the contributions were profuse. In the former the ivories were of much interest--diptych, poliptych, and single subject--in which the deep sincerity of sentiment of their era struggled through and gave sterling value to imperfect art. All these, as well as the larger portion of other works of the same time, were connected with sacred subjects. Although not equal, upon the whole, the Malines collection, there was here abundant food for deep meditation and admiration. Here, as there also, was a commemoration of the murder of St. Thomas--a reliquary in the form of a rectangular box of silver, gilt and embellished with niello, its cover pyramidal, topped with a large garnet stone, surrounded by a setting of pearls. On either larger side was pictured the slaying or the entombment of the martyr, with inscriptions. Figures of angels completed the ornaments of this choice work, which has been attributed, with some doubt, to a German hand of the twelfth century.

Numerous works in iron, of the twelfth century, many of great beauty --others in brass, silver, and gold, together with specimens of enamel and jewelry, of middle-age handling, were exhibited on this occasion. Few, however, of the curiosities of this period drew more attention than the manuscripts in simple scroll or illuminated. The greater portion of these came from the collections of M. Ambroise Firmin Didot or M. Le Carpentier. The Marquis de Ganay sent one article worth a hundred others, viz., the Books of the Gospels which had belonged to Charlemagne, and which, as tradition tells us, were wrung from the abbey of St. Maurice d'Argaune in the civil wars of the fourteenth century. On one side of its binding was a gold plate, impressed with the figure of Christ Blessing--a work of the ninth century. It was also adorned with a set of uncut precious stones, added in the twelfth century. Near to this were the Gospels, written in the eleventh century at the monastery of Ottenbeuren in Swabia, in characters of gold and silver. A copy of Josephus, from Saint-Tron in the province of Lemberg, Belgium, of the twelfth century, was also extremely fine. An Italian manuscript of the fourteenth century was also there, written on vellum, with ornamental capitals and miniatures--the revelations of St. Bridget Among these precious works not the least singular was a _Livre d'heures_ on vellum, having 330 pages, illustrated and ornamented with as many different subjects. Of these, fifty-six were taken from the Dance of Death. This was a work of the fifteenth century, and, strange to say--whether in melancholy jest or otherwise--had been presented by Louis XV. to his physician Dr. Mead. The works of the renaissance and subsequent period, in this collection, {278} were most numerous in what may be termed miniature objects--light branches and lovely blossoms springing from the great main trunks of painting and sculpture. For them chiefly, so full of winning instructiveness, this _Musée Retrospectif_ would seem to have been especially got up. They appeared in forms of gold, silver, and much more cherished bronze, in ivory, and again the happier vehicle wood, in crystal and in glass, in steel, in gems and miniatures, in enamelled terra cotta, in furniture, in time-pieces, in tapestry, and numberless other ways.

The bronzes, scattered among the collections on every side, were admirable. The miniature model of an equestrian statue--a condottiere leader by Donatello--was universally felt to be a model in that most difficult branch of art. It excited an absolute _furore_ amongst the critics. In contrast to its graceful swing of boldness, there was a _basso relievo_ from an unknown hand, representing the figure of Charity--a draped female figure--clasping a child to her bosom caressingly, while other fondlings of the like age cling round her neck and her knees. Exquisite sweetness of expression is here found united to perfection of form and masterly arrangement of elaborate drapery. Yet the author is wholly unknown. Numerous statuettes sustained the honor of this class. We pass them to note three busts--full size--which could not fail to arrest the attention and command the deep admiration of every amateur or artist who passed through these saloons. The first was that of Beneviani, an Italian noble of the fifteenth century; the second, of Jerome Beneviani, a poet and philosopher of the sixteenth century; the third, of the great Buonarotti. The rigid adherence to nature, full of sincere force of expression, impressed on all three, compelled one to pause and ponder and commune with character so deeply significant. Such busts leave impressions not easily to be effaced, and are most instructive to the sculptor.

The great strength of this Exhibition lay, however, not so much in the subjects to which we have alluded as in its singular profusion of examples in the vast field of pottery and Limoge enamelling. It is probable that never have so many and such various specimens of both these branches of art been hitherto brought together. It is but just to say, that by far the greater part of the voluminous array had attached to it the names of Baron G. Rothschild and M. Alphonso Rothschild. Every variety of pottery or porcelain having any claim to reputation (with the exception of our own English works) seemed to have here, in one quarter or another, its representative.

Here were Moorish and Hispano-moresque vessels, comparatively rude in design and tinting, from which the great susceptibility of Italian art drew its first inspirations. Then came the majolica, in all its progressive modifications; the varnished sculpture of Luca della Robbia; the relievo of Palissy, of which we had here every contrasted variety of subject, and all the different schools of Italy fully and most interestingly illustrated. The value attached to some of the rarer specimens might be thought fabulous were we not familiar with the extravagances into which the long-pursed amateurs are led, in their devotion to the singular, if not the unique. Thus there appeared in the treasury of the Rothschilds a morsel--a small candlestick--of the almost extinct _faience_ of Henry II., to which, it was affirmed, the value of forty thousand francs was attached. If the whole thirty or so subsisting specimens of this rarity were swept away, what, in point of general grace of form, elegance of linear detail, or delicacy of color, would be lost to the world? Something infinitesimally inconsiderable. Around this precious relique there was a wondrous profusion of Limoges enamels, belonging to various persons, and exhibiting in every degree the beauties of that exquisite specialty of {279} art applied either to portraiture or five historic or sacred subject. These, indeed, deserve to be cherished with watchfulness and affection.

Among other contributions to this Exhibition were a large collection of fine Chinese and Japanese curiosities, to which with great truth the title _Retrospectif_ could be affixed. They combined admirably great strength of construction with charming delicacy of embellishment.

In contrast to all these gentler productions of human genius came the special contribution of the emperor, presenting art and ingenuity as handmaidens to war--not as ministering to the amenities or luxuries of peace. In other words, it gave, in review, a complete array of the heaviest heavy armor of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries--some thirty suits, standing cap-à-pie--illustrating the period when almost the entire frame of the man militant was encased in metal plates; when, consequently, to fall in battle was but too much after the fashion of Lucifer--never to rise again, unless as a prisoner, or unless assisted from mid mêlée by the smart hands of some sturdy squire, and thus once more restored to the perpendicular on the back of that singular hippogriff, a horse in armor. In this collection of panoplies the variety of helmets was most striking--some singularly extravagant in their steel contour, and all with as little accommodation as possible for the functions of breathing or seeing. A few offered most ludicrous mockeries of the human face divine, a nose alone projecting in Roman ruggedness: truly an iron joke. Among the rest, a German tournament-casque was conspicuous. It belonged to the second half of the seventeenth century, was wholly of silver, and richly ornamented both in carving and indenture. This gem of the collection was, it appears, a present from the empress to the emperor.

The armor of the central and most conspicuous group in the saloon had the like honor. It presented a knight on horseback--man and horse in full panoply, and an attendant man-at-arms. It seemed intended to unite the aspect of lightness with genuine metallic strength. A tradition is connected with it: that at a period when the progressive development of the fatal use of fire-arms, of cannon, arque-buss, petronel, and pistol, had gradually weakened faith in the utility of the chivalric steel coat, Louis XIII. and his potent minister Cardinal de Richelieu were both staunchly true to the olden creed of the olden time, where

"None of your ancient heroes Ere heard of cannon-ball. Or knew the force of powder, To slay their foes withal;"

and it was thought expedient by both that his majesty should have this splendid model-suit made, in order to use influence of the most potent kind against the new martial heterodoxy. The progress of time has proved how vainly the recalcitrant effort was made. The great explosive agent has prevailed--until at length, in our own time, the management of the _bouches à feu_ is the beginning and end of all scientific strategy; and even the cuirassier--the last of the steel-clads--is surmised to be on his last legs.

While thus on one side of this saloon these numerous examples of armor were ranged--a terrible show--and the helmets occupied, in close muster, an encircling shelf, the _arme blanche_ had its honors sustained by a series of radiating groups attached to the walls, in which blades of Italy, Germany, and France, with matchless Toledo rapiers, showed their quality unsheathed. The thrilling simplicity of the cold gleaming steel in these deadly implements was, in many instances, strangely contrasted with the exquisite artistic elaboration of ornament upon their hilts. This anomaly was completed by the adoption, for this purpose, of subjects taken from Holy Writ, and the most tender illustrations of religious charity, sculptured in gold or silver, or tinted in the most delicate enamel. Thus we found {280} upon one the for phases of the Prodigal Son's career admirably composed in miniature _basso relievo_. One sword of this kind could not fail to hold attention. It had been sent to Henry IV. by the pope on his abjuration. On its pommel two metals were inserted--the one having for its subject the Crucifixion, the other the Resurrection. On other metals, combined with the hilt, were represented the Annunciation, the Visitation, the Nativity, the Adoration of the Magi, and the Circumcision. Finally the portrait of Henry himself was introduced supported by Angels.

Here also was the blade of a different man, and of a different import, once grasped by the strong hand of Charles XII. Of Sweden, vigorous for cut, or subtly tempered for trust [thrust?]. No mincing ornament of delicate tracery embellished its hilt; but it was appropriately wreathed with oak foliage in iron, and it bore an interlaced cipher of C's, surmounted by the words, _Soli Deo gloria_.

This weapon,

"A better never did itself sustain Upon a soldier's thigh,"

was worn by Charles at Bender, and was given by him to General Mayenfelt. It was presented to the Emperor Louis Napoleon by the present King of Sweden.

Associated with these specimens of the _arme blanche_ were well-preserved examples of the cross-bow and earlier invented fire-arms, with their attendant accoutrements; the whole forming an extremely rich set of illustrations of the centuries to which it more especially referred.

Take it for all in all, this room was pregnant with suggestion. No extraordinary susceptibility of imagination was required for one lingering over its relics to shadow forth fearful episodes without number of tale or history connected with these crowded weapons of slaughter.

Independent of this splendid collection of arms, there were many others among the miscellanea of the Exhibition. By far the finest belong to the Marquis of Hertford, figuring conspicuously in the chamber specially devoted to _chefs-d'-oeuvres_ contributed from that nobleman's collection; and evidencing that it was not alone on masterpieces of painting that it could depend for its well-merited celebrity. The most prominent arms here were Circassian helmets and sabres, all fresh in brilliant preservation, as if they had just come from the anvil or workshop; the former more particularly remarkable for their exquisite inlaid golden tracery, the latter for their gorgeous richness of minute carving. These, with many other specimens of Oriental ornament--creeses, poniards, or scimitars, here enclosed in glass cases--almost compelled one to the conclusion that in the East there is a more delicately inventive genius for ornamentation than can be found in Europe. This we may again see exemplified in the carpets of Persia, the shawls of Cashmere, and in the muslins of Hindostan, gleaming with fire-fly splendor of metallic foliage.

Having dwelt on the specialties of warlike equipment, the footsteps of the visitor were led to the last of the saloons, and found it dedicated, in almost monumental melancholy, to reminiscences of Polish royalty. Members of the Czartoriski family, Prince Ladislaus, and the Princess Iza, had furnished forth almost all the contents of the cases, which lined three sides of the apartment. A very copious miscellany of jewelry and ornaments in gold and silver--some singular for their artistic beauty, and others for their quaint antiquity--was here to be seen. Of special note amongst the former was a charming morceau of jewelry, wherein the letter A, standing for Auguste, was set in diamonds, and supported by two exquisite enamel infant figures, attributed to the hand of Benvenuto Cellini. Also a chain which had belonged to Maria Louisa Gonzaga, enameled and enriched with pearls and precious stones. {281} For purity of taste this could impeach with the best French works of its class of the sixteenth century. It was not, however, with a critic's eye, but with painful historic musing, that one contemplated these objects. Here was the ivory sceptre of King Frederick Augustus; and here also a flagolet, in the like ivory, that had been fingered and blown by the same sovereign. Here a great silver goblet, with portraits inserted in its indentures of two kings, Sobieski and Korybut. Here a fair cross of sapphire and a chain of Anne de Jagellon; and here, not the glass slipper, but the crimson-velvet shoe--thick, as if the Chinese model--of good Queen Hedwige. Here was the most splendid of field-marshal's batons--as long again as those of modern times--of ebony enriched with diamonds, and bearing a kingly cipher. Here were a brace of pistols that once had been clasped by the vigorous hand of Saxe; and here a watch and chain recall to mind the poets tribute--

"And freedom shrieked when Kosciusko fell."

These gems and all this orient pearl and gold once gave brilliancy to scenes such as are long since passed away from the festivities of Poland. These veteran sword-blades vainly remind us of the noble race of warriors by whom the reckless Turk was swept back from the walls of Vienna, and the possible conquest of Europe arrested. They all, however, tell the old and ever-to-be-repeated tale. Like other valuables of Royal Association, with which this _Musée Retrospectif_ was in every quarter redundant--forgetting that pretty, ivory-piped _cornemuse_ or bagpipe, knotted with its still unfaded green ribbons, which once made music to the touch of Marie Antoinette--they express with mute melancholy eloquence the stern old apothegm, _Sic transit gloria mundi_.

MISCELLANY.

_The Colosseum and St. Peter's_--Now when I recall my impressions of Rome, I find only two that efface or at least predominate over the others: the Colosseum, the work of the Roman people, and St. Peter's, the master-peace of Catholicism. The Colosseum is the gigantic work of an almost superhuman people, who, in a ferocity of pride and pleasure, erected only such buildings as contained an entire nation, rivaling nature, if possible, in massiveness and duration. The Tiber would have drained the mud of its banks, that the Colosseum might command it forever. But St. Peter's is the work of a thought, of a religion, of an entire humanity, at an epoch of the world. Not an edifice simply to contain an ignoble people, but a temple admitting all of philosophy, of prayer, of grandeur--every aspiration of man. The walls themselves seem to rise and grow, not in proportion of a people, but a God.

Michael Angelo alone has understood Catholicism, and in St. Peter's has given it its most sublime and complete expression--an apotheosis in stones, the monumental transfiguration of the religion of Christ. The architects of gothic cathedrals were sublime barbarians--Michael Angelo a philosopher in conception. Saint Peter's is itself philosophical Christianity from which the divine architect chases darkness and superstition, and bids enter the imperishable stream of beauty, symmetry, and light. In its incomparable beauty--a temple that might serve any worship, a temple deistical, if I may use the word applied to stones--God himself reclothed in his splendor. Christianity itself might perish, but St. Peter's would still remain the eternal, universal, and rational temple of whatever religion succeeded Christ's, provided that religion was worthy of God and humanity. The most abstract Temple that ever human genius, inspired by divine ideas, has constructed here below. {282} When one enters, one knows not if it is ancient or modern. No detail offends the eye, no symbol distracts the thought. Men of all religions enter with the same respect; sufficient to know the idea of God alone pervades it, and none other could occupy the place.

Change the priest, take away the altar, detach the pictures, carry off the statues--nothing is changed, it is always the house of God, or rather, St. Peter's is to him alone the great symbol of that eternal Christianity, which in influence and sanctity is but the germ of successive developments of the religious thought of all men and every age; and in proportion as God has illuminated it, so it opens to reason, communicates with him in this light, enlarges and elevates itself in proportion to the human mind, growing endlessly, gathering all people in a unity of adoration more and more rational, and making of each form of divinity an only God, of each age a single religion, and of all people a single humanity. Michael Angelo is the Moses of monumental Catholicism, and as such will one day be understood. He has constructed the imperishable arch for the future--the pantheon of divine reason.

LAMARTINE.

_Oriental Translation Committee_.--An attempt is being made to resuscitate the operations of the Oriental Translation Committee. The Oriental Translation Fund was established in 1828 by several Oriental scholars and others interested in Eastern literature, "for the translation and publication of such works on Eastern history, science, and _belles lettres_ as our inaccessible to the European public in MS. form and indigenous language." This scheme received at first very considerable support, and the reigning sovereign has from its commencement always been the patron of the undertaking. During a period of thirty-two years the committee have published, or aided in the publication of more than seventy translations. Of these many are highly valuable, all are curious and interesting, and several of them are of such a nature, that without the aid afforded by the Society they could scarcely have been undertaken. The Sanskrit translations include those of the Sankhya Karika, Rig Veda, and Vishnu Purana. Among those from the Arabic, are found the travels of Ibn-Batuta, and of the Patriarch Macarius, Al-Makkari's history of the Mohammedan Dynasties in Spain, and the extensive Lexicon of Hajji Khalfa. There are also on the list translations from the Persian, Syriac, Ethiopic, Armenian, Chinese, and Japanese languages. For the last two or three years no work has been issued from the press of the society, nor is any one preparing for publication; but as there are signs in the literary world of a renewed interest in Oriental learning, the committee invite[s] the special co-operation of all those who are anxious to bring the East and West into a still closer communion with each other--_London Reader_.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

ELEMENTS OF INTERNATIONAL LAW. By Henry Wheaton, LL.D., Minister of the United States at the Court of Prussia, corresponding member of the Academy of Moral and Political Sciences in the Institute of France, honorary member of the Royal Academy of Sciences at Berlin, etc. Eighth Edition, edited, with notes, by Richard Henry Dana, Jr., LL.D. 1 vol. 8vo., pp. 749. Boston: Little, Brown & Company. 1866.

Whoever will examine Fulbecke's Pandects of the Law of Nations, published at London in 1602, which the author styles the first, to his knowledge, that hath been written on this subject, and compare it with the first addition of Wheaton's International Law, published in 1836, must be astonished at the great progress which has been made in this most interesting science in a period of two centuries and a third. But a glance at Dana's Wheaton will satisfy the most superficial Inquirer that the last thirty years have still more fully develop the principles of that code of law which professes to find the nations of the civilized world.

Mr. Dana has well and faithfully performed a duty, requiring for its proper {283} and efficient discharge talents of the highest order. He has produced a book which will be read with interest, not only by the professional man, but by the general reader; for he treats on subjects that the people of the United States are, at the present time, and have been for the last five years, more nearly concerned with than ever before in the history of their government. And as the work is edited with signal ability, it is the more to be regretted that, in a Treatise on International Law, Mr. Dana has deemed it proper to incorporate his own political opinions on a question not of International, but of American Constitutional Law.

On pages 82 and 85, in a note on the United States as a supreme government, the editors says:

The United States "is a new state or government, acting directly upon each individual, by its own officers and departments, in the execution of its own laws. Within its sphere it acts as if there were no separate states in existence. _It is also the final judge in a dispute between itself and a state as to the limits of its sphere of action."_

"The civil war saw the final and complete establishment of that construction of the Constitution which makes the United States a _State_ in the scientific sense of the term, having direct authority over each citizen, to be exercised by its own officers independently of the states; and a right to the direct allegiance of each citizen, from which no state action can absolve him; _with the right to determine the limits of its own jurisdiction_; with no appeal from its decision except through constitutional methods of altering the laws, or the administration, by the ballot, or through public revolution."

The editor entirely ignores the theory that the federal government is one of delegated powers, as well as the 10th article of the amendments to the Constitution, by which it is declared that "the powers not _delegated_ to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the states, are _reserved_ to the states respectively, or to the people." If the federal government has this exclusive right to determine the limits of its own jurisdiction, then has this provision of the bill of rights become nullity. Besides, the argument is an illogical one; if it be once admitted the powers of the federal government are _delegated_ powers, it is difficult to maintain the theory that either an individual, or a government acting by virtue of delegated powers, is competent to decide, without appeal, on the extent of the powers delegated. There is always this great question to be solved, Have the people delegated such a power? If not, how can the determination of the federal government, that the people have done so, be construed to confer it?

If Congress should, by statute, enact that the presidential term of office should continue during the life of the incumbent, and the executive should ratify the act, and the judiciary decide that it was a constitutional exercise of the powers delegated, inasmuch as the federal government has the exclusive right to determine the limits of its own jurisdiction, would any sane man believe that this could give efficacy to such a gross usurpation?

But it is useless to follow out the argument; the mere statement of the principal is its own reputation.

Nor has the Civil War just ended established any such principle. Slavery has been abolished as a result of the war, but this has been done under the forms of the Constitution. The heresy of secession has also been overthrown forever; this, however, has been accomplished, not by virtue of any power in the federal government to determine the extent of its own jurisdiction, but because the majority of the people of the North have decided in favor of such a construction of the Constitution, upon a point left undetermined at its formation, upon which two great parties have ever since held opposite views, and which could only be settled by the _ultima ratio regum_; there being no other tribunal to which they could submit their differences.

The civil war was not waged for the purpose of enlarging the powers of the federal government, nor for the purpose of overthrowing or interfering with the rights or established institutions of the states; as was emphatically declared by both branches of Congress in 1861; and its effect has been simply to maintain the authority of the constitution, with all the powers which it confers, and all the restrictions which it imposes, unabridged {284} and unaltered. No such authority having been previously vested in the government, it cannot be assumed as one of the results of the civil war.

Putting aside, however, this only blemish upon a great work, we desired to call particular attention to the masterly manner in which Mr. Dana has treated the great topics of the day.

His note on the Monroe doctrine will well repay perusal, as it is a subject on which much apprehension exists in the public mind. This enunciated of American policy, he shows to have consisted of two points: 1. That inasmuch as the whole of the American continent is now within the territorial limits of some one or other civilized power, it is no longer open to colonization by European nations. 2. That the United States will view, as an unfriendly act, any attempt on the part of European powers to interfere for the purpose of controlling the political affairs of any of the American States, or to extend to them the operation of the European political system. The question is well worth the study of the statesman, and it is ably treated in this work.

Another question of more than common interest, especially to our naturalized citizens, is the extent to which the government of the United States will afford them protection in foreign lands. The doctrine extracted by Mr. Dana from the cases of Martin Koszta, Simon Tousig, and others, is, that the government will afford protection to a domiciled resident of the United States whilst travelling in a foreign country, under her passport, against any arrest or seizure by the government of his native sovereign, in any event except that of a voluntary return to his place of birth; but in such case he will not be protected against military service owing by him to his native sovereign at the time of his emigration.

The case of the Trent, in which Messrs. Mason and Slidell, the rebel commissioners to Great Britain and France, were removed from that vessel, at sea, by the commander of an armed vessel of the United States, and brought in as prisoners of war, is the subject of a learned note by Mr. Dana. He considers this case to have settled but one principle: "that a public ship, though of a nation at war, cannot take persons out of a neutral vessel, at sea, whatever may be the claim of her government on those persons." A doctrine always held by the government of the United States, and one which they were glad to see authoritatively established on a claim made by that of England.

We have not space to point out in detail the many interesting questions discussed in Mr. Dana's learned notes, such as those of Intervention, Mediation Extradition, etc. But we cannot, injustice to him, omit a reference to the question now agitating the public mind, arising out of our reclamation on Great Britain for compensation for the ravages of the Alabama and other Confederate privateers, fitted out in the ports of that country. The question at issue is a somewhat different one from what is generally supposed. Our own supreme court has decided that it is no breach of neutrality, in the absence of any treaty stipulation, or local statute, to build, arm, and equip a vessel of war, and send her, under American colors, to the port of a belligerent, with the _bonâ fide_ purpose of there offering her for sale as a commercial enterprise; though she may be subject to capture by the other belligerent, as contraband of war. Mr. Dana, after a thorough examination of the authorities and of the diplomatic correspondence between the two governments, thus sums up the points at issue:

The United States claims reparation from Great Britain for injuries done to her commerce by cruisers under the rebel flag, for the following reasons:

1. Because Great Britain made a precipitate and unwarranted recognition of belligerency of the rebel power, and thereby established in law, and to some extent brought about in fact, a state of things which made possible and probable the illegal acts of individuals complained of.

2. Because the measures taken by the British Government to prevent the sailing of vessels from British ports, fitted and equipped therein in violation of her neutrality, were tardy and feeble, as well as ineffectual; whether this arose from mistakes of law in the advisers of the crown, or bad faith, or incapacity in inferior officials, or from the insufficiency of the Acts of Parliament, being purely an internal question, with which the United States were not bound to deal.

3. Because Great Britain did not seize and detain or disarm these vessels, or refuse them asylum, or otherwise deal with them in such manner has the law of {285} nations authorized her to do, after their fraudulent escape from the original ports.

4. Because the British Government refused even to suggest amendments of her Acts of Parliament in any respect whatever, or to introduce the subject to Parliament when their inefficiency had been proved, and the government had then requested so to do, not only by the United States, on terms of reciprocity, but by citizens interested in preserving neutrality.

5. Because the government had neglected or refused to prosecute citizens of the so-called Confederate States who work openly residing in England as agents for that power, and notoriously engaged in fitting out vessels in violation of British neutrality, though abundant evidence had been furnished to authorize proceedings.

6. Because, by reason of this course of the British Government, the rebels had been able to set forth and maintain an effective force of steamers cruising against American commerce, having asylum and making repairs and getting coal and supplies in British ports; built, fitted out, armed, and manned in and from England, and never even expecting, or pretending to visit a port of the confederacy, when otherwise they would scarcely have had a single cruiser; the result of which had been a most effective belligerent aid to the rebellion, and the great advantage to England and detriment to the United States of driving from the seas the greater part of the American mercantile marine, heretofore the equal and rival of Great Britain, and transferring the commerce of the world to the British flag.

The British Government replies:

1. That the recognition of belligerency was justifiable, and made necessary at the time it was done, and dictated by a duty to the United States as well as to Great Britain: and that the United States gained by it the rights of blockade and search.

2. That the government acted in good faith and with reasonable diligence in in enforcing its laws for the preservation of it's neutrality; and that, if subordinate officials failed in capacity or diligence in particular cases, their acts or failures being but a part of the entire proceedings otherwise proper and effective, the nation cannot be expected to hold itself responsible their remote consequences, in the way of making compensation for acts done by belligerents out of the jurisdiction.

3. That the government did seize and prosecute, in her colonial ports, vessels which were charged with being fitted out at home in violation of neutrality; and that she was not bound by the law of nations to refuse asylum to, or seize or disarm or insist on the disarmament of vessels afterward commissioned as public ships of war of a belligerent visiting her ports, on the ground that they had been originally, and before their commissioning as vessels of war, fitted out in her jurisdiction in violation of her neutrality.

4. That the government was not satisfied that the Acts of Parliament had proved inadequate to such an extent, and after so full trial, or that any amendment would be likely to improve them so materially as to justify the United States in charging the refusal to attempt their amendment as a want of good faith.

5. That the government had judged in good faith, on the advise of competent counsel, whether, in cases suggested, prosecutions against individuals should be instituted.

6. That if vessels fitted out and dispatched from Great Britain ever so clearly in violation of her neutral rights, had fraudently escaped, without bad faith on the part of the government. Great Britain was not responsible for acts of hostility done by such vessels beyond her jurisdiction. Her duty was fulfilled if she restored any prizes such vessels might bring within her jurisdiction.

7. That it was inconsistent with the dignity and honor of the government to submit to arbitration claims of another government, the decision of which involved a question whether the advisers of the crown had correctly interpreted the law, or the executive officers of the crown had acted with diligence, good judgment, or good faith.

The points we have thus briefly noticed are but a few of the most important ones which are fully discussed by Mr. Dana; for a proper appreciation of his labors we must refer the reader to the book itself, with the assurance that it will well repay the time devoted to its perusal. It is no ephemeral production, but a good, solid, and deeply interesting work, which will long preserve its place as a landmark in the literature of the nineteenth century.

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LIFE OF SAINT CECILIA, VIRGIN AND MARTYR. By the Reverend Prosper Guéranger, Abbé de Solesmes. Translated from the French. 12mo, pp. 404. Philadelphia: P. F. Cunningham. 1866.

This work from the pen of the learned Benedictine will, no doubt, be warmly welcomed, both because of its authorship and its own intrinsic merit. It will take its rank, however, rather among works of profound hagiological research than as a contribution to popular biographies of the saints. The history of the life and martyrdom of St. Cecilia occupies but a very small portion of the volume. The rest is devoted to the confirmatory testimonies to her life afforded by the liturgies of the church, both Greek and Latin, the history of her relics and of the Roman basilica erected in her honor, and the homage paid to her throughout Christendom in literature and the arts. All this is of the greatest interest and value, and no little thanks are due to the eminent author for his labor and research. As a life of Saint Cecilia it does not satisfy us. The style is crude and laborious, and lacking in the elements of a finished biography. The author has collected materials which would have come from the hand of a Wiseman or a Newman a masterpiece of literary art, a living picture of the life and times of one of the most illustrious saints of the church. But he does not appear to know how to take advantage of the treasure which he has gathered together with so much painstaking labor. Hence the scenes in the life of Saint Cecilia furnished him by the quaint and charming descriptions in the "Acts" of the saint--her espousals, the vision of the angel seen by her husband, the martyrdom of the two brothers Valerian and Tiburtius, her own interrogatory before the Roman prefect, and sublime death--scenes replete with varied interest, and affording matter for the most powerful dramatic description, and presented to us in the tamest and rudest style. What, for instance, can be more commonplace than the following: Valerian, in presence of Cecilia and the angel, is assured by the heavenly visitor that in return for his consent to the vow of virginity made by his saintly spouse, any request he might make will be granted him. The young man, overcome with gratitude, threw himself at the feet of the divine messenger, and thus expressed his desires: "Nothing in life is more precious to me than the affection of my brother; and now that I am rescued from peril, it would be a bitter trial to leave this beloved brother exposed to danger. _I will, therefore, reduce my requests to one_: I beseech Christ to deliver my brother, Tiburtius, as he has delivered me, and to perfect us both in the confession of his name."

The translation we should judge to be a faithful one, and is, in the main, correct English. We hardly see how it could be much improved considering the formal unsympathetic style of the original; but we wish that in certain descriptive passages the historical present had been preserved throughout, or altogether avoided. We are surprised to see the authors styled upon the title page as the _Reverend_ Prosper per Guéranger, _abbé de Solesmes_. It is not common to attach the title of Rev. to the name of authors and prelates of such note as Dom Guéranger, and abbé de' for 'abbot of' is not in good taste.

A fancy portrait accompanies the volume, representing Saint Cecilia with a harp, which ill accords with the Antiphon quoted on the title-page: "_Cantantibus organis, Cecilia Domino decantabat_," and which is, moreover, so completely at variance with all representations of her by both ancient and modern artists, and we would willingly dispense with that; but the book is, for the reasons we have assigned, of such value, that we thank the enterprising publisher for the opportunity afforded the American public of perusing the work in English.

SPANISH PAPERS AND OTHER MISCELLANIES, hitherto unpublished or uncollected, by WASHINGTON IRVING. Arranged and edited by PIERRE M. IRVING. 2 vols., 12mo. With a portrait after Wilkie. New York: G. P. Putnam. Hurd and Houghton. 1866.

In the first of these volumes we are presented with a choice selection of papers by the illustrious author, consisting of several charming Spanish legends, illustrative of the events of the conquest of Spain by the Moors, the greater portion of which is newly published. The second volume contains some early contributions to the Morning Chronicle, when the author was but nineteen years of age. These were his first essays in print, but they are none the less remarkable for the fine humor they display, and for which he became so much admired him after years. {287} The biographical sketches, which follow, of Captain James Lawrence, Lieutenant Burrows, Commodore Perry, and Captain David Porter possess no little historical value; and the extended memoir of the child poet, Margaret Miller Davidson, the younger sister of the well-known youthful authoress, Lucretia Maria Davidson, is full of the most touching and romantic interest. A number of reviews and miscellaneous papers close these volumes, which need no further praise from us than to say that they are all marked with the genius of Washington Irving. We have been so much charmed by the perusal of the Spanish legends that we could not refrain from placing one of them entire before our readers--the Legend of Count Julian and his family. It will be found in the pages of the present number of THE CATHOLIC WORLD. The form in which the publication is given is as credible to the publishers, as it is worthy of the interesting matter.

LAURENTIA: A Tale of Japan. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton. (American Reprint) Baltimore: Kelly and Piet, 174 Baltimore street. 1866.

Lady Georgiana Fullerton consecrates her high intellectual gifts and finished culture with a noble devotion to the sacred cause of the Catholic religion. In her latest story of Laurentia, she has chosen her theme from the comparatively unknown history of the Catholic Church in Japan, and appears to have derived her materials chiefly from the work of F. Charlevoix on that subject.

F. Charlevoix's History of Christianity in Japan is one of the most intensely interesting books we have ever read, and unfolds a page in the annals of the church equalling the records of the first three centuries in glory. The persistent misrepresentation and suppression of truth, which the enemies of the Catholic religion make use of just so far as the credulousness of the public will permit, have hitherto kept the facts in regard to this topic under a veil of mist. This veil is lifting, however, and is destined soon, we trust, to disappear before the rays of truth.

Lady Fullerton's story is well adapted to awaken attention to this subject, if the general apathy and aversion to all Catholic literature does not prevent its being read. Its incidents are mainly historical, with just enough of embellishment and portraiture of imaginary characters and incidents to make it life-like. It is written with that ardor of feeling and in that glowing style, chastened by good taste, which are characteristic of Lady Georgiana's productions. As a work of art it is not equal to her master-piece, Constance Sherwood. The events described are, however, so replete with the highest and most absorbing interest, that one feels no inclination to advert to the mere artistic merit of plot, style, or description. It combines the fascination of a well-written sensation novel, with the utility of a solid book of spiritual reading. We recommend it to all who read anything at all except the daily papers, and advise all parents, whether they read or do not read themselves, to give it to their children. The latter, we are sure, will not find it hard to take.

VIGNETTES, Biographical Sketches of Madame Swetchine, La Soeur Rosalie, Madame Pape Carpentier, Madame Lamertine, etc. By Bessie Rayner Parkes. London and New-York: Alexander Strahan. 1866.

These sketches are all full of interest, some of them most touching and beautiful. The life of La Soeur Rosalie cannot fail to win admiration from every heart. The most wretched faubourg of Paris was the scene of her labors; here with heart and hands, with every power of soul and body, she labored year after year, never weary, but simply and quietly performing a work which man has been proud to honor, a work which God alone fully knows. We quote a short passage describing the funeral of La Soeur Rosalie:

"She was followed to the grave by a multitude such as could be neither counted nor described: every rank, age, and profession was there; great and small, rich and poor, learned men and laborers, the most famous and the most obscure. Instead of going straight toward the church, the body was borne through the streets where she had been accustomed to visit, and women and children who could not walk in the great profusion fell on their knees and prayed. A band of soldiers surrounded the bier and rendered military honors to the one who lay upon it, for she had been decorated with the Cross of the Legion of Honor."

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This lowly Sister of Charity felt not that her sphere was narrow, but her love, her energy, and activity found everywhere opportunities; they never failed her, she never failed them. This life of Sister Rosalie alone would give interest to any volume of biographies; but several others have almost an equal interest, particularly that of Madame Swetchine, a noble Russian lady. She embraced the Catholic faith, spent many years of her life in Paris, associating with the noblest spirits of the day--Lacordaire, Chateaubriand, Montalembert--by all of whom she was admired with a sort of tender reverence. Though influencing for many years the highest circles of Parisian society, her life was most simply, humbly, and devoutly Christian. The sketch of one of our own countrywomen, Harriet K. Hunt of Boston, who has done much toward enlightening the women of the working classes by her lectures on physiology, is also pleasantly given. We think our authoress has shown in this volume that women have power to do a great work, and that this work can easily be found, and easily done, if but the heart and soul are in it. The volume is beautifully gotten up.

THE SHAM SQUIRE, AND THE INFORMERS OF 1798, with a View of their Contemporaries. To which are added jottings about Ireland seventy years ago. By William John Fitzpatrick, J.P., Biographer of Bishop Doyle, etc., etc. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 379. Boston: Patrick Donahoe.

In THE CATHOLIC WORLD for April last, page 122, will be found an article entitled: "Ireland, and the Informers of 1798." That article gave a synopsis of portions of "The Sham Squire," of which the copy under notice is a reprint from the last Dublin edition. It is a curious book, and contains many highly interesting incidents of the rebellion of 1798; of the death of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, Emmet, and other Irish patriots of that day. The facts disclosed show that through bribery and the spy system, England succeeded in crushing out all efforts for Ireland's independence, even better than her ministers hoped. This system of bribery, however, is not peculiar to Ireland, as many writers have asserted; but is the same in all countries, and in all times. It has been used in this country by both sides in the late or, with as much success as it ever was in Ireland. The only difference being that the Irish patriots never had money to use for such a purpose, while England had plenty, hence her success. The book is well worth reading, and throws white on many disputed points of Irish history, especially that portion of it relating to 1798.

FIRST PRINCIPLES: A letter to a Protestant friend asking information about the Catholic Church, by the Rev. G. H. Doane. New York: P. O'Shea, Publisher, No. 27 Barclay Street. 1866.

The title of this pamphlet speaks for itself. It is a plain statement of the difference between Catholics and Protestants on the way pointed out by Christ to find true Christianity.

LAWRENCE KEHOE, New York, will soon publish a new volume of Sermons by the Paulist Fathers. It will contain several Sermons by the late Father Baker.

MESSRS. JOHN MURPHY & CO. announce a new edition of "Good Thoughts for Priest and People." By Rev. Father Noethen.

RECEIVED:

From J. J. O'Connor and Co., Newark, N. J. Curious Questions. by Rev. Henry A. Brann, D.D. 1 vol. 12mo. pp. 292.

D. and J. Sadlier and Co., New York. Disappointed Ambition; or, Married and Single. By Miss Agnes M. Stewart 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 248.

Wanted to purchase, at this Office, several copies of Branchereau's "Praelectiones Philosophicale." Second Edition.

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THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. IV., NO. 21.--DECEMBER, 1866.

ORIGINAL.

PROBLEMS OF THE AGE.

THE STATE OF PROBATION--IT'S REASON AND NATURE--THE TRIAL OF THE ANGELS.

In our preceding number we have endeavored to show what is that order of regeneration or supernatural grace, in which rational nature, and through it all nature, attains the end of creation metaphysically final. The position we have taken is, that the creation returns to God as final cause through the hypostatic union of created nature with the divine nature in the person of the incarnate Word, and the participation in this union by angels and men who are elevated through grace to the rank of sons of God.

We have now another problem to deal with. The Catholic doctrine teaches that angels and men are not brought to their destined end, in view of which they were created, by an immediate, indefectible operation of divine power alone; but by a concurrence of this divine operation with the spontaneous, contingent, and defectible operation of their own free-will. Moreover, that in consequence of the contingent, defectible operation of the second cause which is concurrent with the first cause, a multitude of angels and men finally and irremediably fail to reach their destination.

This statement of the relation of the rational creature to God as final cause, involves a number of the most difficult and perplexing questions. The reason for placing creatures in a state of probation by which their eternal destiny is decided, the relation of divine foreknowledge to contingent events, the conciliation of the efficacy of grace with the liberty of the will, the nature of free-will itself, the reason for permitting the existence of evil, predestination, and similar vexed questions, start up at once to trouble and compound the feeble human intellect.

They are all summed up in the problem of probation. The creature is placed in a state where he is to decide in a certain brief span of time, by his own voluntary choice, his eternal destiny; this destiny including the alternative of the attainment or the forfeiture of supreme beatitude. What reason can be given for this? Why is the rational creature defectible or liable to fail of reaching his destination? Why does God place him in a state of probation, knowing his defectibility? Why is it that some fail and others do not fail to attain their destination?

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A de-Christianised and de-Catholicised philosophy cannot get even a plausible solution of this great problem, and the problems arising out of it. It must either deny the problem, or throw out some ingenious guesses which satisfy no one. It is wholly at fault, always has been, and always will be. With those who deny the whole problem, by denying the whole supernatural order, we have nothing to do at present; for we cannot raise anew questions already discussed. We are concerned only with those who would admit the moral order of the universe; and these admit the existence of a period of probation, although some of them may extend the limits of this probation indefinitely, and doubt or deny some of its consequences.

The very notion of probation springs from the notion of a free will, permitted and even compelled to choose between good and evil. Now, why is the created will permitted and even compelled to exercise this prerogative which is too often the occasion of the greatest injury to its possessor?

A certain class of philosophers answer this question by asserting that it could not possibly be otherwise. They exaggerate beyond all measure this liberty of choice as something essential to all voluntary operation. They have no conception of any moral goodness, virtue, or sanctity, except that which is the product of this continual striving to make a right choice between two rival objects of desire, the good and evil. They even extend their notion so far as to include God; as if he were in a kind of infinite state of moral probation, amenable to a standard or law above himself, and only preserving his holiness by a continual effort of will to choose among various possible determinations that which is most perfectly conformed to this standard. Of course, then, when he created intelligent spirits like himself, he was obliged to leave them to their liberty of choice. They could not become holy or happy in any other way. Indeed, according to this system, they must remain in this state of moral probation for ever. There is no conceivable way of determining them to good without destroying the liberty of will which is essential to a rational nature. The only immutability of will possible is that which arises from a confirmed, long-continued habit of choice. Therefore God has not absolutely determined the wills of his rational creatures to good, because he could not. He has left them with the power and exposed to the risks of wrong choices because he could not help it.

This solution of the problem must be rejected as completely unsatisfactory. God is good, and is blessed, by his nature. The human nature of Christ is holy, impeccable, and beatified, by its hypostatic union with the divine nature. The Blessed Virgin was impeccable from the instant of her immaculate conception. The holy angels and just men made perfect have finished their moral probation, and are in an unchangeable state. The perfection of the intelligent nature, therefore, so far from implying, excludes liberty of choice between good an evil. If this be so, this liberty of choice is an imperfection. Why, therefore, did God create rational existences with this imperfection? Without doubt he could have given them impeccability. He could have elevated them to a state of perfection without requiring them to pass through any probation. He could have placed all rational creatures at once in the state of beatitude, and kept all sin an evil out of the universe. Why, then, is evil allowed to enter?

Moreover, _whence_ and _what_ is evil? How is it possible that there should be any evil? Extrinsic to the being of God which is the absolute good, nothing does or can exist, except that which God has created after the similitude of his own being, and which, therefore, participates according to its measure in his goodness. Besides, God has created all things in view of an end. Being infinitely wise, he {291} knows how to attain this end through his works, and being infinitely powerful, he is able to do it. Being also infinitely good, only good can terminate is volition. Therefore, if evil were possible, he could not will to actualize it; and if, by an impossible supposition, it could come into actual existence without him, he must will to destroy it. The superficial theology and philosophy which dates from the Reformation, is tied up here in a Gordian knot, which no skill can unravel. It contains two dogmas which are absolute contradictions: creation, and the substantive essence of evil. These two can never coexist in harmony. One or the other must be modified or given up. Either the dogma of creation must be so far given up as to admit of some eternal self-existent _materia_ in which lies the essential principle of evil, or the substantive existence of evil must be denied. Those who deny or impair the first, have ceased to be Theists in the strict and proper sense of the word, and are already moving toward Pantheism. Those who deny the second, throw up with it the conception of a moral order in the universe, of a state of probation, strictly so called. There is no Theistic, Christian philosophy of any depth or comprehensiveness on these topics, except that which is included in the theology of St. Augustine, St. Thomas, and other great Catholic writers.

It is well known how completely the ancient philosophers were befogged in regard to the nature and origin of evil. Plato taught that the _materia_ out of which God formed the universe is eternal, and that, from an inherent intractability in its essence, it is incapable able of perfectly receiving the of the divine ideas. The constructor of the universe was, therefore, hindered from realizing his ideal and fully executing his design by the defectiveness of his material. He was like an architect who has only soft, crumbling stone, or a sculptor with veined marble. From this source, according to Plato, is all the evil existing in the universe.

The Persians, whose great master was Zoroaster, resorted to the theory of two subordinate creators, both the offspring of the Supreme Being, one Ormusd, being good, and the other Ahriman, being evil. All that is good in the creation comes from the first, and all the evil from the second of these great master-mechanics. Ahriman is destined, however, to be eventually converted, with all his liege subjects, his botched workmanship will be repaired, and the universe will come all right in the end. This ingenious theory left out, however, one essential point; namely, how Ahriman came to have an evil nature, since he was created by the good God as well as Ormusd, and how he and his works could become good, if they were essentially evil.

Manes and the Manichaeans carried their dualism to a point of more complete consistency, and more absolute absurdity. They taught the existence of two eternal, self-existing principles, one good, the other bad, who are engaged in perpetual warfare. Spiritual existences proceed from the good principle, corporeal existences from the evil one. Human souls, having been in some way allured into corporeal forms, are polluted by them and involved in evil. It is necessary for the soul to disengage itself from matter, and it will then be fit to return to the supremely good being from whom it proceeded.

Any system which teaches that evil has anything essential or substantive, must give up the pure dogma of creation. For it is inconsistent with that dogma to suppose that God can create anything essentially evil, or that any creature can create anything, or that any substance essentially good can become essentially evil by corruption; since corruption produces no new substance, but modifies substance already existing.

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_Whence_, then, and _what_ is evil? What can there be as an alternative of good before the intelligence and will of a rational creature to form the material for a dilemma, and oblige him to exercise a faculty of choice? Where is the substratum of a state of probation?

Metaphysical evil, or that evil which is included in the metaphysical essence of all created things, is merely the limitation of their possible good. Simple being, _ens simpliciter_, is alone the absolute good in possibility and in act. Jesus Christ has said, "There is one good, God." [Footnote 62] In actual existences, evil is merely a recession from God. It is only relative, and negative, therefore, and expresses the absence of that good which exists in some other creature, or in God. In created existences, good is relative and positive, and evil, or the absence of good, is relative and privative. It is a mere deficiency, but nothing substantive, any more than darkness, cold, or vacuity are substantive.

[Footnote 62: St. Matt. xix. 17.]

If we can suppose, therefore, a certain good proposed to a rational creature as attainable by his free volition, with a power to the contrary, we have the necessary conditions of a state of moral probation. That is, the possibility is proved of a certain good being made contingent on the voluntary choice of rational creatures; and with it, the possibility of this good being forfeited by the deficiency of this choice. This answers the question whence and what is the possibility of evil as the concomitant risk annexed to a state of probation. It is only necessary, therefore, to show that we can make this supposition, by explaining how the will can be constituted in an equilibrium between this proffered good and some other object, with complete liberty to incline itself to either.

That other object cannot be an essentially evil object, for there is no such thing in existence. It must be, then, an inferior good. In the state of probation the will is inclined to all kinds of good indifferently, and capable of choosing any which the intellect judges to be best or most desirable. It is capable of making a false choice, because the intellect is capable of making a false judgment. Intelligent spirit has self-dominion where it is not determined by intrinsic necessity. It is lord over its own acts. It can determine its own judgments and volitions. And this makes it a proper subject of precept and moral obligation, capable of being placed in a state of probation.

It may appear very difficult to understand how this can be, but our own consciousness and practical experience give us an intimate sense of it's truth. Let us take, then, a familiar example in illustration.

A child is capable of appreciating the good of delicious fruit, the good of approbation and reward, the good of play and amusement, and the good of knowledge. His parents allow him to eat peaches under certain restrictions, and forbid him to eat them without their permission. They allow him to play at certain times and under certain conditions, and forbid him all other amusement and recitation. They require him to devote a certain time to study, and to apply himself to this study with diligence. It is plain that the will of the child is in equilibrium toward all the various kinds of good in respect to which he receives precepts from his parents, and is thus placed in a state of probation, the issue of which is in great measure left to the arbitration of his own free choice. He can determine himself to obey his parents for the sake of their approbation and rewards, or to disobey them for the sake of eating forbidden fruit. He can determine himself to study for the sake of knowledge, or to neglect it for the sake of play. When he determines himself to the inferior, sensible good, he does so by a false judgment, that in the particular instance the present sensible enjoyment is best for him for most desirable. Yet he has power to the contrary, and both can and ought to make a right judgment. He is determined to neither side by any {293} necessity, but determines himself and destroys the equilibrium of his will by a free choice, by virtue of his self-dominion. The necessity of exercising this self-dominion proceeds from imperfection of nature. It is easily conceivable that his nature, if it were rendered more perfect, would determine him always to prefer the approbation of parents, and of his own conscience, of the pleasure of eating fruit, and the pleasure of knowledge to that of play.

This illustrates our present point, and shows how the imperfection of an intelligent creature, which makes him capable of false judgments in regard to the eligibility of different objects of volition, renders him a fit subject of probation.

But why is he created in this imperfect state, and obliged to run the risks of a difficult and dangerous probation? It is evident that God might easily pour such a flood of light upon his intelligence that he would be incapable of making a false judgment, and communicate to him such a degree of felicity in the enjoyment of the true good, that his will would be rapt away without effort beyond all possibility of attraction from any inferior objects. He might communicate the beatific vision simultaneously with the first act of reason, as the does to those infants who are translated to heaven in their infancy. Thus he might secure the eternal beatitude of all intelligent creatures without placing any of them in probation.

It is evident that God must have a reason for establishing a state of probation, and that this reason must involve some great good to be attained by it. This reason is, also, in part intelligible to us. So far as we can understand it, it is, that God and the creature are more glorified through the elevation of created nature to supernatural beatitude, when the created nature concurs with God as First Cause, by its own activity, as Second con-creative cause, in the highest manner possible. It is the will of God that beatitude should be the prize of merit, and merit implies liberty of choice. Supernatural beatitude is a pure boon from God to the creature, not due to him as simply existing. Therefore, God may bestow it on whom he pleases, and upon any conditions he pleases to establish. As probation implies imperfection, and the creature is created for his proper perfection, when he attains it probation must cease. The period of probation must therefore be limited. It must be also a real, _bonâ fide_ probation; that is, the attainment of beatitude must really depend on the right use of the term of probation. Consequently, when the term of probation has expired, those who have failed in it must be left to the eternal consequences of their own voluntary error. That species of virtue which makes an intelligent creature capable of attaining supernatural beatitude is itself supernatural, and therefore impossible without divine grace. When this grace is lost, there is no natural power to regain it. Sin is therefore in itself irreparable. It can be repaired only by a second supernatural grace. If this grace is not conceded, there is no second probation, but the sinner must remain perpetually in that state to which his sin has reduced him. If this grace is conceded, and the limits of probation are extended, those who fail finally and pass out of the fixed period of probation must also remain perpetually in that state to which they have reduced themselves by their own free and voluntary election.

Another great difficulty here presents itself, namely: it appears that the fulfilment of the divine purpose is left to the contingencies of second causes, and at the mercy of the arbitrary wills of creatures. God appears to be like one who makes his plans in the dark, without being able to know what their success will be, or to take efficacious measures for securing their success. For how can he foresee future events that are purely contingent on the free choice of created wills? How can he predetermine an end, to be infallibly accomplished, when this accomplishment is contingent on the free arbitration of the creature? {294} The Catholic doctrine teaches that a multitude of angels and men destined to supernatural beatitude finally fail of their destination. Does not this failure partially thwart the divine plan, mar his work, and deprive his universe of its perfection? Although the divine plan has a partial success, through the concurrence of a certain number of angels and men with the divine will, is not this success even due to hap-hazard? Must we not suppose that the divine plan ran the risk of a complete failure, so far as the co-operation of free-will is concerned?

It is evident that these suppositions are all incompatible with the essential attributes of God. He must necessarily have a perfect foreknowledge of all things that will ever come to pass. He must also have supreme dominion over his entire creation, and be able to accomplish all his purposes without any liability to be thwarted by his own creatures. He must have decreed from eternity whatsoever he does in time through his creative act.

Therefore some, overwhelmed by the difficulties which encompass the doctrine of the freedom of the created will, in its relation to the divine, have adopted the part denying it altogether. The denial of free-will, however, makes the state of probation, and the entire moral order of the universe, with its retributions, completely illusory and fantastic. It is a denial of a fact of universal human consciousness. Whoever makes it ought to become a pantheist at once, and maintain that all individual existences are mere emanations of the divine substance.

The Catholic doctrine distinctly proclaims both the divine foreknowledge and decrees, and also the liberty of choice in the created intelligent nature. A Catholic theologian, therefore, cannot dispose of the difficulty in the case, by summarily denying either side of the dogmatic truth. St. Thomas Aquinas, with those who follow his school strictly, endeavors to resolve the difficulty by the hypothesis of a physical premotion of the will, or an efficacious grace, which has an infallible connection with a right choice, but yet leaves the will to make this choice freely and with power to the contrary. God has therefore predestined, by an infallible decree, all those to whom he gives this efficacious grace, to the attainment of beatitude. His foreknowledge is also explained as the knowledge of his own determination through which all events, even contingent, are made certain.

This system has a certain hypothetical finish and completeness about it, and it appears to vindicate the supreme dominion of God over all contingent existences, second causes, and events taking place in time, more effectually than any other. It fails, however, to reconcile with the attributes of God the freedom of the created will and the state of probation. For, according to this system, the will, although in equilibrium, and intrinsically capable of motion to either side, cannot put itself out of equilibrium by its own self-determining power, but needs a previous, efficacious concurrence of the divine will, in order to pass from the potentiality of choice to the act of choice. All acts of the created will are, therefore, determined by the will of God as efficient cause. If this is consistent with the liberty which is necessary to the created will, that it may be second and con-creative cause in concurrence with the first cause to the effect of its own beatitude, God could infallibly determine all rational creatures to beatitude without infringing on their liberty. The creature could evolve into act all its causative activity, free-will could receive its fullest scope, the principle of merit and reward could be fully exemplified in the universe, without risking the eternal destiny of a single individual, or permitting even the smallest sin to be committed. It become very difficult, then, on this hypothesis, to explain the permission of sin, and the eternal loss of so many millions of rational creatures. The reason usually given, that sin is an evil incidentally necessary to a system of probation, {295} permitted on account of the greater good attained through the probation of free-will, falls to the ground, and we have never yet seen any other satisfactory reason substituted for it.

It may be true that, without this hypothesis, the foreknowledge of God and his supreme dominion over his creation are more incomprehensible. This is no decisive argument, however, provided that these divine attributes can be shown to be intelligible without thus said hypothesis.

First, in regard to the divine foreknowledge, it is argued that God cannot foresee that which is purely dependent on the created will, unless there is some cause or ground of certainty that there will shall actually place the effect which is foreseen. This cause or ground of certainty can only be the divine determination to concur efficaciously with the will, that it may infallibly place the foreseen act.

To this it is replied, that God foresees all contingent, future events, by a kind of knowledge called the super-comprehension of cause. Knowing completely all causes, he knows all there effects in them. This does not explain, however, his knowledge of the self-determining acts of the will, since in these the same cause is in equilibrium to opposite effects. It is better explained, we think, by the theory of Suarez, that God sees all things in their objective verity. He knows with certainty all that depends on the self-determining action of free-will, because he directly beholds the free-will determining itself. There is no succession in God. He coexists from eternity and in eternity to all the successive periods of created duration. What we call future is equally visible to God in eternity with the past. There is no more difficulty, therefore, in his knowing from all eternity all future contingent events, than there is in our knowing anyone of these events in the time of its taking place, or after it has happened.

But, it is further argued, if God knows the acts of his creatures by an immediate vision of them in their objective verity, he is perfected by the creature, which is incompatible with his essence. God is the adequate object of his own intelligence; therefore he knows all things in himself.

God is the adequate and sole object of his own intelligence in the act of simple intelligence in which his essential being in the Three Persons is constituted. Created existences are not included in this act, and the knowledge of them is not perfective of the being of God. God knows them in himself by the knowledge of vision, _scientia visionis_, and sees them in himself as in a mirror. This perfection of vision, by which God sees and knows all things which exist, is a perfection proceeding from his infinite intelligence, not given to him by the creature. The creature is its terminus, but the changes of the terminus affect itself alone, and do not make the essential attribute of God less immutable or infinite. The same objection might be made to the statement, that created existences are the terminus of the divine volition or love. The essential act of volition or love is completed in the act of God _ad intra_, or his infinite love of himself. Yet God loves the creature, delights in the love of the creature, wills the beatitude of the creature. That he may do this, the existence of the creature as the terminus of his volition is necessary as the _conditio sine quâ non_. It might be said, then, that the existence of the creature, and his act in loving God, is perfective of God. It is not. For it is altogether distinct from that which is the terminus of the divine act of love, in which the perfection of the being of God is constituted, viz.: from the essence of God itself. God has the plenitude of love in himself, and it remains the same whether more or fewer created existences are its recipients. So the infinite power of vision in God is the same, whether more or fewer created existences or acts of existing agents come within its scope. There is no objection, therefore, to the theory {296} respecting the science of God, which maintains that he knows all future contingents which depend entirely on his divine decree in that decree, all that depend on second causes determined of necessity to produce certain effects in his supercomprehension of cause, and all that depend on free-will in his foresight of the self-determination of free-will. The whole incomprehensibility of this foreknowledge is reduced to an identity with the essential incomprehensibility of God, as eternal and as coexisting to all the successive periods of time.

Secondly, as regards the divine supremacy over creation, and the ability of the Sovereign Creative Spirit to bring the universe to an end predetermined by himself.

It is argued, that if we reject the Thomist hypothesis, we reduce everything to the hap-hazard of capricious, eccentric, lawless free-will, which makes it impossible to suppose any plan regularly and infallibly carried out through the medium of second causes, in the universe.

This is not so. Free-will is not mere lawless caprice, directed by mere accident. It is directed by intelligence, and acts according to the law of motives. It must choose the good, and can never choose that which is evil, _ratione mali_. Since, by a law of its probation, the real chief good and the apparent chief good are presented before it in such a way as to leave it in equilibrium toward both, without any dominant or necessitating motive toward either, it makes the motive on one side preponderant by its exercise of self-dominion. This is not by chance or caprice. It is by the exercise of intellect, and through the impulse of powerful motives. Its circle of variability is restricted, and its determination is capable of being influenced by intellectual and moral considerations. It is perfectly evident that a man, even without the slightest power of exercising any determining influence on the wills of other men, can nevertheless, without infringing on their perfect liberty, reason them into a co-operation with himself in carrying out a plan, or persuade them into it by proving its advantages before them. Much more, then, is God able to bring a sufficient number of angels and men to a voluntary co-operation with himself to secure the success of his great design. It is in this way that God manifests his infinite wisdom and divine art, by arranging all things with such consummate and complex skill and harmony, and directing all things from end to end by such a wise far-reaching Providence, that he is able to bring out in the end the desired result, through the concurrence of free, con-creative second causes. It may be said that, since all angels were free to reject the beatitude proffered to them, God, in creating them and giving them this freedom, exposed his plan to the risk of being completely thwarted by their unanimous refusal to comply with the terms of their probation. The same might also be said of mankind.

We must understand, however, that, although Almighty God does not deliberate, change, modify, watch for results, make experiments, profit by experience, devise new expedients, like a man of creative genius, and although his creative art is one, simple, and from eternity, yet it includes in itself in an eminent mode all these operations of the finite intelligence. If by an impossible supposition, God had delegated creative wisdom and powered to a created spirit, such as Arians fancied the Logos, and others the Demiurgus, to be; and this mighty intelligence had proceeded to execute his task in the same manner, but on a grander scale, that men execute great undertakings, and we should endeavor to describe the way in which he accomplished his work, we should have a correct though imperfect representation of the actual operation of Almighty God in the execution of his works _ad extra_. The conceptions we are able to form of the operation of God are all analogical. We cannot transcend {297} these analogies. And although we know them to be imperfect and inadequate, yet we know also that they have all the verisimilitude necessary to give us true conceptions. In this way we understand that God knew all the risks to which his plan was exposed, and made provision for them. Wherever it was necessary, he protected his designs from the risk of failure through the non-concurrencc of second causes. For instance, having determined to create a heaven containing a multitude of beatified spirits, and foreseeing that a certain number of those who were destined to this high position would forfeit it by sin, he took this into the account in determining the number to be created, and the conditions of the trial through which they were to pass. A profound theologian, who was of the strict Thomist school, the late Bishop of Philadelphia, expressed to the author on one occasion the opinion, that only the lower orders of angels were made liable to sin. He thought that the higher orders received a grace incompatible with sin, though not with merit, and that Lucifer was therefore the chief, not of the Seraphim, but of the Archangels. On this supposition, the risk of sin was confined within narrow limits, so far as the angels were concerned. Whether this be a well-grounded hypothesis or not, it is evident that these pure and exalted spirits, possessing the highest natural intelligence, being impelled to good by their nature, having received the gift of supernatural grace, and having the prospect of a still greater glory before them, were very likely, speaking after a human mode of thought, to make the requisite act of concurrence with the divine will and thus secure their confirmation in grace. In other words, there appears to be an _à priori_ probability that at least a great number of them would do so. We know that, in point of fact, a great number of them did, and, according to the common opinion, much the largest portion of the whole number who were tried.

Now, this to us apparent probability was a certainty to God, as clearly known before as after the fact. In view of this certainty he created them and placed them in the state of probation. He foreknew, also, how many would fail, and therefore, if his purposes required it, could easily create such a multitude that the angels who fell would not be missed from their ranks. Those who fell did indeed thwart the benevolent designs of God, so far as their own particular persons were concerned. But these designs were conditional, as respecting individuals, and were made in full view of the actual event. God could not be thwarted or disappointed in regard to his grand design, because this did not depend on any particular individuals.

So in regard to men. Jesus Christ as man, and the Blessed Virgin, on whom the fulfilment of the divine plan absolutely depended, were absolutely predestined, and rendered impeccable; Jesus Christ by nature, and the Blessed Virgin by grace. If any other particular individuals were placed in a position which required it, they too received a grace which gave them immunity from any liability to fail in their necessary concurrence with the divine will as second causes. A vast multitude of human beings are elevated to beatitude without running any of the risks of probation. Adam, it is true, was able to thwart the first design of God in regard to the mode of bringing the race to its destination. But he could not thwart God's ultimate design, because he was able to accomplish it by another mode. Particular men, in vast numbers, are able to thwart the designs of God toward themselves. But they cannot thwart his designs toward the race. For he is able to regulate and order times, events, and circumstances, and to continue creating generation after generation, until, by moral means alone, he has completed the number of his saints and peopled heaven sufficiently to fulfil his purpose. Moreover, if necessary, he can always {298} touch the springs of the will directly, and determine it to any act which he has positively decreed must be performed. He can also modify, restrict, alleviate, set aside, or shorten the risks of probation, according to his own good pleasure, in regard to any or all of men, with an infinite and infallible wisdom.

But it is again argued, that according to this view, God is not the absolute cause of all things, nor the absolute sovereign over all things. The created will has an independent sovereignty of its own, and God is dependent in certain things on his creatures, obliged to modify his plans and to condition his decrees to suit their determinations.

This is not a conclusive argument. It is a maxim of philosophy, that _causa causae est causa causati_; the cause of a cause is the cause of that which is caused; _i.e._, caused by this second cause. God is the creator of free-will, and his perpetual influx gives it always the power of choosing and acting. Free-will is not, therefore, an independent, but a delegated and dependent sovereign. God can deprive it of the opportunity of choosing, or frustrate its determinations. It is sovereign within a limited sphere, because God has chosen to create it and give it sovereignty.

If God is absolute sovereign, can he not concede to a creature the power to do his own will within a certain sphere, if it [is] his sovereign pleasure to do so? Can he not determine to do certain things on the condition that the creature uses his free-will in a certain way, if he pleases? He has pleased to do it. He has made his eternal decrees with a full view of all that his creatures would do before him. All the incidental and partial evil resulting from the misuse of free-will in the universe he has foreseen, and determined to permit. He has decided on his great plan, notwithstanding the incidental evil, in view of a greater universal good. Not that sin and evil are necessary means of the greatest good, or directly conduce to a greater good than that which could exist in a universe without sin; but that the concession of the liberty on a grand scale, the particular and incidental misuse of which occasions sin and evil, is the necessary means to that greater good. The greater good itself is the obedience, homage, love, service, and fidelity given to God by a multitude of creatures who have been left free to sin, and who have not sinned, or not sinned irremediably and finally.

We conclude, therefore, _pace tantorum virorum_ who have maintained it, that the theory of the strict Thomists on this point is not conclusively established. To our mind, the theory which is in accordance with the philosophy of the great fathers before St. Thomas, with that of the Scotists in the middle ages, and with that of the most prevalent Catholic schools since the Jansenist controversy, is the more probable one. According to this theory, in a system of strict probation, a physical premotion, or a grace efficacious _in se_ and _ab intrinseco_ is not metaphysically necessary in order that free-will may actually concur with the divine will to secure the permanence of the creature in a supernatural state. Nothing is necessary beyond liberty of choice and the grace which gives power to elicit supernatural acts. When the angels passed through their probation, therefore, we cannot go behind the exercise of their liberty in choosing or rejecting the proffered boon of celestial glory, to seek a deeper cause, determining some to choose and not determining others. They were free to choose; and being free, some shows wisely and well, others foolishly and ill. So, also, with Adam. He might have stood, but he did not. He had the power to choose, and he chose wrongly. By the very same power he might have chosen rightly, without any additional Grace, The _arbitrium mentis_, the exercise of free self-dominion, is the only reason that {299} can be given. This prerogative is indeed mysterious and inscrutable. We do not pretend to have removed all difficulty of comprehending it. But it is incomprehensible to us in our present state of imperfect intelligence, because the soul itself is an inscrutable mystery. Its relation to the divine will and operation is a mystery full of inexplicable difficulties. But it is because of that ground mystery of mysteries, the coexistence of God and the creation, which was the insoluble enigma of all ancient philosophy. The great Aristotle saw the difficulty so clearly which is involved in the relation of a contingent world to the necessary being of God, that, unable to find an ideal formula which could unite the two terms by a dialectic relation, he denied all relation between them. He affirmed the existence of God and of the world. But he affirmed also, that the world exists independently of God, as self-existent, eternal, and necessary. Moreover, that God has or can have no knowledge of the world. For, he argued, God can have no knowledge of the world unless the world is the object or terminus of the divine intelligence. But if the world is the object of the divine intelligence, God is not perfect as intelligence in himself alone, but is conditioned and perfected by that which is inferior to his own being. Thus we see that the objection to the divine foreknowledge of the contingent in its objective verity which is found in scholastic theology, is one derived from Aristotle, and that the extremely subtle and acute reasoning of St. Thomas and the Thomists were directed toward a reconciliation of the Aristotelian philosophy with the Catholic dogmas. The difficulty lies in the creative act of God, which is a mystery not fully comprehensible by human reason, and, therefore, not fully to be explained by any hypothesis or theory of philosophy. The activity of free-will as concurrent, con-creative cause with God approaches the nearest of anything in creation to the creative act of God, and, therefore, is the most mysterious and incomprehensible fact of psychology. It is incomprehensible in itself, and it complicates still further the incomprehensibility of the creative act of God. It is not strange, therefore, that there should have been such a long and still unsettled controversy in the Catholic schools respecting this topic, since the church has hitherto abstained from deciding it. Still less can we wonder that non-Catholic schools, having no fixed dogmas or authoritative formulas of doctrine to check the spirit of private speculation, go round and round continually, involving themselves more hopelessly every day in entanglements from which they can never extricate themselves.

The explanation we have endeavored to set forth as the most probable will, we think, commend itself to the minds of most of our readers as the most intelligible and satisfactory which can be given. If a better one can be furnished by some one more competent to the task, we shall welcome it. Meanwhile, we leave what we have written to find what acceptance it may.

It will be seen at once, by those who are at all versed in these matters, that, according to the theory we have proposed, the predestination of those who attain eternal life as the term of a period of probation is consequent on the foresight of their fidelity and merit, at least as a general rule. It does not follow from this, however, that we reject the doctrine of efficacious grace. As this doctrine is immediately connected with the points we have been examining, we will give it a brief consideration now, in order to avoid returning to it hereafter.

In the Thomist theology, efficacious grace means a grace distinct in its own nature from sufficient grace. Sufficient grace gives the power to elicit a supernatural act, efficacious grace gives the act itself. It is therefore efficacious _in se_ and _ab intrinseco_. {300} This notion of efficacious grace is derived from the philosophical notion of the previous and efficacious concurrence of the will of God with every act of free-will, in the exercise of the faculty of choice. According to this philosophy, it is impossible for this faculty, as it is for every second cause _in potentia_ to its proper act, to pass from potentiality into act without a special movement from the first cause.

The contrary hypothesis, sustained by Molina, the great body of the Jesuit theologians, Thomassinus, and the generality of modern Catholic authors, is, that the grace which is auxiliary to the will in eliciting free supernatural acts, is not efficacious _ab intrinseco_, but is made efficacious by the concurrence of free-will. This implies a different notion of divine concurrence from the one just stated, according to which the influx of divine power into free, spontaneous, active second causes gives merely an aid which is indeterminate, leaving free-will to its own election among two or more terms upon which it can direct this indeterminate aid. When an artilleryman sights his gun, the divine power which supports and gives efficiency to all natural laws and forces must propel the ball. But this divine power stands ready at his disposal, and will propel the ball in whatever direction, toward whatever point, he selects. So it is with the choice of free-will.

We have already indicated our adhesion to this latter hypothesis. It is far more in accordance with the doctrine of the Fathers, Latin as well as Greek, including St. Augustine himself, than the other. The former one was wholly unknown to the Greek Fathers, and does not appear in the Latin Fathers before the Pelagian controversy. Even after this period it appears, in the writings of St. Augustine and others of his school, in an entirely different form from that which was given to it by St. Thomas. That is to say, it is applied to the case of fallen man, who is supposed to need an efficacious grace on account of the weakness of his will, and to receive it as a special gift of mercy through Christ. The perseverance of those angels who stood their trial successfully is attributed, not to a grace efficacious _ab intrinseco_, which was withheld from the other angels, but to a right use of the same grace which was equally conceded to all, and abused by some. So, also, the fall of Adam is attributed simply to his failure of concurrence with a grace which needed only his concurrence in order to become efficacious, but was frustrated of its effect by his abuse of his own free-will. Moreover, all that St. Augustine says about efficacious grace in fallen man is reconcilable with the doctrine of congruity and sometimes directly favors it, as is proved by Antoine and others who have written in vindication of his theology from Jansenist perversions. This doctrine of congruity has been introduced in order to explain more satisfactorily the perfect liberty of the will, without denying the existence of efficacious grace differing _in actu primo_, or antecedently to the consent of the will, from grace merely sufficient. Although the opinion that the actual efficacy of divine grace is to the sought exclusively in the consent of the will has not been condemned, it has nevertheless been received with disfavor and generally rejected. It is commonly taught that God confers, whenever he pleases, upon men, a grace which infallibly secures their co-operation, and their final perseverance. In our view, this doctrine can the sustained by ample and certain proofs from Scripture and Tradition, and is the only one which can be completely developed in consonance with the decisions of the church, especially those of the Council of Trent respecting final perseverance. [Footnote 63]

[Footnote 63: Si quis _magnum illud usque in finem perseverantiae donum_ se certo habiturum, absoluta et infallibili certitudine dixerit, etc. A. S.

If any one shall say that he will certainly have that _great gift of perseverance to the end_, with an absolute and infallible certitude, etc.

Si quis dixerit, justificatum vel sine _speciali auxilio Dei,_ in accepta justisia perseverare posse, vel cum eo non posse. A. S.

If any one shall say that the justified man either can, without a _special aid of God_, persevere in the justice he has received, or can not persevere with it, let him be under the ban. De Justif. Can. 16-22.]

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The reason why certain graces are actually infallible in their effects is to be found in their congruity he to the character, disposition, and circumstances of the subject, and in their multitude. The necessity for them is not a metaphysical but a moral necessity. The fragility of our nature is such, that although a grace merely sufficient makes us metaphysically capable of persevering without sin, we are you sure to become wearied, and through fickleness, weakness of purpose, changeableness, etc., to break down somewhere. Our own consciousness and experience teach us that we need a divine and protecting arm to encompass us continually and secure us against ourselves, and they incline us to utter that prayer of the Divine Liturgy: "Compelle, Domine, rebelles voluntates nostras:" "Compel, O Lord, our rebellious wills." God, who knows human nature perfectly, can, in a thousand ways, by ordering the circumstances of life, shortening or prolonging it, regulating the influences which act on the character, alluring or terrifying the heart, illuminating the mind, impelling without coercing the will, and adapting his influences with infinite wisdom to the special state of the soul, convert whom he will, sanctify whom he will, give perseverance to whom he will, and still gain his point with the free consent and concurrence of the creature. "Non est volentis neque currentis, miserentis est Dei:" "It is not of him who willeth or of him who runneth, but of God who showeth mercy." The difficulty may still be raised, that God withholds these graces of congruity and the gift of perseverance from those who do not in the first instance accept the proffered Grace, or who do not finally persevere. But this is removed by the doctrine so ably and strenuously advocated by St. Alphonsus Liguori, that common grace is sufficient to enable one to pray fervently and do ordinary good acts; and that by prayer, with the use of other facile means, efficacious graces and the gift of perseverance may be infallibly obtained from God.

We may now return to our theme of the state of probation originally established by God for those who were made candidates for supernatural glory. We have endeavored to clear our track of difficulties impeding the clear view of the truth that God established this probation through goodness and love, or with the simple view of communicating the greatest good to the creature.

The principle questions respecting probation having been already discussed, there remains now but one, viz.: what was the precise and specific nature of the trial to which rational nature was subjected. This divides itself again into two, one respecting the trial of the angels and the other respecting the trial of man.

The angels, according to the doctrine of St. Thomas and theologians generally, were created at the summit of intelligent being, incapable of error or false judgment in their natural, intellectual operation, and therefore impeccable in the natural order. Supernatural grace was conferred upon them simultaneously with their creation, although, as F. Billuart holds, they may have concurred actively to the reception of this grace, by a spontaneous act preceding all deliberation. Grace made them capable of eliciting supernatural acts, but did not determine them to those acts without the free concurrence of their will. Their intelligence must have been, therefore, left in a certain obscurity as regards the supernatural object, in order that an error of judgment should be possible, or even an act of deliberation terminating in a free volition. What the precise object of deliberation and choice was cannot be certainly and precisely determined. It must in some way have presented the alternative of either eliciting a supernatural act by the aid of the obscure supernatural {302} light, or of falling back on the free, natural operation of intelligence. God must have exacted some act of homage to his sovereign will, disclosed some condition as the indispensable prerequisite to obtaining the crown of supernatural glory, which the natural intelligence of the angels could not see to be just and right without the aid of a supernatural light. This light was given, clear enough to enable the will, by a strong voluntary effort, to determine itself to act by this light, in preference to its natural light; dim enough to allow the will to turn from it voluntarily, and find in its natural light a plausible reason for withholding its submission to the supreme will. Certain passages of Scripture, and the common traditional Catholic doctrine, indicate that the angels who fell, fell through pride, and that Lucifer, in particular, their chief spirit, in some way aspired to a resemblance with God. Some have thought that he desired to become God. St. Thomas, however, says that this is impossible, because his intelligence was too perfect to permit him to conceive such a thought. He explains the sin of the angels to have consisted in a refusal to accept supernatural glory as a pure boon from God, and a wish to attain beatitude by the exertion of their own natural powers.

The most plausible supposition, in our view, is one that may be said to be contained under the more generic statement just given. It is, namely, that the angels were tried by the revelation of the Incarnation. The union of the Second Person of the Trinity with human nature, the elevation of human nature to divine glory and honor, the obligation of doing homage to Jesus Christ, as King, and to the Blessed Virgin, his mother, as Queen of Angels, was revealed, as the crucial test of the absolute obedience of the celestial spirits. According to their natural reason, and natural love of their own nature and kind, it would appear to them a violation of order and justice to pass them by, in order to assume an inferior nature partly corporeal and animal, into a hypostatic union with the Godhead; elevating this nature above their own, which was the highest in the natural order. Supernatural light suggested to them that God, as sovereign, had a right to bestow his supernatural gifts according to his own will, and, as infinitely wise, must have a secret reason for apparently inverting the order of nature in establishing the supernatural order of the universe. Those who voluntarily submitted themselves to the decree of God were rewarded by an illumination which disclose to them the wisdom and goodness of the decree of the Incarnation, and the glory which they themselves as well as the whole universe would receive from it; and thus became incapable for ever of erring in their judgment respecting the highest good, and consequently of swerving from it through sin. Those who fell turned their minds away from the supernatural light toward the consideration of their own private good, and the glory of their own persons and their own order. They revolted at the idea of being subordinated to human nature, and desired that the angelic nature should be the subject of the hypostatic union. Lucifer, in particular, as their chief, desired that he himself might be assumed into union with the Word, exalted to the throne of the universe, and deified. He and his associates demanded it from God as a right due to their natural dignity, and thus rebelled against his sovereign majesty, were cast out of the celestial sphere, and forfeited for ever the crown of supernatural glory. Hence their enmity to the Incarnate Word, to the Blessed Virgin Mary, and to the human race. Hence their efforts to establish their own supremacy over man, and the continual conflict which the holy angels and the children of God on earth must wage against them in the sacred warfare for the triumph of Christ's kingdom upon earth. This brings us to the consideration of human probation, a topic which must be reserved for a future number.

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From the Dublin University Magazine

MISSAL-PAINTING. [Footnote 64]

[Footnote 64: _Authorities_: Plinii Nat. Hist.; Cornel. Nepos; Giraldus Cambrensis; Anglia Sacra; Brompton's Chron.; Humphreys' Art of Illumination and illuminated Books of the Middle Ages; Sylvestre Paléographic Universelle (Sir F. Madden's edition); Muratori Antiq. Ital. Mediaevi; Lanzi Hist. of Painting; Baldinucci Notizie; Froissart's Chronicles; Mrs. Jamieson's Life of Our Lord; Cotton. MSS.--Claud. B iv.--Faustina, B vi.--Galba, A xviii.-Nero, C iv.--Tiber. A ii., C vi.--Vesp. A i.; Harleian MSS. 2904, 5102, 7026, 2900, 2846, 2884, 2853; Bib. Regia, 2 A xxii., 1 D i., 2 A xviii., and 2 B vii.]

The review of monastic literature which we can present in the limited space of a single paper must necessarily be a concise and condensed one, a mere skeleton of the superstructure, not exhaustive but rather suggestive of the sources where information may be found by others who may care to investigate the merits or demerits of a subject about which there have been such varying representations. A complete history of monastic literature would occupy as many volumes as this essay will pages, for it would not only necessitate a review of certain portions of the literature of every civilized country in Europe, but to a great extent at some periods of the whole of European literature. The materials of history, the hymnology of the church, the elements of science, art, and the very woof, as it were, of modern literature, were all handed down to us by that great institution, whose fate as it chanced in England we are endeavoring to delineate. We have hitherto striven to make this investigation a fair and impartial one, based upon facts not as represented by the biassed pens of Protestant historians, but upon facts gleaned almost entirely from the works of men who lived and died in the bosom of that church of which this institution was the cherished offspring. Still more unreasonable is the prejudice of many who refuse to award any meed of praise to the literary labors of monasticism, who look upon the monk as a lazy, sensual, selfish misanthrope, who have heard of the dark ages and are therewith satisfied that they must have been totally dark--intellectual obstinates who wilfully shut their eyes and maintain there is no light. We may have doctrinal prejudices, theological prejudices, social prejudices, against monasticism, but these things ought not to prevent a reasoning man from paying his homage to the genius which may be found in its works. Genius is universal; it is not confined to any doctrine, for it is found in all doctrines; it is not limited to any age, for it is common to all ages; it does not flourish merely under enlightened and free governments, for it has lived triumphant through the dull oppression of tyranny; riches cannot create it nor poverty crush it out: it is born in the hovel; it is nurtured on bleak mountains; it will flourish even under the weary training of indigence and wasting toil: like air, light, and beauty, it is the free, the unbought gift of God.

We have already in a former chapter described the scriptorium, or room adjoining the library, where books were copied and multiplied by monks chosen for that work. We will only add to that description what we glean from the rule of St. Victor--that no visitors were allowed to go into the scriptorium except the abbot, the prior, the sub-prior, and the precentor--that the abbot ordered what books were to be transcribed, and that the writers were appointed by him. At all periods it was a great ambition amongst the monks to be a {304} good transcriber and decorator of manuscripts. Not only was it a matter of distinction but a sure path to promotion; many who have worked well in the scriptorium were rewarded for their services with abbacies and bishoprics. In the thirteenth century a monk of the monastery of St. Swithin, at Winchester, was recommended for the vacant abbacy of Hyde, as being well versed in the glosses of the sacred text, a skilful writer, a good artist, and clever at painting initial letters.

In this scriptorium was cultivated and brought to perfection an art which has been the admiration of all subsequent ages, but which printing completely swept away, and failed to supply anything adequate in its place--that art is called illumination. It has a career of its own, and a value as a beautiful eloquent monument in the history of the church, and under these two phases we shall proceed to investigate this first part of the literary labor of monasticism.

The art of illuminating manuscripts was not, as has been supposed, originated by Christianity, though it was brought to perfection under its sway. There are two periods in its history, the first goes far back into the remote past, to the times of the Egyptian papyri, sixteen centuries before Christ, and the second period commences with the chrysography or writing in gold of the Greek manuscripts, between the fifth and eighth centuries after Christ. The more ancient rolls of Egyptian papyri are written in red, with a reed, decorated by rude drawings similarly traced, representing mystical scenes of the Egyptian mythology--some of these papyri, however, are of higher finish, being elaborately painted, gilded, and extending to the length of sixty feet. There is preserved in the museum of the Louvre a specimen of the plain style of papyrus, ornamented with illustrations, drawn in outline. It is said to be one of those rituals which are often found enclosed in mummy coffins; it is about forty feet in length, and is in a good state of preservation. There are directions on it for the illuminator, such as were adopted also by the Christian penmen. In the corner of the space left for illumination there was inserted a small sketch of the subject to guide the artist. The French recovered also a specimen of the superior kind of papyri at Thebes, in 1798. [Footnote 65]

[Footnote 65: Published entire by the Imperial Government, in a work called Description de l'Egypte, 1812.]

It consists of a number of religious scenes, comprising many figures of human beings and animals, drawn with a pen, and brilliantly colored. It is about forty-four feet in length, though imperfect. It is more than probable also that the Romans had some knowledge of the art of illustrating manuscripts. The passage usually quoted in support of this theory occurs in the Natural History of Pliny, [Footnote 66] where we are told that Varro wrote the lives of 700 Romans, which he illustrated with their portraits.

[Footnote 66: Marcus Varro benignissimo invento, insertis, voluminum suorum fecunditati non nominibus tantum septingentorum illustrium sed et aliquo modo imaginibus non passus intercidere figuras aut vetustatem aevi contra homines valere, inventor muneris etiam diis invidiosi, quando immortalitatem non solum dedit verum etiam in omnes terras misit ut presectes esse ubique et claudi possent.--PLINII: Nat. Hist. lib. xxxv., c. 2.]

But there is also an account of a similar work by Pomponius Atticus, recorded by Cornelius Nepos, who tells us that Atticus wrote about the actions of the great men of Rome, which descriptions he ornamented with their portraits. [Footnote 67]

[Footnote 67: Namque versibus qui honores rerumque gestarum amplitudine ceteros Romane populi praestiterunt exposuit: ita ut sub singulorum imaginibus facta magistratus qui eorum non amplius quaternis quinisve versibus discripserit.--CORN. NEP.: Atticus.]

It is impossible to fix the time when the art of Christian illumination sprung up, but most probably it occurred when the ancient fashion of rolled manuscripts gave way to something more like the present book form; that is, instead of one long narrow sheet of some forty or sixty feet, a number of square sheets placed upon each other, and sewn together at the back. The ancient manuscripts were rolled either {305} upon one or two rollers. The second roller was adopted for the convenience of the reader, who might roll off his manuscript as he read it from one to the other; thus one roller was placed at the end of the MS. round which it was rolled first, then a second roller was attached to the commencement of the MS., and upon this the reader rolled it off as he read; it was the duty of the librarians to roll it back again for the convenience of the next reader. As long as this mode prevailed there could be no elaborate painting or gilding of MSS., such as we are familiar with, and this is attested by the fact that the MSS. of this rolled form which were dug up from Herculaneum and Pompeii have no trace of decoration. But in the very earliest specimens of the book form which came into vogue early in the second century of the Christian era, there were decorations of various degrees of richness. The Discorides in the Vienna Library, and the celebrated Virgil of the Vatican, said to have been executed in the fourth century, are among the earliest specimens of illuminated MSS. Still the miniature prevailed in these, the decorations in the Discorides being very simple, but absent altogether in the Virgil, whilst the miniatures are large and clear. Decoration, however, was prevalent in that early time, for St. Jerome, who lived in the fourth century, complains of the abuse of this art of filling up books with ornamented capital letters of an enormous size. It is there for in this fourth century that we find a marked advance in the art of illumination. The most valuable books were written in gold and silver inks by scribes who were called chrysographi; the vellum was stained with rose colored or purple dye, to throw up the gold and silver letters. One of the most valued authorities on the text of the New Testament is the version by Ulphilas, the Gothic bishop, who lived in the early part of the fourth century. A copy of this in letters of silver, with the initials in gold, was executed in the fifth century, and is now preserved in the royal library at Upsal, under the well-known title of the Codex Atgenteus. Some of the MSS. of this period were written on a blue ground in silver, with the name of God in gold. This magnificent form of copying was devoted principally to the Gospels and Scriptures generally. To this succeeded as an influence of Byzantine luxury the style of writing on a gilded ground in letters of black. During these early periods miniatures formed the principal features of the ornamentation, but toward the seventh century, two centuries after the fall of Rome, a change came over the style of art, and miniatures gradually gave way to more elaborate decoration. In this age, too, the initial letter sprang up. In the most ancient manuscripts it was not distinguished from the text, but from the seventh to the eleventh century separate capital letters of a large size were the characteristics of the volumes most decorated. It is to this period that the origin of the various schools of illumination may be traced. Rome had succumbed to barbarian violence, and her arts, though decaying, still exerted an influence upon this new style of painting, then in its infancy. That influence was naturally stronger in Italy, and therefore the early illuminations of the Italian school bear traces of the old Roman style. In France the same influence was manifest, mixed up with national peculiarities, and this school was consequently called the Franco-Roman. Miniatures now were gradually displaced by intricate ornamentation, interlaced fretwork, or twining branches of white or gold, on a background of variegated colors. But far away in the distant west, in a country which had never been under Roman domination, and was therefore free from Roman influence, a style of art rose up of a purely original character. Historical research has placed it beyond question that in these remote times Ireland was far in advance of other nations in the scale of civilization. Her fame had extended over Europe, her monasteries were adorned {306} with men of great piety and learning, who were the trainers of the leading spirits of the age. She was the first to break through the dense darkness of the times, and as she gave Christianity to Scotland, so she also imparted to the Saxons the art of illumination. The very earliest mention we have in the history of our country of an illuminator is of Dagaeus, abbot of Iniskeltra, who lived in the early part of the sixth century, and died about 587. Adamnanus, the Saxon abbot of Iona, retained Genereus, who had taught illumination in the Irish monasteries, to impart that knowledge to the Saxons; and in the eighth century another Irish monk, Ultan, is mentioned as having a great reputation as an illuminator of MSS. Bede also confirms this fact of Irish civilization, for he asserts that it was the custom to send youths out of England into Ireland to study at her monasteries. It was from Ireland, then, that the Anglo-Saxons learned the art of illumination. [Footnote 68] Later in the tenth century, a style, peculiar and original, was started, it is said by Dunstan, who was a great illuminator, which consisted in a novel use of the foliage, quite distinct from all other styles. It prevailed to the end of the Saxon rule, and is known by the name of Opus Anglicum. One of the finest specimens of the Anglo-Saxon school is extant in the Cottonian library, in the shape of the Durham Book, or St. Cuthbert's Gospels; it was the work of Eadfrith, bishop of Lindisfarne, in honor of St. Cuthbert; its execution extended from the year 698 to 721; it is peculiarly a Saxon piece of art, and belongs to that species known as "tesselated" Giraldus Cambrensis, who wrote in the twelfth century, speaks of having seen a similar MS. at Kildare, which was called The Evangelisterium. [Footnote 69]

[Footnote 68: Mr. Noel Humphreys, in is beautiful little work upon the Art of Illumination and Missal Painting, has given, as a specimen of this Anglo-Hibernian school, a page from the Gospels of Maelbrigid Mac Durnan, the MS. of which is preserved in the Lambeth MSS.]

[Footnote 69: Inter universa Kyldariae miracula nil mihi miraculosius occurrit quam liber (ut alunt) Angelo dictante conscriptus. Continet hic liber quatuor Evangelistarum juxta Hieronymum concordantiam: ubi quot paginae fere sunt tot figurae diversae variisque coloribus distinctissimae. Hic majestatis vultum videas divinitus impressum, hinc mysticas Evangelistarum formas: nunc senas nunc quaternas nunc binas alas habentes. Hinc acquilam, inde vitulum hinc hominis faciem inde leonis ailasque figuras pene infinitas. . . . Haec equidem quanto frequentius et diligentius intueor semper quasi novi obstupco semperque magis ac magis admiranda conspicio.--GIRALD CAMB.: Topogr. Hibern., lib., ii., c. 88.]

The finest specimen of English illumination of the tenth century is the Duke of Devonshire's celebrated Benedictional, by St. AEthelwald, bishop of Winchester, written and painted between 963 and 984. The first page is a magnificent picture of a number of glorified confessors; it was written by a monk, of whom we shall speak hereafter. Up to the twelfth century decorations were the peculiar characteristics of illumination, although some Saxon MSS. written during those periods have pictures drawn in outline; but the great point in all richly illuminated MSS. was the initial letter, and every effort of art was exerted to make that as rich and magnificent as possible. After that time we find these initial letters ornamented also with drawings of the human form, animals, birds, etc, in addition to the foliage which had hitherto predominated. The coloring of the period was richer also, and these MSS. so decorated with pictures were called "historiated," and led by degrees to the fine historical illuminations of subsequent centuries. Gradually these initial letters became larger and longer, until their tales reached nearly the whole length of the page. They were then carried round the bottom, until out of this progression of the initial letter arose what is called the "Gothic bracket"--and ornamentation like a clasp which ran round three sides of the page. During the fourteenth century miniatures were again introduced, and were improving and becoming more finished up to the middle of the sixteenth century. The Gothic bracket was also extended gradually, until it at last embraced the whole page, and became {307} one of the great features of of subsequent illumination--the "border." In these borders all kinds of subjects were crowded--foliage, flowers, birds, animals, and miniatures, and toward the end of the fifteenth century a background was added, first in parts, and ultimately entirely. A work which appeared in the thirteenth century exerted, however, a great influence over the art of illumination, even down to the time of its decline, three centuries later. It was a series of meditations on the life of Christ, known as St. Bonaventura, by John Fidenza, and the minute descriptions it gave of the various scenes of which it treated formed a sort of ideal, the influence of which may be traced in nearly all subsequent treatment of similar subjects, and accounts for their general uniformity. During the Byzantine period illuminating was confined to manuscripts of the Scriptures, the works of the fathers, and books for the services in the church. To these were then added volumes for private devotion, such as Horae, or prayers four hours and holy days, sometimes called Missals. Legends, history, and poetry followed, and in the fourteenth century the works of Chaucer and the Chronicles of Froissart opened a vast field to the illuminators for the delineation of battles, sieges, religious ceremonies, public events, and scenes of domestic life. Some copies of classical authors also were then illuminated, until by the end of the fifteenth century nearly every kind of formal document was illuminated, including charters, wills, indentures, patents of nobility, statutes of foundations, and mortuary registers. But the printing-press was looming in the distance, and the death-knell of this beautiful art began to toll. Its fall, which was inevitable, was, however, gradual. Men could not be weaned at once from these illuminated books, and a sort of temporary alliance between the two arts was effected. The earliest printed books were illuminated, spaces which had been formerly left by the copyist were now reserved by the printer, and the whole work when it left his hands was given over to the artist; then the subjects were engraven on wood, and transferred to the vellum by means of ink and the press; but the manuscript style was still preserved, and the closest imitation of written volumes was retained by the early printers, and with such dexterity that it is not an easy thing to detect some of the earliest printed books from manuscripts. Perhaps the last effort to illuminate a book by the printer's art to the extent of the older MSS., was an edition of the Liturgy, brought out in 1717 by John Short, entirely engraven on copper plates. The pages were surrounded by borders, and embellished with pictures and decorated initial letters. Even down to the early part of the present century books were printed with ornamental initial letters, and borders on the top and bottom of each page, both of which may be seen occasionally in the present day, more especially in books issued from presses which seek to revive the antique type and style. In concluding this portion of our sketch, we may mention another characteristic of early MS. writing which exists in some of our books in present use. If we take up an edition of a Greek classic printed some forty or fifty years ago, or even less, we shall find it almost unintelligible, from the number of contractions used in the printing; and if we go further back still, we shall find these contractions more numerous. It arose in the eighth or ninth century; the scribes introduced in the copying of Greek MSS. a system of contraction called tacygraphy, by which two, three, or more letters were expressed by one character, which was termed "nexus litterarum." The editors of the early period of printing adopted them in their type, and they continued in use down to the beginning of the present century.

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As we have thus given a condensed review of the history and development of that most beautiful art of illuminating MSS., we shall proceed to describe the details of the work as it was carried on for centuries in the various monasteries in Europe. The parchment was cut into sheets of the required size, and prepared for the copyist in the following manner--They were first rubbed over with the powdered bone of the cuttle-fish, or with the ashes of a certain kind of bone or wood burned and pulverized; a wheel with sharp teeth at equal distances was then run down each side of the sheet, and lines ruled across from point to point between which the matter was to be written; it was then handed to the scribe, who began his work. In the ancient manuscripts there is to be found no paging or table of contents. The whole work was divided into packets of parchment sheets, each containing about four leaves; these packets were sometimes marked with a number temporarily on the first page, which was cut off when the whole was bound. At the end of each section of leaves the scribe wrote the word with which the next section should commence, a practice continued by printers under the title of "catch-words." If a manuscript contained several treatises on different subjects, a list of contents was appended, the initial word of each tract, and the number of sections. As soon as the copying was finished, the work of illustration commenced. The outlines were traced with a pencil made of silver, or brass with a silver point; then the metallic outlines were gone over with a fine quill pen, dipped in a preparation of lampblack and gum. There are many MSS. extant originally intended to be illuminated, but from some unknown cause have come down to us in this unfinished state of outline sketches. The next step was to wash in the shades with ink and water of three degrees of strength; at this point the gilding was done, in order that the burnishing might not interfere with the colors. The raised or embossed gold grounds were done first by laying the metal leaf on a thick smooth bed made of fine plaster, carefully ground; they were then burnished, and if it were intended to decorate these raised gold grounds with engravings or patterns cut in the metal, that was done as the next stage. After this the large masses of flat, painted gilding were added and the colors laid on with the utmost care as to the tint. The last process, which was intrusted only to superior hands, was that of diapering, pencilling, inserting brilliant touches of gold and white, and in fact finishing the whole work. These two forms of gold work, the embossed and the flat, are to be found in perfection in MSS. of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. They prepared their gold with great care. In the fourteenth century the gold leaf was ground with honey carefully washed, and the powder mixed with gum water. In a treatise written by Theophilus, [Footnote 70] the pulverization of gold for painting forms a difficult process; he directs that the pure gold should be filed into a cup, and then washed with a pencil in the shell of a sea fish, after which it is to be milled in a mortar made of copper and tin, with a long pestle worked by a strap and wheel.

[Footnote 70: THEOP.: De Diversis Artibus.]

Then the gold filings are to be milled in water for two or three hours and gradually poured off. The powder thus produced was to be tempered with isinglass and laid on a ground of red lead, mixed with the white of an egg; after this it was burnished with a bloodstone, a shining horn tablet being placed under the gilded picture. The Anglo-Saxons used to rub gold filings in a mortar with sharp vinegar, and then dissolve them with salt and nitre. The principle colors used, according to Theophilus, were vermilion orpiment, Greek green, dragon's-blood, granetum carminium, saffron, folium, brunum, minium, white and black. After they had ground their colors on a slab of porphyry, they placed them in covered glass vessels under water, which not only only preserved them from dust, but {309} kept them always soft and ready for use. The old painters never touched their colors with iron, but used as a palette-knife a thin blade of wood. They made their own pencils and brushes, the pencils being made of minever tails, set in quills, and the brushes of the bristles of the white domestic pig, bound to a stick. When a manuscript had passed through all these stages of copying and illuminating, it had to be bound, a work also done in the scriptorium. The sacred MSS. at an early period were bound between two wooden boards, covered with engraved plates of gold and silver set off with crystals and rubies. But the usual binding of volumes for the services for the church was in the skins of deer, sheep, and calves, pieces of which were stretched over the boards, and the leaves were sewn together by the same material cut into strips. The ecclesiastics were forbidden to indulge in the pleasure of the chase, although the love of that sport was a universal passion, and it was with great difficulty they could be restrained from joining in such diversions; but Charlemagne granted permission to priests to hunt for the purpose of procuring deer-skins to bind books. Grants were made to monasteries by other sovereigns of a certain number of skins annually. The corners of the covers of large service-books were protected by plates and bosses of metal; there was a metal center with a large projected hemisphere on each side, and across the book were too strong loops of leather for the purpose of lifting it when closed. The service-books of the church were necessarily very large, because they were placed on a high sloping shelf, around which the choristers stood while the precentor, standing behind them, turned over the leaves with a staff from above their heads. Such are a few of the details of the art of illuminating manuscripts, which flourished in the monasteries from the eighth to the eighteenth centuries, when it died in Europe under Louis XIV. The schools of this art, which sprung up from its cultivation, may be enumerated by six denominations, as shown in the following table:

GREEK or BYZANTINE, from the eighth to the tenth century: the _Irish-Saxon, Anglo-Saxon, Franco-Saxon_, and the painting of _Russia_ belong to this school.

EARLY ROMAN, tenth to the fourteenth century, which includes also the _Anglo-Norman_.

ITALIAN, fourteenth to sixteenth century, including the _Spanish_ and _Portuguese_.

EARLY FRENCH, fourteenth to seventeenth century, under which may be ranged the _later English_.

FLEMISH, GERMAN, AND DUTCH, from the close of the fifteenth century.

LATER FRENCH, during the seventeenth eighteenth centuries.

We have already remarked that a genius for illumination and excellence in copying were at one time sure recommendations for promotion. The memory of men too who had spent their lives in this occupation were tenderly cherished; and two incidents preserved in history attesting the fact we shall mention. Baldinucci, in his History of Painting, gives an account of two brethren in the Camaldulan Monastery, Degli Angeli, at Florence, who were most indefatigable copyists. Dom Jacopo Fiorentino made his appearance at the Monastery of Degli Angeli, in the year 1340; he is described as a monk of holy manners who, when he was not engaged in monastic duties, spent all his time in copying. He acquired an extraordinary expertness and elegance in writing the peculiar character used in the books of the choir. His talents were appreciated, and Dom Jacopo was seldom idle. He wrote twenty massive choral books for his own monastery, the largest ever seen in Italy, and a great many others for Rome, Venice, and Murano. His fame spread abroad, and after his death the brethren of the order preserved {310} the right hand of this scribe, which had done so much good work, as a lasting memorial of his name. Dom Silvestro, another monk living in the monastery of Degli Angeli at the same time, excelled in miniature painting, and to his lot fell the decoration of those very books, as they issued from the facile pen of Dom Jacopo. His work was thoroughly appreciated by the great artists of the best ages of Italy. Lorenzo the Magnificent, and Leo X., his son, were pleased to accord their admiration. When he died his right hand was also embalmed. Although this work of copying and illuminating was carried on generally in the scriptorium of the monastery, yet occasionally a monk had a room to himself for the purpose, bearing the same name. Giraldus Cambrensis, in his Life of St. David, tells us that the great bishop commenced writing a copy of St. John's Gospel in gold and silver letters in his own scriptorium at Menevia:

"Scriptorium suum locumque laboris." [Footnote 71]

[Footnote 71: Anglia Sacra, vol. ii., p.635.]

Many of the names of great illuminators are lost in oblivion, but some have been preserved. Of these, as our investigation is more particularly into the monachism of our own country, we shall dwell more largely upon those men who were born on British soil. We have already adverted to the peculiarly advanced state of the Irish monasteries in the very earliest times. There can be no doubt that both as missionaries and educators they took the lead in those remote periods. Muratori, the groat Italian historian of the middle ages, mentions Ireland as surpassing other nations in the west in the career of letters, [Footnote 72] and we have already quoted the testimony of Bede.

[Footnote 72: Muratori--Antiq. Ital. Medii AEvi, Dissert. 43.]

We shall therefore commence our review of the English art of illumination with the name of the Irish abbot already alluded to, as the first upon record, _Dagaeus_, abbot of Iniskeltra, who died about the year 587, and excelled not only in writing, but in binding and decoration. The next in order is the monk _Genereus_, an Anglo-Saxon, who had both studied and taught in the Irish schools; his services were retained by Adamnanus to teach the Saxon monks in the monastery of Iona; and the third, as we have before mentioned, is an Irish monk, _Ultan_, who, at the end of the eighth century, was renowned as an illuminator. The seed fell upon good soil, and bore abundant fruit, for we next read of _Eadfrith_ and _Ethelwold_, both abbots of Lindisfarne, and bishops of Durham, who, early in the eighth century, wrote and illuminated the magnificent copy of the Gospels in golden letters, to the honor of St. Cuthbert, which is now preserved in the Cottonian Library at the British Museum, and known as the Durham Book. There is good reason to suppose that _Dunstan_ excelled in illumination. In a manuscript in the Bodleian Library, there is a drawing purporting to be by his hand--a figure of Christ appearing to the prelate, who is prostrate at his feet. _Godeman_, whom we have also mentioned, was chaplain of Ethelwold, bishop of Durham, at whose instigation he undertook the task of writing and illuminating the celebrated Benedictional, which is preserved in the Duke of Devonshire's library. In return for this work, Ethelwold made him abbot of Thorney. He flourished about 970. _Ervenius_, a monk of St. Edmonsbury Abbey, was renowned as illuminator, about ten years later. In a life of Wulstan, Bishop of Winchester, written by William of Malmesbury, we are told that Ervenius was his tutor, and that young Wulstan was first attracted to letters by the beautiful illustrations of a sacramentarium and Psalter, from which he was taught. "Thus," says the biographer, "the youth Wulstan acquired, almost by miracle, the chief heads of the most precious things, for while those lustrous beauties entered in at the apertures of his eyes, he received the {311} knowledge of sacred letters into his very part." [Footnote 73]

[Footnote 73: Habebat tunc (Wulstan) magistrum Ervenium nomine, in scribendo et quidlibet coloribus effingendo peritum. Is libros scriptos Sacramentarium et Psalterium quorum principales literas auro effigiaverit puero Wulstano delegandos curabit. Ille preciosorum apicum captus miraculo dum pulchritudinem intentis oculis rimatur et scientiam literatum internis haurit medullis.--GULIEL. MALMS.: _De Vita Wulstan, in Ang. Sacra_, vol. ii., p. 224.]

A similar instance is recorded in the life of Alfred, who, when a child, was drawn toward books by the charm of the illustrations. In Brompton's Chronicle we are told that _Osmund_, the Bishop of Salisbury, in the year 1076, did not disregard the labor of writing, binding, and illuminating of books. [Footnote 74]

[Footnote 74: Ipse episcopus libros scribere, illuminare et ligare, non fastidiret.--Brompton Chron. ann. 1076.]

Eadwinus, a monk of Canterbury, in the middle of the twelfth century, has left a monument of his labors behind him, in the shape of an elaborate psalter, preserved in Trinity College, Cambridge. At the end of this psalter are two drawings, one of Christ Church and the monastery at Canterbury, and the other a full-length portrait of himself. In the same volume are many historical figures, with initial letters in gold, silver, and vermilion. We include in our list _Matthew Paris_, the historian, who, although he is supposed to have been a Frenchman, yet passed his life in St. Alban's monastery, wrote an English history, [Footnote 75] and may at least be taken as a naturalized, if not a born Englishman.

[Footnote 75: Or rather a continuation of one, the first part of it, from 1066 to 1235, is attributed to Roger of Wendover, who was in the same monastery. William of Rishanger continued it to the year 1273, from the point where Matthew Paris leaves off (1259), but the whole is frequently quoted as by Matthew Paris. The probabilities are greater in favor of his being an Englishman than the contrary. His works were admired by the early Reformers, for the bold and vigorous manner in which he wrote upon ecclesiastical affairs.]

He is reported to have had a good knowledge of painting, architecture, and the mathematics. The history which is called Historia Major, up to the year 1235, was in all probability the work of another. Matthew Paris wrote the continuation, and copied the whole as it is now in the British Museum, and illustrated it. The next English name rescued from the oblivion of the past, is that of _Alan Strayler_, who was also a monk of St. Alban's, about the year 1463. His work is contained in a volume called the Golden Register of St. Alban's, extant in the Cottonian library. [Footnote 76]

[Footnote 76: Cotton MSS.--Nero, D vii.]

It is a record of the benefactors of the monastery down to the year 1463. His own portrait is inserted as a benefactor, inasmuch as, according to the text, "he had given to the adorning of the present book very much labor, and had also remitted a debt of 3s. 4d. due to him for colors." Beneath his portrait are two lines in Latin, to the effect that--

"The painter, Alan Strayler, here is given. Who dwells forever with the choir of heaven."

There are many other portraits of royal and noble personages, holding their respective donations. About thirty years afterward died an eccentric recluse, _John Rous_, called the hermit of Guy's Cliff. He was chantry-priest at a small chapel, founded by Guy, earl of Warwick, at Guy's Cliff, and from the austere solitary life he led there, acquired the appellation of the "hermit." He was an antiquary and an historian. He wrote a life of Richard Beauchamp, fourteenth earl of Warwick, and illustrated it with fifty-three large drawings, executed with a pen, which style of sketching in those days was called "tricking," or "drawing in trick." This MS. is still to be seen in the Cottonian collections. [Footnote 77]

[Footnote 77: Cotton MSS.--Julius, E iv. ]

Rous spent his time in the study of history and genealogy, and wrote and ornamented several manuscripts, one of which was a roll of the earls of Warwick. This is the last Englishman who is recorded to have attained to any excellence in the art of illumination. We must not omit some of the most prominent of foreign artists who distinguished themselves in this study, and in the thirteenth century _Orderico_, canon of Sienna, is mentioned as being one of the most renowned. Lanzi, in his History of Painting in Italy, [Footnote 78] gives a description of one of here's MSS., which is preserved in the library of the academy at Florence, decorated with initials, ornaments, and figures of animals, painted by him in 1213. The names of two celebrated illuminators are mentioned by Dante in his Divine Comedy.

[Footnote 78: Lanzi--Hist. of Painting, book ii., Siennese School.]

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_Oderigi d'Agubbio_, whom Dante wrote of, was born at Agubbio, near Perugia, and died about the year 1300; he was the friend of Giotto and Dante at Rome. He was introduced by Giotto to Benedict VIII., for whom he illuminated many volumes. _Francis of Bologna_, the other mentioned by the poet, was also in the employ of Benedict, and executed many works for the Papal library. There is an account in Baldinucci of one _Cybo_, who lived in the fourteenth century, and is better known as the Monk of the Golden Islands, from his custom of retiring from his monastery at Lerino every spring and autumn to an island in the Mediterranean off the coast of France, for the wise purpose of the contemplation of nature. "He would walk abroad," we are informed, "not only to contemplate the beautiful prospects offered by the shores of those islands, the mountains, villages, and the sea itself, but also the birds, the flowers, the trees, the fruits, the rarer fishes of the sea, and the little animals of the earth, all of which he would draw and imitate in a wonderful manner." [Footnote 79]

[Footnote 79: Baldinucci--Notizie de' Professore del Disegno.]

Would that such an inspiration might steal over the minds of some of our modern artists! In 1433, according to Lanzi, flourished one _Fra Giovanni da Fiesola_, a Dominican friar, who attained to great fame as an illuminator. Then from the monastery of Degli Angeli came again another artist _Dom Bartolommeo_, abbot of St. Clement, who was a painter from youth. Vasari speaks of books and beautiful illustrations executed by him for the monks of Sante Flora and Lucilla in the Abbey of Arezzo, and in a missal given to Sixtus IV. Two great French illuminators come next up on the scene, one of whom, _Andrieu de Beauneveu_, is mentioned in the Chronicles of Froissart. [Footnote 80] One of his works, called Le Petit Psautier, was valued at eighty livres, about £120 of modern English money. Another of his works was The Great Hours of the Duke de Berri, fac-similes of which will be found in the works of Sylvestre and Noel Humphreys. [Footnote 81] He died in the year 1416, leaving a volume of Hours behind him unfinished, which was bought by the French government for 13,000 francs. The other French artist was _Jean Foucquet_, a native of Tours, who is spoken of as one of the glories of the fifteenth century. His principal works were the illumination of a book called L'Anciennrté des Juifs, and the Hours of Anne of Bretagne, two specimens of which may be found in Mr. Noel Humphrey's excellent work before alluded to. [Footnote 82] The greatest artist in the Italian miniature was _Don Giulio Clovio_, whose advent closes the history of the art in the fifteenth century. The incidents of his career may be found in Vasari; they are eventful; he was driven into a monastery in early life, when the Spaniards devastated Rome in 1527. He through up the cowl some years after by the Pope's permission, and went into the service of Cardinal Grimani, for whom he executed many of his best works. An office of the Virgin occupied him nine years in painting; it is still extant in the Musco Borbonico at Naples. He also illuminated a copy of Grimani's Commentary on St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans: this is now in the Soane Museum. In Sylvestre's Palaeography, [Footnote 83] is a copy of one of Clovio's miniatures from the MS. of Dante's Vision, now in the Vatican.

[Footnote 80: Chroniques de Floissart, vol. iv., p. 71, Lyons.]

[Footnote 81: Paléog. Univ., plate 195: Madden, ii. 544-7. Illuminated Books of the Middle Ages, plate xxi.]

[Footnote 82: Illuminated Books of the Middle Ages, plates xxxi. and xxxii.]

[Footnote 83: Sylvester--Paléog. Univ.. plate 162.]

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Another splendid relique of this artist consists of a large miniature of the crucifixion, executed for Gregory XIII.; it was brought from the Vatican during the campaigns in Italy, in the time of the French Revolution, by the Abbé Celotti. He was called the Michael Angelo of painters, and died in 1578, at the advanced age of eighty. His last days were spent in peace, as Vasari tells us "he does not study or do anything, but seek the salvation of his soul by good works, and a life spent wholly apart from mundane affairs." _Godefroy_ and _Dutillet_ were two distinguished French illuminators of the sixteenth century, and _Johan Banzel_ of Ulm, is the one with whom Vasari concludes his anecdotes of painting. This list is scanty enough, and there can be no doubt that hundreds of names have sunk in the oblivion of the times; devotees to this beautiful art, and victims to the negligence with which the art-historians of the times treated their labors; they slumber in their unknown graves, but their works exist to the admiration and speculation of modern times. We have given a very cursory and rapid review of the rise and development of this most beautiful art; the most beautiful thing that mediaeval Christianity has bequeathed to us. We have endeavored also to give a few names of such of our countrymen who excelled in its exercise, and it only remains to say a few words upon its use, as a work of refined piety, before we proceed to glean a few historical lessons as to the doctrinal development of the church, to be drawn from these art expressions of different periods, for there is nothing upon which a nation or a community stamps the characteristics of its individuality more clearly than upon its art.

These illuminations have a great historical value, as evidences of the life of the times. Were it not for them the past as a life would be lost to us. We should be almost ignorant of the modes and manners of existence of our ancestors. We might have descriptive representations of the deeds they did, but their customs, their habits, their amusements, and their interior existence would have been lost to us forever. It is that which enables us to put as it were a soul into history, to revive a past life in our minds, to resuscitate it, and make it live again before us; all this, but for the preservation of illuminated MSS., would have been irretrievably lost. It is from them alone we can see the customs of the domestic life of our ancestors, their habits at home, at table, in the field, in society, for those pictures, though executed to represent a life of Eastern and Biblical incident, have this peculiarity about them, that the paraphernalia of the scenes are in keeping with the times of their execution; so that unconsciously these monks, when decorating their psalters and their missals, have handed down to us the very best illustration of the written history of their times. [Footnote 84]

[Footnote 84: I know of no better evidence of the value of these MSS. than the excellent and valuable work compiled by Mr. Thomas Wright, a great authority on Saxon antiquities, called The Domestic Manners and Sentiments of the Middle Ages in England. The work is compiled principally from these sources, the illustrations are copied from ancient MSS., and it contains a repertoire of nearly all that can be gleaned from them, forming a picture of the life of Saxons, Normans, and early English, as it was sketched by themselves--a most valuable work, both for the historian and general reader.]

We have hitherto reviewed this labor as a work of art, but we must not forget its higher and nobler motive. Art may be kindled by the fire of ambition or the love of gain, but the motive which inspired the monastic illuminator was a far higher one. Whatever we may think of what we sometimes call the folly of spending years in illustrating a gospel or a psalter, we must be driven to the conclusion that as these monks were situated, it was a work of devotion. No other feeling could prompt them to give their lives to such a labor, because it was labor unrequited. In our times, or in fact in all times, men will accomplish marvels for money, but these men were paid nothing for their labor, not even the flattery of admiration. In the {314} early periods of the art, it is true that in one or two cases an illuminator was made an abbot or a bishop, but those cases were so exceptional that scarcely half a dozen instances could be found in history of such honor being conferred upon an obscure monastic artist. The works over which they spent their long days and longer nights were sent into the church for use; gems of art they were, but exhibited to no public admiration, to no applauding critics; there they lay hidden in monastic libraries, in church vestries, in convent chests, to moulder in obscurity for the amusement and commercial speculation of an after age, when the life they embellished had died out in the world, and it should become impossible to ascertain the names of the men whose busy fingers were plied with such magic skill. Nothing but devotion could have prompted such labor as that, and how are we to say that in the eyes of the Almighty the devotion which could spend years lovingly over the embellishment of a gospel, to illustrate it with the choicest productions of genius, and to offer up to it all that was beautiful and good in thought, fancy, and execution--how are we to say that such an offering may not have been, under the circumstances in which they were placed, as acceptable in the eyes of God as the limited devotion of modern life, with its mechanical modes, its periodical days of worship, amid long intervals of sin? The devotion of modern times may sometimes manifest itself in the erection of hospitals and churches, but we are not always sure that such deeds are free from the taint of ostentation of wealth or jealousy of hated heirs--to flaunt the one or to balk the others; but the devotion which found vent in missal-painting and copying the scriptures by hand in the dark ages must have been pure; for we cannot, even by the most prejudiced investigation, discover any sordid or ambitious motive for it. Where there is no payment we may rest assured that labor is a labor of love. The best proof of the fact is the difficulty to get people to illuminate missals now. It was an exquisitely beautiful art, and ought not to have died out so completely. Latterly however, in the church, to the scandal of vigilant Protestants, there has been a sort of attempt at a revival of mediaevalism; it has become the vogue to appeal to the fathers to sing mediaeval hymns, and to decorate the corners of prayer-books and the interiors of churches with mediaeval art; but it has proved to be more a revival of mediaeval forms than mediaeval devotions. It has also become fashionable to study illumination--an elegant amusement for an idle hour--and many have tried it as an art, but it has failed both as an art and a work; as an art, even in these days of art excellence, it has failed, and as a work, it has not been pursued with that avidity to bring success, because the modern stimulant is wanting--it pays not; it is lifeless, automaton-like, a dead body galvanized, missal-painting without devotion. [Footnote 85] But in our admiration of the genius and piety of these monastic artists we must not overlook one great fact, that this art is not only a representation of the interior life of the nation, a representation of its manners, customs, and modes of existence, but it is also a reflection of the state of the church at each successive period. Chroniclers may differ in their accounts, historians may quarrel with each other, but the history which a church rights in its art and literature, in it's sculpture, painting, and poetry, is traced, as it were, by the events themselves, and graven by the very fingers of time.

[Footnote 85: It must be borne in mind that the author of this paper is a Protestant, and we believe a minister of the Church of England. --Ed. C. W.]

We take up a manuscript supposed to be written about the year 900. [Footnote 86]

[Footnote 86: Cotton MSS.--Tiberius, A H. ]

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It is an evangeliarum. It contains a picture of St. Matthew, with his left hand resting upon a desk, and his right holding a pen. On the next page is the word "Liber," the beginning of the gospel written on a crimson ground in letters outlined in vermilion and gold; at page 72 there is a picture of St. Mark; all the evangelists are delineated, but no other figures. In a Psalter, [Footnote 87] written in the year 1000, the same simplicity prevails. It is written in capital letters, with an interlinear Anglo-Saxon version. The title-page contains the figure of Christ in the act of blessing, but the principal picture, which occupies a whole page, is a representation of David in his youth, playing on a lyre-shaped psalter, accompanied by six smaller figures, below which are two others dancing. In another Psalter [Footnote 88] of the same period there is a picture of the crucifixion, with Mary, the mother of Jesus, on the one side, and St. John the Baptist on the other. A Psalter of the year 1000, [Footnote 89] very fully illuminated, is a fine specimen of the purely Biblical nature of the illustrations of that period. The calendar at the beginning contains a representation of three persons at a table, and two kneeling attendants. On page 7 is a youthful Christ, holding a large scroll, upon which the word "vita" is written; also God the Father, as creator of the world, in the Mosaic type; the figure is hidden up to the face by a globe, and from the mouth issue two blue lines, representing streams of water, over one of which a dove hovers--one of the oldest specimens of this conception of the Almighty. Another representation, on the next page, is the figure of David tearing open the lion's jaws; then the temptation of our Saviour--the devil is represented as having a beaked nose and claws. On page 10 is the washing of the disciples' feet, with an angel descending from heaven with a cloth. Page 14, Christ appearing to Mary Magdalene. On page 18, the Last Judgment, in which Christ is most prominent, holding in one hand a horn, and in the other a cross; below him is the Book of Life open, and at his side are two large angels blowing trumpets. Page 30 contains David playing on the psalter; and on page 114 there is a large figure of Christ, holding in his left hand the Book of Life, in his right a sceptre, with which he is piercing the jaws of a lion beneath his feet, and a dragon at his side is biting the lion (see Psalm xci. 13).

[Footnote 87: Cotton MSS.--Vespasian, A i.]

[Footnote 88: Harleian MSS., 2904.]

[Footnote 89: Cotton MSS.--Tiberius, C vi.]

One of the most interesting specimens of the opening of the eleventh century (1006) is a manuscript called AElfric's heptateuch, in Anglo-Saxon. [Footnote 90] Its principal subjects of illumination are the fall of angels, the first person in the Trinity enthroned, Lucifer, the days of creation, the creation of Adam, the fail, and the expulsion from Paradise. But we wish to call attention to the close resemblance of the Saxon of that period to our modern English. We shall quote a passage from the Anglo-Saxon text, which might almost be translated by the same words in modern English. The passage is Genesis iv. 9, 10. The Saxon runs: "Tha cwoeth drihten to Caine, hwoer is Abel thin brothor? Tha answarode he and ewoeth, ic nat. Segat thu sceolde ic minne brothor healdon? Tha cwoeth drihten to Caine, hwoet dydest thu? thines brothor blod clypath up to me of eorthan." Which may be rendered in English by almost the same words, thus: "Then quoth the Lord to Cain, where is Abel thy brother? Then answered he and quoth, I know not Sayest thou should I hold my brother? Then quoth the Lord to Cain, What didst thou? thy brother's blood crieth up to me off the earth."

[Footnote 90: Cotton MSS.--Claudius, B iv.]

In the first half of the eleventh century, representations of the Virgin are multiplied in the MSS. of the period, though not yet as the predominant figure. In a Psalter of that date [Footnote 91] we have a representation of David in prayer; then Christ enthroned, with angels around him; below in a row are eleven heads; and below all, the Virgin and twelve Apostles in full-length figures.

[Footnote 91: Cotton MSS.--Galba, A xviii.]

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In the representation of the ascension, Christ is the main figure borne up by two angels, and below are two other angels and the Virgin with her hands raised in prayer. In a picture Bible [Footnote 92] of this period, she is again introduced.

[Footnote 92: Cotton MSS.--Nero, C iv.]

Page 8 contains a representation of the root of Jesse--below lies Abraham, then David, and next the Virgin, above all is Christ; but at page 20, we have the death of the Virgin, and the Virgin enthroned in heaven. In the thirteenth century MSS., we find the Virgin taking the most prominent position, and Christ represented as a child; saints, too, creep into the illuminations, more especially Thomas à Becket, whose murder appears to have been always diligently inserted by the monks in their MSS., as we shall see. In a Psalter [Footnote 93] of the year 1200, among many other pictures, is a burial of a saint in his episcopal mitre; and the anointing of David is followed a few pages after by the murder of Thomas à Becket.

[Footnote 93: Harleian MSS., 5102]

In Matthew Paris's History of the English nation (died 1259), there is a picture of the Virgin enthroned as the queen of heaven, with Christ as a little child; she is bending her crowned head, with her hair flowing down, toward the child, pressing her cheek against his, while with her right hand she gives him a fruit. In a Psalter [Footnote 94] of the same period we find the annunciation of the Virgin, the visitation of the Virgin, and the Virgin crowned, with Christ again as a little child.

[Footnote 94: Biblia Regia, 2 A xxii]

In a copy of the Vulgate [Footnote 95] the fourth page is full of pictures; there is the Virgin, with Christ as a child, St. Peter on one side, and St. Paul on the other; below is St. Martin, above the crucifixion, with the Virgin and St. John; above that are two cherubim and quite above all, in the position formerly accorded to Christ, is a representation of the coronation of the Virgin.

[Footnote 95: MSS. Regia, 1 D i.]

In the fragment of a lectionary [Footnote 96] executed for Lord Lovell by one John Siferwas, a Benedictine monk, there is on the title-page a portrait of Lord Lovell looking at a book, upon the cover of which is a picture of the coronation of the Virgin; on the inner border of page 3, there is the Virgin as the queen of heaven, holding the child with her robe in the left hand, and a sceptre in her right.

[Footnote 96: Harleian MSS., 7026]

After three or four more representations of her, we meet with the presentation of the Virgin; in the centre is the Virgin crowned by the first person of the Trinity, who is represented as having a long white beard; another with the Virgin and child upon the moon, surrounded with rays; on page 23, the Virgin surrounded by the pope, bishops, and others, and on page 27, the birth of the Virgin. The office of the Virgin was confirmed by Pope Urban II, at the Council of Clermont There are several of these offices extant. In an office of the Virgin and prayers [Footnote 97] of the date 1420, we find pictures of John the Baptist, St. James of Compostello enthroned, St. Thomas Aquinas, also enthroned, and St. Francis of Assisi receiving the stigmata or wounds of Christ.

[Footnote 97: Bib. Regia 2 A xviii.]

On page 11, the Virgin and child seated on a bench with St. Anna; on page 13 St. Catherine, page 15 St. Margaret, and page 21 the annunciation. In another office of the Virgin, [Footnote 98] we find the evangelists, the annunciation and visitation of the Virgin, the murder of Thomas à Becket, St. Catherine, St. Margaret, the scourging of Christ, adoration of kings, and in the most prominent picture the coronation of the Virgin, in which she is represented as being supported by an angel while the Almighty is pointing with his right hand to a cherub who, accompanied by two angels is about to place the crown on her head.

[Footnote 98: Harleian MSS., 2900.]

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At the conclusion there is a picture of the Virgin on a throne with the child Christ. There are several offices of the Virgin in the Harleian collection, [Footnote 99] but we shall only notice one more, which bears date from 1490 to 1500. [Footnote 100]

[Footnote 99: Harleian MSS., 2646, 2884, 2858, etc.]

[Footnote 100: MSS. Addit., 17012.]

On pages 20 and 21 are autographs of Henry VII. and Henry VIII., which will justify the supposition that it belonged to both. Its illustrations include, among other things, the murder of Thomas à Becket, St. George and the Dragon, St. Christopher, the Virgin and child, with St. Anna, St. Catherine, St. Barbara, and St. Margaret. There is a religious poem, illustrated with miniatures, and bearing date from 1420 to 1430, [Footnote 101] which elaborately delineates the intercessorial attributed to the Virgin.

[Footnote 101: Cotton MSS.--Faustina, B vi.]

The picture in which this is set forth is a remarkable one. In the lower part of it is a man dying on a bed, at the foot of which stands death, in the usual form of a skeleton, making ready to pierce the heart of the dying man with a spear, and there is a black demon, with a hook reaching toward him; at the head of the bed is an angel receiving his soul, which is represented as a naked infant; about is the Virgin, with a crown upon her head, baring her bosom to Christ, and imploring him, by the breasts which nourished him, to take pity upon the soul of the dying man. They are both kneeling before the Almighty, and Christ is represented in a red mantle as showing his wounds, in token of granting his mother's request. The Almighty is represented as seated upon a throne, robed in a blue mantle, and having the usual long white beard; he is lifting his hand in benediction. An idea was set on foot that the Virgin had fainted at the crucifixion; and in some of these later manuscripts she is represented in the act. In a Psalter [Footnote 102] Page 256, there is a picture of the crucifixion, with the Virgin in the act of fainting.

[Footnote 102: MSS. Regia, 2 B vii.]

Mrs. Jamieson in noticing this fact in her History of Our Lord as exemplified in Art, has remarked that it was condemned by Catholic writers themselves. Thomas Cajetani wrote of it as "indecens et improbabile;" and other writers are quoted by Molanus, who inveighed against it, and stigmatized it as a thing "temerarium, scandalosum et periculosum."

But it was at the period of the Reformation, and after then, that these treasures of art suffered, and the natural iconoclasm of human nature broke out. Men gazed around them upon gorgeous temples, decorated with splendid paintings, stained glass windows, marvellous sculpture, and to their zealous minds it was all idolatry; and they tore down frescoes, destroyed paintings, overturned altars, broke up statues, and burned sacred books to exterminate error if possible, not by the powers of truthful preaching and godly lives, but by the battle-axe and the bonfire; not by uprooting error itself, so much as by beating down and destroying its mere evidences.

It was in consequence of this iconoclasm that much of the art productions of Christianity has been lost to us; nay, much of literature and history also, for in the sack of a monastery little discrimination was used, save as to precious metals. We frequently read of valuable books and manuscripts being consigned to the flames, but the cups, chalices, the contents of the coffers, invariably found their way to the treasury. We must always remember this, that human nature was not wholly confined to Roman Catholics, but that there was a considerable amount of it among the Reformers. Still, in spite of iconoclasm, in spite of misguided zeal, sufficient has escaped destruction, and been preserved to our inspection, to convince us of the beauty of those arts which sprang up in the wake of Christianity, though they did ultimately become tainted with human error. And we may see in all this {318} painting and sculpture, poetry and music, the marvellous adaptability of Christianity as a regenerator and stimulant, how it takes up what is good in the world--genius, skill, love, devotion, and starts them into new channels, with increased vigor and nobler aim. It took up philosophy, purged it of its errors, and of philosophers made fathers; it took up science, and bid it labor to alleviate human suffering, and assuage the physical condition of humanity; it took up art, and not only embellished it, but gave it an inexhaustible realm of subjects--a realm in which it has been laboring ever since, and though improving advancing in each age, will never exhaust its treasures; it has been, as it's Founder declared it should be, the salt of the earth; it has rescued the world in moments of darkness and danger, aroused it from apathy and indifference, purged it, stimulated it, sent it on in the right way, and brought it back again when it had peevishly wandered; and not the least evidence of its purifying, elevating effects upon the fine arts is this, which we have been endeavoring to describe in the rise and development of missal painting, that beauty of cloistered: holiness.

From The Month.

THE FAIREST FAIR.

(FROM ST. JOHN OF THE CROSS.)

"My beloved is the mountains, The solitary wooded valleys." --_St. John of the Cross_.

I.

Mountains, that upward to the clouds arise, Odorous with thyme, whereon the wild bees linger, Jewell'd with flowers of a thousand dyes. Their petals tinted by no mortal finger; How solemn in their gray-worn age they stand, Hills piled on hills in silent majesty! Lofty and strong, and beautiful and grand: All this and more is my belov'd to me.

II.

Come forth into the woods,--in yonder valley. Where rippling waters murmur through the glade; There, 'neath the rustling boughs of some green alley, We'll watch the golden light and quivering shade: Or couch'd on mossy banks we'll lie and listen To song-birds pouring forth their vernal glee. Wave on, ye woods; ye faery fountains, glisten: But more, far more is my beloved to me.

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III.

Know ye the land where fragrant winds awaken In spicy forests hidden from the eye: Where richest perfumes from the boughs are shaken, And flowers unnotic'd bloom and blush and die? Sweet is th' eternal spring that there reposes On wondrous isles that gem the sunny sea, And sweet the gales that breathe o'er beds of roses: But sweeter far is my belov'd to me.

IV.

The roaring torrents from the ice-cliffs leaping-- I see them foaming down the mountain side, Through the green dells and valleys onward sweeping, They fill the hollows with their mighty tide: Their voice is as the voice of many waters; Onward they rush, exulting to be free; But ah! their thunder fails, their music falters: Far more than this is my belov'd to me.

V.

A gentler sound wakes in the hush of even. The whisper of a light and cooling breeze; It stirs when twilight shades are in the heaven,' And bows the tufted foliage of the trees; It fans my cheek; its music softly stealing Speaks to my heart in loving mystery. Ah, gentle breeze! full well thou art revealing The joy that my beloved is to me.

VI.

Night comes at last, in mystic shadows folding The nodding forest and the verdant lawn, Till the day breaks, and Nature starts, beholding The golden chariot of the coming dawn: Then on each bough the feathered chanters, waking, Pour forth their music over bush and tree. Cease, cease your songs, ye birds; my heart-strings breaking Lack words to say what Jesus is to me.

VII.

Yea, all the fairest forms that Nature scatters. And all melodious sounds that greet the ear; The murmuring music of the running waters. The golden harvest-fields that crown the year, The crimson morn, the calm and dewy even, The tranquil moonlight on the slumbering' sea,-- All are but shadows, forms of beauty given To tell what my beloved is to me.

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THE GODFREY FAMILY; OR, QUESTIONS OF THE DAY.