CHAPTER XXIII.

CONTROVERSY ON IMPORTANT POINTS.

"Brother," said Annie, "I begin to perceive that it is of necessity that philosophy divides itself into two branches, the exoteric and esoteric. The human mind evidently needs considerable preparation to be able t comprehend the higher ideas that lie hidden under first teachings. It is not so much the teachings that are separate as that the mind must pass through a given process to arrive at the meaning. Every form of matter seems a metaphor, involving a spiritual idea, and many minds seem powerless to penetrate to this; they necessarily remain content with the material explanation."

"And yet you blame religion for presenting defined dogmas, practical methods, and real precepts to her children, forgetting that this is the necessary preparation to higher truth, and that every mind must begin at the beginning?"

"I blame only trivial and childish practices; I reject only untenable doctrines."

"As for example?"

"The idea that a good God will plunge us into hell!"

"Have you ever reflected on what God is, Annie?"

"No! how should we know aught of such a being?"

"Chiefly by revelation, but also somewhat by observation."

"Give me your idea on the subject, Eugene."

"God is light, power, and love. He created intelligent beings, that he might impart to them a degree of these attributes, and in their degree call upon them to participate in the joys they impart. The unvarying law impressed on material agencies, whether endowed with vitality or not, did not (in all reverence be it spoken) content the love of God; the enforced obedience of the material world to the attractions acting upon it, and the instincts animating the various races of the verified matter, though beautiful, though glorious evidence of power, wisdom, and benevolence, did not call forth a consciousness of creatureship, could not render to the creator a free-will offering of warm, outpouring, grateful love. This the Creator desired. It is his pleasure to desire to be loved; and he created the human soul for the satisfying of this desire; he rendered it free, and endowed it with the faculty of loving, that it may freely offer the purest love to himself."

"Go on; how do you reconcile this with hell?"

"God is pure, holy, incapable of defilement, change, or division. His essential being penetrates all space, comes in contact, literally, with all material and spiritual existence. Now, God created the human soul like unto himself, with affinities to himself, and in proportion as that likeness continues or is restored, light, love, and power exist in that soul. The absence of these constitutes disease, which will result in spiritual death. They are absent in the wicked, and the divine rays entering that soul cause pain, even as the rays of the sun cause pain when they enter the eye of the body after it has become diseased."

"But eternally?"

"The soul preserves its identity and consciousness eternally, though it undergoes spiritual death. If by an act of volition it has lost light, love, and power, it has not lost immortality, and the divine rays, penetrating this wreck of life, necessarily fill it with terror and dismay when all affinity for purity and holiness are destroyed. The spirit of love, culturing the spirit of hate, must produce pain, discord, rage; and as the strife is now unequal and hate is impotent, it creates despair also. We see this on a minor scale on earth. The French revolution {617} brought prominently before us men whose spiritual faculties seemed already dead--men given up to a reprobate sense, who appeared utterly beyond conversion, and who were styled by the vulgar incarnate demons; yet these are immortal beings who will carry their dispositions beyond the grave. Should you like hereafter to come in contact with such?"

Annie shuddered. She thought of Alfred Brookbank, whose mere entrance into the room had often caused her blood to curdle.

Eugene continued: "Remember, sister, that evil means cutting ourselves off voluntarily from God, and thereby subjecting ourselves to become the prey of our own passions, of our own selfishness, which when once loosed may lead to every kind of excess. Good, on the contrary, is living in God, adoring his will, admiring his perfections, loving his law. While on earth the choice of good and evil is before us; and what repugnances to perfect action or to perfect dispositions we find difficult to overcome in this our fallen state will be overcome for us if we pray in a sincere, in a co-operative spirit, or rather we shall receive power to overcome all evil and to accomplish all good if only in simplicity of heart we turn to him who is faithful to fulfil all promises; for he has said, 'Ask and you shell receive' all graces necessary to form in you the true spiritual life. If we choose to neglect this means appointed by God, we have no right to complain of the result."

"I will pray," whispered Annie.

"I, too," said Mrs. Godfrey, who was for the most part a silent listener in these discussions. "Strange it is, Eugene, that you should be teaching the principles which I ought to have instilled into you from youth upward."

"Why, you were not a Catholic, mother!" said Eugene.

"No! but I had many opportunities of becoming instructed, had I been willing; but I was worldly; I cared for none of these things; I did not think the time would come when I should consider sorrow and sickness a blessing: without that fearful malady and these paralyzed limbs I might have died in ignorance of all that it most concerns me to know. I have lived without God; dare I hope, Eugene, he will accept my tardy return to him now?"

"The grace that is working in your heart to make you wish that return is an evidence of his love for yon, dear mother; only continue to respond to it, and all will be well."

. . . . .

"Brother," said Annie, on another occasion, "the accounts that we have of the ancients soon after the deluge seem to denote that they were a race of wondrous power. The mere history we have of the building of the city of Babylon, its wondrous walls, its bricks so well cemented by bitumen that they seemed imperishable; its six hundred and seventy-six squares, so planned that they preserved the ventilation of the city in perfect order; its provision for water; its hanging gardens and palaces--to read of such cities as this and Nineveh and many others, one imagines a fairy tale in hand instead of realities. Then, I presume, the raising of those immense blocks of stone which go to form the Pyramids would puzzle our modern engineers, as would many things in that land of wonders, Egypt. Conceive a modern traveller losing his way among the ruins of ancient temples that strew the site where Thebes once stood, passing the night in the rude hut of a Bedouin or Copt erected amid these ruins, and in the morning seated upon a fallen pillar, making his meditation on 'Progression.' All ancient, very ancient history, is instinct with power. What does this mean?"

"That probably the knowledge that Adam imparted to his descendants was greater than that which we now possess, or the intellectual faculties may have been stronger before passion and egotism again corrupted the race."

{618}

"You think the earlier men really possessed higher intellectual facilities than we have now?"

"I think their works would warrant the assumption. Beside, it is reasonable to suppose that Adam was created perfect according to his nature, that it was endowed with the highest spiritual and intellectual faculties, capable not only of understanding the material creation in its laws of attraction, in the relationships of matter to matter, but also of comprehending the type enfolded in each material manifestation; the spiritual co-relationship existing between such manifestation and the idea it represents. This spiritual faculty was overborne by sin, impurity deluged the world, and a material deluge destroyed the race. But to Noah, doubtless, the mental organization as well as the spiritual power descended; hence immediately after the deluge we see mighty works which betoken that high creative intellect which inspire modern imitators with mute wonder."

"Then you think sin was absolutely a destroying power?"

"I do, even from the first. The intellectual faculties, when used as the mere servant of the selfish passions, shrink and cannot receive their full expansion, cannot perceive spiritual relationships, cannot perceive man's moral relationships, each one to his fellow. Indulgence of the passions, inordinately pursued, of itself cripples the intellect and takes away the desire of intellectual culture; selfishness, on the other hand, shuts up the fountains of knowledge, in order to retain the material power that knowledge gives for selfish purposes. Both these causes were in operation to cause that inequality of fortune which finally wrought the 'castes' among mankind. The knowing ones kept the knowledge transmitted from Noah downward in their own exclusive possession, which the majority submitted to at first in order more freely to indulge their passions, and afterward because they could not help themselves, having (under the influence of passion) fallen out of the intellectual sphere. Laws compelling by force certain restraints became necessary, and soon labor was performed by force also, and most of the laborers became slaves. These laws, in their action, usually touched only the governed, that is, those who had let the intellectual power slip from them. The governors had, almost universally, power to trample on the common law when applied to themselves; it was only when they came in contact with each other, and intruded on each other's privileges, that they were called to account. I speak not of the theory, but of the practice; there was one law for the rich, another for the poor, throughout all ages. What was called civilization, before the coming of Christ, did not touch the poor, the enslaved; the down-trodden slaves had little chance of justice or of mercy. What was meant by liberty applied only to the freemen; the want of remembering this leads many two mistakes in comparing the civilization of ancient and modern times. The gospel preached to the poor taught them to repress the empire of the passions, thus slowly but surely causing that rise of intellect in the masses which has swept slavery from Europe, and from all countries where the laborer has followed even imperfectly this first requisite, the doing which has enabled him to cultivate his intellect sufficiently to compete with those in possession of power. A people enslaved my passion easily succumb to external force, as a virtuous people, however poor, have an innate power of preserving external freedom. The external depends on the internal. One is a manifestation of the other; almost a consequence."

"Then," said Annie, "if I have understood you aright, man was originally in direct communication with his Creator. Sin not only destroyed this communication, which was the source of all knowledge and happiness, it impaired the faculties through which that communication is held."

"Yes," said Eugene.

{619}

"And as temporal happiness is but the reflex of spiritual happiness, the necessary result of order in the spiritual relationship, it follows that the spiritual order must be restored before the natural order can yield the happiness it is calculated to produce. This, then, is the redemption, penance, violence to flesh, and to self will, before the restoration can take place; these being the necessary medicine to heal the soul's diseases. Those who refuse the medicine perish."

"You surprise me, sister," said Eugene; "you are apt at understanding."

"You forget that long since the enigma was propounded to us. I am but just getting my ideas into form. You will tell me if I have drawn correct inferences. Man, by the fall, lost not only actual knowledge and actual means of knowledge, but he lost empire over the animal world, and, worse than all, over himself; he became a slave to his own appetites and passions, and to his own self-will. From this state no effort of his own could rescue him. The Redeemer came to offer him means of rescue, to enable him to re-establish spiritual communication, to bring man again into such actual relationship with God that he shall look up to him, practically as well as theoretically, as the highest metaphysical teacher; as the source of real power and light to the understanding; the restorer of all things to their pristine harmony. Is this so?"

"It is."

"And naturally this restoration must begin by the healing of the disorders of the soul. The first impulses of grace create desire for goodness, purity, and truth; but the old man is still within, and can only be subdued by violence done to ourselves. 'The kingdom of heaven suffereth violence, and the violent take it by force.' This is why the saints welcome mortification and suffering, looking on them as tools with which to subdue themselves, with which they may be enabled to offer themselves a living sacrifice to God. This is why what men call 'progress' is repugnant to sanctity--progress meaning increased facilities for indulging the passions; facilities which, as we advance in sanctity, we learn to dispense with more and more. This is what Euphrasie meant when she puzzled us at her first coming."

"Indeed, sister, I believe it is."

"And her non-appreciation of human learning must have arisen from the intense pleasure she felt in personal, absolute dependence upon God. She did not want to know the material intermediate sequences; of all things, she preferred feeling they came to her directly from her Father's hand."

"I presume this was the case."

"Then, too, if I understood her aright, the soul, purified by prayer, mortification, and good works, becomes by the grace of God detached from the things of this world; it seeks its rest only in God, and then it begins to regain some of the sublime spiritual privileges it had lost. Even on earth it may hold communication with the glorified spirits in heaven, while these glorified spirits themselves, blessed with the beatific vision, drink in sensations of beauty, harmony, and delight, such as exist only in God, and of which we cannot form the slightest conception."

Eugene could only press his sister's hand in silence. She continued:

"It is this union of spiritual natures with our struggling existence, this interest taken by the saints in glory in the members of the church militant on earth, that you term the 'communion of saints,' is it not, Eugene?"

"Yes, Annie."

"And men have dared to call the recognition of this divine union, of this sacred bond of love, idolatry! It is the true conquest over death! the earnest of our own loving immortality! How absurd to call so beautiful a demonstration of the effect of divine charity 'idolatry'!"

"As absurd," said Eugene, "as to believe that God, in providing means to redeem men from the death of sin, should not watch over those means, and preserve them intact from man's defilement."

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"Yes," interposed Mrs. Godfrey, "it is wonderful that men who believe in revelation should not see, _primâ facie_, that the same miraculous interposition which produced the revelation would, as if of necessity, watch over and protect that revelation." Then suddenly becoming very earnest, she said: "Eugene, I am drawing near my end, I feel it every day more. You must bring me a priest, if, indeed, one so worthless as I can become a member of the church of Christ. O my God! it scarcely seems possible that a life of worldliness should be followed by an eternity of bliss! But I will hope against my feelings of justice! The blood of Jesus is powerful to save. O my God! accept it; it was shed for me in pity and in mercy."

"And for me, too," said Annie. "I must be a Catholic also."

"But have you considered the cost, Annie? Your husband! your children!"

"I have weighed everything, and am resolved."

"I think feet, O my God!" said the sick woman. "O eternal justice! I offer thee my children's faith, my children's courage, in union with the precious blood of thy Son, to atone for my own shortcomings. Oh! bless these my children--give them grace to persevere!"

There was a solemn pause. Than she added: "Annie, there is suffering in store for you, but you will accept it. Eugene will be to a friend, a protector, a guide. I made my will before this malady came on. I dare not change it now, lest it should be disputed. I left to Eugene all that I have to leave, but he will provide for you, if provision is needed; and you, Annie, will confide in him when you need a friend."

"I will, dear mother," faltered Annie. "Surely, we have always loved each other."

Eugene threw his arm around his sister's waist, and kneeling by his mother's side, solemnly pledged himself self to watch over his sister and care for her.

TO BE CONTINUED.

ORIGINAL.

PARDON.

"Many sins are forgiven her, because she hath loved much."

Love may, then, hope to quite refund What sin hath ta'en away? Poor heart! thou hast a debt beyond Thy straitened means to pay.

My sins in number far excel The sands beside the sea. Lord! if thou wilt, I pay thee well. Then lend thy heart to me.

{621}

From Chamber's Journal.

SEA-SIDE FLOWERS.

Visitors to the sea-shore love to wander along the beach in search of the beauteous shells of scallop or cowry, left by the retiring tide, and delight to trace their exquisite design and structure; or, scrambling over the shiny rocks, covered with treacherous algae, will appear into the little pools, fringed with crimson and purple weed, inhabited by various anemones, gray shrimps, and darting fish, in hopes of discovering some new treasure to capture, and carry off in triumph for the aquarium at home; but how few care to examine the modest beauty of the many sea-side flowers blooming on regarded at their very feet; nay, their very existence often unknown, or looked upon as common weeds, devoid of all beauty or interest. Many a lover of wildflowers and country beauty will pause in the fields and lanes, and even dusty roads that skirt the shore--especially if they be on the southern coasts of England--where the brier and hawthorn hedges are tangled with luscious honeysuckle, and the primroses cluster in masses; where the wild hyacinth peeps from amidst the nettles, and the speedwell opens its "angel's eyes" of loveliest azure; but as they approached the sea-beach, the proverb of its sterility,

"Barren as the sand on the sea-sure,"

is felt, and not is expected or looked four but the rich harvest of the ocean's wondrous things cast on the shingle, or left in the pools beyond. The immediate banks and links of the sea-side are usually treeless, and, to non-observant eyes, dreary wastes; but not a spot on this wide world is without its interest and beauty, and delightful it is, when rambling along the sandy beach, listening to the music of the waves on the pebbly shore, to find how many lovely blossoms are scattered even here, ornamenting the rugged sides of the chalky cliff or rock, weaving a flowery tapestry over the sloping links, and binding together with interlaced roots the loose substance of many a sand-bank.

Unlike the country meadows, where the loveliest blossoms appear with the earliest sunshine of the year, the fairest sea-side flowers are to be gathered during the summer and autumn months; though even in spring, the turf which enamels the links, down often to the water's edge, will be found decked with an occasional early blossom,

"As if the rainbows of the first fresh spring Had blossomed where they fell."

While, at all seasons of the year, here as elsewhere,

"Daisies with their pinky lashes"

raise their glad faces to the sun:

"On waste and woodland, rock and plain. Its bumble buds unheeded rise; The rose has but a summer reign-- The daisy never dies."

The first gleam of spring sunshine is, however, reflected not only by the silver daisy, but by that "sunflower of the spring," the golden dandelion, which glitters as early as April on the sandy, grassy slope, familiar to all, and common everywhere. The leaves of the dandelion grow from the root; they are deeply cut and notched, and from this have gained their name, which we English have corrupted from the French _dent-de-lion_. The Scotch call the dandelion the hawkweed gowan. The leaves are much eaten on the continent for salad, and a medicine is extracted from the root. Every one is familiar {622} with the downy ball that succeeds the flower:

"The dandelion with globe of down, The school-boy's clock in every town. Which the truant puff's amain, To conjure lost hours back again."

When Linnaeus proposed the use of what he termed a floral clock, which was to consist of plants which opened and closed their blossoms at particular hours of the day, the dandelion was one of the flowers selected, because its petals open at six; the hawkweed was another--it opens at seven; the succory at eight, the celandine and marigold at nine, and so on, the closing of the blossoms marking the corresponding hours in the afternoon. Nor is this the effect of light on the plants, because, when placed in a dark room, the flowers are found to open and close their petals at the same times.

In the month of May many sea-side blossoms appear; but in June they burst forth in such wild profusion that we are at a loss to know which to gather first:

"For who would sing the flowers of Jane, Though from gray morn to blazing noon. From blazing noon to dewy eve. The chaplet of his song he weave, Would find his summer daylight fail, And leave half told the pleasing tale."

We must only attempt to pluck such as are most common, and most likely to attract attention.

Many a sea-side cliff is adorned with the handsome pale-yellow clusters of the sea-cabbage, which flowers from May until the late autumnal months, and is very ornamental, hanging in tufts from the crevices of the chalky heights. It grows from one to two feet high, has woody stems, and leaves a deep green, tinged with purple and yellow. It is very common on the Dover cliffs, where it is gathered, and sold to be boiled and eaten. From it spring our numerous varieties of cabbage; and this reminds me how very greatly we are indebted to our sea-side plants for many of our most valuable vegetables: the fresh crisp celery, the dainty asparagus, the beet, and sea-kale, in addition to the cabbage, are all derived from our salt-marshes, and, under careful cultivation, have become what they are.

The rest-harrow, which we gather in the cornfield, may also be found adorning many a green patch on on the chalky cliff-side or sandy bank near the sea. Its woody thorns are more abundant and stronger than when when flourishing in richer soil. Its leaves are numerous and small, its butterfly-shaped blossoms usually a purple-rose color, but sometimes almost white. Near the sea-side, I have often found the little see-pearl-wort, which requires close observation to detect it. It grows upright, has tiny, delicate leaves, and flower-cups tinged with a reddish-purple color.

Very common in the sand is the sea-rocket, a smooth, glaucous plant, with pretty lilac-pink flowers, which often mixes its blossoms with the white petals of the scurvy-grass.

But June flowers press upon us: here we have plentiful at Dover and many other sea-side places the viper's bugloss, certainly one of the handsomest wild-flowers, either of the neglected field or beach that we have. It is a magnificent plant, sometimes attaining the height of three feet, its rich purple blossoms, with their long bright-red stamens, often extending half-way down the stems. It is peculiar for the variety of tints it exhibits in its flowers, the buds being a rosy red, but expanded blossom a rich purple, which gradually assumes a deep blue. Sometimes it is found white. The stems and leaves are covered with bristles and brownish warts, or tubercles. Its name is taken from the resemblance the seeds bear to a viper's head, and its spotted stem to the snake's skin; and in olden times the plant was supposed to heal the bite of a viper. It flourishes best on a chalky bill or sandy waste ground:

"Here the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil,"

and rears its rich spike of closely sent flowers with a stately air. Though its foliage is coarse, its blossom is very beautiful; not easy, however, together, for bees are ever hovering around it; {623}

"Flying solicitous from flower to flower, Tasting each sweet that dwells Within its scented valves";

and oft tearing their delicate wings among the thick, hairy prickles. The common kidney-vetch flourishes luxuriantly by the sea-shore, decking the heights with its handsome yellow flowers from May to September. It crowds its blossoms into flower-cups, thickly covered with down; and two such tufts or beads usually grow at the top of each stem. It is as common a flower on the continent as with us, though it varies in color--owing, Linnaeus tells us, to the nature of the soil. The French call it _barbe de Jupiter_, Jupiter's beard. We also give it the names of lady's-fingers and lambtoe. Clare tells us:

"The yellow lambtoe I have often got, Sweet creeping o'er the banks in sunny time."

Daring June, the common pellitory of the wall spreads over many a rocky spot, sometimes trailing its stems over the surface, and at others rising erect, a foot high. Its leaves grow up the hairy stalk, and are mixed with the small purple-red flowers that lie closely against the stem. The white ox-eye, though loving best to bow in beauty midst the waving grass of the meadow, may yet be found straying near the coast; and very beautiful are its large solitary flower-heads, with their rich golden centre and pure white ray.

Several thistles are to be found flourishing by the sea-coast, blooming from June to September. Perhaps the most familiar is the common sow-thistle, growing on almost every waste place, and greatly relished by rabbits, on account of the milky juices it contains. Its leagues are deeply notched, the lobes turned backward, its flowers yellow. The milk-thistle is easily recognized by its large leaves veined with white, and deep purple flowers. It is a prickly plant, often growing as high as four or five feet. Though common in England, it is rare in Scotland, and, I have red, is only to be found on the rocky cliffs near Dumbarton Castle, where tradition tells it was planted by Mary, Queen of Scots. The star-thistle may occasionally be found among the wild blossoms of the sea-side, growing on cliff-tops, or green patches of the beach. It has hard woody spines, standing out from the flower-cup only, and in this differs from the other thistles; which are usually covered with sharp bristles, and seem defiantly to announce:

"I am sir Thistle, the surly, The rough and the rude and the burly; I doubt if you'll find My touch quite to your mind, Whether late be your visit or early."

July comes laden with a host of fair blossoms of her own, as numerous as those of June:

"Bright gems of earth, In which perchance we see What Eden was, what Paradise may be."

Perhaps one of the most attractive, as well as one of the first in beauty, and blooming down almost to the water's edge, is the yellow-horned poppy, scattering its crumpled golden blossoms with every passing breeze on the surrounding sea-weed. Its stems and leaves are a delicate blue-green, wearing the bloom that is called glaucous, from which its botanical name is taken. It is hairy, and its peculiar, curved, horn-like pods are often half a foot long. It is a showy, handsome plant, but smells badly, and is said to be poisonous. Quite as pretty, and far less harmful, is the sea-convolvulus, trailing its rose-colored bells with yellow rays, and dark-green succulent leaves, in clusters on the sandy links, where it presents a succession of delicate, short-lived flowers; and equally common but less showy, are the green blossoms and thick wavy leaves of the sea-beet (_Beta maritima_), which, when cultivated, we often recognize as a useful vegetable. I have often gathered near the sea the hound's-tongue, easily recognized by its dark purple-red blossoms, and strong smell of mice. Its soft downy leaves are supposed to resemble in form the tongue of a dog, and from this it derives its Greek and common name. It is a tall plant, often growing two feet hi. Its foliage is a dull green, its flowers a rich claret color.

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On the sandy downs and in the rock-crevices down even to the shore,

"Flourishing so gay and wildly free, Upon the salt-marsh by the roaring sea,"

are the pink and white heads of the sea-pink, or well-known thrift, so often used as a bordering in our flower-gardens, but here hanging in little tufts from the rocks, thriving where little nourishment can be afforded, and thus well meriting its name. Its leaves grow from the root, and mostly resemble coarse grass. Its flowers form round heads of lilac-pink blossoms, and crown downy stalks, some four inches high. There, too, is

"The sea-lavender, which lacks perfume,"

and is a species of everlasting, retaining its color and form long after being gathered. Its spike of blue-lilac flowers is very handsome. There are several species of sea-lavender; and in August we have the delicate, lilac-blue blossoms and bluish-green foliage of the upright-spiked sea-lavender, so often gathered to deck the winter vase. It is smaller both in leaf and flower than the former species.

Growing down, even amid the sand, we may now gather the compact head of the tall eryngo, or sea-holly, which has blue blossoms, in shape resembling the thistle's; and firm prickly leaves, beautifully veined, and adorned with that pale sea-green bloom so common in our sea-side plants. It grows about a foot high, and is stiff and rigid.

One of the purest-tinted blue flowers that we have may be found flourishing by the sea. It is the narrow-leaved pale flax, a sweet, delicate, fragile blossom, that drops its petals as we gather it. It is a tall plant, with a solitary flower on each stem, and small alternate leaves, adorning each to the root. Its stem is tough and fibrous, like all its species. The flax cultivated for commerce is a pretty pale-blue bell, erect and fragile, dancing and trembling with the faintest whisper of the passing breeze. Mrs. Howitt well describes it:

"Oh! the goodly flax-flower! It groweth on the hill; And be the breeze awake or asleep It never standeth still! It seemeth all astir with life, As if it loved to thrive, As if it had a merry heart Within its stem alive."

How pretty are the little sendworts now in blossom, especially the sea-pimpernel, or sea-side sandwort, which blooms in shining, glossy patches only a few inches high. Its clustering white flowers are almost hidden by the sick, crowding, succulent leaves. There are ten species of sandwort. Perhaps the commonest of all is the sea-spurry sandwort, which hangs its little blossoms in trailing tufts from the cliff-sides.

In this month also we may gather the white-rayed flowers of the sea-side feverfew, which often grows far down on the beach. Its blossoms are the size of a daisy, its stems tick, its leaves stalky, its growth low. And now also, decking the size of the banks, is the perfoliate yellowwort with its bright yellow flowers, and pale sea-green leaves, which grow in couplets, joining at the base, the stalk passing through them. The plant grows about a foot high, is not uncommon, and to be found in flourishing abundance on the Kentish coast.

Fringing the summit of the tall sea-cliffs, and clothing with its clusters of yellowish-white flowers and fleshy sea-green leaves the many crevices on the steep sides of the rocks, we may see the samphire, so plentiful on the southern shores, and especially at Dover, where it is gathered during May 4 pickle. That there is danger to the gatherer we may infer from Shakespeare's mention in King Lear, whence the scene is laid near Dover:

"Half-way down Hangs one that gathers samphire: dreadful trade!"

{625}

Several kinds of sea southern wood are now showing their green flowers; the saltwort and funny-looking, jointed-branched, leafless glasswort are to be gathered now, both so useful for the soda they contain.

There is a species of nightshade often to be found flourishing on our see beaches, with blossoms shaped like the potato-flower, but white, and followed by black berries, highly poisonous.

These are also the dwarf-centaury and dwarf-tufted centaury, neither growing beyond a few inches in height, both possessing light-green stems and clusters of rose-colored blossoms.

The buck's-horn plantain is common on the sea-shore. It derives its name from the peculiar cutting of its leaves.

Very common on the rocky bank is the wild mignonette. Though lacking the sweet fragrance of the garden species, its pale greenish-yellow spikes are very ornamental. The sea-side pea grows on the links and banks of our beaches, but is uncommon. Its butterfly shaped blossoms remind one of the sweet-pea of the garden:

"Where swelling peas on leafy stalks are seen, Mixed flowers of red and azure shine between."

During the great famine of 1555, it is said that thousands of families subsisted on the seeds contained in the pods of the sea-side pea.

Near the beach, I have often gathered the knot-grass, so named from the knottiness of its stem, and to be found flourishing everywhere:

"By the lone quiet grave, In the wild hedgerow, the knot-grass is seen, Down in the rural lane, Or on the verdant plain, Everywhere humble, and everywhere green."

Shakespeare has called it "the hindering knot-grass," on account of the obstacles its trailing, tangled stems offer to the husbandman. Milton speaks of it as

"The knot grass, dew besprent."

It is familiar to almost every eye, forming little green patches even between stones of our streets, its tiny pale-pink blossoms growing so closely to the stem as to be half hidden among the leaves. Its seeds and young buds afford a store of food for birds; and it is said that swine and sheep love to feed upon it. Milton tells us,

"The chewing flocks Had ta'en their supper of that savory herb, The knot-grass."

It bears little resemblance to a grass but this reminds me that among our sea-side plants the grasses are perhaps the most interesting, as well as useful and important, and are often of great service by their spreading mass of tough underground stems offering a strong resistance to the inroads of the sea. Several of the shores of England are so protected; and the greater part of the coast of Holland, being composed of dikes, owes its security to the powerful obstacles the peculiar growth of these grasses affords. Thus we see

"The commonest things may ofttimes be Those of the greatest utility. How many uses hath grass which groweth, Wheresoever the wild wind bloweth."

Useful as the sea-side grasses are, however, we have not space in this short paper to take more than a passing glance at them, remarking that the two most deserving of notice for their value in sea-resistance are the sea-wheat grass and the sea-reed.

I have often seen flourishing near the sea-coast the rich clusters of the ragwort (_Senecio Jacoboea_), bright as the golden sunbeam, waving its tall blossoms in the breeze, and emitting a strong smell of honey. It opens its flowers first in July, but often,

"Coming like an after-thought, When other flowers are vainly sought,"

lingers on until Christmas; and when cold winds and wintry snows have withered every other flower, this remains,

"A token to the wintry earth that beauty liveth still".

Very pretty is the yellow carpet spread on the dry bank by the yellow bed-straw, with its mass of tiny blossoms and slender thready leaves of brilliant green. Its flowers, like those of the ragwort just mentioned, also smell sweetly of honey. In the Hebrides, a reddish-brown dye is extracted from its roots.

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In September, we see the tall, handsome golden-rod, not only in our woods and hedgeways, but also on the sea-side cliff, somewhat stunted in growth, but still beautiful with its crowded clusters of golden blossoms, over which butterflies, moths, and bees hover incessantly, in spite of its

"Florets wrapped in silky down, To guard it from the bee."

In the days of Queen Elizabeth it was sold in the London markets by herb-dealers. It was supposed to cure wounds.

Then also the Michaelmas daisy, or sea-starwort, opens its pale lilac petals, and continues to blossom until other flowers have nearly all faded away:

"And the solo Lawson which can glad the eye Is yon pale starwort nodding to the wind."

It often grows as high as three feet; its leaves are smooth, a sickly green in color, and very succulent. At this time we shall also find the marsh-mallow. It is a medicinal plant, containing a quantity of starchy mucilage, which is formed into a paste, and taken as a cure for coughs. Its flowers are a pretty rose-tint; its leaves soft, downy, and very thick. It grows about two feet high, and is altogether an attractive, handsome plant, the more more valued,

"Because a fair flower that illumines the scene When the tempest of winter is near; 'Mid the frowns of adversity, cheerful of mien, And gay, when all is dark and serene".

Such are a few of the sea-side blossoms to be gathered on our coasts. Let my reader, next summer, take a ramble along the beach, and hunt for themselves, when they may discover a host of fresh beauties rising on all sides, creeping over the loose sand, topping the rocky heights, or decking the grassy slopes--

"As though some gentle angel, Commissioned love to bear, Had wandered o'er the greensward, And left her footprints there."

Let not the humblest, most neglected flower be discarded, for each bears its own little mine of beauty, front with instruction, and the promptings of pure and holy thoughts, that lead the mind from "nature up to nature's God."

"Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege Through all the years of this our life to lead From joy to joy; for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e're prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful face, that all that we behold Is full of blessings."

ORIGINAL.

ON THE REQUEST OF THE DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS.

"I will that forthwith thou give me in a dish the head of John the Baptist."

Fie, silly child! Thou askest more Than Herod doth engage to grant-- As time hath truly shown. That head, enshrouded in its gore, Would be a price exorbitant For all of Herod's throne.

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ORIGINAL.

THE CHURCH AND MONARCHY.

Mr. Bancroft, the learned and philosophical historian of the United states, in one of his volumes devoted to the history of the American Revolution, makes the remark that "Catholics are in general inclined to monarchy, and Protestants to republicanism." This is a very common opinion with non-Catholic American writers, and a large portion of the American people honestly fear that the rapid spread of catholicity in this country is pregnant with danger to our republican institutions. Dr. England, late bishop of Charleston, one of the most illustrious Catholic prelates the country has ever had, maintained, on the contrary, with great earnestness and force, that the church does not favor monarchy, but does favor republicanism. What is the fact in the case? The question is not doctrinal, but historical, and relates to Catholics and Protestants, rather than and Protestantism.

It should be observed before entering into any investigation of the historical facts in the case, that in the Catholic mind theology is superior to politics; and no intelligent Catholic ever consents or can consent to have his religion tried by a political standard. The church, the Catholic holds, represents what is supreme, eternal, universal, and immutable in human affairs, and that political principle or system which conflicts with her, is by that fact alone condemned as false; for it conflicts with the eternal, universal, and immutable principles of the divine government, or the truth and constitution of things. Religion is for every one who believes in any at all the supreme law, and in case of conflict between religion and politics, politics, not religion, must give way.

Well grounded in his faith, sure of his church, the Catholic has never any dread of historical facts, and can always, so far as his religion is concerned, enter upon historical investigations with perfect freedom and impartiality of mind. He has no fear of consequences. Let the historical fact turn out as it may, it can never warrant any conclusions unfavorable to his religion. If the fact should place his politics in conflict with his religion, he knows they are so far untenable, and that he must modify or change them. The historian of the United States is deeply penetrated with a sense of the independence and supremacy of moral or spiritual truth, and with a justice rare in non-Catholic writers, attributes much of the corruption of French society in the last century to the subjection of the church to the state. Most non-Catholic writers, however, consider what is called Gallicanism as far more favorable to society than what they call Ultramontanism; and in doing so, prove that they really, consciously or unconsciously, assume the supremacy of the political order, not of the religious. But in this they grossly err, and make the greater yield to the less; for not only is religion in the nature of things superior to politics, but one is always more certain of the truth of his religion than he is or can be of the wisdom and soundness of his politics.

The church teaches the divine system of the universe, asserts and maintains the great catholic principles from which proceeds all life, whether religious or political, and without which there can be neither church nor state; but it is well known that she prescribes no particular constitution of the state or form of civil government, for no {628} particular constitution or form is or can be catholic, or adapted alike to the wants and interests of all nations. Whatever is catholic in politics, that is, universally true and obligatory, is included in theology; what is particular, special, temporary, or variable, the church leaves to each political community to determine and manage for itself according to its own wisdom and prudence.

Every statesman worthy at all of the name knows that the same form of government is not fitted alike to the wants and interests of all nations, nor even of the same nation through all possible stages of its existence; and hence there is and can be no catholic form of government, and therefore the church, as catholic, can enjoin no particular form as universally obligatory upon Catholics. Were she to do so she would attempt to make the particular universal, and thus war against the truth and the real constitution of things, and belie her own catholicity. The principles of government, of all government, are catholic, and lie in the moral or spiritual order, as do all real principles. These the church teaches and insists on always and everywhere with all her divine authority and energy; but their practical application, saving the principles themselves, she leaves to the wisdom and prudence of each political community. The principles being universal, eternal, and unalterable, are within the province of the Catholic theologian; the practical application of the principles, which varies, and must vary, according to time and place, according to the special wants and interests of each political community, are within the province of the statesman.

Such being the law in the case, it is evident that the church does and can prescribe no particular form of civil government, and Catholics are free to be monarchists, aristocrats, or democrats, according to their own judgment as statesmen. They are as free to differ among themselves as to forms of government as other men are, and do differ more or less among themselves, without thereby ceasing to be sound Catholics. Mr. Bancroft, however, does not even pretend that the church requires her children to be monarchists, and he more then once insinuates that her principles, as Bishop England maintains, tend to republicanism, the contrary of what is done by most non-Catholic writers.

To determine what is the fact we must define our terms. _Monarchy_ and _republic_ are terms often vaguely and loosely used. All governments that have at their head a king or Emperor are usually called, by even respectable writers, monarchies, and those that have not are usually called republics, whether democratic like ancient Athens, aristocratic like Venice prior to her suppression by General Bonaparte, or representative like the United States. But this distinction is not philosophical or exact. All governments, properly speaking, in which the sovereignty is held to rest in the people or political community, and the king or emperor holds from the community and represents the the majority of the state, are Republican, as was Imperial Rome or is Imperial France; all governments, on the other in which the sovereignty vests not in the political community, but in the individual and is held as a personal right, or as a private estate, are in principal monarchical. This is, in reality, the radical distinction between republicanism and monarchy, and between civilization and barbarism, and it is so the terms should be understood.

The key to modern history is the struggle between these two political systems, or between Roman civilization and German barbarism, and subsequently to Charlemagne, were especially between feudalism and Roman imperialism. In this struggle the sympathies and influences of church have been on the side against barbarism and feudalism, and in favor of the Roman system, and therefore on the side of republicanism, Rome, theoretically and in name, {629} remained a republic under the emperor from Augustus to Augustulus. However arbitrary or despotic some of the Caesars may have been and certainly were in practice, in principle they were elective, and held their power from the political community. The army had always the faculty of bestowing the military title of Imperator or emperor, and all the powers aggregated to it, as the tribunitial, the pontifical, the consular, etc., were expressly conferred on Augustus by the senate and people of Rome. The sovereignty vested in the political community never in the person of the emperor. The emperor represented the state, but never was himself the state. In principle Roman imperialism was republican, not in the strict or absolute sense monarchical at all.

The barbarian system brought from the forests of Germany was in its principle wholly different. Under it power was a personal right, and not, as under Roman imperialism, a trust from the community. With the barbarians there were tribes, nations, confederations, but no commonwealth, no republic, no civil community, no political people, no state. Republic, _res publica_, Scipio says, in the _Republica_ of Cicero, cited by St. Augustine in his _De Civitate Dei_, means _res populi_; and he adds, that by people is to be understood not every association of the multitude, but a legal association for the common weal. "Non esse omnem coetum multitudinis, sed coetum juris condensu et utilitatis communione sociatum." [Footnote 175] In this sense there was no people, no _res populi,_ or affairs of the people, under the barbarian system, nor even under the feudal system to which, with some Roman ideas it gave birth after Charlemagne. Absolute monarchy, which alone is properly monarchy, according to Bishop England, did not exist among the barbarians in its full development; but it existed in germ, for its germ is in the barbarian chieftainship, in the fact that with the barbarians power is personal, not political, a right or privilege, not a trust, and every feudal noble developed is an absolute monarch.

[Footnote 175: Apud St. Augustine, tom. vii. 75. B.]

These two systems after the conquest occupied the same soil. What remained of the old Roman population continued, except in politics, to be governed by the Roman law, _lex Romanorum_, and the barbarians by the _lex barbarorum_, or their own laws and usages. But as much as they despised the conquered race, the barbarians borrowed and assimilated many Roman ideas. The ministers of the barbarian kings or chiefs were for a long time either Romans or men trained in the Roman schools, for the barbarians had no schools of their own, and the old schools of the empire were at no time wholly broken up, and continued their old course of studies with greater or less success till superseded by modern universities. The story told us of finding a copy of the Civil or Roman Law at Amalfi, in the eleventh century, a fable in the sense commonly received, indicates that the distinction between barbarian and Roman in that century was beginning to be effaced, and that the Roman Law, as digested or codified by the lawyers of Justinian, was beginning to become the common law in the West as it long had been in the East, and still is in all the western nations formed within the limits of the old Roman empire, unless England be an exception. There was commenced, even before the downfall of Rome, a process of assimilation of Roman ideas and manners by the barbarians, which went on with greater force and rapidity in proportion as the barbarians were brought into the communion of the church. This process is still going on, and has gone furthest in France and our own country.

The barbarian chiefs sought to unite in themselves all the powers that had been aggregated to the Roman emperor, and to hold them not from the political community, but in their own personal right, which, had they {630} succeeded, would have made them monarchs in the fall and absolute sense of the term. Charlemagne tried to revive and re-establish Roman imperialism, but his attempt was premature; the populations of the empire were in his time not sufficiently Romanized to enable him to succeed. He failed, and his failure resulted in the establishment of feudalism--the chief elements of which were brought from Germany. The Roman element, through the influence of the church and the old population of the empire, had from the close of the fifth century to the opening of the ninth acquired great strength, but not enough to become predominant. The Germanic or barbarian elements, re-enforced as they were by the barbarians outside of both the church and the empire, were too strong for it, and the empire of Charlemagne was hardly formed before it fell to pieces. But barbarism did not remain alone in feudalism, and Roman principles, to some extent, were incorporated into feudal Europe, and the Roman law was applied, wherever it could be, to the tenure of power, its rights and obligations; to the regulation, forfeiture, and transmission of fiefs, and to the administration of justice between man and man, as we apply the Common Law in our own country. But the constitution of the feudal society was essentially anti-Roman and at war with the principles of the Civil or Roman Law. Hence commenced a struggle between the feudal law and the civil--feudalism seeking to retain its social organization based on distinctions of class, privileges, and corporations; and the civil law, based on the principle of the equality of all men by the natural law, seeking to eliminate the feudal elements from society, and to restore the Roman constitution, which makes power a trust derived from the community, instead of a personal right or privilege held independently of the community.

In this struggle the church has always sympathized with the Romanizing tendencies. It was under the patronage of the Pope that Charlemagne sought to revive Imperial Rome, and to re-establish in substance the Roman constitution of society; but his generous efforts ended only in the systematization and confirmation of feudalism. The Franconian and especially the Swabian in emperors attempted to renew the work of Charlemagne, but were opposed and defeated by the church, not because she had any sympathy with feudalism, but because these emperors undertook to unite with the civil and military powers held by the Roman emperors the pontifical power, which before the conversion of the empire they also held. This she could not tolerate, for by the Christian law the Imperial power and the pontifical are separated, and the temporal authority, as such, has no competency in spirituals. The Popes, in their long and severe struggles with the German emperors, or emperors of the holy Roman empire, as they styled themselves, did not struggle to preserve feudalism, but the independence of the church, threatened by the Imperial assumption of the pontifical authority held by the emperors of pagan Rome. This is the real meaning of those struggles which have been so strangely misapprehended, and so grossly misrepresented by the majority of historians, as Voigt and Leo, both Protestants, have conclusively shown. St. Gregory VII., who is the best representative of the church in that long war, did not struggle to establish a theocracy as so many foolishly repeat, nor to obtain for the church or clergy a single particle of civil power, but to maintain the spiritual independence of the church, or her independent and supreme authority over all her children in things spiritual, against the Emperor, who claimed, indirectly at least, supreme authority in spirituals as well as in temporal's. For the same reason Gregory IX. And Innocent IV. Opposed Frederic II., the last and greatest of the Hohenstaufen, the Ward in his childhood of Innocent III. {631} Frederic undertook to revise Roman imperialism against mediaeval feudalism, but unhappily he remembered that the pagan Emperor was Pontifex Maximus, as well as Imperator. Had he simply labored to substitute the Roman constitution of society for the feudal without seeking to subject the church to the empire, he might have been opposed by all those Catholics, whether lay or cleric, whose interests were identified with feudalism, but not by the church herself; at least nothing indicates that she would have opposed him, for her sympathies were not and have never been with the feudal constitution of society.

In the subsequent struggles between the two systems, the church, as far as I have discovered, has uniformly sympathized with kings and kaisers only so far as they simply asserted the republican principles of the Roman constitution against feudalism, and has uniformly opposed them, whenever they claimed or attempted to exercise pontifical authority, or to make the temporal supreme over the spiritual, that is to say, to subject conscience to the state. But in this she has been on the side of liberty in its largest and truest sense. Liberty, as commonly understood, or as it enters into the life, the thought, and conscience of modern Christian nations, is certainly of Greek and Roman, not barbarian origin, enlarged and purified by Christianity. The pagan republic united in the sovereign people both the pontifical and imperial powers as they were in the pagan emperors, and hence subjected the individual, both exteriorly and interiorly, to the state, and left him no rights which he could assert before the republic. The Christian republic adds to the liberty of the state, the liberty of the individual, and so far restricts the power of the state over individuals. This personal or individual freedom, unknown in the Graeco-Roman republic, Guizot and many others tell us was introduced by the German invaders of the Roman empire. They assign it a barbarian origin; but I am unable to agree with them, because I cannot find that the German barbarians ever had it. The barbarian, as the feudal, individual freedom was the freedom of the chief or noble, not the freedom of all men, or of all individuals irrespective of class or caste. This universal individual freedom, asserted and in a measure secured by the Christian republic, could not be a development of a barbarian idea, or come by way of logical deduction from the barbarian individual freedom, for it rests on a different basis, and is different in kind. The only ancient people with whom I can find any distinct traces of it are the Hebrew people. It is plainly asserted in the laws of Moses for the Jewish people. Christianity asserts it for all, both Jews and Gentiles, in that noble maxim. We must obey God rather than men. Every martyr to the Christian faith asserted it, in choosing rather to be put to death in the most frightful and excruciating forms than to yield up the freedom of conscience at the command of the civil authority, and the church shows that she approves it by preserving the relics of martyrs, and proposing them to the perpetual veneration of the faithful. The martyr witnesses alike to faith and the freedom of conscience.

To this individual freedom, as the right of manhood, the real enemy is the feudal society, which is founded on privilege; and where then should the church be found but on the side of those who asserted Graeco-Roman civilization as enlarged, purified, and invigorated by Christianity against the barbarian elements retained by the feudal society? It was her place as the friend of liberty and civilization. There can be no question that since the beginning of the fifteenth century the interests of humanity, liberty, religion, have been with the kings and people, as against the feudal nobility. It is owing to this fact, not to any partiality for monarchy, even in its representative sense, that the church has supported the monarchs in their struggle against feudal privileges and corporations.

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But it is said that she has favored Roman imperialism not only against feudalism, but also against democracy. This is partially true, but she has done so for the very reason that in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries she opposed the German emperors, because everywhere, except in the United States, it seeks to unite in the republic or state, after the manner of the pagan republic, both the imperial and the pontifical powers. In the United States this has not been done; our republic recognizes its own incompetency in spirituals, protects all religions not _contra bonos mores_, and establishes none; and here the church has never opposed republicanism or democracy. In Europe she has done so, not always, but generally since the French revolution assumed to itself pontifical authority. In the beginning of the French revolution, while it was confined to the correction of abuses, the redress of grievances, and the extension and confirmation of civil liberty, the Pope, Pius VI., the cardinals, prelates, and people of Rome, encouraged it; and the Pope censured it only when it transcended the civil order, made a new distribution of dioceses, enacted a civil constitution for the clergy, and sought to separate the Gallican Church from the Catholic Church, precisely as the Popes had previously censured Henry IV., Frederic Barbarossa, Frederic II., Louis of Bavaria, and others. She opposes to-day European democrats, not because they are democrats, but because they claim for the people the pontifical power, and seek to put them in the place of the church, nay, in the place of God The more advanced among them utter the words, people-pontiff and people-God, as well as people-king, and your German democrats assert almost to a man humanity as the supreme God. She opposes them not because they make deadly war on monarchy and aristocracy, and assert the sovereignty, under God, of the people, but because the war against catholic truth, the great eternal, universal, and immutable principles of the divine government, which lie at the basis of all government and indeed of society itself, and of which she is the divinely appointed guardian in human affairs. If she supports the European governments against them, it is not because those governments are monarchical or aristocratic in their constitution, but because they represent, however imperfectly, the interests of humanity, social order, civilization, without which there is and can be no real progress. She cannot oppose them because they seek to establish democratic government unless they seek to do so by unlawful or unjust means, because she prescribes for the faithful no particular form of civil government, and cannot do it, because no particular form is or can be Catholic. She offers no opposition to American democracy.

The church opposes, by her principles, however, what is called Absolutism, or what is commonly understood by Oriental despotism, that is, monarchy as understood by Bishop England, under which the monarch is held to be the absolute owner of the soil and the people of the nation, and may dispose of either at his pleasure. This is evident from the fact that when she speaks officially of the state generally, without referring to any particular state, she calls it _republica_, the republic; especially is this the case when she speaks of the civil society in distinction from the ecclesiastical society. Our present Holy Father, in his much miss apprehended and grossly misrepresented Encyclical of December 8, 1864, calls the civil community _republica_, or commonwealth. St. Augustine denies that God has given to man the lordship of man. He gave man the lordship or dominion over irrational creations, but not of the rational made in his own image, "Rationalem factum ad maginem suam noluit nisi irrationabilibus, dominari: non hominem homini, sed hominem {633} pecori. Inde primi justi pastores pecorum magis quam reges hominum constituti sunt." [Footnote 176] Hence he denies that the master has the lordship of his servants or slaves, and admits slavery only as a punishment, as does the civil law itself. For the same reason we may conclude against despotism. If the master has not the absolute lordship of his servants, far less can a king have the absolute lordship of a whole nation. St. Gregory the great cites St. Augustine with approbation, so also, if my memory serves me, does St. Gregory VII., the famous Hildebrand, who tells the princes of his time that they hold their power from violence, wrong, Satan.

[Footnote 176: De Civit. Dei. Opera, tom. vii. 900.]

Catholic writers of the highest authority St. Augustine, St. Thomas, Bellarmin, and Suarez, whom to cite is to cite nearly the whole body of Catholic theologians, follow in the main the political philosophy of Greece and Rome as set forth by Plato, Aristotle, and Cicero; and there is no doubt that, while vesting sovereignty in the community, or the people politically associated, they generally incline to monarchy, tempered by a mixture of aristocracy and democracy, as does Aristotle himself. But the monarchy they favor is always the representative monarchy, the Roman, not the feudal or the oriental. The prince or king, according to them, holds his power from the people or community, _jure humano_, not _jure divino_, and holds it as a trust, not as a personal and indefeasible right. It is amissible; the king may forfeit it, and be deprived of it. St. Augustine asserts, and Suarez after him, the inherent right of the people or political society to change their magistrates and even their form of government; and the Popes, on more occasions than one in the middle ages, not only excommunicated princes, but declared them by a sovereign judgment deprived of their crowns, which proves, if nothing else, that kings and kaisers are held by the church to be responsible to the nation for the manner in which they use their trusts, for the Popes never declared a forfeiture except on the ground that it was incurred by a violation of the civil constitution.

There were numerous republics in Europe before the reformation, as Venice, Genoa, Florence, the Swiss Cantons, and many others, not to speak of the Lombard municipalities, the Hanse towns, and the Flemish or Belgian communes, all of which sprang up during Catholic times, and were founded and sustained by a Catholic population. Nearly all of them have now disappeared, and some of them almost within our own memory; but I am not aware that there is a single republic in Europe founded and sustained by Protestants, unless the United Dutch Provinces, now a monarchical state, be a partial exception. The fact that Catholics as a body are wedded to monarchy is therefore not susceptible of very satisfactory proof, not even if we take monarchy only as representing the majesty of the people, in which sense it is republican in principle.

Protestantism is in itself negative, and neither favors nor disfavors any form of government; but the reformation resulted, wherever it prevailed in Europe, in uniting what the church from the first had struggled to keep separate, the pontifical and the imperial or royal powers, and also in maintaining the feudal monarchy instead of the Roman or representative monarchy. In every nation that accepted the reformation the feudal monarchy was retained, and still subsists. The crown in them all is an estate, as in England, and in some of them is, in fact, the only estate recognized by the constitution. The elector of Saxony, the landgrave of Hesse, the margrave of Brandenburg, the kings of Sweden, of Denmark, and of England and Scotland, became each in his own dominions supreme pontiff, and united in his own person the supreme civil and ecclesiastical powers. The same in principle {634} became the fact in the Protestant Netherlands and the Protestant cantons of Switzerland; and though some Protestant European states tolerate dissent from the state religion, there is not one that recognizes the freedom of religion, or that does not subject religion to the civil power. The political sense of the reformation was the union of the imperial and pontifical powers in the political sovereign, and the maintenance of the feudal monarchy and nobility, or the constitution of society on feudal principles. Nothing, then, is or can be further from the fact than that Protestants generally incline to republicanism, except the pretense that Protestantism emancipates the mind and establishes religious liberty.

No doubt, the feudal monarchy and nobility struggled in all Europe to maintain themselves against the Greco-Roman system represented by the Civil Law and favored by the theologians of the church and her supreme pontiffs. So far as the struggle was against the feudal nobility, or, as I may term it, the system of privilege, the church, the kings, and the people have in their general action been on the same side; and hence in France, where the struggle was the best defined, the great nobles were the first to embrace the reformation; they came very near detaching the kingdom itself from the church, during the wars of the Ligue, and were prevented only by the conversion, interested or sincere, of Henri Quatre. Henry saw clearly enough that monarchy could not struggled successfully in France against the feudal nobility without the support of the church and the people. Richelieu and Mazarin saw the same, and destroyed what remained of the feudal nobility as a political power. They, no doubt, did it in the interest and for the time to the advantage of monarchy. Louis XIV. concentrated in himself all the powers of the state, and could say "_L'état, c'est moi_--I am the state," and tried hard to grasp the pontifical power, and to be able to say, "_L'église, c'est moi_--I am the church;" but failed. Always did and do kings and emperors, whether Catholic or non-Catholic, seek to enlarge their power and to gain to themselves the supreme control not only of civil but also of ecclesiastical affairs, and courtiers, whether lay or cleric, are always but too ready to sustain absolute monarchy. Warring against the system of privilege, for national unity against the disintegrating tendencies of feudalism, monarchy threatens in the seventeen and eighteenth centuries to become absolute in all Europe, but it met with permanent success in no state that did not adopt the reformation, and ceased to be Catholic.

I hold that Roman constitution, as modified and amended by Christianity, is far better for society and more in accordance with religion and liberty, then the feudal constitution, which is essentially barbaric. If we look at Europe as it really was during the long struggle hardly yet ended, we shall see that it was impossible to break up the feudal constitution of society without for the moment giving to the kings and undue power, which in its turn would need to be resisted. But in all countries that remained Catholic, monarchy was always treated as representative by the theologians, and the republican doctrines that subsequent to the reformation found advocates in Protestant states were borrowed either from the agents or from Catholic writers--for the most part, probably, from the mediaeval monks, of whom modern liberals know so little and against whom they say so much. It was only in those countries where the reformation was followed and religion subjected to the state that the feudal monarchy developed into the oriental. England under Henry VIII., Edward VI., Elizabeth Tudor, and James and Charles Stuart, had lost nearly all its old liberties, and nearly all power was centred in the crown. The resistance offered to Charles I. was {635} not to gain new but to recover old liberties, with some new and stronger guaranties. The Protestant princes of northern Germany governed as absolutely as any oriental despot. The movement toward republicanism started in the south, not in the north, in Catholic not in Protestant states. The fact is patent and undeniable, explain it as you will.

I admit that Catholic princes, as well as Protestant, sought to grasp the pontifical power, and to subject the church in their respective dominions to their own authority, but they never fully succeeded. The civil power claimed in France more than belonged to it; but while it impeded the free movements of the Gallican Church, it never succeeded in absolutely enslaving it. Louis XIV., or even Napoleon the First, never succeeded in making himself the head of the Gallican Church; and the Constitutional church created by the Revolution, and which, like the Church of England, was absolutely dependent on the civil power, has long since disappeared and left no trace behind. In Spain, Portugal, Naples, Tuscany, Austria, attempts to subject religion to the state have not been wanting, but, though doing great harm to both the ecclesiastical and the civil society, they have never been completely successful. It is only in Protestant states that they have fully succeeded, or rather, I should say, in non-Catholic states, for the church is as much a slave in Russia as in Great Britain.

Bossuet, courtier and high-toned monarchist as he was, and as much as he consented to yield to the king, never admitted the competency of the king in scriptuals strictly so called; and if he yielded to the king on the question of the regalia, it was only on the ground of an original concession from the head of the church to the kings of France, or the immemorial custom of the kingdom, not as an inherent right of the civil power. He went too far in the Four Articles of 1682 to meet the approbation of Innocent XI., but he did not fall into heresy or schism. And it may be alleged in his defence, that if he had not gone thus far the court would most likely have gone further, and have actually separated the Gallican Church from the Holy See.

Bossuet was unquestionably a monarchist and something of a courtier, though he appears to have had always the best interests of religion at heart; and we can hardly say that he did not take the best means possible in his time of promoting them. As one of the preceptors of the Dauphin, father of the Duke of Burgundy, of whom Fénelon was the principal preceptor, he taught the political system acceptable to the king; but he impressed on his pupil as much as possible under that system a sense of his responsibility, his duty to regard his power as a high trust from God to be exercised without fear or favor for the good of the people committed to his charge. Fénelon went further, and hinted that the nation had not abdicated its original rights, and still retained the right to be consulted in the management of its affairs; and he was dismissed from his preceptorship, forbidden to appear at court, and exiled to his diocese, while every possible effort, in which it is to be regretted that Bossuet took a prominent part, to degrade him as a man and a theologian, and to procure his condemnation as a heretic, was made by the French court. But heretic he was not; he simply erred in the use of language which, though it had been used by canonized saints, was susceptible of an heretical sense. The Congregation condemned the language, not the man, nor his real doctrine. He retracted the language, not the doctrine, and edified the world by his submission.

There is hardly any doctrine further removed from every form of republicanism than that of the divine right of kings, defended by James I. of England in his Remonstrance for the Divine Right of Kings and the Independency of their Crowns, written in reply to a speech of the {636} celebrated Cardinal Duperron in the States-General of France in 1614--the last time the States-General were convoked till convoked by the unhappy Louis XVI. at Versailles, in May, 1789. In that work, a copy of the original edition of which, as well as of "his majestie's speech in the Star-chamber," now lies before me, their kingship immediately from God, and are accountable to him alone for the use they made of their power. He denies their accountability alike to the Pope and the people. This was and really is the doctrine, if not of all Protestants, at least of the Anglican Church and of all Protestant courts; but it is not and never was a Catholic doctrine. The utmost length in the same direction that any Catholic writer of note, except Bossuet, ever went, so far as I can find, is that the king, supposing him to be elected by the people, does, when so elected, reign _de jure divino_ or by divine right; but Suarez [Footnote 177] refutes them, and maintains that the royal power emanates from the community, and is exercised, _formaliter_, by human right, _de jure humano_, and thus asserts the real republican principle. Balmes, in his great work on the Influence of Catholicity and Protestantism on European Civilization compared, cites an instance of a Spanish monk who in the time of Philip II. ventured one day to preach the irresponsibility of the king, but was compelled by the Inquisition to retract his doctrine publicly, in the very pulpit from which he had preached it.

[Footnote 177: De Legibus, lib. iii., cap. 3 and 4, i.]

He who has studied somewhat profoundly the internal political history of the so-called Latin nations of Europe, will find that they have had, from very early times, a strong tendency to republicanism, and even to democracy, and that the tendency has been checked never by the church, but by the kings and feudal nobility. The doctrines of 1789 were no novelty in France even in the thirteenth century, and they were preached very distinctly and very boldly in the Ligue when the nation was threatened with a non-Catholic or Huguenot king, even by Jesuits. The great Dominican and Franciscan orders have never shown any strong attachment to monarchy in any form, and have rarely been the courtiers or flatterers of power. That the sad effects of the old French revolution produced a reaction in many Catholic minds, as well as in many Protestant minds, in favor of monarchy, is very true; and perhaps the most influential portion of European Catholics, living as they do in the midst of a revolution that makes war on the church, on civil order, on society, on civilization itself, cling to the royal authority as the lesser evil and as their only security, under God, for the future of religion. And it is not strange that they should. But this, whether wise or otherwise, is only accidental, and no people will be more loyal republicans than Catholics, when the republic gives them security for life and property, and more than all, for the free and full exercise of their religion as Catholics, as is the case in the United States.

The republic of the United States, we are told, was founded by Protestants, and it is only the United States that can give the slightest coloring to the pretense that Protestants are inclined to republicanism. But, closely examined, the fact gives less coloring than is commonly supposed. The republic of the United States can hardly be said to be founded either by Catholics or Protestants: it was founded by Providence, not by men. The Puritans, the most disposed to republicanism of any of the original colonists, were dissenters from the Church of England, and the principles on which they dissented were in the main those which they had borrowed or inherited from Catholic tradition. They objected to the Church of England that she allowed the king to be both king and pontiff, and subjected religion to the civil power. In this they only followed the example of the Popes. They {637} with the Popes denied the competency of the civil power in spirituals. This was the principle of their dissent, as it has recently been the principle of the separation of the Free Kirk in Scotland from the national church. As the king was the head of the Church of England, making it a royal church, they were naturally led to defend their dissent on republican principles. M. Guizot seems to regard the English revolution, which made Cromwell Lord Protector of the realm, as primarily political; but with all due respect to so great an authority, I venture to say that it was primarily religious, that its first movement was a protest against the authority of the king or parliament to ordain anything in religion not prescribed by the word of God. I state the principle universally, without taking notice of the matters accidentally associated with it, and so stated it is a Catholic principle, always asserted and insisted on by the Popes. It was primarily to carry out this principle, and to regain the civil liberties lost by the nation through the reformation, but not forgotten, that they resisted the king, and made a republican revolution, which very few foresaw or desired. The Puritans who settled in the wilds of America brought with them the ideas and principles they had adopted before leaving England, and if they had republican tendencies, they were hardly republicans.

Mr. Bancroft, in Volume IX. of his History of the United States, just published, shows very clearly that at the beginning of their disputes with the mother country the colonists were not generally republican in the ordinary sense of the word, but attached to monarchy after the English fashion, and also that the struggle in the minds of the colonists was long and severe before they reluctantly abandoned monarchy and accepted republicanism. The American revolution did not originate in any desire to suppress monarchy as it existed in Great Britain and establish republicanism, but to resist the encroachments of the mother country on their rights as British colonists, or rather, as British subjects. The rights of man they asserted had been derived from the civil law, for the most part through medium of the common law, and the writings, if not of Catholic theologians, at least of Catholic lawyers. They held as republicans not from Protestantism, but chiefly from Greece and Rome. Moreover, a monarchical government was impracticable, and there really was no alternative for the American people but republican government or colonial dependence. In the main our institutions were the growth of the country, and were very little influenced by the political theories of the colonists or the political wisdom and sagacity of American statesmen. Hence they are more strictly the work of Providence than of human foresight or human intelligence and will. It is therefore that their permanence and growth are to be counted on. They have their root in the soil, and are adapted to both the soil and the climate. They are of American origin and growth.

Religious liberty is not, as I have shown, of Protestant origin. Most of the colonists held the Catholic principle of the incompetency of the civil power in spirituals, but the greater part of them held that the civil power is bound to recognize and to provide for the support by appropriate legislation of the true religion, and that only. Yet as they were not agreed among themselves as to which is the true religion, or what is the true sense of the revealed word, and having no authoritative interpreter recognized as such by all, and no one sect being strong enough to establish itself and to suppress the others, there was no course practicable but to protect all religions not _contra banos mores_, and leave each individual free before the law to choose his own religion and to worship God according to the dictates of his own conscience. This was of absolute necessity in our case if we were to form a political community and carry on civil government at all.

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I do not claim that Catholics founded civil and religious liberty in the United States, nor do I deny that so far as men had a hand in founding them, they were founded by Protestants, but I do contend that our Protestant ancestors acted in regard to them on Catholic rather than on Protestant principles. We have so often heard civil and religious liberty spoken of as the result of the reformation that many people really believe it, and many good honest American citizens are really afraid that the rapid increase of Catholicity in the country threatens ruin to our free institutions. But the only liberty Protestantism, as such, has ever yet favored, is the liberty of the civil power to control the ecclesiastical. There is no danger to any other liberty from the spread of Catholicity. There is a great difference between accepting and sustaining a democratic government where it already legally exists, and laboring to introduce it in opposition to the established and to the habits, customs, and usages of the people where it does not exist. And even if Catholics in other countries had a preference for the monarchical form, they would not dream of introducing it here, and would be led by their own conservative principles, if here, to oppose it, since nothing in their religion requires them, as a Catholic duty, to support one particular form of government rather than another.

Protestantism affords in its principles no basis for either civil or religious liberty. Its great doctrine, that which it opposes as a religion to the church, is the absolute moral and spiritual inability of man, or the total moral and spiritual depravity of human nature, by the fall. This is the central principle of the reformation, from which all its distinctive doctrines radiate. This doctrine denies all natural liberty and all natural virtue, and hence the reformation maintains justification without works, by faith alone, in which man is passive, not active, and that all the works of unbelievers or the unregenerate are sins. Man is impotent for good, and does not and cannot even by grace concur with grace. All his thoughts and deeds our only evil, and that continually, and even the regenerate continue to sin after regeneration as before, only God does not impute there seems to them, but for his dear Son's seek turns away his eyes from them, and imputes to them the righteousness of Christ, and with it covers their iniquities. There is no ground on which to assert the natural rights of man, for the fall has deprived man of all his natural rights; and for republican equality the Reformation phones at best the aristocracy of grace, of the elect, as was taught by Wickliffe, and attempted to be realized by Calvin in Geneva, and by the Puritans in New England, who confined the elective franchise and eligibility to the saints, which is repugnant to both civil and religious liberty for all men.

It is time that our historians and popular writers should reflect a little on what they are saying, when they assert that the reformation emancipated the mind and prepared the way for civil and religious freedom. This has become a sort of cant, and Catholics here it repeated so often that some of them almost think that it cannot be without some foundation, and therefore that there must be something uncatholic in civil and religious liberty. It is all a mistake, and illusion, or a delusion. The principles of the reformation, as far as principles it had, were and are in direct conflict with them, and whatever progress either has made has been not buy it, but in spite of it, by means and influences it began its career by repudiating. The man reared in the bosom of the reformation has no conception of real religious, civil, or mental liberty till he is converted to the Catholic faith, and enters as a freeman into the Catholic Church.

I have dwelt at length on this subject for the sake of historical truth, and also to quiet the fears of my non-Catholic countrymen that the spread {639} of the church in our country will endanger our republican or democratic system of government. That system of government is quite as acceptable to Catholics as it is to Protestants, and accords far better with Catholic principles then with the principles of the reformation. The church does not make our system of government obligatory on all nations; she directly enjoins it nowhere, because no one system is adapted alike to all nations; and each nation, under God, is free to adapt its political institutions to its own wants, taste, and genius; but she is satisfied with it here, and requires her children to be loyal to it. It is here the law, and as such I supported it. I might not support a similar system for Great Britain, France, or Russia; because, though it fits us, it might not fit equally well the British, the French, or the Russians, or as well as the systems they already have fit them. My coat may not fit my neighbor, and my neighbor's coat may not fit me. I am neither as a Catholic nor as a statesman a political propagandist. But I love my own country with an affection I was unconscious of as a Protestant, and Americans bred up Catholics will always be found to be among our most ardent patriots, and our most stanch defenders of both civil and religious freedom.

The mistake is that people are too ready to make a religion of their politics, and to seek to make the system of government they happen to be enamored of for themselves a universal system, and to look upon all nations that do not accept it, or not blessed with it, as deprived of the advantages of civil society. They make their system the standard by which all institutions, all men and nations, are to be tried. They become political bigots, and will tolerate no political theories but their own. Hence, the American people are apt to suppose there is no political freedom where our system of government does not prevail; and to conclude because the church recognizes the legitimacy in other forms of governments in other countries, and does not preach a crusade against them, that she is the enemy of free institutions and social progress. All this is wrong. Religion is one and catholic, and obligatory upon all alike; political systems, save in the great ethical principles which underlie them, are particular, national, and are obligatory only on the nation that adopts them. There are catholic principles of government, but no catholic or universal form of government. Our government is best for us, but that does not prove that in political matters we are wiser or better than other civilized nations, or that we have the right to set ourselves up as the model nation of the world. Other nations may not be wholly forsaken by Providence. Non-Catholic Americans cry out against the church that she is anti-republican; but if we were monarchists we should cry out as did the monarchical party in the sixteenth century, that she is anti-monarchical and hostile to the independence of kings. Let us learn that she may in one age or country support one form of civil constitution, and without inconsistency support a different system in another.

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From All the Year Round.

"DEO OPT. MAX"

Art thou drowsy, dull, indifferent, Folder of the hands, Dreaming o'er the silent falling Of life's measured sands?

Living without aim or motion, Save thyself to please, Careless as the beasts that perish, Sitting at thine ease?

Not for thee the mighty message Rings in startling tone; Vainly would its peeling accents Strike through hearts of stone.

Sounding o'er the clash and clatter Of this earth's vain din, Unto you, that live in earnest, And that work to win,

Thus it speaks: "Aspirants, toilers For some lofty gain, See ye spend not strength and spirits, Hope and faith, in vain!

"All that soars past self is noble-- Every upward aim-- Make it nobler yet--the noblest! And immortal fame!

"Let not good or great content ye-- Higher and still higher, Only for the best, the greatest, Labor and aspire!

"Spurning all that's partial, doubtful, All your vigor bend (Worthiest aim and worthiest effort) To a perfect end!

"Thus have all true saints before ye, All true heroes striven, Reaching for the best, the highest, Beyond earth to heaven."

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Translated from the French.

ROBERT; OR, THE INFLUENCE OF A GOOD MOTHER.

CHAPTER FIRST.

"Although young on the earth, I am already alone. . . . . . And when I ask myself Where are those I love? I look at the green turf." LAMARTINE.

THE ORPHAN.

The traveler who passes through the village of the baths of Mount Dore, situated at the base of the mountain of Angle, will find that between the mountains the little streams of Dore and Dogne unites, and take the name of the river Dordogne. In looking at the course of this new-born River, he will see to the left of the mountain of Ecorchade, thus named for its ruggedness and its deep ravines. This mountain crumbles away each day under the powerful hand of time, and its volcanic wrecks move the valley with strange sounds, which the echo takes up and wafts to the most distant spots. On the other side of the valley, to the right of the mountain, and in front of Ecorchade, is another mountain, the round top of which is covered with verdure and with wood. Its base is formed of basaltic columns of black, white, and gray rocks of different shapes and sizes, which stand there like a troop of phantoms. Near the base, and in one of the fissures of this mass of rocks, piled up by some giant hand, there was, about twenty-five years ago, a little house, constructed, one might imagine, by the spirit of the mountain, to serve as a refuge for travellers when the furious children of the tempest were unchained. Hidden by the abrupt flanks of the mountain, and masked in the spring and summer by the dense foliage of trees centuries old, this retreat suddenly became visible to mortal eye. But the chief interest attached to it is, that for twelve years it was inhabited by a high-bred lady, who chose this secluded spot, and placed herself, one might say, on the first step of this gigantic ladder, which seemed by degrees to draw her nearer to heaven, and away from the vain pursuits of earth. She came unattended, carrying in her arms an infant several months old. This child, her son, was the object of her most tender care, and was the only thing that was to endear her to this savage solitude. From whence came this person, who was she, and what were her resources for living? No one knew. Her real name even was to remain a mystery for all, even for those eager and pitiless people who are always ready to unravel the causes of secret sorrow, and who rejoice when they can see tears and suffering. Such people are like a species of wasp that only approach to sting you most cruelly. The people of the valley had on many occasions tried to stop this young woman and capture her confidence by testimonials of friendship and feigned sensibility, but they had seen their insidious advances repulsed with such coldness that, deceived and disappointed, they were obliged to put an end to their efforts. Finally, when all curiosity had subsided and given place to the most complete indifference, they learned in some way that she called herself Madame Dormeuil, and her little boy Robert. There was one person, however, who had received the intimate confidence of Madame Dormeuil, and that was the curé of the village, and from time to time he was seen directing his steps toward the solitary abode, where more than one indiscreet eye had wished to penetrate. At the time this story opens it is {642} night, one of those glorious nights of the month of May, nights full of sweet mysteries and soft perfumes, nights the nightingale resounds in harmonious cadences. It is the hour of silence and repose for humanity; but still a dim light shone through one of the windows of this isolated house. As the hours of the night advanced, when all nature slept, even the smallest insect under the humid leaves of the rose, hard necessity constrained even the inmates of this house to sleep, but alas! It proved a funeral awakening. The tender mother, who, during the infancy of her child, had tasted in this modest asylum moments of happiness, pure and chaste, such as our only given to maternal love, closed her eyes, and breathed out her last sigh, with no one here but her little son. In vain he calls his dear mother, her voice can reply to him no more. Poor child! what will become of him? for he has no one in the wide world to love and protect him; and in the bitterness of his grief he sobs and cries, "Dead! dead! I have no mother now!" and takes her hand, but it is cold and stiff, and no longer sensible to the soft pressure of his. The unaccustomed silence of those lips, that never parted but to speak tenderly to him, is more than he can bear, but suddenly his face recovers its habitual serenity, and a smile lights up his pallid cheeks. What means this sudden change, this almost instantaneous forgetfulness of sorrow, which drives in an instant the tears of love? But do not blame him; it is not forgetfulness, but remembrance--the remembrance of his mother's last words--her last adieu, her last sublime expression of a love which cannot be extinguished, even by the cold shadow of death, for it re-lives in heaven. "My child," said his mother to him on that day, "I have loved you much, but I must leave you. I am going to live with the angels, but I will watch over you. Be wise, honest, laborious; love God with all your heart, and others as yourself, and he will bless you. Do not grieve for my loss, for I will still be useful to you in heaven. I will pray there for you. Take courage, and always remember, when you are in trouble, to raise your thoughts to the eternal throne, and consolation will not be denied you." These were the words which Robert remember, and which stopped so suddenly the violence of his grief. This was why he almost thought his mother was not dead; this was why he felt no fear, though alone; with these sweet thoughts forever present, he fancied her eyes would reopen and smile upon him. He knelt in prayed with fervor, seeming to solicit some special manifestation, and his attitude told that he mentally invoked of his mother and the Protector of children what he knew to be good for them; and his prayer, no doubt, was favorably received, for it his imagination he saw the home of the saints. "My mother!" cried the child, transported with joy, "is it thee? Oh! speak, I pray thee, speak to thy Robert!" But the celestial vision faded, and he saw nothing but the thousands of little globes of light, the sparkling fire of which dazzled his eyes. Thus maternal influence, even from the tomb, comes as a gentle authority to this pious orphan. We will see him in each important event, and in each critical phase of his life invoking this mysterious and beneficent power that presides over him from heaven, in the presence of his mother. It is already under the generous impulse of this belief that he is consoled and strengthens, and returns to the funeral chamber, and calls again upon prayer and reflection.

Robert had never played with children. Always with his mother, whom he passionately loved, and who conversed with him as she would have done with an older person, he had acquired a seriousness of conversation and a precocity of judgment which made him, though still a child in years, almost a man in his intelligence and good sense. Child of solitude, wild flower of the mountain, he was {643} entirely ignorant of the habits of cities and of society, but he possessed an instinct which took the place of large experience in human nature. He was what God had made him, good and generous, loving the beautiful with the fervent adoration which characterizes great souls, and feeling a deep repugnance for even the appearance of evil. These inestimable gifts God in his wisdom has seen fit to endow to certain souls.

Robert was not more than twelve years of age, but he could read and write well. Possessed of a good memory, he had retained the many recitations made him by his mother in geography and sacred and profane history. His course of reading had not been extensive, for his mother had but few books; but she had been to him the living book from which he had gained all he knew, and which developed the qualities of the heart and Christian virtues which, later in life, shone so brilliantly in him. Robert was often absorbed in thinking over his past life, so rich in delicious memories. He remembered that his mother had spoken to him of Paris with an emotion which betrayed itself in her trembling voice. She was born there, she had told him, and had passed a part of her youth there. He remembered perfectly that, each time his mother referred to the subject, she exercised upon him a charm which entirely captivated his attention. If by her glowing descriptions of Madame Dormeuil had any intention of exciting in her son the wish to go to that city, she completely succeeded, for, notwithstanding his tender years, the words of his mother had filled him with an ardent desire to see the place predestined to be the most beautiful and most wonderful city ever built by the hands of man. This desire taking hold of him, he naturally thinks of the means of satisfying it, if the unfortunate circumstances in which he finds himself will forget. Moved by the strong wish, which was not weekend when obstacles presented themselves, Robert tried to get things ready to start. Opening a closet where he had often seen his mother put things she intended for him, the first object that met his eyes was a package, tied, and bearing this inscription, "For my son when he is twenty-one years of age." Under this was another paper, folded double, but not tied. He opened this, looking at the words which were written at the top: "My last requests." "When I shall be no more, my son," said Madame Dormeuil (and unfortunately the hour of death approaches very near) "quit this mountain where thou hast been a happy child, and go to Paris, where thou wast born. God and my love will conduct thee there, but constantly place thyself under his protection. Work; make thyself beloved, by thy sweetness and perseverance and good conduct. A voice within said to me one day, that happiness crowned all virtuous efforts, and this prediction of my heart will be realized, and thy mother will rejoice in heaven when she sees it descend on thee. Thou wilt find in a purse some crown pieces; it is all that I possess. Start soon, walk the short roads, have courage. Avoid bad children, seek the old and the wise. Pray to God fervently, and he will never abandon the good who walk in his presence and keep in their hearts the counsels of a mother. Adieu, my child, my dear and much loved Robert I will meet you in a better world than that in which I leave you, my poor little one, and then we will never part again."

Robert covered with kisses and with tears the words traced by the failing hand of his mother; then, when he was a little calmed, it made him happy to know that she had conceived a plan which was precisely the same he had thought of, and that she was solicitous for him to go. The rest of the night passed slowly enough to the young orphan. At daybreak he came down from the mountain and knocked at the door of the rectory. The virtuous and worthy curé, who preached to the inhabitants of the village of Bains, received him with the utmost kindness, for he had known him long and well, and had already initiated him into the {644} mysteries of our divine religion, and from his pure and touching morals he had been led to give him his first communion. When he saw the poor child in such distress he could scarcely utter a word, so much did he feel for his bleeding heart, either could he ask him the questions he knew he ought relative to his leaving the isolated place in which he had lived, nor could Robert have answered them so full was he of emotion; but he said to him in a paternal tone and full of interest: "Let us see, my child, what is to be done with your effects. Don't you think that you should leave the place, now that you are alone? What do you intend to do? Have you formed any project? If you have confidence in me, tell me your ideas, speak to me openly, and all that I can possibly do for you I will with pleasure I have no occupation but to do good to others, to console them in their sorrows, and take them by the hand with a need assistance." "Thank you, good curé," replied Robert, with sweetness and respect. "I desire to obey the wishes of my mother, who tells me to go to Paris. See what she says to me--this dear, good mother--before she dies," holding to him with the trembling hand the precious paper containing the interpretation of his mothers wishes. He then said: "Is it not a sacred duty I owe my mother, that of accomplishing her last request?" "Yes, my dear child, but you are very young to make so long a journey on foot to Paris. Do you know any one there?" "No, sir; but my mother said I must go, and no matter how I get there I must do it." "Your resolution is praiseworthy my child, yet it seems to me that you should reflect a little, before undertaking what seems so much for you. But if you really must attempt it, I will give you a letter to a friend of mine, who is now curé of the Church of Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois. This recommendation, I hope, will be of great assistance to you, for my friend is a man of rare virtues and inexhaustible charity Place your cell under his protection, and I do not doubt but you will soon be out of embarrassment. I think you should sell your furniture, the proceeds would in large your funds very much. But, my child, your extreme youth frightens me. I am afraid you will never get to Paris." "Oh! be tranquil, good father. I trust so much to God as my guide that I know I shall arrived without accident, and with but little fatigue." "Go, my child, I have no longer any objection; and since you desire it so much, I will do all I can to facilitate your project. While I am gone refresh yourself; take something to eat, it will strengthen your body, which cannot but be feeble under the sufferings of your soul. Do you hear, my child? I want you to take some nourishment, if it is only a little you will feel better after it. I will return directly," and, looking kindly at him, the venerable curé went out, to see which of his parishioners would purchase the furniture belonging to the orphan.